Power Curve (39 page)

“Wild Wayne is going to love that,” Bender allowed. “But he will serve you well.”

“Robert, I can handle those idiots in the Cabinet Room, but what about the JCS?”

“First, make sure you all know exactly what’s happening. That’s where the DCI and Intelligence comes in. Then ask for their inputs and listen to what they have to say. Finally, make a decision and tell them to implement it.”

“Is it really that simple?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

“No, ma’am, it’s not. But you’re not going for a consensus, and don’t be afraid to kick a few of their egos around if one or two of them get difficult. They understand that sort of thing.”

She looked worried. “Robert, how do I respond to this selective release?”

“You’ve got many options, but high on the list is dropping one of our own.”

“I’m not sure I can do that. How many people will I kill?” A single tear streaked her cheek.

Robert Bender understood a little more. His president cried in the presence of death. Before, he had always chalked it up as an emotional response, which it was. But there was more. Madeline Turner hated death, wanton killing, and senseless destruction with every ounce of passion in her. She hurt from frustration when she could not stop it, and she cried from the pain of knowing that every death she might have prevented diminished her. “Madeline Turner may not be able to make the decision to cross that firebreak,” he replied, “but President Turner may have to.”

“Sacrifice a few for the good of many,” she whispered.

Shaw hurried into the room, his face flushed. “Mizz President, the Joint Chiefs are arriving.”

“Good. Tell General Charles I wish to speak to him in private first. Then I will meet with all of them in the Situation Room.” Shaw nodded and left.

“Madam President,” Bender said, “I need to get with my staff and sort out the details.”

“I need to speak to the JCS in private. I’ll call you when I’m ready.” She stopped him at the door. “Robert, please stop by the Cabinet Room and tell Senator Leland and his buddies that I’m involved here and they’ll have to leave. You don’t have to be polite.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He stood aside for Shaw and General Charles to enter. He glanced back into the Oval Office and saw Turner stand up. Shaw gave him a cold look and closed the door. Bender walked quickly to the Cabinet Room and entered without knocking. He studied the men, committing their faces to memory. “The president,” he said, “is engaged in a national emergency. You are no longer welcome in her house, and she wants you to leave. May I suggest you do so immediately?” He spun around and left.

Turner led the procession out of the Oval Office. “Patrick,” she said, “please check the Cabinet Room, and if
anyone is still there, have the Secret Service escort them out.” Charles followed her to the Situation Room as Shaw hurried to the Cabinet Room. Senator Leland was pacing the hall outside when he arrived. “Where the hell have you been?” Leland demanded.

“She’s meeting with the JCS.”

“I thought you had isolated her.”

“Bender got to her,” Shaw replied.

Leland’s face clouded. “I’ll have that bastard court-martialed.”

“Not as long as she’s the president, you won’t,” Shaw said. “I’ve never seen her like this. She’s got the bit in her teeth, and I’m not so sure I can control her.”

“That bitch can’t ignore us.”

Shaw shook his head. “I’ve got to find out what’s going on in the Sit Room. You better leave.” He scurried away, leaving Leland smoldering in the hall. “You poor son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself, not thinking of Leland at all.

The Marine guard on duty outside the Situation Room saw Turner the moment she descended the stairs and came to attention. She waited until the president was six feet from the door and snapped it open. “Do not let anyone enter until I say so,” Turner said. “And that includes Mr. Shaw.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Marine replied, her face stone hard. She closed the door, stood in front, and allowed a tight smile before reverting to the standard-issue look required for duty at the White House.

Shaw scurried up. “Get out of the way,” he muttered.

“The president has ordered that no one enter until further notice.”

“That order doesn’t apply to me,” Shaw snapped.

“You’ll have to speak to the president about that,” the Marine replied.

“How can I when you won’t let me inside?”

“President’s orders, Mr. Shaw.” He reached for the door handle. “Touch me or the door,” the guard whispered, “and I’ll put you down.” She added a mental
got that, asshole
. and smiled at him.

Inside, Madeline Turner stood at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen,” she began, “General Overmeyer recommended that General Charles replace him as the chairman and General Charles has accepted my offer. If any of you cannot continue to serve me or General Charles, please leave now.” The four generals and one admiral exchanged glances and were quick to agree. “Good,” she said. “If this is, as I suspect, a selective release to intimidate me, the Chinese will deeply regret their actions. So what exactly are we dealing with and what are my options?”

The discussion was a long one. Finally, she held up a hand, ending it. “I need more information before I decide how to respond. In the interim, prepare to execute our own selective release.”

“What is the target?” Charles asked.

She didn’t hesitate “The same atoll.”

“Overmeyer is going to hate himself for missing this,” the chief of Naval Operations muttered to the commandant of the Marine Corps.

Okinawa, Japan

M
ajor Bob Ryan cruised the flight line with Terrence Daguerre, the young captain from the Security Police. Daguerre was a tall, bony man who had a promising career as a professional quarterback until an injury ruined his passing arm. But he still played Saturday afternoon touch football, where he and Ryan had met. Ryan found Daguerre a fascinating subject for his study because he was a classic authoritarian personality.

“Our dosimeters never budged,” Daguerre said.

“We were lucky,” Ryan said. “The winds veered and the fallout never got here. The Disaster Response Teams have some very sensitive equipment, and they picked up a little radiation, about the same as you’d get from an X ray.”

“That’s why I’ve still got my men wearing full MOPP gear,” Daguerre said. MOPP suits were the mission operative protection posture clothing worn to counter chemical, nuclear, and biological warfare. Although the men under his command were sweating in the restrictive gear, he had removed his gas mask and gloves while driving. He pulled up to a guard and rolled the car window down. “How’s it going, airman?”

“Hot as hell,” the guard replied, his voice muffled behind his gas mask.

“Keep drinking water,” Daguerre told him.

“My canteen’s dry, sir.”

“That’s why you got a radio,” Daguerre replied. He rolled up the window, and they drove off. “Let’s see if he’s smart enough to use it,” he grumbled.

“I understand you saw the fireball,” Ryan said.

“Yes, sir,” Daguerre replied. “Over there.” He pointed to the southwest, over Habu Hill. “The horizon glowed, like a sunrise. But the sun was already up, and I knew immediately what it was.” They drove slowly by the empty flow-through, the saw-tooth-roofed open bays where the F-15s parked during peacetime. It seemed like an age had passed since then. But Daguerre still had two guards patrolling the area, also in MOPP suits.

“The command post better sound the all clear, so we can get out of these suits or someone is going to collapse from heat prostration,” Ryan said.

“Not until it’s safe,” Daguerre answered. “Besides, it’s good training.” Ahead of them, a Maintenance team was tugging an F-15E Strike Eagle down a taxiway. The Maintenance crews were wearing their normal BDUs and helmets. “Who’s their supervisor?”

Ryan recognized Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz, the Maintenance production supervisor who had thrown Lancey Coltrain off the bus. “That’s him,” he said, pointing out Contreraz.

Daguerre drove up to Contreraz and rolled his window down. “Sergeant,” he called, “why are you moving around outside unprotected? The all clear hasn’t been sounded. Get your people back into their MOPP suits.”

“Sir, we’re allowed to move outside for a limited time.”

“I only want to hear a ‘Yes, sir,’ Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” Contreraz replied, standing back and saluting the captain.

They drove off. “Let’s see what that insubordinate bastard does,” Daguerre growled. They parked and watched the ground crew move the Strike Eagle to the fuel cells building. Guards inside the roped-off perimeter around the building lowered the rope barrier as the hangar doors cranked open. The F-15 was backed in, and the doors
closed. The guards restrung the rope barrier and resumed their patrolling.

“What would happen if I crossed that rope?” Ryan asked.

“The guards had better shoot you,” Daguerre said, “or I’ll have their ass.”

“Is that because they got nukes in there?” Ryan said in a low voice.

“That’s need-to-know information,” Daguerre said.

“What would you say,” Ryan ventured, “if I told you that we exploded that nuclear weapon you saw and not the Chinese.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“And if I said Martini was an egomaniac?”

“I can believe that,” Daguerre answered.

“And if I said he’s showing severe signs of instability and is breaking down under stress.”

Daguerre looked straight ahead, never blinking. “You’re the doctor.”

Martini ordered the all clear at exactly noon on Monday, five hours after the explosion. Almost immediately, he felt the rush of fresh air as the outside air vents to the command post were thrown open, bypassing the heavy filters. His intercom buzzed at him and the light from Intelligence flashed. It was Townly. “The crews are here, sir,” the Intelligence officer said.

Martini grunted one of his unintelligible answers and heaved his bulk out of his chair. “I need some exercise,” he grumbled to no one in particular. He stretched, actually feeling pretty good. But he hated what he had to do. He stopped by the Control Cab and collared the chief of the command post. “I want you to brief the crews on the release procedures,” he said. The lieutenant colonel was all self-importance, and he gathered up the messages, documents, and code books.

Townly met Martini and the lieutenant colonel at the door to the Intel vault and escorted them into the flight planning room. Two pilots and two weapon system officers were standing by the wall map. Martini gave them a crisp nod and sat down. “Please be seated,” he said. He read
the info sheet on the primary crew for the mission, Chet Woods and Ray Byers. Both were senior captains with over 500 hours of experience in the Strike Eagle. Martini remembered that Woods had been Laurie Bender’s original pilot before he teamed her with Chris Leland. He was not familiar with Byers, but the name rang a bell. Then he made the connection. “Are you related to Sergeant Ray Byers?” Technical Sergeant Raymond A. Byers was both famous and infamous in the NCO ranks for being the only sergeant who qualified as being an ace, however unofficial.

“He’s my father, sir.”

Martini shook his head. “First, you are all volunteers, is that correct?” The four crewmembers told him they were. “Well, gentlemen, we have received an alert message to load and plan for a selective release mission.”

They took the news without any sign of emotion. “Your job,” Martini continued, “is to drop a small tactical nuke on the same target as the Chinese. Your aircraft has been prepped and moved to the fuel cells building, where a B-61 is being uploaded. Right now we are on a hold and awaiting a release. Hopefully, we’ll never get a go. But if we do, I want you to smoke that target. Can you do that?” The four men all told him they could, and Chet Woods assured him the target would glow in the dark. “Very good,” Martini said. He turned to the chief of the command post. “Colonel, they’re all yours.”

The lieutenant colonel in charge of the command post stood up and passed out the authenticators and code forms they needed. “Because we will not launch from an alert posture, you will be called to the command post and actually see the Quebec Zulu release message. This is critical because the permissive action link code is part of the message. Without the correct PAL code, you cannot unlock and arm the bomb.”

“You mean to tell me,” Chet Woods said, “that we’ve got bombs here and not the PAL codes?”

“That’s the way the system works,” Martini muttered. “Hell, they don’t trust me with money, you don’t think they’re gonna trust me with a nuke?” The tension was broken, and the men laughed.

Byers asked why they were loading the bomb in the
fuel cells building, a soft shelter. “We got both the Chinese and the Japanese looking at the munitions storage area and the hardened shelters,” Martini replied. “As far as they know, there are no nukes on the island, and the jet is in the fuel cells building for maintenance. Hopefully, we can surprise the shit out of both of ’em.”

“Sir,” Byers answered, “you’re surprising the shit out of me.”

“Are you up to this?” Martini asked.

“Sir, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Martini had the men he was looking for.

Washington, D.C.

Ben pinned the back of Liz Gordon’s blue blazer to accentuate her waistline before she sat down in the circle of leather chairs in the TV studio. She crossed her legs for maximum effect and adjusted the microphone on her lapel. She was ready for the round-table discussion. Two other political reporters joined her. At exactly 6:56
A.M.
, Paul Ferguson, CNC-TV’s distinguished anchor, famed for his pompous-assed gravitas, stepped out of his dressing room, his makeup perfect, and joined them. At exactly seven o’clock, the director cued him to begin.

“Good morning, America. It is seven o’clock Monday morning and I am with three of my associates to investigate the nuclear detonation that occurred twelve hours ago in the East China Sea.” He introduced the other three lesser lights with him in the studio, ending with Liz. “But first, hear this.” They broke for three minutes of commercials.

After the commercials, Liz endured the next seven minutes listening to the three men pontificate on the crisis. It was obvious that Paul was winging it and the other two weren’t much better. Twice, she tried to interject a few facts into the discussion, but Paul cut her off. Finally, she started talking and forced them into silence. “Paul, we are operating in the dark at this time. We only know a small nuclear device was detonated in the East China Sea and that a number of congressional leaders and high-ranking
administration officials were at the White House before the explosion. Those are the facts, and everything else is idle speculation.”

“Are you suggesting that President Turner was expecting a nuclear attack?” Paul asked.

“No, Fergy,” she replied, using the nickname Paul hated, “I’m not. And neither would anyone else in their right mind. Obviously, she was monitoring the crisis and talking to Congress.”

Paul Ferguson truly believed his words were transmitted to him over an ecclesiastical hot line from heaven. For Liz to even imply his questions ranked below the Ten Commandments was punishable by instant lightning strike. “So what is the administration doing?” he said, never losing his famed on-screen presence.

“I can’t be sure,” Liz answered, “but I imagine they are examining their options, preparing a variety of responses, and opening lines of communication. But at this time, the best thing we can do for the American public is to stick to the facts and not speculate.”

The director called for a commercial break. “You’re not helping, Liz,” he said when they were off camera.

“And you clowns haven’t got a clue,” she said. “This is pure bullshit.”

“Liz,” Ben called from behind the cameras, “the White House has announced a press conference for eight o’clock.”

She stood up and unclipped her microphone. “If you’re going to group speculate”—she made it sound like a perversion—“do it after the press conference.”

The Oval Office was organized chaos as Maura touched up Turner’s makeup. Her security advisors were clustered on the two couches and Shaw stood beside the door, funneling messages and other people in. “Mizz President,” Shaw said, “don’t talk to the media. Let Harry handle the press conference.”

“That would be a mistake,” Turner replied. “I’ll keep it short and simple.”

“We haven’t prepped you,” Shaw protested. A runner
from the communications room handed him a message. Shaw glanced at it and handed it to the secretary of state.

“It’s from Chairman Zoulin,” Francis said. “He wants to resume the Paris talks immediately.”

Turner stood up, and Maura adjusted a scarf around her neck. “I should think so. Robert, how soon can you and Mazie be in Paris?”

“Late this evening, Paris time,” Bender replied. “We’ll have to leave immediately.”

“Very good,” Turner replied. “Francis, wire Zoulin that Robert is on his way. Also, send the Chinese a strongly worded protest through normal channels. I want them in a crossruff. No matter what they do, they meet strength. We’ll talk privately, but publicly, we’re outraged. How do I reinforce that message?”

“You can declare a DEFCON ONE for the Far East,” Charles replied.

Francis paled. “That’s too strong a message. Call in the Japanese ambassador and issue a joint public announcement of mutual support.”

“Do all of it,” Turner said.

Shaw interrupted. “Mizz President, what are you going to do about Senator Leland?”

Turner was walking to the door. “Nothing.” She stopped and looked at Charles. “When can you execute a selective release?”

“We have a tactical nuclear weapon ready at Kadena. The release codes are in the football.”

Turner paled and closed her eyes. She took three quick breaths and straightened up. “I want no misunderstanding on this,” she said. “I want a peaceful solution. I do not want to respond in kind. But this aggression must stop.” She led the procession out the door.

Bender gathered up his papers to leave while Maura straightened Turner’s desk. “I’ve never seen her like this,” he said.

“It happens when she gets pushed too far,” Maura replied. “Something snaps inside.” She sat down beside him. “She can be very strong willed, but she hides it.”

“Why?”

“Because I raised her that way,” Maura said. “She was such a pretty little girl, and I wanted her to be nice.”

Peter Whiteside, the dean of the press corps, was sitting in his normal seat in the small room used for press conferences. He automatically stood when Turner entered and was immediately struck by how calm and composed she looked. “Please be seated,” Turner said as she stood beside the podium. She started by announcing General Charles as the acting chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff before turning to the nuclear explosion. “We are now confident the Chinese detonated a fifty-kiloton weapon at exactly 2400 hours Greenwich Mean Time, Sunday night. The explosion occurred over an atoll 120 nautical miles southwest of Okinawa in the East China Sea. We have reconnaissance aircraft on scene along with other national resources. The purpose of the detonation was to intimidate the Japanese into accepting a Chinese-dictated settlement in their dispute.

“We are protesting to the Chinese in the strongest possible terms. Further, our armed forces are at full alert and prepared to respond to any threat or attack.”

“Will the Chinese launch missiles at us?” a reporter yelled.

The damn broke, and questions flooded over her. She raised her hand, bringing silence to the room. “I have time to answer only a few questions. To answer your question first, the Chinese do not have the capability to strike the United States.”