Power Curve (40 page)

She recognized another reporter. “Madam President, was the atoll uninhabited?”

Turner paused as an empty feeling claimed her. “There were a few Okinawan fishermen shacks on the island, and they were reported occupied at the time. We don’t know the exact number.” She worked around the room, allowing only one question from each reporter before moving on. Finally, she pointed at Peter Whiteside, giving him the final question.

“Madam President, did you have any warning that the Chinese were going to detonate a nuclear weapon?”

Turner fixed the reporter with a hard look. “None whatsoever. Thank you.” She walked off the stage.

“Did you even consider the possibility?” Whiteside yelled at her back. There was no answer, and the reporters clamored to their feet.

Liz Gordon hurried outside and waited for Ben to join her with his Betacam. “A confident and forceful Maddy Turner left no doubt who was in charge,” she said.

Near her, Peter Whiteside was talking into his microphone. “A badly shaken president fled from the hard questioning of the White House press corps this morning. Her lack of candor in answering many questions only reinforces the belief that a cover-up is in progress.”

Nancy was waiting inside Base Operations at Andrews Air Force Base with a suitcase and a fresh change of clothes when the White House staff car arrived. Bender jumped out and hurried up to her. “I was worried you didn’t get the message,” he said. “I’ve got to fly to Paris.”

“You need a valet,” she told him. “I was at the morgue and just happened to check my messages when I came out.”

Bender’s head jerked around. “Morgue?”

“They found Shalandra.” Nancy’s voice was flat, without emotion. “Crushed skull. No suspects so far.” He reached out and touched her cheek but she drew back. “There was nothing I could do to save her. Or anyone. It doesn’t matter now.”

A sergeant rushed up and grabbed his bag. “General, Mrs. Hazelton has arrived. The engines are running, and we’ve got clearance to take off.”

“I’m coming,” Bender said as Hazelton stood by the door waiting for him. He turned to Nancy. “It does matter,” he said.

“You best go,” she said. She was moving away from him.

“Nancy, I—” He couldn’t bring himself to say how much he loved her and that he needed her more now than ever before. But he couldn’t, not in public. “I’m very sorry about Shalandra,” he managed.

“Really?” she replied, walking away.

Shaw sat at the end of the table in the Situation Room and doodled on his notepad, half listening to the conversation between Turner and her advisors. Reluctantly, he admitted that Charles was a good choice to replace Overmeyer, and they were communicating well. Or was it because she was willing to listen to him? “Why can’t we use a cruise missile or a submarine-launched missile for our sel rel?” Turner asked.

“We can,” Charles answered. “But not if you want to use a low-yield weapon. Most of our tactical nukes are out of the inventory, and we have a few selectable weapons with low yields, like the B-61, left. And it is air delivered.”

“I want the lowest yield possible,” she said. “That’s of paramount importance.”

“Then the B-61 is the only weapon we’ve got to do the job.”

“Will the pilots be safe?”

“Probably,” Charles answered. “I have the probabilities if you care to see them.”

She shook her head. “I only need to know if you can do it.”

“I can’t give you an absolute assurance, but we have a high degree of confidence of putting a bomb on target.”

The secure phone rang, and Shaw answered. It was Barnett Francis calling from the State Department. Shaw put him on the speaker. “The Chinese ambassador left a few moments ago,” Francis said. “The meeting was not very productive, and they’ve rejected our protest.”

“Are they posturing for public consumption or is this their real position?” Turner asked.

“I can’t say at this time,” Francis replied.

“They’re stalling,” Charles muttered.

“Keep the channels open,” Turner told Francis, breaking the connection. She turned to her advisors. “I agree with General Charles. They’re stalling to see how public opinion swings. But I’m not going to give them much time. I’m going to draft a personal letter to Zoulin and have Robert hand it to the Chinese in Paris. General Charles, when can the Air Force get it to him?”

Charles checked his watch. “If you can have it to us in two hours, it will be waiting for him when he wakes up.”

“You’ll have it inside an hour,” she replied. “Well, there’s not too much more we can do right now, so I want you all to resume your normal routines for the evening. Let the Chinese think we’re not burning any midnight oil over this.”

“We’ll continue to issue hourly notices at the Pentagon,” Charles said.

“Keep telling the media the military is at full alert,” Turner said. “Reassure them with a few details so they’ll know we are not worried.” She stood up. The meeting was at an end. “We’ll reconvene first thing tomorrow morning.”

Shaw was the last to leave and went upstairs to his office. He spent an hour clearing his desk before calling for his limousine to take him home. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that Maddy’s decision to not act in haste was sound. But it had been over twenty-four hours, and the media was either howling for blood or predicting instant nuclear destruction. How much longer did they have?

He rode in silence, and the streets were eerily deserted as if everyone was seeking refuge from an approaching storm. Even the normal hustle in Watergate’s parking garage was gone, and he rode the elevator alone. He unlocked the door to his condominium and caught the aroma of goulash cooking. Jessica was there.

“You’re early,” she said from the kitchen.

Shaw sighed. “What does Leland want now?”

“He wants to know what’s going on.”

“Maddy’s handling the fuckin’ crisis is what the fuck is going on.”

“He’s very upset. You assured him that it was going to blow up in her face.”

“As I recall, it did.”

“But not to our advantage,” Jessica replied. “The senator is worried that unless we act now, we’ve lost a golden opportunity.”

“Tell him to do what you always do in a situation like this.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“When you’re losing, leak.”

Paris, France

B
ender let the waiter take his half-eaten breakfast away and reached for his coffee cup. As usual, the service and food in the staff dining room of the American embassy was outstanding, and he savored the rich coffee. Mazie Hazelton came through the door and walked briskly up to his table. Jet lag was taking its toll on the petite and graceful woman, but she looked much better after a few hours rest. “A letter from the White House just arrived,” she told him. “You’re to deliver it personally to the Chinese as soon as possible.” He set his cup down and followed her to their temporary office.

“It’s eight-thirty now. How soon can you set up a meeting?”

“That’s a problem,” she admitted. “I’ve called the chateau but so far I’m only talking to the hired help and can’t set up a meeting.” She gave him a worried look. “I don’t think they’ve got a negotiator here.”

“What’s going on?” he asked. “They were the ones who wanted to talk.”

“For some reason,” she replied, “the Chinese are stalling. They may be doing one of their periodic roundabouts in Beijing or they may be stalling to increase the pressure.”

“They think Maddy will cave in, don’t they?”
Stop calling the president Maddy
, he told himself.

“Probably,” Mazie answered.

“I’ll call the White House and tell them what’s going on. I don’t need to hang around Paris when I’ve—” He stopped in mid sentence, cutting his words off. He liked and trusted Mazie but could never discuss his personal problems with her. How could he admit to anyone that he and his wife were pulling apart? That he had to get back before it was too late and close the gap that had been growing between them ever since Laurie’s death?

“I saw you speaking to your wife at Andrews,” she said. Her eyes and words were full of concern.

She knows
, he thought.
Why can women sense this sort of thing when men haven’t got a clue? Or maybe it’s me who hasn’t got a clue
. “It’s almost three in the morning in Washington,” he told her. “Let’s see who’s awake at the White House.”

Washington, D.C.

Jessica answered the phone beside the bed on the second ring and handed the receiver to Shaw. She rolled up against him as he listened and rubbed her breasts against his back. “No, don’t wake her,” Shaw said. “It can wait a few hours. Call her security advisors and have them in the Oval Office, no, make that the Situation Room, at six-thirty this morning. Make sure the DCI and secretary of state are there.” He punched at the off button and dropped the phone on the floor. “Damn,” he muttered, “I gotta go.”

“So soon?” she asked, stroking his penis. No response.

“Sorry, Jess, but the Chinese are ruining my love life.”

“Are you sure it’s the Chinese?”

He ignored her question and rolled out of bed. “Tell Leland to get in bed with a reporter and play Deep Throat.” He scooped up the phone and tossed it at her. “Why don’t you wake him up?”

“It can wait,” she told him. “I’ll run your shower.” She stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It’s going to be OK, don’t worry.” She kissed his back and walked into the bathroom. Suddenly, she turned and ran
back to him, throwing her arms around his neck. She held onto him and buried her face against his neck, hoping he didn’t see her tears.

“Now what brought all this on, child?”

The men watched as Turner paced the Situation Room. She reached the far end by the TV monitors and retraced her steps. “What’s the Japanese response so far?” she asked.

“Confused,” Barnett Francis answered. “But there is a growing war party and a demand for retaliation.”

“Have the Chinese changed their military posture?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” the DCI answered. “No change on either side.”

“Then why are the Chinese stalling?”

Secretary Francis answered. “They’re betting the longer we go without responding with a show of force, the less likely one becomes.” He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “They may think you’ll break and cave in if they can keep the pressure on long enough.”

“Do they, now?” she replied. “I’m going to announce a complete freeze of all Chinese financial assets in the States and start discussions with our allies for an embargo.”

“That should get their attention,” Shaw said.

General Charles stared at his hands. “It may not be enough. A show of force may be the only thing that will convince them to back off.”

Shaw shook his head. “I think you should pursue the Paris talks first.”

“With whom?” Francis asked.

Turner sat down and penciled times on the notepad in front of her. “It’s been thirty-six hours since the sel rel. How much more time do I have?” She listened as the men debated her question. Slowly, a consensus emerged that she would have to act very soon or she would lose all hope of taking the initiative. “What is the flying time from Paris to Beijing?” she asked.

“Approximately thirteen hours,” Charles replied, “if
they can overfly Russia. They’ll have to refuel somewhere, and that will add another hour or two.”

“Wire new instructions to Robert in Paris. I want him to fly to Beijing and personally deliver my letter to Lu Zoulin. He is to stress that this is the last chance for a return to normal relations. If he does not get a reply within six hours, he is to leave China immediately.”

Barnett Francis paled. “Madam President, are you establishing a deadline?”

“I’m willing to give them another twenty-four hours.”

Charles de Gaulle Airport, France

The embassy staff car drove up to the waiting C-137, the specially modified Boeing 707 that had served as one of the original
Air Force One
aircraft. The Stratoliner was over forty years old but still gleamed in the sun like a new plane freshly delivered from the factory. Bender and Mazie got out as his suitcase was carried up the boarding stairs by the steward. “I still think I should go with you,” Mazie said. “You’ll need an interpreter.”

“The embassy can provide me with an interpreter,” he told her. The look on her face said that was a poor excuse. “Mazie, we’re only taking a basic crew of four because this may be a wasted trip. We haven’t got diplomatic status or even clearance to enter Chinese airspace yet. I want you to stay here and try to open a channel with the Chinese. Hopefully, you can get us permission to land in China by the time we refuel in Novosibirsk. Then get back to Washington.”

She handed him his briefcase. “I don’t trust Lu Zoulin, and Wang Mocun hates you. Be careful.”

He gave her his best grin. “I will.” The worry on her face stopped him. “You really are concerned.” She only looked at him. “Mazie, if you talk to my wife, tell her that I—” He shook his head, not able to say what he felt. He turned and walked quickly up the stairs.

“That you need her,” Mazie said, giving sound to the words he could not say. But he didn’t hear her over the roar of a starting engine.

Washington, D.C.

Satisfaction took on a new meaning for Paul Ferguson as he sat down with Liz Gordon in CNC-TV’s news studio. He had the ammunition, thanks to a leak from one of Leland’s staff, to even the score with Gordon and once again demonstrate that he was the premier political commentator on the American scene, a power in his own right not to be trifled with. He clipped on his microphone and sat on his coattail, pulling out any wrinkles in his coat. He gave Liz the condescending look he reserved for newspaper reporters as he took his cue from the director. “Good afternoon, America. Elizabeth Gordon is back with me in the studio. Liz, is there any truth to the rumors flowing from Capitol Hill that many members of Congress are demanding Maddy Turner’s impeachment?”

“Paul, as you know, we’ve been hearing these rumors for weeks as Congress splits along partisan lines. Knowledgeable insiders are saying this is part of Senator Leland’s on-going feud with the president. Tax reform is at the heart of the issue because too many of Leland’s supporters, all who have made large contributions to his election campaigns, will pay substantial tax penalties for accepting government subsidies.”

Paul dropped his bombshell. “Then these rumors for impeachment have nothing to do with the fact that the president knew the nuclear attack was coming and did nothing to prevent it?”

“Paul, according to every responsible source I have talked to, this so-called fact you alluded to is a vicious rumor started to discredit the president.” She upped the ante with a bigger bomb of her own. “What is unusual in this case is that the source of these rumors has been identified as a staff member working for Senator John Leland.” She gave a silent thanks to Jeff Bissell.

Paul was furious. Gordon was taking the story away from him again, giving it her own twist. “I find it hard to believe that Senator Leland,” he said, “who is our country’s most respected elder statesmen, would be party to a deliberate lie.”

Liz arched an eyebrow at him, questioning Paul’s sanity.
It was a simple gesture that spoke more than words and ruined his credibility. And because they were live, it could not be edited out. “Right now, Paul, it’s safe to say that partisan party politics is more important than the truth.”

Paul hid his anger and turned toward the camera. “And now to other news.”

The director motioned that they were clear. “Great reporting, Liz. Thanks for coming in.” Everyone in the studio knew she would never share the same stage with Paul Ferguson again.

Shahe Air Base, China

The silver and blue C-137 taxied slowly past the long line of jet fighters parked near the end of the runway at the PLA air base sixty miles north of Beijing. Captain Rodney Davis, the copilot, raised his video camera to film the old jets. “Don’t,” Bender said. He pointed to the small truck they were following. “Someone in the follow-me is probably watching you.”

“I’ve never seen a MiG-19 before,” Davis said.

“The Chinese call them J6s,” Bender explained. “They’ve still got over 3,000 of them.” He counted thirty-seven of the jets as they taxied past. All looked in poor shape, in need of washing and paint. But they were all operational.

“The base seems very quiet,” Tech Sergeant Otis Jenkins, the African-American flight engineer, said.

“It’s lunchtime,” Bender explained.

The pilot, Major Bill Courtland, laughed. “Very civilized.” He hit the intercom button and called the steward. “Speaking of lunch, Larry, what’cha got?”

Master Sergeant Larry Burke’s voice boomed over their headsets. “Lobster Newberg.”

The follow-me truck slowed and stopped. A woman wearing a sloppy uniform jacket over a frilly blouse got out and guided them into a parking spot. She crossed her wrists above her head and made a cutting motion across her throat. Bill Courtland cut the engines as a boarding ramp was pushed up against the front entry hatch and a
black staff car from the American embassy drove up. “I bet they’ve never seen an American plane here before,” Courtland said.

“Oh, I imagine they have,” Bender said, recalling how his predecessor and the former secretary of state had landed at the same base to sell out Taiwan. “Can we make it to Seoul in South Korea without refueling?”

Otis Jenkins, the flight engineer, checked the fuel gauges. “How far?”

“Eighty minutes flying time,” the copilot, Rod Davis, answered.

“No sweat,” Jenkins answered.

“Good,” Bender replied. “File a clearance and be ready to take off the moment I get back.”

The steward, Larry Burke, helped Bender on with his overcoat and handed him his scarf and gloves. Satisfied that his passenger was ready to meet the cold, he opened the hatch. An American was waiting at the base of the stairs. It was Mazie’s husband, Wentworth Hazelton. “General Bender, glad to see you again.” They shook hands, and he escorted Bender to the waiting staff car. “It’s about an hour’s drive to Beijing. We’ve got an escort and Chairman Lu is waiting for you.”

“Mazie didn’t tell me you were here,” Bender said, recalling the time they had met at the State Department.

“We try to keep our professional lives separate from our private life,” he answered.

“So you’re one of the pro-Chinese faction,” Bender said as they drove into Beijing.

“And Mazie is pro-Japanese,” Wentworth said.

“That must make for some lively discussions at home.”

Wentworth smiled. “It’s the peace negotiations that make it worthwhile. I’ll be your translator at the meeting with Chairman Lu. His English is perfect, but he pretends he doesn’t speak a word.” Wentworth opened his briefcase. “I need to update you on the current political status. There’s a major power struggle going on between the hawks and the doves.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before?” Bender demanded.

“It caught us totally off guard,” Wentworth replied.
“Obviously, it has been brewing for some time, but it all surfaced in the last twelve hours. Because you’ll be received by Lu Zoulin, we think he’s currently on top. That’s good, because we think he’s one of the doves.”

“This is really encouraging,” Bender muttered. “You can’t tell the players without a program. Who in the hell decided to go after Japan in the first place?”

“Lu Zoulin. But because of what’s happening now, we suspect he did it to appease the hawks and relieve some of the domestic pressure he’s been under. But apparently, the reaction of our forces on Okinawa surprised him. He may still be misjudging our intentions.”

“That’s why the president sent me here,” Bender said.

Wentworth handed Bender a thin document. “Here’s our current appreciation of the situation.” They rode in silence as Bender read the latest analysis. “We’re here,” Wentworth said as the car pulled up to a large, nondescript building in the heart of Beijing.

An incredibly beautiful woman was waiting for them on the steps. She escorted them to a waiting room on the third floor where Hazelton introduced Bender. They chatted amiably in Mandarin for a few moments and then switched to English to include Bender. Finally, she led them into a large room. Wentworth stiffened but said nothing. Wang Mocun, the negotiator from Paris, was sitting next to Lu Zoulin.