Four coffee tureens were arranged within reach of the seven participants, and pitchers of ice water were also present, though, not surprisingly, they were full. The coffee was half gone.
Bud DiContino was there, two seats from the president. The circumstances might have prevented him from attending as acting national security adviser, but the death of the only other deputy NSA two days previously in a boating accident on the Chesapeake left little in the way of alternatives.
The president had immediately noticed the acting NSA upon entering. “Bud, glad you could be with us. I hear you’re a bit bruised up.”
“A bit, sir,” he answered, forcing a slight smile. “And I’m glad to be here.”
Secretary of State James Coventry, sitting between Bud and the president, put a hand on the acting NSA’s shoulder. “From what I saw you were damn lucky. Damn lucky.”
Being in the inner circle was new to Bud. Deputies, though close to the power center, were never closer than the second ring of chairs in any official meeting. They would sit behind their principal, sometimes two or three of them, and wait until cued to pass forward some needed bit of paper. It was usually a brief of some sort or, if it was a congressional committee hearing, some piece of documentation or evidence. Necessary bullshit, mostly, Bud believed. Politics. It was the nature of the beast.
“They tell me I started down just before the explosions, but I don’t remember that. I think adrenaline wipes out short-term memory. There was enough of it in my veins right then to make an elephant stupid.”
Coventry flexed his jaw muscles as the scene rolled again through his mind. The whole front of the hotel and lobby had been demolished and Bud hadn’t even been cut. Just some bruises.
The president straightened himself against the back of his gray leather chair. He felt tired, and wondered how he looked. If it was like the others in the room, probably like shit. Fifteen of his last seventeen hours had been sleepless and filled with a somber swearing-in ceremony in the Oval Office, an emergency Cabinet meeting as the clock tolled midnight, and several other official meetings with the chairman of this committee and the majority leader of that house. It was a blur, literally, and that couldn’t continue, for him or his Cabinet and close aides. They were human, after all.
“All right, let’s get going.” He slid a stack of his schedule for the day to both sides of the table. “Today’s busy, as you can see, but I want to make something clear,” he said, his tone bringing eyes up from the paper, “I want each of you to schedule some sack time. You all have deputies…” The president caught his mistake as his look passed over Bud. “… or others who can hold down the fort for a while.” He’d make sure that his acting NSA got some assistance. “Understood?”
A staggered recital of ‘Yes, sirs’ acknowledged the request. Or was it a directive? A presidential directive to sleep? Coventry mused.
“Ellis, do you want to start?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” the chief of staff said. His black hair, however well he might have combed it, never seemed quite right. It had always looked just a little unkempt, even back in their younger days. “I talked to Jeff at Protocol about an hour ago. He says the funeral arrangements should be completed by this evening. It’s tentatively set for Thursday at Mrs. Bitteredge’s request. She wants to wait until the family can all get here.”
“He had kids…how many? Nine…all over the place.” FBI director Gordon Jones shook his head. ‘Two are in Africa with the Peace Corps.”
Bud leaned in. “What about Jeremy’s, Ellis?”
“Thursday or Friday. The family wants a private ceremony. They’re going to fly him back to Montana today.” The COS saw Bud nod acknowledgment and went on. “There’s no official word from the British embassy on the foreign secretary’s funeral yet, but I wouldn’t expect anything on that until later today. We will need to notify them of our representation, sir.”
“Right. I’ll touch on that later. Anything else?” Gonzales shook his head. “Secretary Meyerson.”
“Sir. Mm-uhm. Excuse me. I just can’t shake this flu,” the secretary of defense apologized. As much as he hated to admit it, he did resemble a graying Clark Kent. “General Granger can cover any specifics if need be,” he said, gesturing to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “As for generalities, we’re maintaining a slightly increased state of readiness worldwide — the military jargon is condition Bravo — as a matter of prudence. Some of our higher-risk outposts, like Guantanamo and South Korea, are taking some further precautions. This is standard procedure following any unforeseen event, especially when the upper-echelon chain of command is affected.
“That aspect of the situation went very well. Our system of control over the strategic forces is intact, and the transfer went quite well, considering.”
“How long was an elected official out of control?” the president asked, obvious to point out his concern with thinly veiled words.
“About twenty minutes.”
“And in the interim?”
Meyerson looked to Granger. The smooth-headed soldier— Chrome Dome to his adversaries on the Hill — cleared his throat. “Mr. President,” the four-star Army general began, in his well-known slow-cadenced voice, “our Top Hat commander aboard Looking Glass passed the ball, so to speak, to you as soon as you were confirmed in position. It went damn smooth considering Naycap was off cycle at the time.”
“What is Naycap, and what is off cycle?” the president asked. “Something doesn’t sound right about that.”
You’re right, Granger thought. Maybe he could score some points for the service here. “I’m sure you know what it is. We get used to acrospeak, sometimes. Speaking in our language of military hyphenations and what have you. It’s actually the NAACP. You can see why we modify it. There ain’t much about civil rights to do with it, and we don’t want to offend. It stands for National Alternate Airborne Command Post. It’s the pure military equivalent of your Kneecap, or NEACP— National Emergency Airborne Command Post.” Kneecap was in a hangar at Andrews Air Force Base, ready to leave on two minutes’ notice. Its purpose, like its military counterpart, was to provide a safe aerial command post to direct U.S. forces in the event of a nuclear attack or serious threat. “Up until eighty-seven we had one Looking Glass aircraft up at all times, usually just flying randomly over mid-America. They’d stay up for sixteen hours at a time, sometimes longer if need be. There are two complete crews on each — we have four aircraft — and tanker support can keep them flying until something critical gives out.”
“The routine shifted in eighty-seven, sir,” Meyerson added. The president looked his way, then back to the general.
“The administration at that time, sir, well…if you’ll pardon the critique, they fell into the tunnel-vision syndrome. Since the Russians were starting to play Mr. Friendly it didn’t seem all that necessary to have a Looking Glass bird up around the clock. They decided that just having one on the runway at ready five — ready to take off with only five minutes’ warning — would do. But, as this shows, we don’t have to have a major threat pointing a gun at us to see our triple C get all screwed up.” Granger saw the puzzled look in the president’s eyes, but not on his face. “Command. Control. Communication. In a war, or a near-war situation, those abilities are paramount.”
The general looked at each man. “The scary thing about this is that there was a window of vulnerability for us, and a goddamn big window of opportunity for someone who might just decide to take advantage of the situation.”
“I agree.” The president’s words stopped the exchange cold. Granger turned to face his commander in chief. “The general is absolutely correct. Now don’t sully my hard-earned reputation by granting me hawk status,” he prefaced, hoping the humor would lighten the moment, “but I don’t believe we can afford to be caught with our pants down…ever. Not for a second. Drew, I want around-the-clock readiness of the National Command Authority ensured. If that means flying those Looking Glass planes twenty-four hours a day again, then do it.”