Was he wrong, and Lucente right? Were the North Koreans, rather than the Chinese, behind everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours? Where was the proof? He saw hearsay. He saw innuendo. But was that enough to go to war?
He shifted gears and turned to the incident over the Sea of Japan. Had the U.S. jet purposefully or inadvertently strayed into DPRK airspace, or was this a deliberate act of aggression by Pyongyang? And just what would happen if he were to order military strikes against North Korea?
On that, Admiral Arthurs and General Garrett were probably correct. The official OPLAN wouldn’t suffice. They didn’t have enough men or missiles in place to protect Seoul, much less defeat the North Koreans quickly and decisively with a conventional war. If he was really contemplating war, the only option was a nuclear option. But was he really prepared to launch a preemptive nuclear strike against the DPRK?
The implications were almost too horrible to contemplate. Would China be drawn in? They had been in 1950. They’d signed a defensive alliance with Pyongyang in 1961, requiring them to intervene militarily if North Korea was attacked. They seemed ready, even itching, for war with the U.S. now. Was that worth the enormous price the American people would have to pay?
Caulfield quickly combed his hair.
He tucked in his shirt, stuck the MP’s 9 mm pistol in his waistband, then donned his suit coat and buttoned it. After washing and drying his hands and face, he checked the MP’s pulse again and picked up his leather binder of notes, briefing papers, and schedules. Convinced he was ready, he straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed out of the kitchen, racing down the hall, around the corner, and toward the conference room where Oaks was now reviewing nuclear war plans with the head of U.S. Pacific Command.
“I’ve got an urgent message for the president,” he said breathlessly to Agent Coelho, standing post in the hall, and Coelho did what he always did. He nodded and opened the door. They had done this dance dozens of times since arriving at NORAD.
Caulfield knew he wasn’t going to be searched. The United States, after all, was at war. Caulfield had top secret clearance. He’d worked for Oaks for more than a year. He’d been thoroughly vetted by the Secret Service. No one suspected him. No one turned to look at him as he entered. Why would they? Everyone in the room knew Caulfield was practically a fixture at the president’s side. He’d been in and out all night, and they were consumed with the urgent business at hand.
As Caulfield moved behind the president, presumably to whisper something in his ear, he could see the plans on the table. He could see maps of the peninsula and various bombing scenarios on the flat-screen monitors on the wall. He knew what they were doing. He knew why. And he knew they had to be stopped.
As he closed in behind the president, he unbuttoned his jacket and carefully drew the 9 mm. Quickly now, he drove the pistol into the president’s temple with his right hand while putting his left arm around the man’s throat.
Stunned, the president began to gag. Everyone turned. Judge Summers, in the room to review the legality of the war plans being contemplated, gasped in horror. General Briggs rose from his seat and reached for the president, but Caulfield shouted him down.
“Nobody move,” he yelled. “Nobody.”
Briggs stopped in his tracks as Agent Coelho burst into the room, gun drawn.
Caulfield took the pistol off the president’s temple and fired two rounds at Coelho, hitting him once in the chest and once in the face. Everyone screamed. Coelho dropped to the ground, a pool of blood growing by the second around his head, the acrid stench of gunpowder hanging in the air.
In the confusion, Caufield moved back a few steps, pulling the president in his swivel chair toward the corner of the conference room. Caulfield’s back was now covered. He had a clear shot at the door. No one could get in or out of the room without him seeing them. Most importantly, no one could get behind him to take him out.
“Bobby, why?” the president asked, his entire body shaking. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up, Mr. President,” Caulfield screamed, pressing the pistol against his temple again. “Everyone just shut up.”
The room quickly died down but it did not become quiet. Alarms were ringing throughout the complex. Caulfield could hear yelling and boots. Through the clear bulletproof windows of the conference room he saw agents and heavily armed Marines filling the hallway and staring in horror at the slain agent and the gunman holding the president hostage. But for now, he had the upper hand, and he was determined to use it.
“No one is going to war — not against North Korea,” Caulfield yelled. “You want to take someone out? You take out the Chinese. But not Pyongyang. Not the DPRK.”
He could see the fear in everyone’s eyes, fear and confusion. No one had any idea what he was talking about or why. But it didn’t matter, he decided. They didn’t need to know his reasons. Only his demands.
“Bobby, please, everything’s going to be okay,” said a voice from the back of the room. “Just take it easy, Bobby, and let’s talk.”
Startled, Caulfield turned and scanned the room. “Who said that?” he demanded. “Who was that?”
“It was me, Bobby,” Judge Summers said softly, and she began standing to her feet. But she didn’t get far.
Caulfield squeezed off two rounds. Summers screamed. Both rounds missed her but the plasma screen behind her exploded on impact. Then Briggs made his move. He leaped from his seat a few feet from Caulfield and the president and lunged at the young man. Two more explosions echoed through the NORAD complex and Briggs crashed to the floor, the back of his head gone.
57
An aide stood by to help Al-Hassani out of the water.
Unless he was seriously ill, the seventy-six-year-old leader never missed his fifty laps a day in the Olympic-size pool just behind the former Saddam palace that had become his home, and today was no exception. Nuclear war. The deaths of millions. An imminent attack on Kurdish rebels. It made no difference. The man had his priorities. He had his routine. And he would not be deterred.
Finally satisfied with his workout, Al-Hassani agreed to take the call. He grabbed one of the metal railings, stepped out of the heated water, and let the aide wrap him in a bathrobe and help him don his slippers. Then he took the satellite phone and retired to a chaise longue on the veranda, peering out over the teeming city of Babylon, his pride and joy, that not so long ago had seemed a godforsaken wasteland.
“Premier Zhao,” Al-Hassani said, lighting up his pipe and shooing away his viziers, “to what do I owe the honor?”
“Mustafa, you must call off your operation in Kurdistan,” the Chinese premier insisted, the urgency thick in his voice. “It could ruin everything.”
“Come, come, Mr. Prime Minister,” Al-Hassani demurred. “These are rebels. They are thugs. They are dogs and must be put down. Must I remind you of Tiananmen Square?”
“That was a disaster for us, and you know it,” Zhao said.
“Nevertheless, your party is still in power, are you not?” Al-Hassani noted.
“This is different.”
“How?”
“The Cold War was ending; tensions were subsiding; peace was breaking out everywhere,” Zhao said. “This is no longer the case.”
“Why? Because the Americans have a thousand nuclear warheads pointed at your head?” Al-Hassani tut-tutted.
“Were they pointed at yours, perhaps you wouldn’t be so cavalier,” Zhao countered, his voice measured but his anger clearly rising. “Look, Mustafa, things are getting very dangerous. There is no room for error. The slightest miscalculation at this point could be catastrophic. You must pull back, at least for another day.”