"Okay, here's my copy." She handed it over. Ryan scanned the first page, which took him to lunch. "SecTreas is on the way in for breakfast right after CARDSHARP."
"What do you guys call George?" Jack asked, entering the West Wing.
"TRADER. He likes that," Andrea reported.
"Just so you pronounce it right." Which wasn't a bad line for 7:50 A.M., POTUS thought. But it was hard to tell. The Detail liked nearly all of his jokes. Maybe they were just being polite?
"Good morning, Mr. President." Goodley stood, as usual, when Jack entered the Oval Office.
"Hi, Ben." Ryan dropped the schedule down on his desk, made a quick scan for important documents, and took his seat. "Go."
"You stole my thunder talking with the crew last night. We have gornischt on Mr. Zhang. I could give you the long version, but I imagine you've already heard it." The President nodded for him to go on.
"Okay, developments in the Taiwan Strait. The PRC has fifteen surface ships at sea, two formations, one of six, one of nine. I have compositions if you want, but they're all destroyers and frigates. Deployed in regular squadron groupings, the Pentagon tells us. We have an EC-135 listening in. We have a submarine, Pasadena, camped between the two groups, with two more boats en route from central Pacific, timed to arrive in-area in thirty-six and fifty hours, respectively. CmCPAC, Admiral Seaton, is up to speed and tasking out a full surveillance package. His parameters are on Secretary Bretano's desk now. I've discussed it over the phone. Sounds like Seaton knows his business.
"Political side, the ROC government is taking no official notice of the exercise. They put out a press release to that effect, but their military is in contact with ours— through CiNCPAc. We'll have people in their listening posts" — Goodley checked his watch—"may be there already. State doesn't think this is a very big deal, but they're watching."
"Overall picture?" Ryan asked.
"Could just be routine, but we wish their timing was a little better. They're not overtly pushing anything."
"And until they do, we don't push back. Okay, we take no official notice of this exercise. Let's keep our deployments quiet. No press releases, no briefings to the media. If we get any questions, it's no big deal."
Goodley nodded. "That's the plan, Mr. President.
"Next, Iraq, again, we have little in the way of direct information. Local TV is on a religious kick. It's all Shi'a. The Iranian clergymen we've been seeing are getting a lot of air time. The TV news coverage is almost entirely religion-based. The anchors are getting rhapsodic. The executions are done. We don't have a full body count, but it's over one hundred. That appears to be over. The Ba'ath leadership is gone for good. The littler fish are in the can. There was some stuff about how merciful the provisional government was to the 'lesser criminals'—that's a quote. The 'mercy' is religiously justified, and it seems that some of the 'lesser criminals' have come back to Jesus—excuse me, back to Allah—in one big hurry. There's TV pictures of them sitting with an imam and discussing their misdeeds.
"Next indicator, we're seeing more organized activity within the Iranian military. Troops are training. We're getting intercepts of tactical radio traffic. It's routine, but there's a lot of it. They had an all-nighter at Foggy Bottom to go over all this stuff. The Under Secretary for Political Affairs, Rutledge, set it up. He evidently ran the I and R division pretty ragged." The State Department's Office of Intelligence and Research was the smaller and much poorer cousin to the intelligence community, but in it were a handful of very astute analysts whose diplomatic perspective occasionally gave insights the intelligence community missed.
"Conclusions?" Jack asked. "From the all-nighter, I mean."
"None." Of course, Goodley could have added, but didn't. "I'll be talking to them in an hour or so."
"Pay attention to what I and R says. Pay particular attention to—"
"Bert Vasco. Yes," Goodley agreed. "He's all right, but I'll bet the seventh floor is giving him a pain in the ass. I talked to him twenty minutes ago. He says, are you ready, forty-eight hours. Nobody agrees with that. Nobody, " CARDSHARP emphasized.
"But…?" Ryan rocked back in his chair.
"But I won't bet against him, boss. I have nothing to support his assessment. Our desk people at CIA don't agree. State won't back him up—they didn't even give it to me; I got it from Vasco directly, okay? But, you know, I am not going to say he's wrong." Goodley paused, realizing that he was not sounding like every other NIO. "We have to consider this one, boss. Vasco has good instincts, and he's got balls, too."
"We'll know quickly enough. Right or wrong, I agree that he's the best guy over there. Make sure Adler talks to him, and tell Scott I don't want him stomped, regardless of how it turns out."
Ben nodded emphatically as he made a note. "Vasco gets high-level protection. I like that, sir. It might even encourage other people to make a gut call once in a while."
"The Saudis?"
"Nothing from them. Almost like they're catatonic. I think they're afraid to ask for any help until there's a reason for it."
"Call Ali within the hour," the President ordered. "I want his opinion."
"Yes, sir."
"And if he wants to talk to me, at any time, night or day, tell him he's my friend, and I always have time for him."
"And that's the morning news, sir." He rose and stopped. "Who ever decided on CARDSHARP, by the way?"
"We did," Price said from the far end of the room. Her left hand went up to her earpiece. "It's in your file. You evidently played a good game of poker in your frat house."
"I won't ask you what my girlfriends said about me," the acting National Security Advisor said, on his way out the door.
"I didn't know that, Andrea."
"He's even won some money at Atlantic City. Everybody underestimates him 'cause of his age. TRADER just pulled in."
Ryan checked his agenda. Okay, this was about George's appearance before the Senate. The President took a minute to review his morning appointment list, while a Navy mess steward brought in a light breakfast tray.
"Mr. President, the Secretary of the Treasury," Agent Price announced at the side door to the corridor.
"Thank you, we can handle this alone," Ryan said, rising from his desk as George Winston came in.
"Morning, sir," SecTreas said, as the door closed quietly. He was dressed in one of his handmade suits, and was carrying a manila folder. Unlike his President, the Secretary of the Treasury was used to wearing a jacket most of the time. Ryan took his off and dropped it on the desk. Both sat on the twin couches, with the coffee table between them.
"Okay, how are things across the street?" Ryan asked, pouring himself some coffee, with the caffeine in this morning.
"If I ran my brokerage house like that, the SEC would have my hide on the barn door, my head over the fireplace, and my ass in Leavenworth. I'm going to—hell, I've already started bringing in some of my administrative folks down from New York. There are just too many people over there whose only job is looking at each other and telling them how important they all are. Nobody's responsible for anything. Damn it, at Columbus Group, we often make decisions by committee, but we make by-God decisions in time for them to matter. There are too many people, Mr. Pres—"
"You can call me Jack, at least in here, George, I—" The door to the secretaries' room opened and the photographer came in with his Nikon. He didn't say anything. He rarely did. He just snapped away, and the rubric was for everyone to pretend he simply wasn't there. It would have been a hell of an assignment for a spy, Ryan thought.
"Fine. Jack, how far can I go?" TRADER asked.
"I already told you that. It's your department to run. Just so you tell me about it first."