“For how long?” Flartman asked.
“Impossible to say, Secretary Hartman,” Finegold said. “The committee staffs are just now being organized. It could take weeks just to be able to sit down and decide what areas need to be studied.”
“Very similar to the problems you said you’d encounter in deciding about what areas of the air attacks on Iran and the Persian Gulf could be included in Senate hearings,” Crane added.
“You’re not suggesting that we do any less due diligence in examining the risks to national security of revealing details of our military actions just so we can see reasonable progress from Congress in furthering our foreign policy agenda?” Hartman asked incredulously.
Representative Crane smiled mischievously. “If the foot-dragging fits, Mr. Secretary…”
“We all want progress, Secretary Hartman,” Senator Finegold said, putting a hand on Crane’s arm as if to calm him down. “If we all keep that in mind, I think we—”
Suddenly a man in a business suit and wearing a wireless communications earset opened the door, saw the chief of staff standing nearby, and whispered something in his ear. Most everybody in the room recognized the newcomer as Marine Corps Colonel William McNeely, the White House military liaison who worked in an office next to National Security Advisor Philip Freeman’s. He was carrying a plain black briefcase, and Finegold realized with a faint shock what it was: McNeely was the man responsible for the “football,” the briefcase containing a communications transceiver that put the President in contact with the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon and several other military command posts — so he could issue instructions to the nation’s nuclear forces while on the move.
Jerrod Hale quickly stepped over and stooped between the President and Vice President; a moment later, all three shot to their feet. “Meeting adjourned,” the President said quickly. The door to the Cabinet Room flung open, and Secret Service agents flooded in.
“What’s going on, Mr. President?” Finegold asked excitedly as the senior Cabinet members and the President and Vice President were surrounded by Secret Service agents. Finegold and Crane tried to follow, but they were held back inside the Cabinet Room by the Secret Service. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Finegold cried out at the agent holding her.
“You’re instructed to remain here until the President’s party departs,” the agent replied.
“She’s the Senate Majority Leader! ” Congressman Crane shouted at the agent. “She’s supposed to accompany the President.”
“You’re instructed to stay” the agent said in a firm voice, as if he were talking to his pet German shepherd.
The Democratic congressional leadership could do nothing but watch in amazement as three Marine Corps helicopters touched down on the south lawn of the White House and scooped up the President, Vice President, and his Cabinet advisors. “It must be an emergency evacuation,” Finegold said, reaching for a cell phone in her purse. “Something’s happening.”
“Hey! ” Congressman Joseph Crane shouted. “I see Gant and Fortier getting on the helicopter! Why the hell can the Republican leadership follow the President on his getaway choppers, but we Democrats can’t? They got plenty of room on those things…” But his outrage was drowned out by the rapid departure of Marine One. The three helicopters executed a position change shortly after takeoff, a sort of “shell game” in the sky with helicopters to confuse or complicate any terrorists’ efforts to kill the President.
They were finally allowed to leave, long after the helicopters were out of sight, and Finegold and her colleagues, still hopping mad at their snub, made their way to the lower entrance to-the West Wing. They were surprised to see Admiral George Balboa standing in the doorway leading to the driveway just outside the West Wing, talking on a handbag- size transportable cellular phone handled by an aide. He did not see the congressional Democratic leaders approach as he slammed the phone down into its holder in disgust. “Admiral Balboa, I’m surprised to see you here,” Barbara Finegold said in true amazement. “I thought you’d be with the President.”
“A little mix-up,” Balboa offered in a low, rather contrite voice.
“I’ll say. Those two butt-kissers Fortier and Gant hop aboard the chopper and leave you stranded,” House Minority Leader Joe Crane said. “Since when do congressmen steal seats out from under important presidential advisors?”
“I… I was on my way to the Pentagon,” Balboa said.
“Since when does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff not accompany the President, especially during an emergency White House evacuation?” Finegold asked. Balboa’s eyes widened when he heard Fine- gold describe exactly what had happened — and only then did Finegold know she was correct. “I know Colonel McNeely’s function as well as I know yours, Admiral. Can you answer my question? Why is the chairman of the JCS not accompanying the President during a military emergency? ”
“I should probably not answer,” Balboa said, “except to say that I have responsibilities at the Pentagon right now.”
“I guess with the Secretary of Defense bugging out with the others, you’d be pretty much minding the store,” Crane said. “Where’s your chopper? Don’t tell me you gotta drive?”
Balboa looked embarrassed, then hurt. “The… the airspace around the capital has been closed,” he explained. “No aircraft can depart until…”
“Until NEACP departs,” Finegold added — and, to her surprise, Balboa nodded. Another correct guess, she congratulated herself. Crane looked a little confused, so she explained, “NEACP, Joe, is the National Emergency Airborne Command Post, the militarized version of Air Force One, designed so the President can be in touch with military and civilian leadership all over the world. It only flies when there’s a danger of some vital command and control center being knocked out — say, Washington, knocked out by a nuclear attack.”
“What!” Crane exploded. “A nuclear attack! You’re saying someone is going to attack Washington… right now?”
“I don’t know,” Finegold said. She turned to Admiral Balboa and projected every bit of charm, influence, authority, glamour, and friendliness she could toward the embittered veteran Navy officer. “Can you tell us, Admiral? We have a right to know.”
Obviously, George Balboa had been struggling with some dilemma for quite some time, well before this emergency, and now the pressure of all these events were coming to a head in his mind. Fie nodded, more to himself than anyone around him, then motioned for them to follow him back inside. Using his passcards, he escorted Finegold and Crane, without their aides, back into the West Wing, then downstairs by elevator to the White FFouse Situation Room. Except for a staff of guards and communications officers, the rather small,unimposing room was empty. “I’m not going anywhere — it would take me an hour to get to the Pentagon in rush-hour traffic,” Balboa said after he closed the door to the secure conference room. “I’m isolated. I can’t talk with my command center or the national command authority.”
“What’s going on, Admiral?” Finegold asked again.
“This is strictly confidential.”
“This conversation is not taking place,” Finegold assured him as sincerely as she could. At the same time, part of her politically brilliant mind was already searching for ways to cover her tracks when — not if—she leaked any of what she was about to hear. “Don’t worry, Admiral — we’ll get a briefing on all this shortly anyway. ”