“Which means what?” her superior — Secretary of State Dodd — asked in a chilly voice.
“Meaning the civilians had to be behind it!” There was a general commotion at Clarissa’s leap to that conclusion. “It’s do-or-die time!” she persisted over the disturbance. “Han Zhemin is trying to ensure that we — America — win this war! He’s offering us victory, because only a bloody military defeat would restore the balance of power in Beijing that has tipped in favor of the army with every mile of America they’ve taken from us!”
Heads turned and eyes flitted in furtive, silent counsels, but no one ventured a critique of Clarissa’s analysis. Everyone checked and rechecked their neighbors, then everyone decided that now was not the time to speak.
Almost everyone, that is. “There are over three million Chinese troops massed in northern Virginia,” Richard Fielding noted. He was addressing not Clarissa, but President Baker. “They’re real. We’ve got good, on-the-ground intell. But where is this mythical invasion fleet?”
Bill turned to Admiral Thornton, chief of naval operations. “Any sign of Chinese naval activity that might indicate staging for a seaborne invasion?”
“No, sir,” Thornton replied, shaking his head. “Nothing. But…”
Baker waited, then had to ask, “But what?”
The balding admiral pressed his lips together and frowned out of one corner of his mouth as if he were smiling. “But we wouldn’t necessarily know.” His chin dropped as he avoided eye contact. “We missed the invasion fleet that hit the west coast. Missed it entirely. We had submarine pickets out. Search planes. Surface patrols. And they slipped right through all of it. They’ve destroyed our line of listening devices on the outer continental shelf using remotely piloted, deep-dive submarines. We’ll double, triple the patrols, but what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. President…”
“I understand,” Bill said. “Your point is taken.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Thornton said. “I’m sorry.”
Now was not the time for pride. Now was the time for straight answers. Bill nodded.
“Then what Han said could be true!” Clarissa exclaimed, seizing on the point. Thornton shrugged. “Why would Han lie?” she asked the room, growing confident that she was persuading them. “Why would he want the Chinese army to win?”
“Because he’s Chinese,” Richard Fielding quietly suggested.
Again, no one else ventured into the debate. The Situation Room fell quiet.
“We can only defend one, sir,” commented General Cotler, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Washington or Philadelphia?”
Everyone turned to Bill for his decision, but he ignored them all. He had been staring the entire time at Clarissa and felt intense guilt for allowing his suspicions to creep in. It’s just paranoia, he assured himself. But it had become a way of life. Of self-preservation. Of survival. And it nagged at him. It forced him to doubt. It forced him to scrutinize Clarissa.
“Do you trust Han Zhemin?” Fielding prodded.
Something in the way that he had framed the question made clear the choice that Bill was going to make. He turned from Fielding, to Moore, to Clarissa.
“We defend Philadelphia,” Bill said simply. She smiled.
“Will I see you upstairs?” Clarissa asked Bill at the door of the now hectic Situation Room.
Aides rushed in and out carrying chin-high stacks of black binders. Generals and colonels buzzed in a beehive of activity all set in motion by Bill’s wrenching change in strategy.
“I’ve got a lot to do,” Bill mumbled. He half turned to the room.
Clarissa made a sympathetic face, but she was beaming. “It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. “This is the break we were waiting for!” Despite the late hour, she was alert, almost giddy. Bill couldn’t even reciprocate with a smile. She took a step foward but controlled her impulse to kiss him, then laughed at herself, touched her forehead, and covered her grin with her hand. Her sole expressions of intimacy were to grab and squeeze his hand, and to lean eyen closer and whisper. “I’m going to take a quick check of my office, but then we can rendezvous upstairs, if you know what I mean.”
Bill nodded and watched her walk away. He was still standing there — long after she was gone — when Richard Fielding stepped up to his side.
“Clear the Situation Room,” Bill said softly. “Everyone out but the principals.”
When the doors were closed and the room was still, it seemed nearly empty. Bill Baker stood before the principals of the NSC. He gripped the back of his chair and looked out over the room. He didn’t doubt his decision. He lamented it.
“Han Zhemin is lying,” he said. “We will defend Washington, DC, against a ground attack with every available soldier, Marine, sailor, and airman. But we will make them think that we’re defending Philadelphia. Those are your orders.”
The perspectives on Baker’s plan by those in the room were numerous and varied. No one was quite so intrigued, however, as the director of the CIA. Bill turned to Richard Fielding and said, “Come with me,” as he headed toward the door.
Clarissa’s mood had changed for the worse with every word of the E-mail she read. Her throat constricted. Her mouth dried. The subtle shakes of her head became involuntary, repeated utterings. “No. No-no-no!” she muttered. Her mouth hung open as she carefully reread the E-mail.
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. The nation stands at the brink of defeat and extinction. There are no new plans for winning the war. No new hope that anything waits at the end of this ordeal other than subjugation — state by state — by the Chinese. The current leadership is bereft of visionary, war-winning plans. There is only one option left to us. We will not go quietly into the night. Now is the time to act. Be prepared.
Prepared? Prepared? Be prepared for what? Clarissa was desperate. What to do? What to do?
She ground her teeth as she deleted the E-mail with the Department-of-Defense-provided shredder. Her eyes then flit about her desk as if in search of an answer. She felt sick with worry. Sick with fear. She covered her face with her hands, pressed her fingertips to her closed eyelids, and shook her head slowly from side to side. “Oh God,” she said through her hands.
Clarissa looked around abruptly at her door, which was shut. She knew what had to be done. She opened a window on her computer monitor to compose a message, which she would send, via the anonymous router, to the equally anonymous coup plotters.
Listen, I don’t know who you are, but don’t do anything yet!!!! President Baker has just issued orders that might win the war! He has received critical, high-level intelligence from Han Zhemin that the Chinese are planning to invade Philadelphia! We will redeploy to defend the shipyard and crush the Chinese landing. It will be a huge military victory that will reverse the fortunes of the war! We won’t have to take any other action. So whatever you do, don’t take action now!!!!
With Clarissa’s heart pounding and finger shaking, she hit the mouse button and sent the message. She quickly shredded the copy of the message in her sent mail folder, rocked back in her chair, and let out a large sigh of exhaustion.
Was it too late to stop the coup? Would her message be enough? Simple pleas to wait for Baker’s plan without specifics about that plan, she had realized, wouldn’t have done the trick. So she had given the plotters details that carried weight. Facts that should give them pause.