“Well,” Chadwick said, “you’re the expert when it comes to causing wars.”
Ryan waited a beat. He was human and didn’t want to say something he would later regret. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“I already told you,” she said. “I want the American people to see you for what you are.”
Ryan nodded at that. “I’m pretty sure they do,” he said. “Warts and all.”
“Oh, they will, eventually, if I have anything to say about it.”
Ryan couldn’t help but laugh at this woman’s audacity. “I suppose we’ll just have to plead our cases to the law of the land.”
“That’s perfectly fine with me,” Chadwick said. “I feel sure the courts will—”
Betty Martin’s voice came across the intercom, a blessed interruption.
“Mr. President. DNI Foley is here.”
Betty didn’t say it was urgent, but Ryan knew it was, or she wouldn’t have interrupted him mid-meeting unless he’d told her to — which he stupidly had not.
Chadwick took her cue and stood. “Well, this has been real. But it sounds like you have another war to start.”
Mary Pat stepped back and gave Senator Chadwick a wide berth as the two women passed each other at the doorway. A member of Ryan’s “war council,” as Chadwick called it, the director of national security was every bit as culpable as he was.
“I sure as hell hope you bring good news,” Ryan said. “I could use some about now.”
Foley, who was rarely at a loss for words, took a deep breath. “It’s a lot better news than I had ten minutes ago, Jack. But it’s still pretty shitty.”
The side door opened and Arnie came in, uncharacteristically taciturn. He glanced at Foley and gave her a distinct Have you told him yet? look.
“Okay,” Ryan said five minutes later when Mary Pat had given him a thumbnail sketch. “Let’s get the NSC spooled up again, but I’d like State and Defense in here ASAP.”
“They’re on their way, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I took the liberty of asking them to come to the White House right away. Burgess has someone putting together an executive summary, but I wanted to let you know what I know as soon as practical.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, obviously having more to say.
“Go ahead, then,” he said. “Tell me.” Ryan’s stomach churned with worry — which was nothing new. No matter how much he trusted Jack and Clark and the others, the world in which they operated was a cold and deadly place. Ryan had made enough calls to surviving parents and spouses to see it firsthand. Bullets didn’t care who your father was. People died because they stepped left instead of right.
“He’s okay,” Mary Pat said, as if reading Ryan’s mind. “But we do need to talk.”
Burgess all but exploded into the Oval. “Mr. President,” he said, breathless, as if he’d sprinted into the West Wing. “Major Poteet is across the hall in the Roosevelt Room at this moment, putting the finishing touches on some slides for you. He’ll be in momentarily.”
“Major Poteet?” Ryan said.
“He’s our foremost expert on the state of Iran’s defense capability at present. I find listening to him is like reading a year’s worth of Jane’s Defence Weekly, but I’ve warned him to turn down the firehose for this presentation.”
Ryan stood up and walked across the office to his desk phone, asking Betty to order a coffee service. He had a feeling this was going to be a late night. “We might need a firehose,” he said. “This whole thing is a convoluted mess. The Russians love their maskirovka, but this…”
Scott Adler came in next, followed by a middle-aged man in a white button-down and a pair of starched Wrangler jeans with razor-sharp creases up the front. He carried a closed notebook computer in callused hands.
“Please forgive Major Poteet,” Burgess said. “He’s on leave, but I happened to catch him stopping by his office after I got the call from the DNI. He worked on his presentation on the ride over.”
“Major,” Ryan said, shaking the man’s hand.
“A real pleasure, Mr. President,” Poteet said, his Texas accent as smooth as his hands were rough. “I apologize for being out of uniform.”
“Not a problem,” Ryan said. “I’m assuming you’re up to speed.”
Burgess spoke next. “He knows what I know, sir.”
“All right.” Ryan motioned for everyone to sit while he picked up the phone and spoke for a moment to his secretary. He replaced the handset and took his seat by the fireplace. “I’ve convened the full National Security Council in half an hour. I’d like to have a framework of ideas started before they arrive, so let’s have it.”
Poteet spent the next ten minutes going over Iran’s known stockpile of rockets and missiles, as well as their abilities to counter any attacks from other countries. Ryan knew much of the information, but the briefing helped to solidify it for the here and now of this situation.
“So,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms in thought, “the Sejjil-2 is capable of reaching targets well over two thousand kilometers away?”
“That’s correct, sir,” the major said.
“GPS guidance?”
“Yes, sir. We believe it to be Iran’s most technologically advanced missile at this point.”
“The Russian Gorgons have a range of what, a thousand kilometers?”
“That’s about right,” Burgess said. “Sources within the Kremlin say more recent variants might give half again that range.”
“I see,” Ryan said. “That’s still nowhere near the range of the missiles Iran already has in her arsenal. Could they be planning to move the nuclear warheads from the Gorgons to the Sejjil?”
“That’s certainly possible,” Poteet said. “But it wouldn’t be very smart. The nuclear warhead on the 51T6, or Gorgon, is certainly a plum for the Iranian missile forces, but I believe what they’re after is the more sophisticated Russian guidance system. Iran has a way of grossly exaggerating the accuracy of their own armament.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Mary Pat said. “We have satellite footage of them using an explosive charge to make it look like one of their bad boys hit a target during testing three years ago.”
“True enough, ma’am,” Major Poteet said. “And that’s not an isolated incident. We estimate the Circular Error Probable, or CEP, to be somewhere greater than five hundred meters on the Sejjil, even with the internal GPS.”
“Half a kilometer isn’t what I’d call precise munition,” Ryan said.
“Iran has the largest complement of missiles of any country in the Middle East,” Poteet said. “If you’ll excuse the euphemism, they’re fairly bristling with them. But none of them are precision instruments — yet. Sanctions certainly make it difficult for Iran to obtain certain electronics and the finely powdered metals they need for a consistent burn of their solid fuel. Up until now, even the Russians have balked at providing them with the most up-to-date systems. That said, I don’t want to understate the threat, either. Lob enough explosive at a target and some of it is bound to fall where you want it to.”
The steward from the Navy mess knocked, and then brought in the coffee Ryan had ordered. The conversation fell off until he left and shut the door behind him. As was his custom, Ryan served the coffee himself. It gave his hands something to do while his brain worked on a problem, a trick he’d learned from his father, who would often putter around in his woodshop while he stewed over a difficult murder investigation. He held a cup toward the major, a cube of sugar poised over it between the silver tongs.
“Black is fine, Mr. President,” Poteet said, looking more than a little embarrassed at being served by the Commander in Chief. A relatively junior rank at the Pentagon, majors were often the aides who got coffee for generals.