“True. The RDF and the Navforcepacfleet is casting off now.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Read the message yourself, sir. The ships are putting to sea, assembling off Shikoku, Japan. The escort in begins in about six hours. They’re on their way.”
“Sounds like Warner learned her lesson,” Pacino said, remembering her vacillation before the Japanese blockade.
“So what do you want with the Atlantic Force?” White asked.
“Defcon one, load up, set sail. Norfolk squadron goes under the polar icecap. Kings Bay squadron through the canal. First ship to the East China Sea wins dinner on me. And we’ll see who’s right about how long this thing takes.”
“Admiral, Captain White?” aide Kathy Cressman called from the front. Pacino’s assistant from his Norfolk days, she was now working for his number two man, Admiral Kane. “Warner’s on SNN, making a statement. I’ll patch it to your screen.”
The peaks of the Tetons, the “American Alps” that appeared on all the postcards and prints and oil paintings, were ten miles to the north. Teton Village was located near the border of Teton National Park, a ski town not unlike Vail or Aspen, with a double mountain marked by bare swaths cut through the fir trees for ski slopes. The supports of the chair-lift cables and tram climbed up the mountain like rungs of a ladder. Skiers crowded the slopes, hundreds of colorful dots on the white field in the bright November sunshine.
At the base of the slopes was what once had been a sleepy, quaint town, but three years before, it had been overrun by photographers, newsmen, transmission vans, black limousines, helicopters, Secret Service agents, and tourists who had never strapped on skis and never planned to.
Jaisal Warner’s presidential complex, on the south side of the village, was more of a large, rambling log lodge. On the upper story, under a gently sloping, peaked roof a wall of windows looked down on the village to the north; another wall of glass on the other side peered up the mountain. Between the two glass walls were several sitting areas and a dining area, marked by stone fireplaces. On the lower two levels were guest rooms and spas, an enclosed swimming pool, a pub with several pool tables. The Secret Service took up the rooms of the lower level, the press corps and visiting cabinet members the second floor, leaving the president to her master bedroom suite on a level above the peaked roofline, a son of cabin-above-the-cabin that had a view of most of the valley.
She stepped out of the front entrance of the lodge and walked down the steps hewn from twenty-foot-long logs.
She wore ski pants, a sweater, and her fur warmup boots, her hands ungloved. In her hair she had put her Raybans. Her hair, though golden, had become streaked with gray over the last two years, but the gray was a silvery tone that blended well with the blond. Her skin remained unwrinkled despite her skiing tan, her startlingly blue eyes shining out over her high cheekbones, royal nose, and strong chin. She was tall, her figure slim as a thirty-year old’s, though the birthday cake from number thirty had crumbled to dust almost two decades ago. She held the distinction of being the first female American president, having won a surprise landslide that brought her to power from the governorship of California.
The blockade of Japan turned out to be her first international crisis. From a combination of hesitation and bad luck, the U.S. Navy suffered losses so severe that the conflict was almost lost. Late in the game the tide turned, and Warner took control and changed it into a victory. Though three carrier battle groups had been sunk, with thousands lost at sea, it never damaged Warner politically. If anything, the setback rallied the nation around her, the underdog. At the close of the conflict she had the highest approval ratings since George Bush’s after the close of the first Persian Gulf war.
Ratings had remained high until Eve Trachea, her National Party opponent in the coming election, spoke up about waste in the Department of War, particularly the trillion-dollar NSSN submarine program. Political cartoons showed Warner in a clown outfit peering through a broken periscope, water leaking in past crooked valve handles. Warner and her staff had come to Wyoming, away from the hassles of the Beltway, to brainstorm a strategy for her reelection. She was walking off the tram at Apres Vous mountain when she’d been waved over by a satellite phone toting staffer.
It was the secretary of war, down in the lodge. As she listened to him, standing there with her skies in one hand, the phone in the other, a thundercloud formed on her face.
The Reds had come over the border into White China, not just killing troops and attacking military installations, but massacring civilians, firebombing the most populated cities with plasma weapons. Tens of millions of people had been killed at the time of the call, which was only minutes into the attack. When she had disconnected, she was asked to take the phone again. This time Stephen Cogster was calling from the White House, her National Security Adviser having stayed after the Donchez funeral to get a few days of work done before returning.
“You wouldn’t believe what I just saw,” Cogster said in his trademark gentle voice. His easy manner was deceiving.
His nickname among his staff was “the Blowtorch” due to his raw E-mails and voice mails to subordinates and peers alike.
Ninety minutes later, the press had assembled around a podium set up for her at the base of the steps to the lodge. The stone foundation and log steps made for an unmistakable background. She stepped up to the podium, gripping it with both ungloved hands.
“Good afternoon, Americans,” she said, glaring at the cameras. “Members of Congress, the press. Except that it isn’t a good afternoon at all for those who cherish peace and freedom. Less than two hours ago Red China attacked the free and peaceful nation of White China, our friend and ally, brutally killing hundreds of thousands — perhaps millions — of civilians, innocent men, women, and children, in their sleep, with firebomb attacks on thirty-four major cities. The Presidential Palace in Shanghai was obliterated, and we believe that the remaining leadership of White China was murdered in their sleep. In the government we have received reports of death camps being formed” — newsmen gasped, the last fact previously classified top-secret release 24, Warner letting it slip almost casually — “for the founding up of all political enemies of the Red Chinese. Our estimates are sketchy, but even with conservative estimates we believe that in the last ninety minutes more Asians have died than in all of World War II.”
Warner let that sink in for a moment, the only sound that of camera shutters flickering as photos were taken.
She looked at the crowd, her jawline straight, her eyes blue and cold as the snow at her feet. Her fingers formed fists on the clear Plexiglas podium.
“It is clear that the United States cannot and will not sit idly by as our ally is bombed out of existence. Accordingly, I have ordered the Army’s Rapid Deployment Force and the Naval Pacific Force Fleet to mobilize to the waters off White China. The RDF, as we speak, has departed and is in the Pacific, well on its way. It is the intention of the United States to counter this cold-blooded invasion with all the might of the U.S. military. Within the hour I will address, by Intertel, a special joint session of Congress, where I will ask for enhanced powers as the commander-in-chief to employ full military force against Red China. In the coming days the ground, air, and sea forces of America will be deployed against the atrocious monsters of Red China in defense of the Whites. To our friends in White China listening to me now, I say, hold on, the cavalry is coming. To those in Red China I say, leave now. Leave White China now or die.”