“You know the airport’s closed, right, sir? The weather’s not good enough to take off. Admiral,” the pilot called back. He was well versed in the admiral’s disregard for most civil aviation weather restrictions.
“Of course it isn’t — because we’re in a hurry. Now, get this damned thing in the sky before it gets any worse.”
“If the FAA comes, it’s your ticket.”
“Haven’t paid those guys yet.”
The jet arrived at the end of the runway. The snow had been cleared off an hour before, leaving plenty of time for more snow to accumulate and drift from the wind. The pilot throttled up slowly, allowing the plane to accelerate gently on the slick surface, then, as the midpoint of the runway approached, he gunned it. After a tense moment of bouncing down the snowy runway, the supersonic transport rocketed skyward, engines howling.
Pacino took off his arctic parka and threw it on one of the seats up front, then burrowed into his seat. He turned on his Writepad, deciding to see the latest upload from Satellite News Network on the Chinese Civil War.
As he flashed through the magazine-style articles, the unit began to flash — urgent E-mail coming in.
He looked at his Rolex. The last thing he felt like doing after that hairy meeting at the Western White House was work, but he decided he might as well get the E-mail out of the way. After meeting Jack Daniels and getting confronted with his lack of attention to routine administration, Pacino had cleared his entire electronic desk off on O’Shaughnessy’s 777, so this would be the only E-mail. As he opened up the system, he saw it was top-secret release 24, the highest Pacino’s system could accept. He went through the software, validating his identity, even putting his thumb on the scanning sector so that he could make sure he was Michael A. Pacino before it downloaded.
He read the summary line, listing the date and time of transmission, the classification, the subject, and the sender. He looked at the summary, blinking in astonishment The line read:
Date: 4 Nov
Time: 0505Z
Classification Subject ____ TS Release 24 [Classified]
Sender: R. Donchez
A message from a dead man? Pacino felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
She stood at the window and looked at the black Land Rover that drove Admiral Michael Pacino back to his staff plane. Now her RDF had set sail for White China, and her mind whirled with all the policy meetings she’d had in the week before, as Red China mobilized, and how they had been filled with guessing and unanswered questions, with the wild speculation of NSA Director Donchez before his collapse in his office last week, and with Lido Gaz’s exasperation with the idea of Red Chinese submarines in the East China Sea.
In Warner’s customary attempt to flush out the opinions of her cabinet, she went around the room. The results were predictable. Al Meckstar, the easygoing VP, voted with Pacino, remembering for the room the devastation last time after the loss of the surface battle fleet to the Japanese. Lido Gaz was disgusted. He insisted the fleet hit the beach after all his work to get it underway fast, and then accused Pacino of failing to finish the SSNX, embarrassing the administration. General Pinkenson, consummate politician, chose a middle ground, suggesting the Japan-based aircraft deploy while the fleet steamed on. O’Shaughnessy voted with Pacino, enraging Gaz, who had to be canned by Warner. Finally Chris Osgood, CIA director, weighed in, gently disagreeing with O’Shaughnessy and voting for the present timeline.
Blowtorch Cogster, the National Security Adviser, attacked Pacino personally, calling his mental clarity into question. Finally she turned to the Secretary of State.
“And so now it comes to you, Secretary Masters.”
Masters drew himself up in his seat, puffed out his chest, and stuck his lower lip out.
“Madam, if you want my opinion, you’ll just have to hear it in private. I’m not rendering it here.”
Warner looked at him, one of the most levelheaded, intelligent, and clear-thinking cabinet members she had ever had, but also one of the most pugnacious, far outdoing Gaz on that score. She knew better than to order him to speak — he’d resigned on her too many times for her to do that now. And she needed his opinion. Besides, it was late, far after midnight, and she needed to make a decision.
“We’ll recess again,” she said to the room. “Secretary Masters, please stay. Everyone else, please leave the room, but don’t leave the building and don’t fall asleep. I’ll reconvene this meeting soon.”
The men filed from the room. When they had gone, talking amongst themselves, Masters’ expression softened. He joined her at the coffeepot, putting his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture.
“How you holding up, Jaisal? You okay? Anything I can do?”
She put her hand on his, grateful for the support, feeling all the stress and pressure hit her at once. What she wouldn’t give for a real skiing vacation, not one of these winter nightmares.
“I’m fine, Freddy. Thanks. Now give it to me straight. What the hell do we do?”
“You mean, what are you gonna do? Because after I give you this advice I’ll deny I said anything. Seriously, though, you don’t have time for all this submarine nonsense. You gotta go straight on till morning. None of this zigzag stuff. Just keep plowing.”
“What about the airborne patrols?”
Masters sighed. “If we do all that flying around with antisubmarine planes, those sharp-cookie Pentagon correspondents will shout to the world that we’re flapping about enemy subs. It’s a loser.”
“And what about the fleet formation?”
“We’re showing the flag here. Half the reason SNN is onboard the Webb is that they’re unwittingly campaigning for us. We need a background with cruisers and destroyers and all seventy troop transports. We need to look good out there. You ever think about why they used to have parades, showing the troops? Check out your history. Back in the days when the infantryman was the ultimate weapon, countries thought that if they paraded their soldiers with guns, other countries would count the men and say, whoa, too much, we ain’t messing with them. Well, this is a parade, except we’re doing it at sea. We need to march across that East China Sea like it’s a parade ground. We’re the cavalry, so we gotta ride high in the saddle with flags flying, guns blazing.”
“But what about the risks Pacino mentioned? And what about the Japanese subs that vanished?”
“Oh, please, they sank, Jaisal. Don’t give in to Donchez’s senile drama. Let’s keep our heads on. There ain’t no ghosts and there ain’t no Rising Suns flying Red Chinese flags. Now, can I please go to bed? I’m telling you, you and your damned five-hour encounter sessions, I’ve gotta sit on my fat butt and listen to your political appointees try to find their butts with both hands. Christ, what the hell do you think I was doing with my time, planning my investments? No, I’m covering your pretty little rear end and thinking this thing through. The sad thing is, I feel like I’m the only one thinking it through. Everyone else is looking for the political answer, all afraid Iron Jaisal Warner’s gonna fire them and send them home like you did the Japan crew.”