“Let’s drop it,” the president insisted.
“For nine days,” she said in a hushed voice, “the United States Navy was missing a Trident nuclear-missile submarine and no one had any idea where it was.”
“Okay, so a mistake was made,” he said with a trace of irritation. “No one likes to admit things like that.”
“What’s more,” she went on, “a shrewd reporter got wind of the story and embarrassed the Navy and the White House. Don’t be deceitful,” she quietly admonished. “You’re the commander in chief.”
Macklin returned a casual wave from the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. “We’re going to roll the dice,” the president said under his breath. “If it’s just a communications failure, then we’re okay. No one is going to get upset.”
“If it hasn’t been a communications problem,” she suggested, barely moving her lips, “then what?”
The president felt the hard probe of her gaze. “Then I’ll do what I have to do. I respect their advice.”
“Even if they’re wrong?”
“They’re advisers, not prophets.” He sensed her faint recoil and reached for her hand. “I appreciate your concern, you know that.”
She nodded and raised an eyebrow, then gazed around the room while she asked a question. “If you ask Pete to resign, will he do it gracefully?”
“I’m sure he would,” Macklin answered, surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”
She reached for her napkin and lightly touched the edge of her mouth. “The mood on the Hill is ugly. They’re going to want someone’s head at the hearings.” Maria smiled at two well-heeled socialites as they rose to leave. “They’re going to make it tough for Pete, and probably Les, too. You’ll be next if you don’t shake up the Pentagon and the White House to feed the wolves.”
“Maria,” the president said in a low, even voice as he acknowledged a senior senator. “Try not to frown.”
With a catlike gleam in her eyes, she smiled as if he’d just told her an amusing story, then lowered her voice. “We’ve been humiliated in Iran twice, and this situation has the potential to be a much bigger debacle than Desert One.”
The first lady was referring to the three Marines and five airmen who died in 1980 while attempting to rescue fifty-two American hostages from the Ayatollah Khomeini. The accident happened when a C-130 tanker plane and a helicopter collided in the staging area after a sandstorm and mechanical problems caused the mission to be aborted.
“No one knows that better than I do,” Macklin retorted in a hushed voice as he glanced around the room.
“Now,” she declared with a troubled look, “one of our newest aircraft carriers is being towed to a shipyard, and we can’t account for one of our nuclear submarines. It makes you look incompetent.”
“Maria, please,” the president said a shade defensively.
She calmly ignored him and raised her wineglass. “It’s embarrassing to us as a nation, and the committee is going to hold you personally responsible.”
“They should hold me responsible,” Macklin stated emphatically, and finished the last sip of his wine. Running his fingers back and forth over the red and white tablecloth, the president thought about the members of the Senate Armed Services Committee. To a person, Macklin respected them, but he knew they weren’t going to cut him any slack just because of his strong support for the military.
He studied his wife’s aqua-blue eyes. “Maria, I don’t want you to worry about this situation.”
“I’m not worried about the situation—I’m worried about you,” she declared, and then spoke more softly. “The hearing will be extremely contentious. You know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It could cost you a second term in office.”
There was a long silence.
“I don’t think so,” Macklin finally said. “They clearly understand that the security of the Persian Gulf is vital to the United States, and to the economic well-being of the world. They also know that things can go wrong during military operations.”
“Like bombing the Chinese embassy in Belgrade,” she said mechanically.
“War isn’t a precise—” Macklin flared, then stopped himself in mid-sentence.
“It’s your reputation that’s on the line,” she said in a hushed voice, “and it’s your future at stake.”
“Maria, the United States is in the Persian Gulf to stay, no question about it. There is no alternative, and the committee knows that. We’re the big fish in the pond.”
“Apparently,” she paused, trying to hide her skepticism, “the top dogs in Baghdad and Tehran didn’t get the word.”
The president stifled the impulse to respond to her remark.
“The major terrorist groups have announced a call to arms,” she said with a vague shrug of her shoulders. “If it were me, I’d try to deflect what happened in the Gulf, and explain what I’d do to keep our country from being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics.”
“That’s precisely what we’re working on,” he asserted, and flashed a quick smile for the sake of the luncheon patrons who occasionally glanced at the first couple. “Now relax and enjoy your lunch.”
“Right,” she murmured. “We’re living in a residence surrounded by concrete barriers and armed men — Marines with real bullets. And, as of yesterday, we have over a dozen men with portable missile launchers on the roof. It’s like being confined to a palace in the middle of some third-rate banana republic.”
Before Macklin could answer, he noticed the Secret Service agents, in unison, cast a glance at the entrance to the Jockey Club. A moment later Fraiser Wyman walked through the door and headed straight for the president’s favorite table.
Macklin felt a sudden flush of adrenaline when he saw the strained look on Wyman’s face. Now what?
“I apologize for interrupting,” Wyman said as all eyes turned toward the president’s table. “I have to have a word with you, sir.”
“Sure,” Macklin said hastily as he signaled the dining-room captain. “We’ll make it a threesome.”
Arrangements were quickly made and Wyman nervously accepted a glass of wine. He had often discussed sensitive matters in the company of the first lady, but he had reservations about speaking openly in the Jockey Club.
“Mr. President,” Wyman said quietly and deliberately, “we need to return to the White House as quickly as possible.”
Maria spoke first. “Fraiser, take a couple of minutes to enjoy your wine, then leave as unobtrusively as possible. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a concerned look.
“And smile,” she asserted, then gave a nod to a Secret Service agent dressed as a waiter. He slipped into the kitchen to send the signal that the president would be leaving earlier than planned.
When the first couple sat down in the living room of their private quarters, the president noticed Wyman’s new diamond-encrusted Rolex. Macklin gave him a half smile. Somehow, I have to take him out of the loop until Sandra Hatcher and the FBI finish their investigation.
“I know you don’t have good news,” the president grumbled, “so let’s have it straight out.”
“Sir, they — the Navy — found some debris from the Hampton.”
The president’s face went slack before he promptly regained his composure. “When?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“What happened?”
“It was sunk — probably by Iran.”
“Where?”
“Very close to where they launched the Tomahawks.”
“They’re positive the debris is from Hampton?” Maria asked with only a trace of her usual smile.