“What year is he now?”
“A senior, and his sister will be in her last year of law school. I don’t know where the time goes. Or the money,” he said grinning. Alexander nodded knowingly.
The two enjoyed a few minutes of light chatter even after the cans had been drained and tossed in the trash. Both finally acknowledged it was time to return to the salt mine.
“Mr. Secretary, I’m sorry to disturb you,” said a voice over the intercom, “but Admiral Fitzgerald is on the phone. He says it’s very urgent.” Admiral Fitzgerald was the Chief of Naval Operations.
“Thank you,” replied Alexander. He wheeled around his desk and grabbed the receiver of his secure red phone. Thomas thought nothing of it and dove back into the figures.
“Good afternoon, Admiral.” The secretary listened intently.
“God damn, are we asleep or what?” Alexander’s face flushed. “Why did I get this from you instead of the NMCC watch officer?” A long pause and then, “I see. What’s the Chairman say? Very well. Keep me updated, Admiral.”
Alexander replaced the handset and looked at his aide. Thomas had wandered toward Alexander’s desk. The secretary looked white as a sheet. “We just picked up two Russian submarines off the Mexican coast. One’s a boomer, probably a Delta.” Alexander collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. “What do you think?”
Thomas drew a blank and admitted so. “No idea. Are they sure?”
“Positive.” Alexander set his hand on the other red phone. “This should be interesting,” he said, lifting the receiver and triggering an automatic connection to the Situation Room in the White House.
Within the confines of the beltway, the report triggered near panic. News of the Victor had been bad enough, but now there was the Delta. The navy took the heat, berated for letting the Russian boats slip through their sophisticated antisubmarine-warfare (ASW) net undetected. Commander-in-Chief, Strategic Command lobbied for a dispersal order for his bombers and tankers — something that was unheard of these days. The intelligence community scrambled to rationalize the bizarre Russian behavior.
Shortly after noon, Alexander burst into Thomas’s wood-paneled office. Thomas was tidying up loose ends before departing for his well-earned holiday. Thomas’s head popped up from his stack of papers.
“An emergency National Security Council meeting has been called. You’re attending. Put your vacation plans on hold. Sorry. There’s a helo waiting out on the pad.”
Thomas slumped in his chair, letting out a sigh. “Yes, sir,” he replied to an empty doorway. The request struck him as odd. Aides and second-stringers normally didn’t attend full sessions of the NSC, and he had no idea why he possibly could have been invited, if that was the right word. Standing NSC members, the chosen few at the peak of the power pyramid, appointed designated representatives — assistant secretaries and lower-ranking military officers, grunts in other words — to conduct the mundane day-to-day business of the NSC. They were where the rubber met the road. But for the important matters, the heavyweights guarded the guest list. Thomas was convinced it was to avoid embarrassing themselves in front of their more knowledgeable subordinates.
Thomas dialed home before scooting out the door, and the short conversation with his mate had been as predictable as the day’s crappy weather. Sally had matter-of-factly asked him what the Russians were up to and if she should cancel their reservations. He asked her to hold off — he’d call with an update — I promise, he’d said.
The helo had only taken minutes to deposit Thomas and Alexander directly on the White House lawn. The summer heat had reached its daytime peak, the sun blazing unmercifully in a cloudless sky. They jogged past security and hustled directly to the Situation Room in the West Wing basement. Passing by the offices of the career NSC staffers, they were herded into a dark, stuffy conference room that served as the NSC’s principle battleground. The side walls were paneled with dark-stained oak, while the far wall was adorned with video monitors and communications gear partially hidden by curtains. The heavy, rectangular table was too big for the room, crowding those delegated to the periphery. The entire suite was badly in need of a facelift, belying its critical role in free-world diplomacy. Thomas took a kibitzer seat along the far wall while Alexander assumed his reserved chair. Thomas attracted more than one double take from those around the table. From the gentlemen who knew him, it was probably a “what are you doing here” challenge.
He sat motionless, bolt upright, his eyes locked in front of him. It was like he was seated at attention or poised for combat. Thomas made men like the ones gathered today nervous. Maybe it was the rows of combat decorations on his left breast that recalled heroism during an unpopular war.
The hastily called gathering would be a rump meeting. The national security advisor, Ronald Jenkins, had been detained in Europe at a meeting of the NATO planning group. The vice president was performing a political errand, dedicating a new federal building in St. Louis.
Already seated were Secretary of State Jonathon Genser and Director of Central Intelligence Harold Wilks. Genser, an old Washington hand that had faithfully served both parties, was an odd mix of left and right. Properly connected and possessing heavy political clout, he bounced around the ideological spectrum, much to everyone’s frustration. Thomas swore the man threw darts each morning to formulate the policy for the day. But the crafty, old statesman knew Congress like the back of his hand. His chief vice, according to the conservative set, was a slavish adherence to endless negotiations as the ultimate answer to any crises. He viewed the Pentagon with absolute suspicion. Thomas noticed that today the man appeared preoccupied. Genser patted the liver spots on his balding forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, deep in thought. His gray suit was wrinkled by the weather, and the proper secretary had even loosened his tie.
Wilks, a CIA careerist, had struggled up through the ranks against the tide. He thought little of both the Pentagon and State Department, but occasionally sided with the latter if it served his personal agenda. His claim to fame had been an uncanny prescience in forecasting the swift transformation of the Soviet/Russian political map years before. He had batted almost a thousand in placing the right faces in the right boxes long before others could navigate the shifting landscape. Rumor credited him with carefully nurtured top-level contacts within the Russian power structure. Thomas thought it far less glamorous. He was convinced that the Russians had deliberately leaked information to head off panic in the West. And Wilks had served their purpose wonderfully. Unfortunately, his sources had dried up.
Always dressed to a tee, he recalled another age. Maybe it was the distinct European flavor to his manners and speech that he purposely fostered. Even in today’s blistering heat, he was freshly pressed in a beautifully tailored Italian suit, complemented by a subtle silk tie that blended superbly with his pale blue shirt. His silver hair and neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache completed the picture. He fastidiously maintained his weight, kept a country club tan, and was rumored to have had an eye job to remove unsightly bags. He would have been perfectly cast for the OSS under “Wild Bill” Donovon in the war-torn forties, or for Hollywood, for that matter. Director Wilks was a piece of work.
Tardy, but expected, was the blunt, hardworking Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a favorite of Thomas’s, even when they were on different sides of an issue. The old soldier would bluster and fume, but he always listened and never took offense. The chairman, a Midwestern country boy, had heroically shouldered the unenviable burden of shrinking the US military during tough times. The highly decorated four-star army general had managed to assuage the services and still present his president with an effective fighting force — no mean feat. Big and burly, he looked like a grizzled construction worker rather than the president’s number-one military man. He kept trim by lifting weights and running down the popular bike path skirting the Potomac three days a week, rain or shine.