Alexander leaned over the soldier feverishly tuning the WSC-10 satellite transceiver. The SHF satellite link had collapsed in a heap of static. They struggled to restore comms with NEACP and STRATCOM. Various combinations of antennas, couplers, and crypto devices had failed miserably. A sudden amber synch light on the shoebox-sized transceiver signaled success.
“I’ve got STRATCOM’s mobile headquarters,” cried the youthful comm operator as the first decoded characters clattered across the adjacent daisy-wheel printer. “It’s their call sign; I’m certain, sir.”
“Send them the frequencies for secure voice,” prompted Alexander, handing the operator a message. “Keep trying NEACP.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexander straightened. “General Bartholomew, if we get NEACP, arrange a conference call.” The heavyset vice chairman acknowledged his request. Alexander signaled Thomas to follow him out into the night.
Thomas stepped from the cramped trailer out into the sticky evening air. Deep breaths momentarily relaxed his tight muscles. The shredded plastic canopy hanging above intensified the humidity. Alexander stood motionless a few feet from Thomas and peered off into the distance.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” he complained bitterly, his hands resting on his hips. He answered himself before Thomas could. “We’ve got to get the chain of command sorted out.”
Thomas lowered his head and stared at the black ground under foot. Interleaving the National Command Authority’s hierarchy with presidential succession was a recipe for disaster. The NCA org chart positioned the secretary of defense right below the president, with power emanating from the secretary of defense directly to the various Commanders-in-Chief of the Unified and Specified Commands. They were the war fighters, not the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose role was advisory and administrative. The Joint Staff, the equivalent of the general staff in many foreign countries, worked directly for the Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs as their analysis and planning arm. They ensured that the NCA’s orders were transmitted, received, and properly executed by the CINC’s, war or peace, but the words came directly from the lips of the president and his secretary of defense.
The other side of the coin, the constitutionally mandated succession list, following the now-dead vice president, was topped by the speaker of the House, then by the president pro tempore of the Senate. The chance that others farther along the seniority chain — the cabinet secretaries in order of their department’s creation — would receive the call was normally dismissed out of hand. It simply couldn’t happen. Alexander was actually number two after Genser in the cabinet sweep-stakes, with state taking precedence over war, the forerunner of defense.
Thomas bowed his head in dismay. That would be the ultimate irony; Genser giving Alexander marching orders. For the moment, that wasn’t a concern. With the president dead, Alexander alone called the shots until the proper successor took the oath.
Thomas stepped parallel to Alexander and folded his arms across his chest. He too searched the forest. His ghosts were the men and women he knew in Washington proper — soldiers, sailors, airmen, and civilians, now little more than charred dust. It was a bitter pill to swallow.
Alexander looked over at his friend, forlorn and distant. “Do we have a chance of ending this before the entire country is destroyed?
Thomas stared straight ahead, not blinking, his breathing shallow. He was enjoying the irregular tree line; his pale blue eyes delineated each tree’s outline from the black smudge touching the horizon. It was soothing.
“I don’t know, Mr. Secretary, I honestly don’t know.”
Alexander sighed sadly in reply. “What the hell happened? This is the nineties, not the seventies.”
“Mr. Secretary, General McClain’s on the line. But we don’t have NEACP yet.” The voice drifted across the compound to claim Alexander’s conscience. He quickly strode the thirty yards and up the steps, Thomas behind, then grabbed the outstretched handset from Bartholomew. Every pair of eyes was glued on their leader.
“General McClain, this is Secretary Alexander.”
There was a gush of emotion at the other end. “Mr. Secretary, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re alive.” Alexander leaned against the wall. His voice dropped in tone, the words coming slowly.
“Have you heard about the vice president?”
McClain was silent for a moment. Alexander was ill prepared for his reply. The general’s delivery was steady.
“Yes, sir, we received word directly from NEACP. They had comms with Air Force Two before it went down. The battle watch has located the speaker. He’s demanding that his plane be diverted immediately. He’s outraged that he hasn’t been sworn into office yet. Seems the officials escorting him are requiring definitive proof that the president and vice president are dead before they administer the oath of office. He says they’re stalling on purpose. Those were his words. His aides are pushing for him to can all of you. It’s going to be a fucking mess, Mr. Secretary, no doubt about it.”
Alexander’s shoulders sagged visibly. He slumped into a nearby folding chair, tapping the phone in the palm of his free hand. Any hope of a smooth transition was crumbling. A bitter political struggle could unravel everything.
An elderly member of the House from the rural Midwest, the speaker ruled the House of Representatives with an iron fist. He had been a member of Congress for so long that people had trouble remembering what he had done previously in life. He had been a critic of the military his entire life, and now he stood on the threshold of being elevated to the presidency. Alexander blanched at the thought.
Alexander chewed on McClain’s heads-up, balancing fact and emotion. CINCSTRAT, like the other senior commanders, had received special attention from the speaker of late, the gentleman taking delight in dismantling significant portions of the US military. The speaker, like others of his ilk, still smarted over the maltreatment during the years of the Reagan fiscal steamroller. Alexander had softened the harshest hatchet blows.
Shoring up his defenses, Alexander accepted the inevitable. Thomas, Bartholomew, and the others huddled around.
“When do you estimate he’ll arrive, General?”
“Hard to say. Best guess is after 0300. He’s scheduled to land short of your location and then be heloed to the camp.”
“Do you have comms with the speaker’s plane?”
“Through NEACP.”
“For some reason we haven’t raised NEACP yet.” Alexander paused. It was time. “The speaker is to be sworn in as president immediately. On my direct order. Pass the word through the battle watch commander on NEACP.”
McClain’s torrent of cursing over the circuit was drowned out by an outburst from Bartholomew. The overweight general lost control.
“You can’t do that, Mr. Secretary!” he shouted. “Our military will collapse. The man has no idea what he’s doing. He’s a fool.”
Alexander stood calmly and faced the angry man. In the dim light, his black eyes burned. “We’ll discuss later what I can and can’t do,” Alexander replied sharply. He put the phone back to his ear.
“General McClain, did you hear me?” he asked rhetorically.
McClain didn’t hesitate this time either. “Our forces will be put at grave risk, Mr. Secretary. You can’t stop something like the SIOP without catastrophic effects. The bombers can’t be recalled at this point, they’d be annihilated. I need time, at least three days.”
Alexander let out a sigh. “General McClain, you’re speculating. What do you propose, that I declare myself president?” he answered sarcastically.
“That’s not what I meant, sir; it’s just the timing.”