“Yes, sir.”
“Then inform Captain Williams and the CAG that I’d like them both on the Flag bridge in a half hour for a situation briefing. Have the staff work us up a data dump on everything we have on the Red Chinese nuclear-sub force and the local ASW environment”’
“Aye, aye.” Walker turned to the interphone on the cabin bulkhead.
With that done, Tallman glanced at Amanda from beneath lowered brows. “You had breakfast yet, Commander?”
Amanda shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Well, go down to the wardroom and get yourself something to eat. Then get back up here in time for that briefing. I want you to sit in on it before you head back to your ship.”
“Very good, sir.” Amanda tightened the lock on her expression, concealing the surge of relief she felt.
The Admiral continued. “An aspect of your orders was that the Cunningham would revert to the tactical command of Task Force 7.I should we get into a conflict situation out here. As of right now, Captain, I’m activating that clause.
“The Duke is the closest surface platform we have to the primary search zone. I want you to get out there and reacquire that boomer. Then park yourself on his tail until Washington decides what they want to do about it.”
“Will do, sir.”
Tallman looked up and studied her fully for a moment, maybe for the first time as a subordinate and an asset instead of a question mark.
“You know, Captain Garrett, I think you would have met Napoleon’s requirements for becoming a marshal of the French Army.”
Amanda caught the reference and smiled back with honest humility. “I know, sir.”
Vince Arkady was waiting down corridor from the Flag cabin, out of sight of the Marine sentry posted at the door.
He straightened as Amanda appeared around the corner, searching her face for some clue to what might have happened inside.
“I may lose the Duke, Arkady,” she said somberly. She let the words hang in the air for a moment, then she smiled, “but not today.”
Arkady made a show of snapping his fingers. “Oh, well, back to the old advancement-by-assassination plan, then.”
“Afraid so,” she replied, starting down the passageway ladder to the lower decks. “Let’s go hit the officers’ mess. All of a sudden, I’m starving.”
“Me too. Jesus, what a night!”
“Yes, and I’ve got a hunch that this is only the beginning.”
Amanda Garrett had departed by the time Commander Walker finished relaying Tollman’s orders via the interphone.
“What was that you were saying about Napoleon, sir? I think I missed something.”
The Admiral smiled and crossed his arms on the desktop.
“It was just an old story from the Napoleonic Wars. It seems that this French general was in line for promotion to marshal, and Napoleon’s staff was busy talking up the man in front of the Little Emperor. They described in considerable detail the man’s accomplishments, battle honors, the glowing testimonials given to him by his fellow officers, just generally praising him all over the place.
“Napoleon just waved it all off, saying, ‘don’t want to know if the man is capable, I want to know if he is lucky!’”
23
It was a standard presidential motorcade. A District of Columbia police cruiser ran point, its flaring light bar clearing a path through the pre-rush-hour traffic flow on New York Avenue. Then came the three identical black Lincoln limousines. Two transported only Secret Service cadre. The third, the “carrier,” was positioned randomly in line with the others. A tan Ford Explorer with the heavy-weapons team followed, and another D.C. cruiser brought up the rear.
Inside the president’s vehicle, Benton Childress’s press secretary shook his head and commented from one of the rearward-facing jump seats. “The Alliance of American Educators isn’t going to be to pleased with your address today, sir.”
“Unpleasant realities are something that we all have to live with, Brian,” Childress replied, perusing his speaker’s notes again. “One of them is that everyone, no matter how noble their cause, is going to have to learn to live with a budget. This government is just beginning to regain a degree of fiscal responsibility. My administration is not going to be taking any backward steps on that path. People had better get used to it.”
“You do enjoy doing things the hard way, Mr. President.”
One of the car phones on the forward divider shrilled. The Secret Service team leader who had been riding in the other shotgun seat took the call. He listened for a moment, then held the handset out to Childress. “It’s the National Security Adviser, sir, from the Pentagon.”
Childress took the phone. “Yes, Sam.”
Sam Hanson’s voice was level, controlled, and totally emotionless, the voice of a thirty-year professional warrior addressing a superior officer. “Mr. President. You are needed in the War Room immediately, sir.”
Childress didn’t even consider asking questions.
“I’m on my way.”
He handed the phone back to the Secret Service man.
“We’re diverting to the Pentagon. Let’s move.” No questions were asked there either. The Secret Service man keyed his radio, issuing orders. At the head and tail of the column, the sirens of the police cruisers began to warble and the motorcade turned south, heading for the Arlington Memorial Bridge.
The Pentagon was commissioned in 1942 as the world’s largest office complex. At the time there was some debate over what was to be done with it following the demands of the Second World War, it being held as inconceivable that such a vast facility would be required by a nation at peace.
In reality, the Pentagon was saturated within five years of its becoming operational in 1945. Expansion had been required, and the only direction to go had been down.
Several annexes, command-and-control facilities, and operations centers had been built into its understructure over the years. The current War Room had at one time been an underground parking garage. Now it was the place where the blood decisions were made.
President Childress had been here often enough before, but now there was an added charge in the air, like the first eddy of a summer thunderstorm rolling in. Looking down from the glass-walled over watch balcony, he could see the duty crew at their ranked workstations. They were moving with a focused intentness, and there was a tension in the voices that intermittently issued from the balcony intercoms Sam Hanson was there, as was an angular, graying Air Force four-star, General Morrell Landry, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. At the moment, the General was leaning in over a communications console, speaking into a telephone handset.
Childress’s security adviser turned to greet his commander in chief. “Sorry to disrupt your day, Mr. President, but it looks like we have a major problem developing out in China.”
“Beyond what we already have?”
“A geometric escalation, sir. Shit plus has just hit the fan.”
“What’s happened?”
“One of our stealth destroyers was on a recon probe outside of Shanghai when they ran into a covert Red Chinese naval operation. A major live-fire incident has ensued. At this time, we are reporting no casualties on our side and a full briefing is being prepared for you on the event. However, to cut to the chase, we have learned that the Reds have sortied a fleet ballistic-missile submarine. Intentions and destination unknown.”
“And we are to presume that this is an unusual event?”