“We work together,” Ryan said. “We’ve got all this room here, good communications, and not enough people.” He gave a helpless shrug. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Colonel Sun looked around the room, liking what he saw. “We should work together.”
Maggot stood up, shedding his fatigue like a worn coat. “We need forward air controllers on the ground. Can you do that for us?”
“I don’t see why not,” Kamigami replied. He looked at Tel. “Would you like to give it a try?”
“What’s a forward air controller?” Tel answered.
“Ah, shit,” Maggot moaned, sorry that he had brought it up.
Pontowski made a decision. “Let’s do it. Victor, get a liaison officer over here as soon as possible. Doc, you seem to have a clue, so work out the coordination. Maggot, cock the jets for launch at first light. And get some rest. You’re no good to me dead on your feet. Janice, see if you can get the rest of Rockne’s people here ASAP.” He stood up. “We came here to make a difference, folks.”
Twenty-two
The sure knowledge that the war had made her a prisoner of the White House grated on Madeline Turner like a rasping hot file, and she saw the election slipping away. But there wasn’t a choice, for the demands of handling a two-front war had to take priority. Still, it was a prison she loved, and she certainly had unrestricted visiting privileges. That was another problem, because the growing terrorist threat had forced the Secret Service to sharply curtail the daily tours. Across the street in Lafayette Park, a drummer had taken up a vigil and slowly beat a bass drum in protest over the war. Its dull, rhythmic cadence reached into the residence on the second floor, and when her chief of security suggested that the drummer could be made to disappear, Turner had immediately vetoed it. She would endure.
“It is annoying,” she told Parrish as they made their way to the Situation Room for the afternoon briefing. “But that drummer’s almost become a tradition.” She allowed a tight smile. “And we mustn’t disturb tradition.” The Marine guard held the door open for her, and Parrish announced her presence. Besides the ExCom, the chief of Naval Operations was waiting for her. She sat down. “Mazie, gentlemen,” she said, “before we begin, I would like to announce that General Butler will be the acting DCI until we can identify a replacement. General Butler will be part of the selection process, but he’s declined to be the permanent director.” To tell from the nodding heads and looks around the table, it was a good decision. “Well, shall we get started?”
The briefing had developed into a set pattern, with a heavy reliance on the monitors and a direct feed from the NMCC. The communications experts in the Pentagon had turned it into a slick and professional presentation geared solely for her consumption and available on demand. The president’s face was a frozen mask when the casualty lists flashed on the screen. They were eighteen hours into the renewed fighting, and twenty-six soldiers and airmen had been killed. The numbers beat at her with an intensity beyond anything in her experience, demanding a price. She was not an overtly religious person, but when she stood in front of her Creator, how could she justify so many deaths of the people she was sworn to protect? And the enemy? she thought. Have I no obligation to them? Yet this war was not of her making and had been thrust upon her by the very people she must kill. She would not shrink from it, but she prayed that there was such a thing as a just war.
The screens with their messages of death and destruction shifted to the closing logos. General Wilding sensed what was troubling his president, and like her, he knew that there was no escape from what he had to do. “We’re still in a tactical retreat,” he said, “and falling back on prepared positions. It’s a tactical strategy that’s working well, and the UIF is advancing at a high cost in men and matériel. So far the Saudis have taken the brunt of the fighting and experienced most of the casualties, but we will go on the offensive.”
“When?” was all Turner asked.
“As soon as possible,” Wilding answered. “But logistics are a problem.” He turned to the CNO. “Admiral.”
The man that stood up was a throwback to an earlier age, with his weather-beaten face and ruddy complexion. “Madam President, two convoys from Diego Garcia are en route to Saudi Arabia; one to Ad Dammām in the Persian Gulf, the other to the port at Jidda in the Red Sea.”
Turner’s brow knitted. “I’m worried about those new mines we encountered and any submarines that might be a threat.”
“Those mines,” the admiral said, “operate on a mass-sensing principle, and we’ve developed a countermeasure that’s almost too simple to believe. But it does appear to be effective. There are still three known submarines operating in the area. However, two Los Angeles — class attack submarines are escorting each of our convoys. If any of those unidentified submarines come within fifty miles of a convoy, those subs will experience a very short but exciting life.”
“How soon before they dock?” she asked.
“In six days,” came the answer. “On Friday.”
She tensed as the prospect of another six days’ mounting casualties loomed in front of her. She steeled herself and went on to the next subject. “Malaysia?”
Butler stood up. “The fighting is localized in Kuala Lumpur. Unfortunately, SEAC doesn’t seem to know what to do with itself or how to respond.”
“Is it a question of supplies?” Turner asked.
Butler shook his head. “No, ma’am. The MAAG reports they can’t absorb what we’re giving them.”
“What about the protests over the AVG?”
Butler humphed in disgust. “All contrived. I talked to General Pontowski less than thirty minutes ago. Four of his A-10s were cleared by SEAC to attack enemy tanks on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. They used three Maverick antitank missiles, expended four hundred fifty-eight cannon rounds, and dropped six canisters of CBU-58s on troops they caught in the open. The CBU-58 is a canister-type bomb that spreads grenadelike bomblets over a wide area. That’s the terror weapon we’re hearing about.”
“If you can’t win it in combat,” Shaw snarled, “win it with the media.”
Turner stood. “I’m meeting with Secretary Serick and my foreign-policy advisers in a few minutes. Mazie, Bernie, please join us. General Wilder, I’ll take this evening’s briefing at the NMCC.” She quickly left with Parrish in tow. The briefing had lasted less than twelve minutes.
She would endure.
Pontowski was tired. He glanced at the master clock on the front wall of the command post. It was 0630 Sunday morning. Less than five hours’ sleep, he thought. In one corner the intelligence officer from the First SOS was writing information on a white board with a Magic Marker. He seemed right at home and spoke excellent English. Almost as an afterthought he wrote GULF WAR: DAY 27. Behind the intelligence officer, Kamigami and Sun were speaking quietly to the young-looking major who would man the console. Kamigami looked up, and Pontowski said, “When you’ve got a moment, Victor.” Kamigami nodded and turned back to his two officers.
“Coffee,” Pontowski muttered. He wandered out to the small buffet and poured himself a cup. A little TV above the coffeepot was tuned to the BBC channel reporting the chaos in Kuala Lumpur. A reporter was standing in a street lined with burned-out cars and dead bodies. The sound was off, but the camera told the story. “A wonderful thing,” Pontowski murmured, thinking of the speed of modern communications and the series of satellites that relayed information around the world in seconds. It was a driving force that set the pace of modern civilization, including war.