“It’s too late, Madam President,” the woman replied.
Exactly eight minutes later Turner walked into the Situation Room. The three officers on duty had been warned she was headed their way and were ready. She sat in a chair next to the big monitors instead of her normal chair across the table. “A quick update,” she said, picking up a hand controller. DAY 29 flashed on the center screen, and within seconds she was scrolling through the Spot Update, the current synopsis of the war the NMCC updated every thirty minutes. The UIF was still driving hard to the south, but the air-interdiction campaign was slowing them down.
“The Saudis are fighting like demons,” a duty officer said. It was true. They were in the thick of it, throwing every unit they had into the front line and taking heavy casualties. “By the way, we know how the UIF is moving supplies south.” He called up a map display tracing the UIF’s supply net into Saudi Arabia. “They took their lessons from the North Vietnamese and the Ho Chi Minh Trail,” he explained. “But lacking a jungle for cover, they adapted to the desert. First they dug a series of tunnels under the border.” His pointer circled eight dashed lines that started in Iraq and reached south, across the border, aiming toward King Khalid Military City. “They range from five to twelve miles long. Our analysts estimate it probably took them three years to construct them. Once clear of the border, they leapfrogged ahead and built aboveground tunnels to serve as drive-through storage bunkers.” Another chart showed a spiderweb of truck trails reaching into the desert. “They made no attempt to hide the truck tracks, and we’ve destroyed over two thousand trucks moving south.”
“Where did we think all these trucks were coming from?”
“Because of the tunnels,” the officer answered, “we couldn’t detect them crossing the border. So we assumed they were ours, captured when King Khalid City fell. Then they made sure we saw exactly what we wanted to see. The entire road net is littered with burned-out hulks. What we didn’t see were these aboveground bunkers.”
A high-resolution image showed a truck track in the desert paralleling a ridgeline. “This is fairly typical. All they did was extend the side of the ridge, much like a snow shelter on a railroad track in the mountains. If you look close, you can see how a truck can dart in here from the main track, drive down the tunnel, and come out here, rejoining the main track. We estimate as many as a hundred trucks can hide in this tunnel until any threat has gone away. Then they dash for the next tunnel.”
“Why haven’t we bombed these tunnels?” she asked.
“This is new, very new. The CIA and DIA just put it together. The big lesson here is that low tech still works, if you’re willing to pay the price. The analysts are calling it ‘Saddam’s Spider.’”
“So this desert pipeline — Saddam’s Spider, if you will — is in full flow?”
“Packed with men and supplies,” came the answer. “That’s how they were able to mount and sustain the current offensive.”
Turner’s fingers drummed a tight tattoo on the table as an idea began to form in the back of her mind. She hit the advance button on her hand controller to cycle the screens. The casualty status report was next. The total number of Americans killed in action had reached 2,011. She hit the pause button when the names of the current casualties appeared. “Yes, ma’am,” the duty officer said, “we saw it, too.” The name of Colonel Robert Scovill was at the top of the list.
“What happened?” she asked.
“As best we know, he had just arrived at his battalion headquarters when the enemy broke through. It was a rout. But he formed up a unit of stragglers and led them in a counterattack. They held on long enough for reinforcements to arrive and turn it around. It was afterward…a dudded mortar round exploded.”
She fought for her breath. Then, “Please, give me a moment.” The three men quickly left. I last saw him when? Friday night. Tears formed in her eyes. How long ago was that? Her relentless mind drove her on, offering no refuge. Fifty-six hours ago. Not even three days. Oh, my God! How much can I ask of them? Her body shuddered with a wrenching sob. His name flashed at her. I will remember, she promised. Then the tears flowed, not just for Robert Neil Scovill but also for all of them. Slowly she regained her composure, as an icy calm descended over her soul. I will not forget! She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and hit the intercom button. “Please have my staff join me here.”
“They’re in the hall, Mrs. President.”
Richard Parrish was the first through the door, closely followed by Nancy, her personal assistant. Turner stood while the rest filed in and found seats around the table. Mazie was the last to enter, and she stopped, not sure what she was seeing. “We’re going to end this war,” the president said. She looked around the room. “Not as soon as I would like, but soon enough. And we will not lose the peace. Richard, get with Stephan at State and Mazie and develop an end-game strategy. Also, I will be making an announcement in thirty minutes in the Press Room.”
“Ma’am,” Parrish said, “it’s only five o’clock. No one will be there.”
“Then I’ll be talking to an empty room.” She fixed them with a steady gaze. “And by the way, we’re going to win this election. Please excuse me. I have to call Colonel Scovill’s family.” Her staff quickly left, not sure what to make of what they had just experienced.
The small Press Room was packed when the president walked in. She stood at the podium and looked around the room, bending each one to her will. “Earlier this morning I learned that Colonel Robert Neil Scovill, USMC, was killed in action within hours after joining his unit in Saudi Arabia. I believe many of you knew Colonel Scovill from the briefings he gave at the Pentagon. He also briefed me numerous times, the last being Friday evening. I had come to rely on Colonel Scovill and trusted his judgment. But he was never happy here and wanted to be with his men. Colonel Scovill was first and last a Marine, and he gave his life fighting for the freedom of others. I can only honor his sacrifice.” She paused and looked at her hands.
“Second, my worthy opponent in this election has repeatedly charged that I am a prisoner of the White House, unable to meet the challenges of this conflict and afraid to make a decision. He is right about one thing: I have given my full attention to this war and as a consequence have been held close to the White House. Personally, I would like to see how he responds to the demands of the moment. Therefore, I’m offering to meet him in a debate to last no longer than ninety minutes, within the next thirty-six hours at a place of his choosing — as long as it’s not too far from here.” A wave of laughter worked its way around the room. “No moderator, no set format, no prearranged questions. He gets to make the first statement, and we go from there. The offer is on the table.”
She turned and left the stage.
Wilding arrived at the Situation Room at exactly seven o’clock to meet with the ExCom and the president. His eyes burned, and he felt a weariness that was dragging him down. “General Wilding,” Turner said, “thank you for coming.” She stood and paced the floor. “Mazie, when can we expect the Germans to launch their offensive?”
“H-hour is 0100 hours local, Thursday morning,” Mazie said. “That’s five P.M. Wednesday evening here. The vanguard starts to deploy and move to the border tonight.”
“General Wilding,” Turner said, “I just learned about Saddam’s Spider. I assume you will be targeting it in the very near future.”
“Starting today,” Wilding said.
“Focus initially on the southern end of the Spider,” she said. “I want—”