“I’m not surprised,” Turner said. “Not with a little over three weeks before the election.” They fell silent as the interview began. Leland’s face was a mask while the commentator summarized the latest poll results that linked what was happening in the Gulf to Turner’s sudden surge in popularity. There was no doubt that if the election were held tomorrow, Turner would sweep David Grau under the political carpet. But Leland didn’t take the bait and started to talk in his rolling tones, pontificating on the state of Turner’s administration. “Here it comes,” the president warned.
On cue, Leland turned to the camera, his face solemn. “This has gone far beyond politics. Increasingly, we’re dealing with a state of moral degeneration in this administration that transcends anything we’ve ever seen.”
Nancy Bender knocked on the door and entered. Without a word, she handed a note to the vice president, glanced at the TV, and left. Kennett read the note, and his face paled. “That’s a very serious charge,” the TV commentator said, playing the straight man.
“And I don’t make it lightly,” Leland said with pain in his voice. “During the investigation into the suicide of the late DCI, it was discovered that he was involved in a child-pornography ring on the Internet. But this line of inquiry was dropped.”
The commentator was outraged. “Are you suggesting it was covered up?”
“It appears so.” Leland folded his hands in front of him, the stern judge. “It’s entirely possible that the DCI was about to be outed and was driven to suicide by forces within the Turner administration.”
Turner laughed, and everyone looked at her in shock. “First Grau shoots his foot off,” she said, owing them an explanation, “and now Leland.” She was obviously enjoying the moment. “For the time being, we have no comment. Talk to Bobbi Jo. She knows what to do.”
It was a rare moment, and Kennett hated that he had to spoil it. He handed her the note. “Madam President.” He waited.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. She came to her feet, wadding up the note in her hand. “It’s Matt,” she said. “The helicopter he was on was shot down. About twelve hours ago.” She fought back the tears, refusing to give in. She turned to Wilding, an unspoken plea on her face.
“I need to return to the NMCC,” the general said. “Unfortunately, we’re fully engaged in Operation Anvil. We don’t have much in the area. Maybe Okinawa.”
“I know that,” she admitted.
Thirty-two
Smoke from the still-smoldering fire in the fuel dump drifted over Alpha, holding the base in an eerie silence. To the north the constant rumble of artillery was a grim reminder that the fighting was coming their way. Occasionally a train of weapons trailers emerged out of the smoke and crossed the runway to deliver its deadly load. The big blast doors at a shelter would crank open far enough to move one or two trailers inside. Then the tug would move on to the next shelter. Inside, Maintenance worked hard to ready the Warthogs for combat while the pilots tried to catch some rest in one of the rooms at the back.
A lone pickup drove around the perimeter road as Rockne checked on each fire team he had posted in a defensive fire position. Although he could not see their faces in the dark, he could sense their worry. One young airman summed it up best. “Damn, Chief. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the general was here or we were outa here.” Rockne agreed with him and moved on to the next position.
A C-130 Hercules with Singapore roundels on the fuselage touched down at 0108 hours and taxied into parking. The pilots kept the engines running as the ramp came down at the rear of the big cargo plane. Six big fuel bladders that resembled black sausages rolled out the back while an ambulance waited with the two litter patients and three walking wounded from the missile attack. The Air Force lieutenant colonel from the MAAG hurried down the ramp and ran over to the van where Janice Clark was waiting. “I’ve got the plane for at least one more shuttle,” he told her. “We can start evacuating nonessential personnel.”
“What the hell is going on?” she yelled over the roar of the engines.
He gestured to the north. “The front is collapsing. Singapore is a mess. I’m screaming for help, but no one seems to be listening. I was lucky to pry the Hercules loose.” He glanced at the C-130, where two litters were being carried on and Doc Ryan was giving instructions to the crew chiefs. “I should be back in an hour or two.”
Clark watched as the lieutenant colonel ran for the Hercules. He climbed on board, and it fast-taxied for the runway. Satisfied that the fuel bladders were taken care of, she told her driver to take her to the command post. He drove in silence, obviously worried. He dropped her at the entry control point and said, “Missy Colonel, I need to see family.” She told him to go, fully aware that she would never see him again.
Inside the command post she radioed for the chief of Maintenance, Doc Ryan, and Rockne to join her. While she waited, she went down the AVG’s personnel roster: 30 pilots including Maggot, 304 maintenance troops, 134 cops including Rockne, 108 support personnel, and 9 medics including Doc Ryan. Five hundred and eighty-five, she thought. Can I get them out? The simple question beat at her like a sledgehammer. She answered her own question out loud: “Every damn one.” Again she scanned the list, checking off those who would go first. But reality could not be denied — the cops would be the last to go. If they went. Once again she scanned the list, forgetting three names: Clark, Pontowski, and Boyca.
Rockne was the first to arrive. “Your driver is outside,” he told her. “He wants to speak to you.” Clark quickly explained how they were going to start an evacuation before she walked outside to see what her driver wanted. She found him squatting on his haunches outside the entry control point. Much to her surprise, she was glad to see him.
“I know where general is,” he told her.
The hostess swept through the downstairs of her elegant Georgetown home, ensuring that all was ready for the arrival of her last guest. A quick glance at the clock in the vestibule: two minutes before noon. She took a deep breath. It had been a wonderful weekend, first with the party on Friday night and the meeting between Secretary of Defense Merritt and Senator Leland, and now this. Her star was certainly rising, and she could see a future. The clock struck twelve, and she opened the door. On cue, a black sedan drove under the portico and stopped. An aide emerged from the front passenger seat, looked around to confirm they were not observed, and opened the rear door.
She smiled graciously as Zou Rong emerged and hurried up the steps. Nothing betrayed her inner anxiety when Jin Chu stepped out of the car and followed Zou inside. The hostess was neither slow nor stupid and recognized her immediately. But she was not prepared for the sheer beauty and natural grace of the woman. For a moment she considered asking to have her fortune told, but she quickly discarded the notion. But why was Jin Chu there? The hostess’s contact at the State Department who had arranged the clandestine meeting had not mentioned it.
“Mr. Ambassador,” the hostess said, escorting Zou upstairs, “this is indeed an honor.” Zou ignored her. She opened the door to the study where Merritt and Leland had met. This time, the secretary of state was waiting inside. She closed the door and descended the stairs. Should she offer Jin Chu tea?
The two men exchanged the formal courtesies dictated by the circumstances. As he represented the host country, Serick was the first to broach the reason for the meeting. But it was done in the time-honored way of his profession, carefully nonconfrontational and with tact, leaving room to maneuver without committing his side to a course of action or policy. “My government is worried about the situation in Malaysia.”