The door opened, and Bernie Butler entered. He glanced at the monitors and sat down. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He focused on the center screen. “Lord love a duck. They’re collapsing.” It had taken the United States thirty-six days to halt the UIF’s incursion, build up its forces, and go on the offensive. Now, with the Germans advancing from the north, the UIF was being hammered on the anvil of combat and surrendering en masse. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “It’s all over but the shouting.” Gradually a huge smile spread across his face. “Thirty-six days! Fan…tas…tic!” He drew the word out in exultation, savoring the moment. “Should we wake the president?” he asked.
Mazie shook her head. “She needs the rest.” The right screen scrolled, and the news got better. Pontowski was safe at Camp Alpha with only minor injuries. Mazie relaxed in her chair and dozed while Butler considered what he had to do. As the acting DCI he could start the process of reform the CIA needed so desperately. Deep in thought, he missed the message on the left screen that Changi Airport in Singapore had been struck by a tactical missile. He made notes on a legal yellow pad as he outlined the changes he had in store for the agency. He would drag the CIA kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and break the deadly combination of Cold War and bureaucratic mentality that had led to so many failures. Another thought hit him with the force of a train wreck — he was the man to do the job.
The display on the center screen was overridden with a flash message and a loud gong for emphasis. Mazie’s eyes snapped open as Butler’s head came up. The missile that had hit Changi was armed with a nerve-gas agent. Another gong echoed in the room: two more airfields in Singapore had been hit with tactical missiles. They waited as the tension surged. A fourth message came in: Camp Alpha was under mortar attack. The hot line from the NMCC rang, and the duty officer picked it up. He listened for a moment, and his face paled. “Every airfield in Singapore,” he announced, gesturing at the three screens, “has been hit with tactical missiles carrying nerve-gas agents.”
Mazie stood up, her knees weak. “We better wake the president.”
Thirty-four
The Army staff car bringing General Mike Wilding and Secretary of Defense Merritt from the Pentagon made record time and turned into the gate leading to the West Wing at exactly 0403 hours. The men waited impatiently while two guards and a dog inspected the car. Not willing to wait, Wilding jumped out and let a guard run a wand over him. Merritt was right behind him, and they ran for the side entrance. Again they had to endure a search before bolting down the stairs to the Situation Room. The Marine guard recognized them and held the door open.
The president was waiting with Mazie, Butler, Parrish, and the vice president. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” Turner said, fully aware that they were held captive in the NMCC, catching a few hours of sleep when they could. “How bad is it?”
Wilding checked the monitors to see if there had been a change since he had left the Pentagon. Nothing significant was on the screens, and he visibly relaxed. “We have a problem, Madam President. Seven short-range tactical missiles have hit our arrival airfields in Singapore and southern Malaysia and effectively closed them, denying us entry. The Third Marine Division on Okinawa is mobilized and ready to go. As of thirty minutes ago nine C-17s and three C-5s were on the ground at Kadena Air Base and loading. Another hundred and seventy-eight aircraft inbound for Okinawa are being diverted until we can open the pipeline.”
“They did that with seven missiles?”
“All were armed with nerve gas, Madam President. Apparently it’s a new agent that disperses over a wide area and is very persistent. It may be days before we can get started landing aircraft. Given enough time, we can do it.”
“Time is the one commodity not available,” Turner snapped. Only the low hum of a computer filled the silence.
Butler spoke in a low voice, confident and with authority. “My analysts”—he really meant informants and spies—“tell me the PLA has no more than six CSS-7 missiles left in country. Further, the PLA is stretched to the breaking point.”
“How can you be so sure?” Kennett asked.
“It’s the missiles,” Butler replied. “It’s all or nothing — go for broke.”
Mazie was on the same wavelength. “As long as it’s quick. The world has a very short memory. They know there’s a political price, but they’re willing to pay it.”
“If the geopolitical payoff is right,” Butler added.
“Which it will be if they capture Singapore and the Strait of Malacca,” Turner said. She looked at them. “My God! What are we dealing with here?”
Mazie answered. “Power politics redefined for the twenty-first century, with asymmetric warfare the final determinant.”
“Not on my watch,” Turner said. It was a simple statement of fact with little emotion. “General Wilding, we need a breakthrough force. Make it happen.”
“Yes, ma’am. There is another matter. We’re in direct contact with the command elements of the UIF. They’re begging for a cease-fire.”
“Not without an unconditional surrender,” Turner said, her voice deadly calm.
“They’re aware of that,” Wilding replied. “However, they said it was an unacceptable demand.”
Turner’s face was a perfect reflection of her resolve. “Apparently they do not have a full appreciation of the situation, which needs to be made clear to them. There will be no premature cease-fire.”
“Ma’am,” Wilding said, “if there’s nothing else, I do need to return to the NMCC.”
“Fifty-seven hours,” Turner said, a firm reminder of the promise he had made fifteen hours earlier to reinforce SEAC within seventy-two hours. Merritt rose to leave with him. “Robert, I’m meeting with my election committee at eight this morning. Can you be there?”
Everyone in the room knew it was not a request. “Certainly, Mrs. President.”
The president stopped her general before he could leave. “General Wilding, thirty-six days. Well done.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
Pontowski sat on the floor of the base med station and leaned against the wall. He studied his watch and did a mental countdown. At the count of “two,” a dull whump echoed through the thick walls. “Two seconds early,” he announced. The constant mortar bombardment was taking its toll, and he could sense the fear and anxiety that filled the bunker like a fog, at times wispy and ephemeral, then dense and oppressive. It was time to do something about it. “Six rounds an hour,” he announced. “Just enough to keep our heads down while conserving ammo.”
“It’s working,” Clark groused. “We’re buttoned down, and no one is moving.”
“Five rounds spaced twelve to thirteen minutes apart,” he said, “followed by a sixth round one minute later. Then the sequence repeats.” He checked the wall clock. “The next round is due in thirty seconds.” On cue, a mortar round exploded. But this time it was farther away. “Next round due at 1706,” he declared. “Spread the word.” He forced a casual, laid-back nonchalance he didn’t feel. He waited while the tension ratcheted up. Every eye was on the clock as the minute hand touched the six. Nothing. Pontowski grinned, maintaining the image. “Wait for it. The sons of bitches may not be able to tell time.” A dull thud echoed in the distance. He stood up. “Next round at 1717. I’m going to the command post.” He walked to the blast door and threw it open. “Coming?” he said to Clark.