Caffey drew a large circle around it. He glanced at the men. “Choke point, gentlemen. Our next offensive. We’ll fly two platoons forward… here. Position our fire line… here, above them.” He looked at Cordobes. “I’d like to lay in some fougasse, Captain.”
“Sure. How much?”
“There are a couple of old snowmobiles in Jones’s Quonset. I think they’ll handle a pair of thirty-five-gallon drums each.” He touched his fingers to the map. “I want them placed here and… here. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find the best marksman in the company.”
“That’ll be Private Cable, sir.”
“Make sure he has the best rifle in the company.”
Cordobes nodded. “If I know Private Cable, sir, he has the best rifle.”
Caffey glanced at Kate. “Major Breckenridge, what’s the grenade and mortar count?”
“One hundred eighteen frag grenades, forty phosphorus. Thirteen mortar rounds.”
“We’ll need half the frags, all the phosphorus. I also noticed Mrs. Jones had a pantry full of bottled preserver. We’ll need the bell jars.”
Kate frowned.
“If those boys out there are out a missile-carrier, it doesn’t mean they don’t have portable heat-seekers.
As equipped as they are, they have to have Grail-type missiles. I don’t intend to lose any more choppers.”
Kate’s expression didn’t change. “What do bell jars —”
“Phosphorus burns hotter than any Huey engine,” Caffey said. “If we have to, we’ll make our own antimissile system.” He checked his watch. “Okay, it’s now 1750 hours. I want everyone assigned to this raid to get five hours sleep. We’ll move out at 0200 and be in place by 0500. I figure next contact before noon tomorrow.” He looked around the room. “Questions?”
No one even coughed.
“Right,” Caffey said. “Move out.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
2015 HRS
Kimball poked his head into the Oval Office. The president was in his shirtsleeves, sitting in one of the Victorian sofas that faced each other. Jules Farber sat opposite. Between them the coffee table was littered with Political Response Contingency Scenarios (PRCS) that the Secretary of State had drawn up.
“He’s here, Mr. President,” Kimball said.
McKenna got up and stretched. “God, I’m pooped.” He rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Wayne. Ask the senator to make himself comfortable in the Truman Balcony. I’ll just be a second.”
Farber looked up. “Shall I…”
“No, no, Jules. You keep at it.” He collected his coat from the back of a chair. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Senator Milton Frederick Weston rose from his seat when the president entered. He was slightly taller than McKenna, about ten years younger and, McKenna noticed with some surprise, his longish, tousled hair— the Weston trademark — was distinguished with flecks of silver. The one-time protege was taking on age gracefully.
“Milt, it’s good to see you.” McKenna shook his hand warmly.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Weston said a bit stiltedly. “You’re looking well.”
“I try.” He patted his stomach. “Dropped two pounds this week. Swimming twice a day. Did forty laps this afternoon.” He gestured toward the chairs. “Sit down, Milt, sit down. How ‘bout some tea?”
The senator sat down. “Thank you, no, Mr. President.”
“I think we can dispense with the ‘Mr. President’ business,” McKenna said amiably. “We’ve known each other too long to be politely formal.”
Weston nodded without a smile. “I’m glad you could see me on such short notice.”
“Anytime, you know that. As a matter of fact, I was about to watch a movie — Walter Matthau, Glenda Jackson, Ned Beatty. Spy stuff with a little humor. Interested?”
Weston looked perplexed. “You have time for movies?”
“Sure, why not. I can’t be in the office around the clock. Even the president has to relax once in a while.
Right?”
“I was under the impression—” The senator stopped. He eyed McKenna for a moment. “You’re not trying to sandbag me, are you?”
“Sandbag?” The president gave him a puzzled glance. “It’s only a movie, Milt.”
“Please don’t play games with me. I’m hearing rumors. That’s why I asked to see you this evening. I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“Everyone hears rumors in this town.”
“This one is different. Something is going on. Something big that has everyone’s mouth wired shut.”
“Oh?”
Weston sat straighter in his chair. “What are you sitting on, Mr. President?”
McKenna sighed. “You mean, what am I sitting on you should know, Senator?”
“Not just me. The country. I’m not asking anything from you that is legally privileged. If you’re sitting on a volcano, tell me. Let me help.”
“You want to help me?” Weston nodded. “That’s a change.”
“You are my president. My party’s leader… a mentor and… friend.”
“In that order, I presume.” McKenna’s eyes narrowed. “Look, friend: Monday, Wednesday and Friday, you’re my grateful protege. The young senator whom I created. Antony to my aging Caesar. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday and holidays — holidays with big crowds — you slice me apart like a piece of third-class mail.”
, “You have great qualities, Tom,” Weston said defensively. “You were a great governor, a superior senator, but, by and large, a disastrous president. I treat you as the occasion demands.”
“And what does this occasion demand?”
“Tell me if there is a crisis.”
“There’s always a crisis in this town. Take your choice.”
“You never used to stoop to sophistry. Something is going on, I know that. The Pentagon is shut up tight as a drum. The Joint Chiefs don’t answer my calls… I’m not even sure that they’re at the Pentagon. Tankersley’s out of pocket in Virginia. Nobody knows where the secretary of defense is. And they tell me that Jules Farber has been hanging around here night and day for the last three days.”
“Jules Farber hangs around here more than I do,” McKenna said with a chuckle.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know what’s got you all worked up. There is something, but it’s not in the least bit sinister.”
“What is it?”
The president shrugged. “I don’t want to read about it in the morning papers, Milt.”
“I don’t leak.”
“Of course not.” McKenna nodded to himself. “As a matter of fact, the Joint Chiefs came to me to request an alert exercise. You know, one of those timed readiness tests. I’m sure the Pentagon is plugged up because they don’t want to take the chance that someone will blow the surprise.”
“Why come to you?” Weston asked suspiciously. “.They can do that without your involvement.”
“Money,” McKenna said. “It’s a loophole in the military appropriations budget.” He sighed. “They can authorize a readiness test, but it comes out of their till. If I initiate the request, on the other hand, then the bill is routed through NSC funds. Olafson is pretty tight with a penny, you know. Anyway, I agreed.
It’s a favor I can collect on sometime in the future.” He grinned. “See? No big deal.”
Weston was silent for several seconds. “You’re sure that’s all? You’re not keeping something else from me?”
“Like what?”
“If you’re covering up something—”
“Look, Senator, I’m not about to kowtow to you or anybody else every time some silly rumor begs to be verified!”