“Now, this certainly does not mean that a state of war exists between the United States and the Indian Federation. It also does not mean that we are unwilling to talk … in fact, we are more than willing to open negotiations that could lead to a clarification of this problem and, I might add, a reduction of tensions throughout the region over there. The United States is capable of defending its interests without resorting to outright war.” He pointed at an upraised hand. “Yes? Here in front?”
“Bob Rutherford, NBC. Mr. President, you said in your speech that a Russian naval force has joined our carrier group off the Indian coast.
Does this mean that Russia and the United States are considering unilateral military action against India, without waiting for the final UN Security Council vote? And if you are considering a military response, what form might that action take?”
The President gave his best self-deprecating smile. “Well, Bob, you know I can’t give you any specifics on a question like that. All I can say is that this Administration will not rule out any action at this time, and that includes a military response. The leadership of the Commonwealth of Independent States has gone on record as saying that they support our declaration of the rights of shipping in international waters. The UN vote supports that declaration, and both of our countries stand ready to enforce those rights in whatever way seems appropriate. Yes? Over there, the lady in blue. Yes?”
“Linda Bellows, Associated Press. Mr. President, what about Pakistan’s threat to use atomic weapons against India, and India’s declaration that they will meet nuclear weapons with nuclear weapons of their own? Is there any danger in our military forces becoming involved in a nuclear war in the Indian Ocean?”
“I’m glad you asked that question, Linda. It is our position, and, I might add, the position of every other nation engaged in the debate in the UN, that the use of nuclear weapons in this conflict is unthinkable and must be discouraged by every means at the world’s disposal. Now, I don’t think I need to add that a nuclear escalation at this stage of the game is extremely unlikely. While both India and Pakistan have a nuclear capability, being able to build a bomb and being able to assemble one small enough to deliver by plane or missile are two very different things.”
Magruder listened as the President continued to answer the questions. We will defend our rights, the world is with us, and the situation is under controclass="underline" those were the three dominant themes running through each statement he made.
Abruptly, the President said, “Thank you very much,” and strode from the stage.
“Mr. President! Mr. President!” A chorus of calls followed him, as a forest of waving arms tried to signal for his attention. “Mr. President! What about …”
The President brushed past Magruder as he stepped off the stage, and the admiral heard his low-voiced mutter to an aide. “Thank God that’s over with.”
Magruder watched the man vanish around a corner with his entourage and smiled to himself. There’d been considerable worry among the President’s advisors about how the press conference might go, but it seemed to have come off well. By now, the Washington correspondents of each of the networks would be recapping the speech before the camera, repeating the President’s message. We will defend our rights. The world is with us. The situation is under control.
He turned to follow the Presidential party. “Admiral!” a woman’s voice called from behind him. “Admiral Magruder!”
Magruder looked around, already choosing his words for a firm refusal to add anything to the President’s statements. He believed in a free press but was less than enthusiastic about the persistence with which that press sometimes pursued their duties.
Then his eyes widened. He knew the woman.
She was tall and attractive, with shoulder-length blond hair and dark eyes that seemed to mirror some inner worry. A portable tape recorder was clutched in one hand, and she wore her press badge and White House admission ID pinned to the lapel of a smartly tailored beige business suit. “Admiral Magruder? Do you remember me?”
“Certainly, Miss Drake,” he said, smiling. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
She flashed a smile, though her eyes still held a dark and haunted look.
Pamela Drake, a reporter for ACN News, had been a guest aboard the Jefferson two months before, while she was covering the political unrest in Thailand. Magruder’s nephew had become involved with her there.
Admiral Magruder had known Pamela was in Washington. He’d seen her often enough on the ACN Evening News. But Washington was a big city.
He’d not expected to run into her in person.
Matt had written once since Magruder had been transferred to Washington.
In the letter, he’d mentioned the possibility of marrying the woman.
Looking at her now, Magruder could certainly understand Matt’s feelings.
For a moment, Magruder thought that Pamela was following her reporter’s instincts and was about to ask him something relating to the press conference. The question she did ask caught him by surprise. “Admiral, have you heard anything from Matt? Do you know if he’s all right?”
Magruder managed a grin. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard a thing, but that’s no cause for alarm. He’s not much of a letter writer. At least, not to old SOBS like me.”
She smiled back. “He won’t tell me a thing either. Did you know we might be getting married?” Magruder nodded. “He said something about it.”
“Then you can understand why I want to know. Is … is the crisis over there as bad as everyone’s making out? Will there be a war?”
He wondered if, after all, she was questioning him as a reporter rather than as his nephew’s fiance. No, he decided, looking into her eyes. The worry, the pain there had nothing to do with her career.
“Pamela, there’s really nothing more I can tell you. There’s danger, certainly. Matt’s in a dangerous profession. You know that. As to any extra danger … I guess we all just have to wait and see.”
“I … know, Admiral. I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve been worried sick about Matt ever since Bangkok. I’m afraid I’ve been pushing him to leave the service.”
Magruder’s mouth tightened as he thought how best to reply. “Well, that’ll have to be his decision, won’t it?”
“Our decision, Admiral.”
“Hmm.” He hesitated, trapped by an abrupt and unaccountable anger. He suddenly found himself comparing the Drake woman to his sister-in-law Kathy, Matt’s mother. His brother Sam had not come back from a Navy raid over a Hanoi bridge in 1968. He remembered the look on Kathy’s face when she learned that her son had been accepted as a Navy aviator candidate. There’d been pain and fear, yes … but also a burning and enormous pride.
He forced the anger back. The girl had no way of putting things in perspective … and maybe that was to be expected. “Miss Drake, I don’t want to dampen the flames of true love, but you ought to remember that there are over six thousand other men on the Jefferson besides Matt.
Counting our supply ships and the attack sub assigned to CBG-14, there’s another twenty-eight hundred men in the rest of the carrier group, every one of them with a wife or a girlfriend or a fiance or a mother … someone who cares for them and is scared to death that they’re not coming back. What makes you so special?” She stiffened. “As I said, Admiral, it’s our decision. Our life. I–I’m sorry I troubled you.”
A twinge of conscience twisted in him. He opened his mouth to say something soothing, but Pamela Drake had already gone.
Tom Magruder watched her slim back and blond hair receding with the crowd of reporters. Then he shrugged, turned, and followed after the President.