Only Norway had sided with its traditional allies. And its decision came only after several days spent in futile efforts to mediate a peaceful settlement. Finally convinced that France and Germany could not be brought to their senses, the Norwegians had at last opened their airfields to U.S. and British warplanes. The first squadrons, F-15s and F-16s from the United States, were due to touch down in a matter of hours.
“Of course I understand your position, Madam Prime Minister.” The faintest hint of carefully concealed exasperation tinged the President’s voice. “But surely you can understand our need to mount a fully coordinated air and sea campaign as soon as possible.”
Huntington turned away from the Oval Office windows.
Right now the President was on a secure channel with Norway’s Prime Minister, sorting out last-minute glitches over command authority. A State Department translator stood by on a separate extension, ready to interpret technical language. So far the young man’s services hadn’t been necessary. Brigitte Petersen spoke perfect English.
Apparently her reply was satisfactory, because the tension in the President’s jaw eased slightly. His voice was considerably more cordial when he spoke again. “Yes, I see… that just might work. Very well, I’ll have my military people get in touch with your service chiefs and Defense Ministry to fill in the details. Thank you, Madam Prime Minister. Yes, good luck to us all.”
When America’s chief executive hung up, he glanced at Huntington, shook his head, and showed his teeth in a brief, wry grin. “Jumping Jesus, Ross. Sometimes I think waging coalition warfare is a hell of a lot harder than going it alone would have been. At least then I’d only have to wrestle with the Joint Chiefs, the Congress, the press, and my own staff.”
“True. Churchill or Roosevelt would probably have said the same…” Something sparked in Huntington’s brain — the faint flickering of an idea. He fell silent, willing it to life.
“Yeah?” The President looked up at his longtime friend and advisor. “C’mon, Ross, I’ve seen that look before. The last time I watched you draw four aces, as far as I remember.”
Huntington shrugged. “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. Just a sudden grasp of the obvious.”
“Like what?”
“That EurCon’s just as much a coalition effort as we are — maybe more so. But we’ve all been talking and thinking like it was a giant French- and German-controlled monolith.”
The President stroked his jaw. “Sure seems to be.”
“That’s the operative phrase, ’seems to be,’” Huntington argued. “But what do we really know about the decision-making process over there? Were the other, smaller member states consulted about going to war? Are they willing to commit their own troops to it? There’s still a lot we don’t know about how EurCon works — or doesn’t work.”
“What’s your point, Ross?”
“That there may be openings out there to exploit — political or military. Fracture lines we could find and pry open.”
The President sat back in his big leather chair, absorbing that. Then he rocked forward and stabbed a finger at Huntington. “Okay, you’ve sold me.”
“Then you’ll have the State Department — ”
“Nope.” The President shook his head and smiled again — the trademark grin that made him look years younger than he really was. It had been a long time since Huntington had seen it. “We both know the Foggy Bottom boys have a real bad case of NIH syndrome, Ross.”
Huntington nodded. “Not Invented Here” was a classic Washington problem. Sections of the federal government’s bloated bureaucracy routinely dismissed ideas, proposals, and solutions that came from outsiders — no matter how sensible, practical, or cost-effective they were. “Then who do you want to pull the answers together? The CIA? DOD?”
“I want you to handle this, Ross. You had the right hunch about how the Frogs blew up our LNG tanker when Quinn and his cloak-and-dagger pals were still scratching their heads. Hell, you were even right about my campaign themes and TV ads,” he joked. The President turned serious. “It’s your ball now. Run with it.”
The National Security Agency was one of the largest and most powerful of all U.S. intelligence organizations. Nearly forty thousand employees crowded its Fort Meade headquarters buildings, with others deployed at facilities around the globe. Charged with managing America’s signals intercepts and code-breaking efforts, and with protecting the security of America’s own classified communications and information, the NSA was also one of the most secretive.
So secretive, in fact, that Ross Huntington wasn’t quite sure if the bland little man sitting across from him ever used his own name. The director of the NSA’s National SIGINT Operations Center seemed the personification of anonymous officialdom. He had a sudden, whimsical vision of the man’s own wife referring to him as “my husband, the director.”
Certainly the fellow had a chilly, forbidding exterior — one that was on full display as he glanced back and forth between the White House letter with Huntington’s credentials and the typed list of what he wanted. When he finished perusing them, he frowned. “I don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Huntington.”
The SIGINT Operations director picked up the list. He pursed his lips and read the key sentence aloud. “‘NSOC should immediately initiate a high-priority effort to collect and analyze diplomatic and other internal communications between the Confederation’s smaller member states.’” He shook his head. “My people are already extremely busy, as I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Huntington. This project of yours would only absorb staff resources needed for other missions.”
He didn’t say “other, more important missions,” but the implication was clear.
“I would need direct orders from my own superiors before I could even consider such a drastic reshuffling of our priorities.”
Huntington nodded. He hadn’t really expected enthusiastic cooperation from the start, but he’d wanted to give the man a fair chance first. He pulled out a three-by-five index card from his suit jacket’s inside pocket and handed it across the desk. “I suggest you call that number, sir. I think you’ll find I have the authority you’re looking for.”
The SIGINT director’s eyebrows rose slightly when he glanced down at the card. The number had a prefix identifying it as a White House secure telephone. He looked up at Huntington, shrugged as if to show that even talking to an NSC staffer wouldn’t faze him, and reached for his phone.
But his pale features grayed still more when he heard the voice on the other end telling him in no uncertain terms that he would “cooperate fully with Ross Huntington or find yourself monitoring Tibetan radio broadcasts from somewhere in the Aleutian Islands.”
Huntington hid a grin. He’d thought that this might be necessary. Sometimes it helped to have the President himself in your court.
Alex Banich stood in the hallway outside Pavel Sorokin’s office, waiting for the elevator with mounting impatience. How the Russians had ever hoped to conquer the world when they couldn’t even keep their public buildings in good repair was beyond him.
He’d just come from another meeting with the rotund general supply manager. Ostensibly angling for another food contract from the ministry, he had really been aiming to pry out more information on Russian troop movements close to the Polish frontier. They could provide a vital clue to Russia’s intentions in the conflict. Unfortunately Sorokin had turned him away empty-handed.