Huntington spent most of his waking hours out at Fort Meade — watching over the team of NSA analysts assigned to monitor EurCon’s internal governmental and diplomatic communications. Although they’d been digging deep, looking for disagreements and disputes, his SIGINT gophers hadn’t come up with much hard data.
The pandemonium in official and unofficial Washington more than made up for the European hush. For the past two days, pundits and politicians had swarmed over the nation’s airwaves and newspaper op-ed columns — each with his or her own slant on what should be done, and done now.
Dovish liberals issued impassioned appeals for a cease-fire, a negotiated settlement, and above all for talks, talks, and more talks. Furious conservatives argued for unrestricted bombing across France and Germany. Some even urged the retaliatory use of U.S. tactical nuclear weapons against EurCon ground targets. Isolationists of both stripes contended that the incident showed the folly of American involvement in Europe’s “petty” quarrels.
The spectacle seemed absurd to Huntington whenever he surfaced from scanning decoded radio and microwave intercepts — another manifestation of the Beltway freak show in full swing. As always, it pissed him off to see journalists and news anchors paying respectful heed to “experts” who’d been wrong so many times in the past. Why give airtime to people who had once solemnly assured anyone watching that KAL 007 had been a CIA spy flight, that the Soviets would never use chemical weapons against civilians, or that economic sanctions alone would force Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait?
Still, he had to admit that the TV talking heads seemed to represent every imaginable segment of American public opinion.
Not surprisingly, the administration’s own inner circle split along somewhat the same lines. The cabinet officers who had first opposed energy aid to Eastern Europe saw the nuclear attack as further proof that Poland and the others weren’t worth the potential price in American lives and treasure. Lucier, Scofield, and Quinn were among those scornfully rejecting any idea of retreating under EurCon military pressure. Thurman wobbled between the two factions, trying to sit on both sides of the fence at the same time. As always, the military chiefs were among the most cautious when it came to the lives of the men and women they commanded. That didn’t mean they backed withdrawal, but it did mean they wanted assurances that the nation’s political leadership wouldn’t leave them high and dry if the conflict escalated.
For the moment, the President seemed content to keep his own counsel.
He turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What’s the latest word on our troop deployment, General? Are you still on schedule?”
“Yes, sir.” General Reid Galloway nodded. “We’re almost ready to start flying both the 101st and the 82nd to Gdansk. It’s going to take a lot of time and a lot of planes, but we’ll get there.”
Huntington had seen the figures. Moving just one brigade of the 101st Airborne and its associated aviation task force by air meant lifting 2,800 troops, over one hundred helicopters, and nearly five hundred other vehicles. During the Desert Shield buildup, more than a hundred giant C-5s and C-141s had taken thirteen days to accomplish a similar feat. Two things had helped them cut those times somewhat. First, two of the 101st’s brigades were already packed and ready for movement to the U.K. for summer exercises with the British Army when the war broke out. Second, Poland was closer than Saudi Arabia and that cut flight times and wear and tear on crews. But it was still an enormous task.
“And our first two heavy divisions?”
The chief of naval operations, a slender, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pronounced Boston accent, answered that one. “We’re still assembling the transports we need, Mr. President. Once that’s done, it’ll take several more days to load them. Right now, our best guess is the first convoys can sail in a week to ten days.”
Carefully seated beside the President, Thurman cleared his throat.
“Yes, Harris?”
The Secretary of State folded his hands together and adopted his most serious expression. “I believe we should hold those ships in port, sir. At least until we have a better handle on the situation.”
“Explain that.”
“Well, Mr. President, it seems foolish to put such a slow-moving, high-value target within reach of French nuclear weapons. Before we let this convoy sail, we need a firm commitment from Paris that they won’t use those weapons again. Until we have their solemn pledge in hand, we would only be tempting the French and unnecessarily exposing our ships and military equipment to destruction.”
Members of the NSC’s isolationist faction murmured their agreement with the Secretary of State.
“Unnecessarily?” Despite his best intentions, Huntington found he couldn’t let that pass unchallenged. His pulse accelerated, driven by anger and irritation. “You’ve seen the same battlefield reports I have, Mr. Secretary. Poland needs help as quick as we can send it! We should…” Pain tore through his chest. Oh, God. He shivered, feeling cold sweat trickling down his forehead and under his arms. Breathing was difficult. He stared down at the table, panting rapidly.
“Ross? Ross? Are you okay?”
Huntington made an effort and lifted his head. He saw the President staring down the long table at him in sudden concern.
“Jesus, Ross! You look like shit.”
“So I’ve been told, Mr.…” Huntington doubled over in his seat, fighting to pull air through lungs that felt like they were being squeezed by red-hot pincers. The room started to gray out.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the President snap, “Get a medical team to the Situation Room! Now, goddamn it!”
An hour later, Huntington sat upright on a chilly examination table in the White House infirmary, acutely uncomfortable in a thin, sterile paper gown. Raw, stinging patches on his chest showed where a nurse had yanked hairs off along with a set of taped-down EKG leads.
He looked up at the trim, white-coated doctor standing close by, reviewing the EKG trace with pursed lips. “Well?”
Francis Pardolesi, the President’s personal physician, frowned down at the long, thin strip of paper. “Your readings are normal now. But that’s not unusual in angina. And your other symptoms and past medical history are indicative of the possibility.” He shook his head somberly. “Diaphoresis. Shortness of breath. Crushing substernal pain. Those are not good signs, Mr. Huntington.”
“Cut to the chase, Doctor. Did I just have another heart attack?”
“Probably not,” the younger man admitted almost reluctantly. “But in my best medical judgment, such a result is all but inevitable — especially if you keep pushing yourself so hard.”
Huntington started to object, but the doctor interrupted him. “There are a few tests I’d like to have run — just to be sure of my diagnosis. A couple of days in Walter Reed certainly won’t do you any harm.”
“No.”
“Mr. Huntington, you’re not behaving sensibly. You have got to get some R&R.”
“I don’t have time to rest, Doctor. We’re at war, and I have a lot of work to do.” Huntington stood up, looking around for his shirt.
Pardolesi sighed. “If you say so, but I think you’re making a mistake. A big one.” Then he shrugged and turned away, rummaging in a filing cabinet. “Before you go, I’ll need you to sign this AMA form.”