Before 9/11, Sanders had been taught, the Coast Guard had served under the direction of the secretary of transportation. After 9/11, a sweeping federal reorganization put the Guard under the secretary of Homeland Security. Everyone in the Guard knew the revamped mission. Sanders certainly did. It had been drilled into her from day one.
“As part of Operation Noble Eagle, the Coast Guard is at a heightened state of alert protecting more than 361 ports and 95,000 miles of coastline, America’s longest border. The Coast Guard continues to play an integral role in maintaining the operations of our ports and waterways by providing a secure environment in which mariners and the American people can safely go about the business of living and working freely. In the wake of the September 11 terrorist attacks, the Coast Guard immediately mobilized more than 2,000 Reservists in the largest homeland defense and port security operation since World War II.”
Clearly this was no longer peacetime. America had been attacked. America was at war. That meant the Coast Guard now served under the command of the secretary of the navy. But Sanders had already heard that the secretary, who lived with his wife and three kids in D.C., was missing and presumed dead. Sanders had also heard that all of the Joint Chiefs were missing and presumed dead. Ultimately, of course, the chain of command led to the secretary of defense and the president of the United States. But with the Pentagon virtually destroyed and the National Military Command Center barely functional, it wasn’t yet clear to Sanders or anyone around her who was making operational decisions. And one decision had to be made immediately.
Sanders picked up the phone and speed-dialed the command duty officer.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, sir, but it just hit me,” she began. “Has anyone ordered a strike against the Liberian container ship?”
“That just hit you?” the CDO snapped. “What do you think I’m doing on the phone? I’m trying to get authorization for a strike, but I still can’t get anyone on the line that can pull the trigger.”
“Sorry, sir. But what if the enemy is preparing to launch another missile? Can’t you just authorize a strike yourself, before it’s too late?”
“Sanders, you’re out of line.”
“I am serious, sir,” Sanders insisted. “Can’t you order a cutter out there to intercept the ship and send in a boarding party?”
“I’ve already done that,” the CDO said. “But the closest cutter is an hour away.”
“What about choppers?” Sanders asked.
“What about them?” the CDO asked.
“Sir, you launch choppers for search and rescue out of Atlantic City and Virginia Beach all the time. Why not now?”
“You want me to send a Seahawk out there with a couple of rescue swimmers? Forget it, Specialist. You’re wasting my time.”
But Sanders wouldn’t let it go.
“No, not Seahawks. I’m saying, order a couple of MH-68s out there to take this ship out. They’ve got night vision. They’ve got the firepower.”
“Not to sink a container ship.”
“Well, at least to disable its engines.”
“That’s not enough,” the CDO said. “Not if the ship is preparing to fire another missile. We need to sink it, and sink it fast. Look, I’m with you. I get it. But I’ve got a protocol I’ve got to follow. Now let me get back to it.”
“No!” Sanders shouted, shocked at her chutzpah but not nearly as shocked as her CDO.
“What did you just say?” he demanded.
“Sir, there’s no time for the protocol,” she insisted.
“Watch it, Sanders. You’re about to cross a line you really don’t want to cross. Now get back to work and call me only if you get more intel.”
Still Sanders wouldn’t give up.
“With all due respect, sir, this is my work — guarding the coast and the people of the mid-Atlantic. And, sir, I’m telling you, we’ve got a ship out there that has fired two ballistic missiles armed with nuclear warheads, and we have to assume they’re preparing to fire again. Now the chain of command has been compromised. The rear admiral is gone. The commandant is gone. You’ve got to go to the navy.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, sir. You’ve got to skip the Guard protocol, get a naval base commander on the line, give him the coordinates of the Liberian container ship, and tell him to scramble some jets and blow that ship out of the water—now.”
“Specialist Sanders, that’s enough,” the CDO shouted back. “You are hereby relieved of duty. Report to my office immediately.”
18
Was he ready?
He had always thought so. Suddenly he wasn’t so certain. Bill Oaks knew he had to start thinking differently. He knew he had to start thinking as a president, and a wartime president at that. It wasn’t going to be easy.
Oaks had never really aspired to the presidency. He had never had any intention of running to succeed James “Mac” MacPherson. Eight years earlier, he and Marie had agreed to help a lifelong friend run the country. Ever since, it seemed, they had wondered if they had done the right thing. The hours. The stress. The travel. The time away from their sons. It was all too much. With the second term winding down, they’d been eagerly looking forward to retiring and spending time with their children and grandchildren.
And now this.
Two terms as the nation’s vice president and a lifetime of government service certainly made him better prepared than most. But there was something different about actually becoming the leader of the free world that changed a man and demanded that he summon something more.
Marine One touched down at the third largest naval installation in the United States, home of twenty-three thousand military and civilian personnel, all of whose jobs were to keep him safe. But to his shock, the Secret Service didn’t move him to the gleaming blue and white 747 emblazoned with the great seal, as he had fully expected. Instead, with a coat covering his head and face, they rushed him onto the Gulfstream V that was idling on the tarmac not far from the 747, sealed the doors, and prepared to take off with an urgency that suggested they might be expecting an imminent attack.
“What’s going on here?” he asked the head of his new protective detail.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” the agent-in-charge said.
“There’s nothing good about it, young man,” the president-to-be shot back. “Now why are we on this G5, and where’s my regular detail?”
“I’ll explain everything in a moment, sir,” the agent replied. “Right now I need you to take a seat and buckle up fast. We need to get you in the air and out of harm’s way as quickly as we can, Mr. President.”
Oaks wasn’t happy, but he could see the anxiety in the agent’s eyes. There wasn’t time to get a full briefing on the threats to this base, this plane, just yet. So he did as he was told and ordered Bobby Caulfield to do the same.
“Mr. Caulfield, you’re going to want to tighten that seat belt a bit more,” the agent said as they moved into the first position for takeoff.
“Why’s that?” the young man asked, still somewhat dazed and confused by the rapid pace of events.
“You’ll see,” the agent said, tightening his own belt and then giving the pilot the thumbs-up sign and saying, “Get this thing off the ground, LieutenanT — now.”