Zen smirked as if he was a grammar school kid caught trying to leave class via the window. He backed himself against the wall and nodded to the others as they filtered out in twos and threes.
“You want me to talk to the President,” he said to Senator Brown when they were alone.
“Exactly.”
“You don’t think that’s the chairman’s job?”
“I’ll definitely call her, but it’ll be next year before she returns the call.”
“I doubt that.”
“Will you talk to her?”
“All right. But I don’t expect her to say more to me than she’s willing to say to you or the committee as a whole.”
“We’re supposed to be informed.”
Zen nodded.
“If this is the start of a war,” added Brown, “there’ll be hell to pay. Impeachment maybe. She’s got plenty of enemies around here.”
“Maybe she’s trying to stop one.”
“Either way,” said Brown, “the result may be the same.”
8
Washington, D.C.
AS FAR AS PRESIDENT TODD WAS CONCERNED, THERE was no choice—she had already committed herself to destroying the Iranian bomb program. If there was another site, or even ten more sites, they had to be eliminated.
Far better to do it with the tiny and apparently undetectable Whiplash aircraft. But the B-2s and B-1s were ready. If the team inside Iran couldn’t pull this off, she’d send the bombers in. She was not about to do what her predecessor had done and leave the problem for the next shift.
An overt attack by the U.S. was sure to have dire consequences. The Iranians couldn’t strike the U.S. directly, but they would surely unleash wave upon wave of terrorists. They might also take another shot at blocking the Persian Gulf.
Todd expected Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven to use that as part of his argument against an attack. But he surprised her, telling the packed conference room in the White House basement that he thought the attack must be pressed.
“I think it’s not a matter of debate,” said Newhaven, gesturing with the back of his hand at the map on the display screen at the front of the room. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying goes. The real question is what the Iranians will do. If I’m them, I push up my timeline. A lot.”
“If they’re capable,” said the Secretary of Defense Charles Lovel. “We don’t have enough data. Frankly, it’s not even clear whether they would go ahead with a test.”
“We have to assume that they have the capability,” said National Security Advisor Blitz. He studiously avoided looking at the head of the CIA, who sat glumly at the side of the table, all but wearing a dunce cap. “They have been ahead of every estimate. Consistently.”
“If they do test the bomb, they’ll have no material for another,” added Lovel. “We’ve wiped out their centrifuge arrays.”
“They’ll build more,” said Blitz. “We’ll have a twelve month to three year window.”
“I’ll take that,” said Todd. “In any event, that isn’t the issue at the moment. We’ll have time to analyze the situation further once we have more intelligence.”
She took a quick poll on a second attack, going around the room; it was unanimous. As was her custom, Todd let the others think that she was undecided until they had given their opinions; as usual, her mind was already set.
“We will continue the campaign,” she said, rising. “Covertly if possible, overtly if necessary. I expect a second strike within twenty-four hours. Our official posture, until then, will be as it has been: an earthquake. No leaks. Absolutely no leaks—lives are on the line here. And I don’t mean those of just our operatives.”
“Congress,” said Blitz. “The intelligence committee has been screaming—”
“I’ll deal with Congress,” said Todd.
ZEN WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED WHEN THE WHITE HOUSE called back so quickly, but the “invitation” to join the President for an early dinner did catch him off guard. When he hesitated before answering, the President’s chief of staff came on the line personally and told him that “Ms. Todd really wants to talk to you as soon as possible, and if you can’t make supper—”
“I can certainly get to the White House right away,” said Zen. “And I’d love to have dinner with the President. Should I bring my wife?”
“Actually, it’s supper, not dinner. And while I happen to know that the President thinks very highly of Mrs. Stockard, the invitation is for one only. Would you like us to send a car?”
“I’ll drive my van over,” said Zen. “I’m leaving now.”
CHRISTINE TODD LIKED TO WALK AROUND THE WHITE House kitchen, not because she felt the urge to cook or check on the staff, but because it was a refuge from the formal business of the rest of the house. The people doing their jobs here—chefs, cooks, assistants—could have been anywhere in the world. They were naturally circumspect and on their best behavior when she walked in, but even so, the hint of the world beyond the bubble she lived in was welcome.
She wondered how they would take the news of the cancer. Certainly they’d feel bad for her. Would they feel that she betrayed them by not mentioning it?
Maybe she should arrange to tell them first. Or not first, but very soon in the process. Personally.
It was still too theoretical to contemplate. She had too many other things to do.
“Our guest enjoys his beer,” she told the head steward as he came over to greet her. “Anchor Steam is one of his favorites, as I recall. I believe you have that.”
“We’ll look after Senator Stockard, ma’am. Not a problem.”
The President walked around the steel-topped prep island, glancing at the stove and the young cook watching the gravy.
“Very good, very good,” Todd announced. “Wonderful, actually. Thank you, everyone. It smells delightful, as usual.”
One of the chief of staff’s aides intercepted her in the hallway; he had the latest update on the Iranian situation—the strike unit was standing by in Iran, waiting for the next target. The backup set of nano-UAVs were being programmed for the attack. The intelligence agencies were scrambling for more data on the possible target—still unsure which of the two former sites it was.
The update, ironically enough, had come straight from Breanna Stockard. The President had no doubt that Zen knew nothing about the operation, at least not from Breanna.
What an interesting household that must be, she thought as she headed to the family dining room where Zen was already waiting.
She entered the room with her usual bustle, greeting Zen and going straight to her chair. He moved his wheelchair back as a sign of respect.
“Senator, so nice to see you. I hope I haven’t kept you long.”
“I just got here,” said Zen politely.
The residence dining room—occasionally known as the President’s Dining Room or the Private Dining Room—was one of three in the building (not counting the formal room), and when she was dining with someone, Todd chose the room depending on the tone she was trying to set. This was the most intimate, less ornate than the Family Dining Room and less work-oriented than the Oval Office Dining Room. At least that was how she thought of it.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Todd, pulling out her chair. “Especially on short notice.”
“I don’t get invited to the White House very often,” said Zen. “Especially without my wife.”
“Yes.” She turned to the attendant who was waiting nearby. “Perhaps the senator would like something to drink. A beer? Maybe an Anchor Steam?”
“That’d be fine,” said Zen. “Just one, though—I’m driving.”
“I’ll try one as well, and some water,” Todd told the attendant. She turned back to Zen. “I never understood—what’s the difference between regular beer and steam beer? Or is that just something for marketing?”