TWO HOURS LATER TODD FOUND HERSELF IN A CORNER of the formal dining room, listening to a museum trustee describe funding problems. It was a litany she had heard many times in the past, and while she was sympathetic, there was little she could do about it. Her next budget—sure to be declared dead on arrival in Congress in any event—held arts appropriations steady from the year before. This in effect was a decrease, given inflation, but it was far better than Congress was likely to do. Even the defense budget would probably be cut in the coming year, something Todd was adamantly opposed to.
She listened for a while longer, then politely excused herself, deciding she would check in on her husband and work an early exit. She spotted the Israeli ambassador across the room, and turned to her right: she had artfully avoided conversing with him all evening, and aimed to keep that record intact.
She bumped into a short, thin man in his mid-thirties, who managed—barely—to avoid dropping his drink or, worse, spilling it on her dress.
“I’m sorry, Madam President,” he said, clearly embarrassed.
“Oh no, dear, I’m sorry. I turned without looking.” She smiled, trying to remember who he was.
“Mark Tacitus,” said the man. He held out his hand. “I, uh, I’m the son-in-law of—”
“Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” His father-in-law was Simon Rockwell, a member of the Metropolitan Museum Board of Trustees in New York and one of her biggest contributors in the Northeast. “So—the last time we met, you were working on a book.”
“Finished. Yes.” He smiled awkwardly. “The book on Nimitz.”
“Of course.”
“He was an interesting man,” said Tacitus noncommittally. He seemed to think she was only making polite conversation.
“Do you still think the Nautilus was his most difficult decision?” Todd asked.
“Well . . .” The author flushed, probably trying to remember their last conversation. The submarine Nautilus became the world’s first nuclear powered vessel of any kind, and the decision to build it was extremely controversial. “I think in a way it was his hardest. There were a lot of decisions we could single out. Some good, some bad.”
“A lot good.” Todd caught sight of her husband. “Though not always obvious at the time, even to him. We’ll have to talk more in depth sometime,” she told Tacitus. “I was interested in what you had to say about his wife.”
“You read the book?”
The President laughed. She had read the book, lingering over the war chapters, where she admired how Nimitz had persevered, taking calculated risks but always sticking to his vision.
Set a course, and move ahead. Good advice for anyone, even a President.
Delay Iran by whatever means. Short-term risks that could pay big dividends were better than no risk that offered none. That was what Nimitz had to say to her.
“We will talk,” she said, patting Tacitus on the shoulder and starting across the room. “Thank you. One of my people will get in touch.”
Her husband was waiting. “Calling it a night?” he asked when she arrived.
“I’m thinking of it. There was a curator I wanted to see.”
“Sandy Goldman, in the blue dress over there. George Washington expert.”
“You read me like a book.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
“I think I’ll have someone sneak her up to the library for a little chat. What do you think?”
“You’re the President.”
“Could you whisper in her ear? I have to talk to Blitz for a minute.”
Her husband slipped away. Blitz was only a few feet away, talking with two men from the Dallas Museum of Art. As President Todd walked in his direction, Blitz excused himself. They stepped aside.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she told him.
“Not a problem.”
“It should move ahead.”
“What made you decide? The Israelis?”
“I haven’t talked to them about it, and don’t intend to.”
“What then?”
“Admiral Nimitz.”
Todd cherished the confused look on Blitz’s face all the way upstairs.
4
Dreamland
EVEN THOUGH THE ENGINEERS HAD REACHED A TENTATIVE conclusion about what happened within minutes of the B-1Q and UAVs touching down, the mission debriefing lasted well into the night. Two of the UAVs had been destroyed and a third damaged when they were unable to anticipate the Phantom’s last second landing abort. The others returned to the airstrip where their mother ship had landed, landing in perfect formation and taxiing behind it. Analysis of the computing logic was still ongoing, but it appeared to have followed the proper protocols and decision trees—except for the switch to the intercept. That signal had apparently been inadvertently ordered by the B-1Q’s control unit when the pulse hit: a flaw in the B-1Q controls or perhaps the human overseeing them, not the UAVs.
Breanna ducked out after an hour to see to Admiral Blackheart. She was shocked to find him not only in good spirits but almost giddy about the prospect of the Navy using the nano-UAVs.
“You have a hell of a lot of work to do,” said the admiral. “But those things have promise. The Navy wants to be involved. The technical people are right—this is the future.”
If the admiral was enthusiastic about the UAVs, he was even more impressed by Turk.
“Your pilot did a hell of a job saving the plane. Write up a commendation; I’ll sign it.”
Breanna summarized what they had found so far and offered to let the admiral sit in on some of the debriefing session; he wisely demurred.
She saw the admiral to his Pentagon-bound aircraft, then took a quick detour to pick up a salad. She stopped at her office to double-check e-mail, then headed back to the briefing room. Her secure satellite phone rang as she was about to open the door. The number display told her it was Jonathon Reid, codirector of the Whiplash project.
“Jonathon?”
“Breanna. I heard you had an incident.”
“There was a magnetic pulse problem on the range. A new weapon. We think the Hydras themselves were fine. But the pulse affected the antenna of the B-1Q. That project may be set back.”
“I see.”
She heard ice cubes clinking in the background. It was well past five back in D.C., but still, she was surprised that Reid was actually at home—he would never drink at either the Agency or in the Whiplash center.
Old school to a fault, Reid retained a certain professional distance with Breanna, even though they had come to know each other over the course of the past year and a half working together. When they started, Reid was a special “consultant” to the CIA; he had soon been named a special assistant to the deputy director of operations. Now, with the Agency in turmoil and under political pressure, he was rumored to be in line for the director’s job. But he refused to discuss it.
“The President spoke with Admiral Blackheart,” he told her. “She wants Roman Time to proceed.”
“OK. But—”
“From what I understand, Blackheart described the incident very briefly to her. We’re satisfied that the Iranians don’t have anything like the weapon that caused it.”
“Of course not.”
“So it’s not a factor.”
“No. But I think—I think it mandates having a trained pilot in the loop, as we’ve said all along,” she told him. “And a review of the programming systems. But because the routes on Roman Time would be already set out, I don’t think it would be a problem. Of course—”
“There is a complication,” interrupted Reid. “The timetable has to be accelerated.”
“By how much?”
“Greatly. We have, at best, a matter of a few weeks.”
“That’s too short to train any of the Delta people.”