The White House was never entirely silent. The rumble of the air-conditioning, small noises from the kitchens below, the soft steps of Secret Service in the passageway — you could sense the movement all around. But just for these few moments, the president could at least pretend that he was alone.
And he was in more ways than one, wasn’t he? The general’s briefing and the general’s concern over his reelection were clashing in his head. He was self-aware enough to realize it was the ultimate in egotism to believe that he was the only one who could run the country during these times. The United States had managed to survive under even the most incompetent presidents, and he had no doubt that even if the idiot who was running for the other party won, America would survive him, too.
Still, the presidency was a different order of magnitude in the nuclear age, wasn’t it? The world was a much more dangerous place than any of his predecessors had ever dreamed. His detractors could call it egotism if they wanted, but he truly believed that at this moment in history he was the one best equipped to lead the country.
And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? He had to deal with this crisis, and deal forcefully with it. That was what was best for the country. But it was also best for the country if he survived it, and possibilities for this going very wrong were too great.
So how to balance it? Wexler would have one answer, the general another. He reflected on the contradictory advice that would shortly be coming his way, staring out through the bulletproof glass at the night sky. An earlier summer thunderstorm had cleared, leaving clean, fresh air in its wake. The stars seem particularly bright tonight, although his view of them was somewhat obscured by the lights that were constantly on around the exterior of the White House. Another trade-off for security, like his privacy.
Was there a way around this? Maybe. His mind lined up the options, ranging from a full-out confrontation (quickly dismissed) to a more covert special operation intervention. That was a possibility, certainly.
But no. Although he had used special operations with great success on occasion, there was too much risk of the details leaking to the public. The last thing he needed right now was the congressional oversight committee questioning his motives. No, this had to be handled very quietly.
The answer came to him, stunning in its simplicity. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He picked up the telephone, and a familiar voice in the White House communications office answered immediately. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Track down Admiral Magruder — the older one, the one that was chief of naval operations. Tell him I want to see him at his very earliest convenience — like tonight, if he’s free.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The president hung up, chuckling slightly at the disingenuous request. Tonight, if he’s free. Right. As if a retired admiral — or, really, anybody for that matter — would ever tell the president of the United States that a meeting time was not convenient.
Maybe someday somebody would. Sarah Wexler’s face flashed through his mind. He grinned at the thought. Maybe Wexler would be the one to do it.
As Wexler stepped outside the assembly room, Brad appeared at her side carrying a briefcase and a small bag. “The car is waiting.” Carrying her emergency traveling gear, Brad led her out and down to the waiting town car. She slipped into it and was whisked away to the airport, and twenty minutes later was boarding a waiting jet. When they touched down in DC, a helo waited to take her to the White House.
By the time she reached the Oval Office, she had heard the same news reports that the president had and had an idea why she’d been summoned. Things big enough to get her summoned to the White House just didn’t stay quiet that long.
Just as the helo touched down, the details became available on the radio. “We have just learned from the Coast Guard station in San Diego, California, that there has been a major disaster at sea involving the SS Montego Bay. A luxury cruise liner, the Montego Bay was making her normal run between San Pedro and Hawaii. According to preliminary reports, the cruise liner has suffered some sort of casualty. The situation remains unclear, and there is no word on deaths or injuries.”
A cruise liner. So what had happened — hostages? A collision? Please, not one involving our Navy.
Montego Bay—she hadn’t been aboard her but had been on a sister ship years ago. How many years ago — twenty, perhaps? She remembered the ship had seemed so very glamorous at the time.
“Come right in, Madam Ambassador,” the president’s chief of staff said as he met her outside the Oval Office. “He’s waiting for you.”
He was behind his desk, scribbling through some papers, but looked up as she walked in. Relief flashed across his face and then the worried lines reappeared. “It’s breaking now,” he said, pointing at the TV in the corner. A newscaster was flashing up what appeared to be file photos of the SS Montego Bay, a chart with her current location on it, and then brief bios of the captain and crew. All this background information meant only one thing — they were stalling, killing time until they could figure out what the Coast Guard reports meant. Or, better yet, until they could get their people on scene. As a last resort, if any ship in the area were in cell phone range, they would settle for a very informative and highly unauthorized cell phone call from some sailor to the mainland.
“Three hours ago,” the president began, “the Russian aircraft carrier opened fire on Montego Bay. Or, to be more precise, the Admiral Kurashov launched a surface attack missile at Montego Bay. It struck near the stern, causing massive damage. The captain wisely elected to execute an immediate abandon ship, and probably saved a lot of lives that way.”
“The Russians fired on a cruise liner?” Wexler repeated, stunned. “That doesn’t make sense. What possible reason could they have for doing that?”
The president shook his head. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Not a clue, Mr. President. Not a clue. Casualties?” she asked.
“All the passengers have been taken aboard the USS Jefferson. A complete tally is still pending, but it looks like there are a number of people missing, presumed dead. Primarily crew members that were belowdecks, either off shift or working near the engineering spaces. There are probably more.”
“How many passengers?”
“Four hundred and twenty seven. Two hundred crewmen. As of the last report, five hundred and forty-three people are accounted for.”
“Dear God.” Wexler said a silent prayer, stunned. “And what do the Russians have to say about it?”
“I haven’t talked to them yet.” The president’s voice was impassive.
“You haven’t — why in the world not? You’ve got to, don’t you? That’s the whole point of the hotline and of all the arrangements made for immediate communication between the two of you.”
“The Cold War is over, Sarah.”
“But — Mr. President, surely you can see this makes no sense. You’ve got to talk to them. Something like this can get out of hand so fast that there’s no controlling it.”