Blair blinked around, thinking what a great target this would make for a suicide bomber. She recognized senators. Generals. Executives from major defense firms. All seemed torn between the requirement to display grief and the necessity of conducting pressing business. Four men surrounded Talmadge, who was holding court beside the statue of Dr. King. He favored that location for photographs, to appeal to his sizable African-American constituency. A tall black man stood beside him, with several other men. She almost didn’t recognize Hu Kuwalay, the defense assistant.
“Missy.” Talmadge extended a palm, but his gaze darted here and there, examining, calculating. “You know Hu. ‘Bat’ Jingell, majority leader, from the other side of the building. And Tony Venezelos, from Archipelago Defense.”
She nodded greetings. “What’s going on, Bankey? Aren’t you voting?”
“Any minute now. That idiot woman from Seattle called for a quorum. Then we got word about the address.”
“What address? This is the authorization bill?”
“No, it isn’t,” the old senator said. Now she noticed he was perspiring.
Kuwalay said, “The president’s coming over.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Coming here?”
“He wants war powers,” Talmadge rumbled. “Wants that blank check. Should we give it to him? I don’t honestly know.”
“We’ve been attacked. There’s really no other response.” Jingell smiled down at her. She wondered why he was here. As far as she knew, the lower house didn’t have a dog in this fight. The Senate approved treaties and declared war.
Then she remembered. This was Election Day. By midnight, she’d learn if she was Congresswoman Titus, or just plain Mrs. Lenson. She thought of asking again about funding. She’d borrowed heavily for a last-minute ad blitz. But no, she couldn’t. Events were too big, moving too fast, to think about herself.
“Missy? You always gave good advice.” Talmadge took her hand. “I don’t want to send kids off to war. I went, to Korea. Fought the Chinese then. They’re not gonna be a pushover like Saddam. And that security adviser… he scares me.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what he’ll propose,” Blair told him.
“What’s that?”
“A nuclear strike on the mainland, in retaliation. I’ve heard him before. Do it while the balance still favors us.”
Jingell said, “But does it? With the new missiles they announced?”
“Doesn’t mean they’re operational,” Kuwalay put in. “It’s a bluff, to scare us off. We still have the advantage.”
Blair felt like gripping her head and howling. Did they have any concept of what all-out war could mean? She’d lived through 9/11. Barely. Nuclear exchange would be that, magnified ten thousandfold. “We don’t want to play nuclear dare, Hu. Millions will die. In the most horrible ways. The time’s past when we can isolate the homeland from the effects of a war.”
“You’re not saying let them have their way,” the majority leader said.
“No. But we can’t cave, either.”
A stir swept the dome. Someone called from a nearby group, “Good news. One of the ships reported in. Damaged, but afloat.”
A cheer rose, applause, then subsided. No one mentioned the other ships. She guessed they were still missing. And by now, presumed lost.
“The middle course is always tough.” Talmadge waved to someone over her shoulder. “The party was soft on this even after they invaded. I offered the authorization resolution, but we only had forty-two members in support. So I put off the vote.
“But this attack, sinking the Pacific Fleet… we can’t opt out. The country wants action. Demands it.”
“I believe you’re right,” Jingell said, but not very eagerly.
Blair squeezed the old man’s hand, not bothering to correct his military terminology. Knowing he wanted reassurance, not advice. But for once, the two were the same. “Zhang took this out of our hands, Bankey. He’s rolled the dice. Now all we can do is see what numbers come up.”
The old senator sighed. Before he could say anything else, an intern came trotting past. A live quorum had been called for. He gave her shoulder a squeeze, patted Kuwalay, nodded to the majority leader, and headed for the Senate antechamber.
The closed-circuit monitor in the visitors’ center carried the floor proceedings. With two hundred others, packed shoulder to shoulder, she watched.
A hush. The president came in, flanked by Secret Service. Head down, he delivered a low-voiced, almost inaudible address that she caught only a few words of. “For the first time since World War II… unprovoked and dastardly attack… existential threat to national security… defend our allies to the utmost… topple the dictator, and bring democracy to all Asia.”
She tightened her mouth, sensing overreach. Hubris. Or maybe, just hyperbole. This president had never been noted for skill with words, or insight into the way to deal with foreign countries. But at least his speech was short. So short that she, and apparently the others around her, hadn’t quite grasped what was happening, by the time he stepped down.
“He’s asked for a declaration of war,” someone said.
“War… war…” The murmur eddied through the crowd. A lone spectator began to clap, but no one else joined in. He persisted for a few seconds, then stopped as those around shushed him.
She felt suddenly faint, and pushed her way through the throng to lean against a display case. Her head swam. Her knees trembled. What was it with human beings? They were like cattle thronging down a chute, with no idea what lay at its end. Distantly, through a hissing hum in her ears, she registered the question being moved. Seconded. Then, the roll call. Each senator going on record. Standing, to call out his or her vote, rather than simply pressing the usual button.
The final vote was for, but by only 54 in favor, 46 against. The narrowest vote for war in U.S. history, she was pretty sure. She stared to check the fact on her phone, then remembered: no service. And anyway, what did it matter? The room was emptying, gradually, then more swiftly. Almost a stampede. She limped along after them, hip aching now, feeling hollow. Alone.
And more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.
29
Dan leaned on the splinter shield, gripping his cap against the buffeting of a cold wind. The temperature had fallen over the last few days as winds and seas built. The light was ebbing from the world. The shrouded sun was almost gone. He gripped the bulwark as a charcoal sea levered up. Smaller ripples, cat’s-paws, complicated its heaved-up face. The damage-control teams had welded plating and shored bulkheads forward. But he still tensed as the damaged bow dipped once more. When that dark sea crashed into it, the ship shivered. White spray burst up through the gaps in the twisted metal as if from the blowhole of an immense whale. The wind blew the spray aft to spatter it against the pilothouse. He ducked, grabbing his cap at the last second as it flew off.
He took a last look around — racing clouds, carbon seas, failing light — and ducked into the pilothouse. “What’s the prediction?” he asked Van Gogh.
The quartermaster chief turned from plotting his last radar fix, staggered as the deck reeled, but caught himself on the helm console. “Who knows. No satellite weather. Just hope it doesn’t get any worse. Barometer’s stopped falling anyway.” The seaman on the wheel glanced at them, then back at his indicators.