As he walked down the luxuriously carpeted hall, he wondered what gave his press secretary the idea that he could overrule the Commander in Chief at his own press conference. Who did the man think he was-a Secret Service agent?
In his Pentagon office, General Martin S. Leiber turned off the television and heaved a sigh of relief.
The President had blown his news conference. What the hell, he thought. The poor bastard was as green as grass. He'd get better at it. And the press were sharks. You could never win where they were concerned. But the important thing was that he hadn't blown General Leiber's career. Which is exactly what would have happened had he mentioned exactly who "the finest military mind in the Pentagon" was.
The press would have been all over General Leiber like polish on a boot. They'd have wanted his plans, his life story, and most of all, a day-by-day history of his military career.
It would have made juicy reading. General Martin S. Leiber had been a minor rear-echelon officer during the Korean war. He was totally incompetent in battle, in leadership, and in every other trait important to military service. But when a lucky North Korean artillery shell took out the officers' club two days before the annual Christmas party, taking with it the Air Force's precious store of liquor, it fell on then Master Sergeant Martin S. Leiber to replenish the base supply.
There was no liquor to be had. Sergeant Leiber saw himself about to be busted down to private, when he came upon an Army tank that had been left standing by the side of a road while its crew were off whoring. Believing the Army to be simply a less hostile form of enemy, Sergeant Leiber rode off with the tank, which he traded to a ROK unit for several cases of good rice wine. Anyone else would have been satisfied to pull his own bacon from the fire so easily. Not Master Sergeant Martin S. Leiber. He then watered the wine down; to double the six cases to twelve, and returned triumphantly to the base.
A week later, after he sobered up, he traded the remaining six cases for a two-week leave in Tokyo, where he purchased a year's supply of fake North Korean souvenirs, and priced them to sell as genuine.
From that point on, Leiber horsetraded his way to a captain's bars and finally to a general's stars. The Air Force had been good to him, even during the Vietnam war when corruption in the South Vietnam government was so entrenched that General Leiber found himself swapping multimillion-dollar equipment-even as he sold off the last of his North Korean bayonets as North Vietnamese bayonets.
It was a career that had ultimately led to the Pentagon and rigging defense contracts and gold-plating procurement orders. And now, with retirement not far off, General Leiber was not about to blow it. Which was exactly what would have happened had the press got wind of his name. They would have splashed the headline "PRESIDENT PUTS FATE OF NATION IN HANDS OF PROCUREMENT OFFICER" all across the country's newspapers.
As long as the President had no inkling of his true status, General Leiber could carry on. And as long as he could carry on, there was still a chance he could wheel and deal his way out of this mess.
First he'd have to find out where those damn steam engines were coming from.
Taking a deep breath, General Leiber reached out for what was in his mind the mightiest weapon in the United States arsenal. The telephone. He dialed Andrews Air Force Base.
"Major Cheek. General Leiber here. The President has just alerted the nation to the crisis."
"My God! Did he tell them about the locomotives?"
"KKV's, dammit! I told you never to use the L word again."
"Sorry, General. The KKV's. And I guess that means he did not."
"Damned right he did not. Our President, bless him, is no fool. Now, I need answers."
"We have the pieces of the second KKV here, General." Behind the major's voice, the sounds of hammers clanging against metal were a cacophony. The muted roar of furnaces made static background noise.
"I can hear that. But what have you got?"
"We may be in luck, sir. This one appears not to have been as damaged by reentry."
"It came in tumbling."
"That would explain it. Actually, the rear section suffered the most friction damage."
"So?"
Well, the nose-or whatever you called it survived unmelted. Sir, this may be premature-"
"Yes, yes, out with it!"
"There's no sign of a cowcatcher. And we found what we think is one of the bumper rods. My people are trying to assemble it to be certain."
"Certain of what, dammit?"
"Don't you remember our earlier conversation, General?- No cowcatcher means it's not American. We have a foreign . . . er ... KKV."
"Can you ID the country of origin?"
"That's my hope, sir."
"Could it be African?"
"African?" the major said, his voice frowning. The general distinctly heard him flipping through the pages of a book.
"I see no mention of any African models in this book on steam KKV's."
"Our intelligence indicates it lifted off from Africa. So it's gotta be African."
"The first one was a U.S. model. But of course, a lot of older models were shipped abroad after we converted the diesel engines. Can I say 'engines' over an open line?"
"I don't care," the general said morosely. "I want to know where that thing came from. Isn't there any way we can find out?"
"There is one possibility sir. The livery."
"Say that again."
"When an engine goes into service, it's painted with the operating company's colors. Just like they do with passenger jets today. They call that the livery."
"Sound reasoning, Major. What color is this KKV?"
"Unknown, General. The entire surface is scorched. But we're trying to scrape off the gunk and get to the paint. It's our only chance."
"Will you need any special equipment?"
"Yes, whatever they use to analyze paint. I would think the FBI lab would be able to help.
"No good. I don't know anyone in the FBI. They're law. I don't mess with the civilian law. The military is one thing, but once civilian law gets on a man's tail, they don't let go."
"I catch your drift, General. What about the CIA?"
"No way. You get in hock to those spook bastards and the next thing you know, their periscopes are rising out of the john while you're sitting on it."
"Well, General, whatever you have to do, if we can get paint samples and you can have them identified, we should have our ID."
"I'll get right on it," promised General Leiber, hanging up.
"Damn!" he swore after some thought. He didn't know squat about paint analysis. Worse, he didn't know anyone who did.
The phone rang suddenly, and without thinking, he picked it up.
"General Leiber?" The voice was very authoritarian, very military.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is the joint Chiefs."
"I hear only one of you."
"I'm chairman. Admiral Blackbird. We've just watched the President's address. What goes on? Who is this military mind the President is talking about? We know it isn't the Acting Secretary of Defense. We have that bastard down here where he can't muck things up with his inexperience."
"Good move," said General Leiber, who hadn't even thought of the Secretary of Defense. "Admiral," he went on, "if the President had wanted this man's identity known, he would have broadcast it. I understand from the President that the security of the good old U.S. of A. depends upon this man's name being a national secret."
"Harrumph. I suppose that makes good strategic sense. Give us the poop on the situation threat-wise."
"We're at Defcon Two and holding."
"We know that. What's the situation on your end?"