“Thank you,” he said, and the line went dead.
“Hmm, it must have actually been important,” she said to herself.
The door to Martin Powell’s office opened seconds later. Her boss just stood there looking at her. She spun in her chair and faced him.
“Where is that meeting?”
“Here in the White House, Cabinet Room.”
“Thanks.”
“Something wrong? You don’t look so good.”
His silence was all the answer she needed. He went back to his desk and pulled his suit coat off the back of his chair and held it up. He just looked at it.
“Put it on.” He spun at the sound of Mary’s voice. “You always wear one. If you leave it off and go running through the building, people will think something is wrong and you’ll have lots of chatter bouncing off the walls. Nobody needs to know anything yet.” She walked up to him as he slid his arms through the sleeves. She reached up and straightened his tie, just a bit. “There. You don’t want it too straight. It might look like you’re taking the day off.” She gently patted him on his chest, feeling the rich wool beneath her fingertips.
“I’ll be back.” He was out the door in a flash.
“Wouldn’t have thought an old coot like that could move so well,” she wondered aloud as she leaned against the mahogany credenza.
“There’s no way we’re gonna find him in this!” The spotter shouted as loud as he could. Likely the pilot didn’t hear him. He hated using the on-board mic. He wasn’t sure why. He was a tech guy after all. He pushed the mic up to his mouth. “Hear that?”
“Yea, Pits, I hear ya,” the shout came back.
“Even if we did, he’s not gonna be alive.” Pits trained his glasses back on the dark surface of the Arctic water. The Bering Sea was nowhere to be lost in the middle of winter. He could see the whitecaps as they surged across the otherwise, featureless terrain. A sudden jolt nearly sent him flying out the door of the Seahawk. He tugged on the strap that was holding him in, making sure it was secure. “Two hours is too long out here,” he shouted.
“Leave it to the Navy to have to help out the fly boys,” the co-pilot yelled.
“Wait!” Pits leaned forward again thinking it might give him a better look as he trained the binoculars down. “Deb…” Pits flipped the mic back up to his mouth. “Debris, three ‘o clock.”
The HH-60 banked right and began circling several scattered pieces of debris. Bits and pieces were strewn in a line leading away from the coast. Most smaller pieces would have sunk and would never be recovered. Only the larger, flat surfaces that could lay across the water’s surface remained afloat. And in these conditions, that wouldn’t be a very long time. The Arctic waters had a cruel heart.
“There!”
“What Pits?”
“Someone hanging on to a wing.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, but it’s not one of ours,” Pits shouted. “Big red star.”
The Seahawk closed, hovering above the wreckage. The SAR crew began what they do best, what they trained relentlessly for; rescue from the sea, no matter who it was. It was the code of those who wore the uniform, never let the sea take a life, friend or foe. It was their way. Pits readied the hoist as his crew-mate Frankie Miles, a thin young black man with a winning smile from New York, strapped himself into the harness. Pits flipped the switch on the lift, guiding him down to the rolling surface. It required everyone to play their part; the pilot to keep it steady while Pits controlled the hoist. Too fast and he plunged Frankie into the water. He engaged the hoist after he got the ‘thumbs up’ from Frankie. The trick he knew, was to keep it from swaying. Though most of that was controlled by the pilot, how he managed the vertical aspect played a big part. The harness hovered above the wing as Frankie unbuckled and dropped to the bomber’s wing. The Russian was barely conscious, almost dead weight. Though the waters were tipped with whitecaps, the winds were relatively calm for this time of year, and within an hour of finding the wreck, a Russian airman was safely on board a United States Navy Seahawk helicopter.
The knock on the door to the Cabinet Room was anything but subtle. A hard bang and the door swung open as all heads turned towards the president’s chief of staff, whose eyes immediately found his boss. Martin Powell ran his fingers through his white hair, a signal that something was wrong.
“We’ll be done here in a minute, Martin.”
“Hello Mr. Secretary.”
“I’ll be right back, gentlemen.” The president immediately rose from his chair, dead center of the long conference table, the others following suite, but he waved them back down in place. A hand to the shoulder of Secretary Stanton with a noticeable squeeze, told the secretary his meeting with this group was likely over.
“Mr. President, we’ll just continue another time. We’re almost done anyway.”
“Thank you Simon,” the president replied with a nod. “We’ll see everybody real soon,” he said with a smile. “Martin?”
“Mr. President.”
The chief of staff turned as the president walked past him and out the door. They were down the hall and around the corner before President Kiger stopped and looked out the windows onto the White House lawn. He turned to address his chief of staff but was waved off.
“In your office, sir.”
“That bad, huh?”
“It ain’t good, Mr. President,” he replied. “It ain’t good a t’all.”
“Holy hell, Martin.” President Edwin Kiger simply fell back into his chair. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this. The Russians are going to be pissed.”
“Better question is sir, what were they doin’ so close to our coast?”
“Yeah, I know.” POTUS rubbed his forehead as he looked down at his desk. “I really didn’t need this right now. Not this close to an election. Any word on recovery?”
“Nothin’ yet, sir. I’ve only had this for ten minutes.”
“Alright,” POTUS sighed. “Get me everything you can as soon as you can. This will get out quickly, and we’ve got to put a lid on it.”
“I wonder what the Russians are saying ‘bout now?”
“I’m sure I’ll hear shortly.”
“Perhaps we should call them first demanding to know what they’re doing?”
“Put them on the defensive?”
“Couldn’t hurt, sir.” Martin turned away from the desk as he pulled his thoughts together. “Perhaps President Novichkov isn’t aware of this yet. I wonder if a quick call might put him in a bad position?” He turned back again. “Does that ‘red phone’ still work?” he said with a grin. “We’ll teach that sum-bitch he can’t push his weight round over here.”
“If he doesn’t know about it though, Martin, perhaps a back-channel approach might be a better option here.”
“If you think that’s wise, sir.” He grinned again. “Could have been fun.”
“Get me what you can, quickly. If I have to make a call, I need to know what in the hell the truth really is.”
The president’s chief of staff looked down at the carpet in the Oval Office. He liked this one better than the last; a field of blue ringed with gold trim. It had the feeling of power, understated power, in an office that exuded power. Make no mistake, he worked for the most powerful man in the world, no matter what others thought. Money brought influence and economic say-so to an extent, but to control the fate of the world with a single phone call; that was real power, power most would never understand.
“Yes Mr. President.”