“Madam President,” General Wilding said, “we’ll know more in a few hours without repositioning the satellite.” Every head turned toward the four-star general. “The Air Force has been developing an F-117 Stealth fighter as a reconnaissance platform. It carries a very sensitive high-resolution infrared imaging suite and is on its way to Saudi Arabia as we speak. It has the sensing capability to get up close and very personal. But we’ll have to wait for darkness.” He checked his watch. “It’s 0830 hours in Saudi. We should know something in another eighteen hours.”
“Why haven’t we deployed it sooner?” Kennett asked.
“Because,” Wilding said, “the Saudis have not given us permission to ramp up our capability until now.”
“It does make you wonder whose side they’re on,” Kennett muttered.
“The Saudis,” Butler said, “have been walking a political tightrope for years, buying off and appeasing their fundamentalists. But even they know when they’re about to get their ass kicked by their brother Muslims.”
“And they know who can help them,” Kennett added.
The door to the control room burst open, and the duty officer rushed in. “Madam President…” He pointed at the screen.
TANKS SUPPORTED BY APCS
MOVING IN FORCE ACROSS
IRAQI/SAUDI BORDER.
FORWARD OBSERVATION POSTS OVERRUN.
Serick came to his feet and leaned across the table. “The bastards!” Butler only stared at the screen, his worst fears confirmed. Kennett and Wilding looked at each other. The DCI contemplated mayhem. It was the worst intelligence failure since the CIA had missed the attack on the World Trade Center, and heads were going to roll. Mazie concentrated on Turner, who was staring at the screen, her face a frozen mask.
The secretary of defense seemed relieved at the news and gave a little grunt. “A bad mistake. A very bad mistake.” He wondered if Leland was aware of the invasion. It didn’t matter, for he would soon tell him.
Madeline O’Keith Turner, the forty-fourth president of the United States, looked at the master clock on the wall opposite her, the date and time seared into her memory.
It was Labor Day.
Seven
Maddy’s mother, Maura O’Keith, was fixated on the TV as she watched the coverage leading up to the White House press conference. “Don’t you know Liz Gordon?” she asked Pontowski, referring to CNC-TV’s White House correspondent.
“In the biblical sense?” Sarah Turner asked.
“Sarah,” Maura scolded, “you have an obsession with sex. Stop it this minute. Hear?” Sarah knew when not to cross her grandmother and flounced out of the room, her fourteen-year-old worldliness insulted. Pontowski was surprised to see Patrick Shaw come through the open door.
“Mind some company?” Shaw asked.
“Please join us,” Maura said, being very civil. She detested Shaw and wondered why he hadn’t returned to Washington with Maddy. He settled onto the couch next to Pontowski and turned his attention to the TV.
“Many insiders,” Gordon said, standing on the White House lawn with the West Wing in the background, “are asking if this crisis is being exploited by the administration to prove to the voters that Madeline Turner can lead the military as commander in chief.”
“That lady,” Shaw grumbled, “is out to do some crucifying.”
The scene on the TV switched to the press conference room as the press secretary took the podium. His words were solemn and matter-of-fact as he detailed the situation. “We can confirm that the combined military forces of Iran, Iraq, and Syria have crossed the Iraq — Saudi Arabian border and are driving southward into the heart of Saudi Arabia. The situation is very fluid, and we are not certain of the scale and intensity of this incursion. But we are responding accordingly and treating it as a full-scale invasion. The president has returned to Washington and is with her advisers. We are confident that we can contain this aggression with the forces currently in place.”
Shaw caught the frown on Pontowski’s face but said nothing. “I have one announcement,” the secretary said. “Starting in one hour, DOD will be holding regular press conferences in the Pentagon’s Briefing Room. We should have a better understanding of the situation on the ground by then, and you can talk to the experts who have the latest information.” He paused, the signal for the questions to start.
Liz Gordon was first. “Will the president be holding a press conference?”
“The president will be making a statement as soon as the situation stabilizes. I expect that should happen at some point later this afternoon. We’ll notify you well in advance.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor,” Gordon shouted, “that the president was at Camp David with Matt Pontowski when the crisis broke?”
“The president did stop by Camp David for a few hours yesterday on her return to the White House to see her family. General Pontowski was there, but so was the national security adviser and key members of her staff.”
“Did she know about the invasion?” another reporter asked.
“This was before the invasion,” the secretary replied. “Of course, we were monitoring the buildup, which was taking place under the guise of a joint exercise, and the president was concerned.”
“What did she and Matt Pontowski talk about?” a woman shouted from the back of the room.
The secretary ignored her. “Next question, please. I would ask that you stay focused on the crisis at hand.”
Shaw let his contempt show. “Them id-jits only think about one thing.”
Another reporter asked, “What about casualties?”
The press secretary glanced at his notes, carefully selecting his words. The number of soldiers killed was going to be a critical issue. “The initial reports are still coming in. We do know that at least four observation posts and nine defensive fighting positions were overrun. Again, we should have better information for you at the Pentagon briefing in one hour.”
The UPI reporter gained the microphone. “In the past, deep background briefings indicated Syria and Iran were cooperating with us in the war on terrorism and trying to reenter the world community of nations. Why should they choose this course of action now?”
Silence claimed the room. “Anything I say at this time would only be speculation,” the press secretary replied.
“Is it safe to say,” the reporter answered, “that we were so preoccupied with the war on terrorism that we were ambushed?”
The press secretary repeated himself. “Anything I say at this time would only be speculation.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and the reporters jumped on that subject. Shaw heaved his bulk to a standing position. “General, can we talk?” Pontowski stood and followed him out onto the deck. Shaw leaned over the rail and gazed into the trees. “It hurts when them id-jits get it right. We were looking the wrong way and got ambushed. How bad is this?”
Pontowski trusted rattlesnakes more than he trusted Shaw, and went into a deep defensive crouch. “I imagine the CIA has a better grasp of this than I do.”
“Then how come they missed it comin’?” Shaw paused to let that sink in. “I’m askin’ for Maddy.”
“Officially?”
Shaw shook his head. “Gimme a break. You know how the system works, and you know the Pentagon. So what’s your take?” No answer. “For Christ’s sake,” Shaw grumbled. “We’re on the same side.” He pulled out all the stops. “Maddy needs to know the worst, and she trusts you.”
Can I trust this guy? Pontowski thought. “Give me a moment,” he said. He made a decision. “I don’t know the numbers.”