“I want you to find out what they’re doing,” Gus said.
Sun stared at him in disbelief. “We’ll need time to prepare.” Like most commanders, Sun was hesitant to commit his men to a new operation on short notice. “Don’t the Americans have satellite coverage?”
“I have asked the Americans, but all their so-called resources are committed to the Middle East. They aren’t willing to reposition a satellite at this time. Time is the one thing we don’t have right now.” His voice was as cold and flat as the look in his eyes. “I take it your men are not ready?”
Before Sun could answer, Kamigami coughed for their attention. “If this is reconnaissance only, I’ll take four teams in. Colonel Sun, you know the men better than I do, so please select the teams, eight men each.” He couldn’t read Sun’s reaction.
The officers and senior NCOs were busily making notes as Kamigami stood over a chart table and recapped what he wanted done in his absence. “Drive everyone hard.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned on his arms, his head bowed. “The First is too large. We need to weed out the weak links. You must be merciless. Better now, in training, than in the real event. In your training stress small-unit mobility with mutual support. When I return, I want to see a live-fire exercise attacking and destroying a hardened target.”
“We’ll need to build the target first,” Sun said.
“I was thinking of your old command bunker,” Kamigami said. He rolled up his chart. “I should be back in two weeks. I want to see progress.”
Sun’s wicked grin was back. “Indeed you will, sir.”
Nine
It was after midnight when the taxi stopped at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, two blocks short of the Old Executive Office Building. “Sorry, General,” the driver told Pontowski. “This is as close as I can get.” Like many denizens of the Imperial City, he recognized Pontowski. He flicked on the dome light to calculate the fare. “I voted for your grandfather,” he said. “Best president we ever had. He’d know what to do with those fuckin’ Aye-rabs messin’ with us.”
“I imagine President Turner has a good idea what to do,” Pontowski replied. He handed over the fare and included a two-dollar tip. “We’ve got a lot of friends and allies in the Middle East who are depending on us,” he added.
The driver relented a little. “Yeah, I know. But we only hear from them when they raise oil prices or someone is kickin’ their asses.”
Pontowski got out of the cab and headed for the first security checkpoint, located a good block from Pennsylvania Avenue. Ahead of him, and despite the late hour, the old office building was lit up like a gingerbread monstrosity. Across the street he could see the White House, also fully lit. He stopped at the checkpoint to identify himself. The police officer recognized him but still checked his ID before calling for an escort. “Be careful, General,” the officer warned. “We stopped a car bomber just after dark near the airport…an illegal immigrant who’s lived here since 1980.”
A uniformed Secret Service agent arrived and escorted Pontowski inside. It still looks the same, he thought, remembering the last time he had been in the building, eight years before. We were putting the AVG together then. The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the doors swooshed open. The highly polished black-and-white marble floor stretched out in front of him. “Just like old times,” he told his escort. They walked down the hall to the national security adviser’s corner office overlooking the White House.
Mazie was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Why all the secrecy?” he asked.
She glanced at his escort and didn’t answer. He got the message — the reason for his summons from Patrick Flannery Shaw would have to wait. Mazie gathered up her briefcase and headed out the door with a brisk “Come.” They took another elevator to the basement and went through a series of checkpoints as they walked the tunnel leading to the White House.
“Okay, what’s going down?” he asked.
Mazie glanced at the people around them. “Personal problems,” she said in a low voice. When they reached the basement of the West Wing, she turned into the Situation Room.
Shaw was waiting for them. A relieved look spread across his face. “You need an update before we see the president.” He motioned at the duty officer sitting at a workstation against the sidewall. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he called up a situation map on the big monitor. “King Khalid Military City fell three hours ago,” Shaw said, “and we’re falling back toward Riyadh.”
Pontowski studied the map for a moment. “It’s bad,” he said. “But it could be worse.”
“How?” Mazie asked.
“They haven’t broken out or flanked us. Our line is intact, and given the slowness of their advance, I suspect they’re paying a heavy price.”
Shaw made a decision. “You need to talk to the president. Now.” Pontowski blinked at the worried tone in his voice. Was Shaw, Washington’s political wizard, losing it under the pressure of war? Shaw turned to the duty officer. “Call for an escort.” Pontowski arched an eyebrow at the tight security. “You haven’t heard,” Shaw said. “The FBI rolled up four terrorist groups in D.C. yesterday. Deep sleepers.”
“The way a poor man fights a war,” Pontowski said.
Shaw snorted. “One group had five canisters of sarin nerve gas and detailed maps of the subway system.” He paused. “And of the White House.” Their escort led them to the elevator, and it was obvious neither Shaw nor Mazie was going to talk about the reason for his summons within earshot of another person. They rode the elevator in silence to the second floor. A Secret Service agent checked Mazie’s briefcase and ran a wand over all of them before allowing them to proceed. Pontowski counted five Secret Service agents along with two armed Marines and a Navy lieutenant commander who was sitting in the hall. As expected, the Navy officer had the football, the soft leather briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, chained to his wrist. There was no doubt that the White House was an armed camp. “Are you ready?” Mazie asked. Pontowski steeled himself, fully expecting to find a devastated president, perhaps on the edge of collapse.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Madeline Turner was pacing the floor in front of the fireplace like a caged tiger. Her chief of staff, Richard Parrish, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt, had all taken defensive positions well away from her line of fire. She moved with a quick, feline grace as she turned to Pontowski. Her brown eyes were clear and flashed with determination. “Matt, what brings you here?”
Before he could answer, Shaw said, “I asked him.”
She whirled on Shaw, and they stared at each other, some form of unspoken communication between them. A little of the fire seemed to drain from her. She crossed her arms and hugged herself as she turned, focusing on the fireplace. “Did you see how they executed those three prisoners?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And they had the audacity to show it on TV! Not to mention a car bomber headed directly for Reagan International. And sarin! Right here! They were going to use it on innocent people! I won’t have it! I simply won’t have it!”
“Madam President,” Kennett said, “a nuclear response is not appropriate at this time.”
Pontowski was stunned, and he stood there, not sure what to think, much less say. Silence held the room as the president resumed her pacing. Then he saw it. She was venting her anger and frustration — but she was in total control. “Madam President,” Pontowski ventured, testing the waters, “if we start creating parking lots in the Middle East, who knows what the terrorists here will do.”