Turner nodded at Colonel Scovill, the Marine briefer who was standing in front of the computer-driven monitors. His voice was under strict control as he started the briefing. “Madam President, we have the results of last night’s missions over Baghdad. As of now every bridge over the Tigris River in the city is down and all electrical power is off. Only the water system remains untouched.” He allowed a tight smile. “I can reconfirm that all aircraft returned undamaged.”
“The French,” Leland said, “claim we bombed Saddam Hussein’s palace. Is that true, and if it is, isn’t that a violation of the Geneva Convention?”
“Yes to the first question and no to the second,” the colonel answered. From the frown on Leland’s face, it wasn’t the answer he wanted.
“Do you have the details?” Turner asked.
Scovill managed to keep a straight face as he spoke. “Yes, ma’am, we do. But the language is a bit—” He paused, searching for the right words. “—shall we say risqué.”
“I’m quite sure we’re all adult,” Turner replied.
A little grin played on the Marine’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.” He keyed the remote control in his right hand, and the monitor on the left came to life. “This is the unedited target video from the F-117 Stealth fighter that bombed Saddam’s main palace.”
A greenish image filled the screen, and the pilot’s voice could be heard as he described the bomb run. “There’s the Tigris,” the pilot said. He laid the crosshairs on a bridge spanning the river. “The Jumhuiya Bridge. Follow the main boulevard to the southwest…there’s the government conference center…which points to the palace. All checks with the GPS.” The image was unbelievably sharp as he positioned the crosshairs over the huge doors that led into the main entrance hall. A light flashed at the bottom of the screen. “Bomb gone,” the pilot said in a conversational tone. Nothing betrayed the fact that he was deep over hostile territory.
“Please note the time-to-go timer in the lower right-hand corner of the screen,” Scovill said. “When it reaches zero, the bomb will impact on the crosshairs.” Silence held the room in thrall as the seconds counted down. The crosshairs on the screen never moved from the big doors as the pilot flew an arc around the palace. When the timer touched four, the pilot said, “Knock-knock, muthafucker.” The bomb flew through the door and into the main hall. The screen mushroomed as the bomb detonated, and then it went blank.
Shaw let out a loud guffaw as Leland came to his feet. “That’s not funny!” Leland roared. “How can we protect innocent civilians when our pilots have that kind of attitude? I want that pilot court-martialed and made an example of.” He stood there, his jowls quivering as the room echoed with his fury. “Do not misjudge me on this,” he warned. He spun around and stormed out of the room.
“Must’ve been something the good senator et,” Shaw muttered in his best Texas accent as he sat down in the empty chair.
Turner shook her head. “Well, I tried. Do we have a problem here?”
“Only if you court-martial the pilot,” General Wilding replied.
“How so?” Turner asked.
“We’ll have sent the wrong message about mission accomplishment,” Wilding said.
“Court-martial any pilot for hitting his assigned target,” Butler added, “and half the pilots will abort for mechanical problems before they even take off. The other half will be hard-pressed to find their targets, and we’ll be lucky to see ten percent of our bombs on target. Even then not one will press the envelope.”
“What does that mean?” Turner asked.
“They won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“Isn’t that a form of mutiny?”
“Call it what you will,” Butler answered, a rare emotion in his voice. “But it is human nature. If we order them into combat, we had damn well better back them up.”
“Are you suggesting I give him a medal?”
“It’s worth thinking about,” Butler replied.
Turner nodded. Then, “I do worry about civilian casualties. Do we have any idea? Leland will make it an issue.”
The Marine thought for a moment before answering. “The Iraqis claim we’ve killed over five thousand civilians and wounded thousands more. We’re monitoring their hospitals and have noticed a nominal increase in activity, but nothing that supports the casualties they claim. The hospitals are certainly not swamped, and for the most part it’s business as usual. We do expect to see more activity when casualties are brought in from the fighting in Saudi Arabia.”
“If they can get across the river,” Turner added.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”
The president arched an eyebrow in Shaw’s direction — his cue to leave. “Ah,” he groused, “the dreaded executive session.” He ambled back to his corner office in the West Wing and sifted through the stack of notes and telephone memos on his desk. One note caught his attention, and an hour later he told his secretary that he was going to his favorite restaurant, four blocks away, before it closed for the evening.
As expected, the young lady was waiting for him in the bar. They chatted for a few moments before the maître d’ escorted them to a table in a far corner of the dining room. “Well, love, anything exciting going on in the wonderful world where you seem to spend most of your days?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” she murmured. He nodded, accepting the truth of it. She worked in the bowels of the National Security Agency and specialized in monitoring electronic communications — of which sort, Shaw had no idea. He felt her hand on his knee and reached for it, covering it with his own. Then he withdrew his hand and dropped the cassette tape into his pocket.
They spent the next hour in idle chatter as they savored the exquisite meal. “Well, love, I’ve got to return to the dungeon. War to win and all that good stuff.”
“Patrick,” she asked, “what exactly do you do?”
He smiled at her. “Whatever needs doin’.” He called for the bill and headed back to the White House. Once in his office, he fished the cassette out of his pocket and examined it. The slickly printed label announced executive escorts for your listening pleasure. He dropped the cassette into a player and leaned back to listen as a woman’s sexy voice announced the discreet pleasures offered by some of Washington’s most beautiful and captivating ladies. His dinner companion’s voice cut in and said, “Recorded today at five twenty-two p.m.”
A man’s voice with a heavy French accent said, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Leland’s voice replied, “You brokering a cease-fire.”
The French voice answered, “We can do that.”
His dinner companion’s voice was back. “If you would like to learn more, please give me a call.” The tape ended. Shaw gave a loud sigh and dialed a number. His dinner companion answered on the first ring. “I thought you’d be interested.”
“How much?” Shaw asked.
“Five thousand.”
Now who’s the hooker? Shaw thought. He knew the risks she was taking using the National Security Agency’s super-classified equipment to monitor phone calls in the United States. It was worth twenty years in Leavenworth. But, more important, did he want to take the risk? He decided he didn’t. “Later, doll.”
“I’ll be here,” she cooed, “if you change your mind.”
Ten
The tour bus was within walking distance of Mentakab, a small town on the Jungle Railway, when the engine coughed and sputtered. The driver nursed the bus over to the side of the road and radioed the lead bus, which quickly turned around. After talking to the two drivers, the tour leader called for a replacement bus and tried to make the best of it by reorganizing the sixty-seven people under her care.