The President slumped back in his chair. He seemed smaller than he had appeared to Daisy in the past. His suit rumpled around him like a refugee's blanket.
"And the Pentagon's position?" Waters asked, turning to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Give it to me straight."
The general leaned in over the table. He looked tormented. The secretary of defense had collapsed from exhaustion during a hasty early morning trip to the Building, and the chairman had been temporarily left adrift to define the military's position. He was a big, barrel-chested man, and his heavy face had the look of thick rubber that had lost its elasticity. His eyes were shrunken and dark, surrounded by a discoloration as mottled as camouflage paint.
"Mr. President," he began carefully, "we would do well to remember that the balance sheet isn't completely in the red. If you look at the raw numbers, for instance, the Japanese and their proxies have suffered a grave defeat at the hands of the United States Army. We've lost a squadron. They've lost their most potent field forces, the key combat equipment out of several corps. If the Japanese hadn't had an ace up their sleeve, we'd be sitting here having a victory celebration. Our forces performed brilliantly. Unfortunately, the intelligence services missed a vital piece of information—"
Daisy felt Bouquette bristle at her side. But it was true. It was all too true. The intelligence system had let them all down. And she already knew that they would not suffer so much as a single broken career for it. She knew Washington. Since she was a woman, her job was particularly safe.
"— and we got caught with our pants down. Our boys… did their best. They did a damned fine job."
"But?" the President said.
"Mr. President," the chairman said, looking at Waters with a face stripped of professional vanity, "I believe we should salvage what we can. It's not over. We can carry on the fight another day. But this round… Mr. President, this one's gone to the Japanese."
President Waters nodded. He made a church of his touched-together fingertips.
"And what does it cost us?" he asked. "If we just pull out?"
The secretary of state cleared his throat. "Mr. President… naturally, the Japanese will expect some concessions. I don't see it impacting on the Western Hemisphere… but, the Siberia question… of course, that's ultimately going to be resolved between the Soviets and the Japanese anyway."
Waters swiveled a few degrees in his chair, turning to stare down the table to where Bouquette and Daisy sat in the first row of seats beyond the table.
"Cliff," the President said to Bouquette, "is it the Agency's view that the Japanese will make repeated use of the Scramblers if we don't cut a deal?"
Bouquette rose. "Mr. President, there's no question about it. If they employed them once, they'll do it again. If we provoke them. We suspect that they've already delivered an ultimatum to the Soviets."
"And you now concur with the assessment of Colonel… uh, Taylor… that these are some kind of radio weapons?"
Bouquette pawed one of his fine English shoes at the carpet. "Yes, Mr. President. Radiowave weapons, actually. Yes, it now appears that Colonel Taylor's initial assessment was correct. Of course, he had the advantage of being on the scene, while we had to work with secondhand information."
"And these are weapons that could have been introduced into the U.S. arsenal a decade ago?"
"We can still build them," the chairman interrupted. "We could field new prototypes in six months."
"I don't want to build them," the President said. There was an unmistakable note of anger in his voice. "If we had them, I would not order their use. Even now." Waters slumped again, then smiled wearily. "Perhaps, after the election, you'll be able to take up the matter with my successor." He turned back to Bouquette. "Do we have any idea whether the Japanese have other tricks up their sleeve? Do they have any more secret weapons?" Bouquette glanced down at his hand-sewn shoes. Then he took a breath that was clearly audible to Daisy. "Mr. President, we have no further information in that regard. But we cannot rule out the possibility."
Waters nodded his head in acknowledgment. The movement was rhythmic and slight, the equivalent of mumbling to himself. It was the gesture of an old man.
The President looked around the room.
"Does anybody have a different opinion? Another view? Is it the general consensus that we should run up the white flag?"
"Mr. President," the chairman said quickly, "I wouldn't put it in quite those terms."
Waters turned to face the general. It was clear to Daisy that the President was having a very hard time controlling his anger. Despite his exhaustion.
"Then what terms would you put it in? What do you think the American people are going to call it? Do you think the man in the street's going to fish up some fancy term — what do you call it? — a strategic correction or something like that?" Waters looked around the room with harder eyes than Daisy had credited him with possessing. "I want you to be absolutely clear about this, gentlemen.
I am not talking or thinking about the election. Let me say it outright. I've lost already, and there is nothing anyone in this room can do about it. No, what concerns me now is that we have made some very bad decisions. I have made bad decisions. We sent our fighting men to die — for nothing, it seems. We have squandered our nation's international prestige yet again — Christ, what were you telling me earlier?" he asked the secretary of state. "The Japanese, along with two dozen 'nonaligned' nations, have already introduced a resolution in the UN condemning us for interfering in the sovereign affairs of third-party states. The Japanese already have diplomats standing up in the General Assembly and blaming us for triggering the use of these Scramblers. They're making fools of us all, with record speed. While we sit here with our thumbs up our backsides. Gentlemen," Waters said slowly, "I am an angry man." He smirked. "But don't worry. I know exactly who to blame. I'm just sorry I was so damned smug." His smirk deepened, forcing painful-looking cuts into the skin around his mouth. "Maybe America wasn't ready for a black president, after all."
No one dared speak. Daisy felt sorry for Waters. He was, she sensed, genuinely a good man. Carrying too much baggage, and with too little experience. They had all failed him.
They had failed George Taylor too. She had failed him unforgivably. But she would make it up to him. She imagined how he must be feeling now. With his life's dreams lying in ruins in a foreign land. But at least he was alive, and as yet untouched by the unspeakable weaponry that had hidden behind so innocuous a word. He was alive, and if there was no more foolishness, he would be coming home to her. Of everyone in the overheated conference room, she was the only one with cause for joy.
I could be good for him, she thought. I really could. He'll need me now.
"Before I make a final decision," President Waters said, "I want to consult with our Soviet allies one more time."
"Mr. President," the secretary of state said impatiently, "their position's clear. While we lost — what was it — a squadron? A few hundred men? The Soviets still haven't begun to total their losses. An entire city — what was it, Bouquette?"
"Orsk."
"Yes, Orsk. And dozens of surrounding towns. Hundreds of settlements. Why, the Soviets are overwhelmed. They have no idea how to cope with the casualties. We're talking numbers in the hundreds of thousands. And what if the Japanese use these weapons again? Mr. President, you heard the Soviet ambassador yourself. 'Immediate negotiations for an armistice.' The Soviets have already thrown in the towel."