"Yes, sir," Taylor said flatly, calculating as swiftly as he could the implications for his mission. Nothing else mattered now.
"Colonel Taylor, it sounds as though you're not alone."
"That's correct, sir. Several members of my staff are present."
The new President glanced off to the side. It seemed as though he was about to speak to another party off-camera. Then he faced the screen again and said:
"Could you clear the room or whatever it is you're in? I'd like to talk to you privately."
Bad sign. The only question was: how bad? Another time Taylor might have stated that his staff needed to continue at their posts. But he sensed it would be a fatal move at this junction.
"Merry," he said, turning from the monitor for a moment.
"Yes, sir," Meredith said. He quickly began shepherding the others into the narrow passageway that led to the cockpit. Hank Parker went first, heading for the cockpit itself, since he was flight-qualified and could reasonably lay a claim to the comfort of Taylor's forward seat.
After a few awkward seconds, the compartment was clear and the internal hatch had been shut.
"I'm alone now, Mr. President."
Maddox nodded, chewing slightly at his lower lip. It was evident that he was trying to get past the shock of Taylor's scars, to size up the total package.
"Colonel Taylor," he began in a voice that belonged on a veranda in the Deep South, "I did not want to embarrass you in front of your subordinates… however, it appears to me that the mission upon which you are presently embarked… may be ill-advised."
Taylor didn't blink. He had been preparing himself for this.
"Why, Mr. President?"
Maddox looked surprised. Taylor heard an off-camera voice say:
"You don't need to explain anything to him, Mr. President. All you have to do is tell him to turn his ass around and he'll by God do it."
"Colonel Taylor," Maddox picked up, "I'm afraid there may be insufficient time to explain all of our… considerations. I am directing you to terminate your mission immediately."
"Mr. President," Taylor said desperately, struggling not to sound as desperate as he felt, "we're almost at the objective area. In one hour—"
"Colonel, I don't intend to argue with you. The best minds in Washington have advised me to put a halt to whatever it is you're up to over there. So just turn yourself around and head on back to wherever it is you started from. You've done a fine job up until now, and, I can assure you, your country's grateful to you."
"No," Taylor said.
Maddox looked at him in disbelief. "What did you say?"
"No, Mr. President. I will not abort this mission. I believe you are receiving bad advice from men who do not understand the situation here in-theater. I have never before disobeyed an order, least of all from my president. But I believe my duty is clear. I intend to execute this mission, as directed by President Waters."
"By God, Colonel, you're going to do what—"
Taylor switched off the strategic link. Then he unlatched the encryption insert, withdrew it, swung it with all his strength against the deck, and inserted it again, doing up the latch as if nothing had happened. Farewell to Washington.
He went forward and opened the internal hatch that led to the cockpit passageway.
In the faint light, the crammed officers looked ridiculous, huddled against each other like college students playing some prank. Taylor could smell Kozlov's decayed, bloody breath bathing them all.
"Gentlemen," Taylor said, "the President of the United States died this morning, of natural causes. The Vice President has been sworn in and has assumed the presidency. There have been no difficulties with the transition process. Now," he bent to help Ryder up out of the tangle of limbs and torsos, "we've got a mission to run."
Maddox sat bolt upright. He was angry. He could not recall the last time he had been so angry, but he knew it had been a matter of years, if not decades.
"Well." He looked around the room, disgusted by the extent of the mess he had inherited. "You heard him. Now what in the hell are you all going to do about it?" He looked at the secretary of state, then at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The old general just shook his head in amazement. He'll definitely have to go, Maddox thought. In good time. Couldn't stage an immediate massacre of all Waters's appointees.
"Mr. President," the secretary of state began, "perhaps we could alert the Japanese. Make it clear to them that this is a maverick action."
Absolutely worthless, Maddox thought. How did Waters ever manage with such a hopeless bunch?
"Mr. Secretary," Maddox began, stretching out the syllables as though he were speaking on the hottest of summer afternoons, "you might talk me into a lot of things. But you are not about to talk me into selling out American soldiers to our enemies. And I don't care how crazy this ugly sonofabitch of a colonel is. Hasn't anybody got any sensible ideas?"
"Court-martial?" the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said meekly.
Maddox glared at him. "General" — he pronounced the title with only two syllables—"I had something a bit more immediate in mind."
The chairman shook his head. "Too late, sir. We couldn't even begin to intercept them. And I know Colonel Taylor. He'll have everybody restricted to one net, and he'll hide that with skip frequencies. From a military standpoint… I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but watch. And hope for the best."
Maddox was appalled. "Hellfire," he said. "You-all just tell me one thing, and I want a straight answer. Has this sonofabitch got a chance in hell of pulling this caper off?"
"Oh, he's got a chance," the chairman said. "About one chance in hell, exactly. Maybe two chances in hell, considering that it's George Taylor."
President Maddox was unhappy. This did not strike him as an auspicious start to his presidency, and even if that presidency was only going to last until the swearing in of the other party's candidate in January, he did not intend to smear himself with any avoidable shame.
"You boys," he said disgustedly. "I swear to God, I just don't know." He faced the secretary of state, but he spoke to the room at large. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. If this fellow screws it all up and lives to tell about it, we're going to court-martial him and everybody in uniform who can so much as spell his name." Maddox sat back. For the first time all day, he felt as though he were actually in charge. "On the other hand, if the sonofabitch pulls it off and kicks him some ass, everyone in this room is going to forget that this conversation took place." He looked methodically from face to face. "You-all understand me?"
Valya entered the hotel bar alone. Clutching her purse to steady her hands, she scanned the musty interior as she made her way through the clutter of early drinkers and women for sale. The Americans were in uniform now, and they stood a bit straighter. Sudden laughter splashed out of the gloom, but it sounded formal and forced to her ears. She saw no one whom she recognized.
It was impossible. She could not do it.
She settled herself on a barstool, trying to project a graceful sexuality. But it was terribly difficult. Her buttocks ached where she had been kicked by her interrogator, and there was no comfort left in the small saddle of flesh beneath her dress.
She tried to adjust her eyes to the brown air, still searching the profiles grouped around back tables. The Russian women smoked heavily, and the dreary lighting barely penetrated the depths of the room. But that was all right. Valya touched her face anxiously. She had layered herself with far more makeup than was her custom in an attempt to disguise her bruises. Thankfully, most of the swelling had gone down. Only the discoloration remained.