Jaisal Warner’s presidential complex, on the south side of the village, was more of a large, rambling log lodge.
On the upper story, under a gently sloping, peaked roof a wall of windows looked down on the village to the north; another wall of glass on the other side peered up the mountain. Between the two glass walls were several sitting areas and a dining area, marked by stone fireplaces.
On the lower two levels were guest rooms and spas, an enclosed swimming pool, a pub with several pool tables. The Secret Service took up the rooms of the lower level, the press corps and visiting cabinet members the second floor, leaving the president to her master bedroom suite on a level above the peaked roofline, a son of cabin-above-the-cabin that had a view of most of the valley.
She stepped out of the front entrance of the lodge and walked down the steps hewn from twenty-foot-long logs.
She wore ski pants, a sweater, and her fur warmup boots, her hands ungloved. In her hair she had put her Raybans. Her hair, though golden, had become streaked with gray over the last two years, but the gray was a silvery tone that blended well with the blond. Her skin remained unwrinkled despite her skiing tan, her startlingly blue eyes shining out over her high cheekbones, royal nose, and strong chin. She was tall, her figure slim as a thirty-year old’s, though the birthday cake from number thirty had crumbled to dust almost two decades ago. She held the distinction of being the first female American president, having won a surprise landslide that brought her to power from the governorship of California.
The blockade of Japan turned out to be her first international crisis. From a combination of hesitation and bad luck, the U.S. Navy suffered losses so severe that the conflict was almost lost. Late in the game the tide turned, and Wamer took control and changed it into a victory. Though three carrier battle groups had been sunk, with thousands lost at sea, it never damaged Warner politically. If anything, the setback rallied the nation around her, the underdog. At the close of the conflict she had the highest approval ratings since George Bush’s after the close of the first Persian Gulf war.
Ratings had remained high until Eve Trachea, her National Party opponent in the coming election, spoke up about waste in the Department of War, particularly the trillion-dollar NSSN submarine program. Political cartoons showed Warner in a clown outfit peering through a broken periscope, water leaking in past crooked valve handles. Wamer and her staff had come to Wyoming, away from the hassles of the Beltway, to brainstorm a strategy for her reelection. She was walking off the tram at Apres Vous mountain when she’d been waved over by a satellite phone toting staffer.
It was the secretary of war, down in the lodge. As she listened to him, standing there with her skies in one hand, the phone in the other, a thundercloud formed on her face.
The Reds had come over the border into White China, not just killing troops and attacking military installations, but massacring civilians, firebombing the most populated cities with plasma weapons. Tens of millions of people had been killed at the time of the call, which was only minutes into the attack. When she had disconnected, she was asked to take the phone again. This time Stephen Cogster was calling from the White House, her National Security Adviser having stayed after the Donchez funeral to get a few days of work done before returning.
“You wouldn’t believe what I just saw,” Cogster said in his trademark gentle voice. His easy manner was deceiving.
His nickname among his staff was “the Blowtorch” due to his raw E-mails and voice mails to subordinates and peers alike.
Ninety minutes later, the press had assembled around a podium set up for her at the base of the steps to the lodge. The stone foundation and log steps made for an unmistakable background. She stepped up to the podium, gripping it with both ungloved hands.
“Good afternoon, Americans,” she said, glaring at the cameras. “Members of Congress, the press. Except that it isn’t a good afternoon at all for those who cherish peace and freedom. Less than two hours ago Red China attacked the free and peaceful nation of White China, our friend and ally, brutally killing hundreds of thousands—perhaps millions—of civilians, innocent men, women, and children, in their sleep, with firebomb attacks on thirty-four major cities. The Presidential Palace in Shanghai was obliterated, and we believe that the remaining leadership of White China was murdered in their sleep. In the government we have received reports of death camps being formed”—newsmen gasped, the last fact previously classified top-secret release 24, Warner letting it slip almost casually—”for the founding up of all political enemies of the Red Chinese. Our estimates are sketchy, but even with conservative estimates we believe that in the last ninety minutes more Asians have died than in all of World War II.”
Wamer let that sink in for a moment, the only sound that of camera shutters flickering as photos were taken.
She looked at the crowd, her jawline straight, her eyes blue and cold as the snow at her feet. Her fingers formed fists on the clear Plexiglas podium.
“It is clear that the United States cannot and will not sit idly by as our ally is bombed out of existence. Accordingly, I have ordered the Army’s Rapid Deployment Force and the Naval Pacific Force Fleet to mobilize to the waters off White China. The RDF, as we speak, has departed and is in the Pacific, well on its way. It is the intention of the United States to counter this cold-bblooded invasion with all the might of the U.S. military.
Within the hour I will address, by Intertel, a special joint session of Congress, where I will ask for enhanced powers as the commander-in-chief to employ full military force against Red China. In the coming days the ground, air, and sea forces of America will be deployed against the atrocious monsters of Red China in defense of the Whites. To our friends in White China listening to me now, I say, hold on, the cavalry is coming. To those in Red China I say, leave now. Leave White China now or die.”
Warner glared into the camera again, then looked from left to right as if she were a professor ensuring each pupil had received the lesson.
“To all Americans I say, with Gods’ help. White China and America will prevail. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that is all.”
All hell broke loose, cameras thrust toward the president, a thousand voices shouting a thousand questions, some barely heard, some phrases echoing out over the snow: “What about the allies?”
“The European Union president talked to you by—”
“Will you be attacking Beijing—”
“—Russian Prime Minister in London—”
“—air raids—”
“—nuclear weapons?”
“—Madam President, what about Japan—”
“—declaring war?”
“—Madam President!”
Wamer ascended the steps of the lodge deliberately, unhurriedly, the slim woman looking almost regal as she walked in the open door.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 3 40 miles southeast of pittsburgh altitude: 41,000 feet
Pacino stared out the window as the barren scenery slipped below, the aircraft climbing steadily to its cruising altitude.
His thoughts had turned to Dick Donchez, missing him, wondering what he would make of this situation.
He shut his eyes, leaning against the window, and thought about Eileen, missing her too, but feeling a guilt that he missed her—was it possible?—less than Donchez.
It occurred to him that Dick’s death was moving him into the next sphere of his life, where Donchez and Eileen no longer existed. Was that possible? Would the pain of missing them ever not exist… ?
Hell, he thought, this was all part of the craziness of losing Uncle Dick. He must still be in a kind of shock.
A shock he had to shake off if he was to keep his stars.
A half-remembered dream came back to him, something about Eileen with no face and the SSNX. And what Donchez had said about Red subs.
Now that the Reds were attacking, he wondered, could Donchez have been trying to tell him something?
Up to now he’d dismissed the ramb
ling speech, assuming it to be part of the old man’s delirium. Maybe he should reconsider.
A knock rapped on the door of the office cabin he’d been assigned with Paully White and Kathy Cressman while they waited for O’Shaughnessy to call the staff meeting in the forward cabin. Cressman looked at him, and he nodded. “Come in,” she called.
The door smoothly opened, revealing a figure standing in the doorway with a half smile on his face. Pacino stood, thinking the man lost. He looked somewhat familiar, but Pacino was certain he’d never met him. He was as tall as Pacino, but without his gauntness, the man conveying a sense of solidity and certainty, a sort of body confidence, as if he were a professional ballplayer.
He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, yet didn’t seem young. His hair was long, slicked back from his forehead to his neck. His features were Irish but seemed almost too large, his eyes light green over a protruding nose, his mouth smiling over a strong jaw with an indented chin. He wore a dark sports coat over a linen shirt, the kind that buttoned at the throat like a choker collar, no tie, khaki chinos, and after-ski hiking boots.
Pacino was about to tell the man he was lost, when normally reserved Kathy Cressman leapt to her feet and threw her arms around the big man, squealing, “Jack!
Jack Daniels, you son of a bitch! Where have you been?”
“Golfing, mostly,” the dry reply came.
Pacino shot a look at Paully, who looked back with a raised eyebrow. Cressman pulled away, smoothing her dress and her hair, her face red.
“Sorry, Admiral. You know Jack Daniels?”
“I need the admiral alone,” Daniels muttered to Cressman. Just like that she seemed to disappear into thin air. Daniels looked up, extending his big hand, his smile from before looking like more of a snarl. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t friendly. “My name is Daniels.
Mason W. Daniels the fourth. Director—temporary director—of the National Security Agency. Everybody just calls me Jack.”
Pacino held out his hand tentatively. “What do your friends call you?”
“Frequently,” Daniels said, dropping his hand before Pacino gripped it, an edge to his voice. “What the hell, Admiral. I’ve put in no less than eighteen requests to talk to you on your goddamned Writepad. Dick Donchez says, ‘Oh, yeah, you call Mikey, he’ll get right with you.’ Well, bullshit. Kathy ought to be asking where the hell you’ve been. Admiral, not me.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” Pacino said. “It’s been wonderful, really, but I’m sure you’ll excuse us if—”
“I was trying to reach you for a reason. Then I tried to get you at Dick’s funeral. You were a zombie, so I left you alone. Then I rang you at your Annapolis house, where Kathy said you were staying. No answer. I rang it off the hook.”
Pacino wasn’t surprised. He’d unplugged the main connection to the phone center after the funeral, assuming the calls were coming from reporters. He sat down, waving Daniels to a seat.
“So, what’s on your mind?” he said, his voice authoritative but feeling uneasy in the presence of the angry agency head.
“Who’s he? Captain White?”
“Meet Paully White, my chief of staff,” Pacino said, giving White a conversational promotion. “He’s cleared for everything I’m cleared for.”
“How the hell do you do. Okay, I’ll just get right to it, then, gentlemen. On October 23 six Japanese Rising Sun-class submarines went on sea trials—” “I know all about that,” Pacino said. “I know Tanaka at the MSDF.”
“So you know why they sank?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
Daniels sniffed, blowing his nose into a handkerchief.
“Sorry, that’s why I didn’t shake hands. I’m going under to this goddamned cold. Yeah, all six subs were in a videoconference with your man Tanaka when they sank.
I’ve got it all on disk.” He put the handkerchief away and tossed a disk at Pacino, who caught it in midair.
A half dozen questions vied for attention in Pacino’s mind.
“Why wasn’t I briefed on this?” he asked.
“Jesus, why wasn’t he briefed on it. Where were you on October 24? When Kathy tried to schedule you for that urgent secure videoconference?”
Pacino bit his lip. He’d skipped it, saying he was too busy at the shipyard, taking a meeting with Colleen O’Shaughnessy instead as the Cyclops system bugs grew worse. Fine, he thought to himself angrily. That was then, this is now.
“I’ll tell you where you were. You blew it off. Just like you blew off my messages. So what’s your next question?”
Pacino shot a glance at White, who shrugged.
“Okay, next is how you got the video disk. Tanaka?” “No,” Daniels said. “We’re the NSA, remember? We intercept, record, and decode transmissions? Hello?” “I read you,” Pacino said, wondering when Daniels would drop the attitude.
“Okay, so what happened on the disks?” Paully asked.
“They just disappeared one by one. This was after their sea trials. Dick thought that was significant. They vanished at periscope depth. Dick also thought that was significant. Said I should get with you immediately.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Aside from my secure videolink and the eighteen call requests?”
“You could have gotten with David Kane or Paully White, or Kathy, for that matter.”
“Could have. Didn’t. Donchez was too sick to talk.
Don’t know if you knew that. I was helping him run the show at the time, and he refused to go to a hospital, refused to leave his office. He kept telling me you’d call us, but you never did, and hell, I was just a slight bit busy with this Red Chinese stuff.”
“The Reds. Did we have any warning?”
“Sorry. Can’t tell you. You’re not cleared.”
“Donchez would have told me,” Pacino offered. Obviously Daniels was struggling with himself, as if following orders he didn’t agree with.
“Okay. We had lots of comms. We were breaking them almost in real time. We knew about the mobilization of troops, moving the aircraft around. Three days before the invasion the PLA pretty much went offline.
They shut up completely. It was scary. Nothing, not even orders back to Beijing for more toilet paper.”
“Were you jammed?”
“Nope. There were just no tactical communications.
Nothing but entertainment television, computer network transmissions—again, entertainment, all White Chinese— and radio talk shows and rock’n’ roll. Then on Sunday, bang.”
“They had a prearranged operational order,” Pacino said.
“Exactly, Admiral,” Daniels said, a false smile curling across his face. “Donchez said you were smart, but he never said you had a flair for the obvious like this.”
Pacino frowned, ready to launch into the agency director when the younger man stood.
“Well, I’ve done my duty for today. Donchez said you’d need to know this stuff. Now you do. And here’s my card.” Daniels produced a business card, the electronic scan strip on the back ready for the receiver to insert into his Writepad. “If you need me, just call. I’m sure by the eighteenth or nineteenth message I may call you back.”
The door slammed behind him.
“Nice guy,” White said.
“Pissed-off guy,” Pacino replied. “Get the file on him.”
“Already on it,” White said, scanning through his Writepad. “Not much here. Mason W. Daniels IV, Princeton grad, class of ‘01, English major. Harvard Law, Law Review, graduated ‘04, initial service in the National Security Agency, special deputy to the director.”
“Who was the director then?”
“General Mason W. Daniels III.” White looked up.
“Jesus, he’s Mason Daniels’ son.”
“Wow,” Pacino said. General Mason Daniels, Donchez’s predecessor, was a legend in the intelligence community, having saved the NSA from the razor of intelligence consolidation, and being credited wi
th numerous intelligence coups, such as the initial warning on the Chinese Civil War.
“Now what, sir?”
“Get Kathy back, and put that disk in.”
jackson hole, wyoming teton village presidential compound The eight black Land Rovers crunched through the packed snow at the rear entrance to Wamer’s ski lodge.
Pacino bit his lip, wondering what the meeting was going to be like. The staff meeting on O’Shaughnessy’s 777 had never happened, even though they had been flying in with half the Washington establishment due at Wamer’s meeting coming up. After Daniels had left the cabin, Pacino had sent Kathy forward to see what was up, but she said the CNO, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the Army Chief of Staff were closeted behind O’Shaughnessy’s door. They didn’t emerge until the plane was descending for the airport.
The other Land Rovers ahead of them contained the entourage they’d flown with but hadn’t seen. In the front was the truck for Stephen “Blowtorch” Cogster, the National Security Adviser, and his personal staff. Behind him, Freddy Masters, the Secretary of State, his staff members crowded in with him. Then came the Director of Combined Intelligence, Christopher Osgood. Number four drove Mason “Jack” Daniels. Next the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Bill Pinkenson, followed by General James Baldini, the Army chief, then Admiral O’Shaughnessy, and finally Pacino and White.
The next minutes were a blur as Secret Service agents and armed Marine Corps guards crowded around them, taking their bags, passing them through metal detectors, hustling them in the double wood doors to the lower level, then taking them to their quarters. Pacino was led down a hall walled by heavy wood logs chinked with beige mortar. Doors lined the corridor, one on the right marked with a sign showing three gold stars on a blue field, the letters below spelling adm m. pacino, cmdr. unified sub cmd. Looking at it, he felt a vague unease.
Why had he been selected to accompany O’Shaughnessy on this errand, when the chief hadn’t spent a single minute with him since his coming-to-Jesus talk on Saturday?
His instincts told him O’Shaughnessy liked him and would help him. And Warner obviously had spoken to the chief, asking him to bring Pacino along. But why?
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