Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  “The net effect of the President’s declaration is zero, Senator,” Secretary of State Hartman said. “China might decide to retaliate by imposing strict tariffs or even banning our goods, but we feel that China cannot long continue such a measure. They need our markets just as much as we need their investments.”

  “So you tell American companies to be still and patient while they suffer because we’ve turned away thirty billion dollars’ worth of markets in China in favor of three billion dollars’ worth in Taiwan, all because we like supporting the underdog?” Joseph Crane asked. “If you had consulted with Congress instead of charging off, we would’ve advised further negotiations to help bring the two Chinas back together gently and peacefully, rather than rip them apart suddenly.”

  “Mr. Crane, Taiwan has been looking down the barrel of a Chinese artillery piece for the past forty years,” Secretary of Defense Chastain argued. “China isn’t interested in gentle reunification—they’re insisting on total absorption, by force if necessary.”

  “China is ready to completely ‘absorb’ Hong Kong,” Crane retorted, “and the process is going along smoothly and peacefully.”

  “Apples and oranges, Mr. Crane,” Hartman said. “Hong Kong is Chinese property leased by Great Britain, and the lease is simply expiring. The Republic of China on Formosa represents a free and democratic society that we’ve supported for nearly one hundred years, a society and government that is one of the richest and fastest-growing economies in the world, modeled after our own. Its being threatened by a totalitarian Communist power that wishes nothing less than to eliminate it—not assimilation, not sharing, not coexistence, but complete elimination of its democratic, capitalist foundation. The President has chosen to act to support this Asian friend and ally. The question is, what is the Senate leadership going to do—support the President, or cut his legs out from under him?”

  “You’ve put us in a very embarrassing position, Mr. President,” Fine- gold said, addressing Martindale directly. “You are the leader in all foreign relations and matters of state. But those decisions affect the country, and so Congress is given powers of checks and balances over your decisions, in the form of ratifying treaties and passing laws. This relationship expects—no, demands—cooperation and compromise from all parties concerned. Your unilateral announcement of support cuts our legs out from under us. We should support our president, but what if his decision is the wrong one? We can’t absolve ourselves of the blame if our own citizens are hurt by our decisions; we can’t point fingers at the President. At the very least, Mr. President, you’ve forced us to delay any action on repealing the Taiwan Relations Act or recognizing the ROC until we’ve had a chance to study the idea.”

  “For how long?” Flartman asked.

  “Impossible to say, Secretary Hartman,” Finegold said. “The committee staffs are just now being organized. It could take weeks just to be able to sit down and decide what areas need to be studied.”

  “Very similar to the problems you said you’d encounter in deciding about what areas of the air attacks on Iran and the Persian Gulf could be included in Senate hearings,” Crane added.

  “You’re not suggesting that we do any less due diligence in examining the risks to national security of revealing details of our military actions just so we can see reasonable progress from Congress in furthering our foreign policy agenda?” Hartman asked incredulously.

  Representative Crane smiled mischievously. “If the foot-dragging fits, Mr. Secretary ...”

  “We all want progress, Secretary Hartman,” Senator Finegold said, putting a hand on Crane’s arm as if to calm him down. “If we all keep that in mind, I think we—”

  Suddenly a man in a business suit and wearing a wireless communications earset opened the door, saw the chief of staff standing nearby, and whispered something in his ear. Most everybody in the room recognized the newcomer as Marine Corps Colonel William McNeely, the White House military liaison who worked in an office next to National Security Advisor Philip Freeman’s. He was carrying a plain black briefcase, and Finegold realized with a faint shock what it was: McNeely was the man responsible for the “football,” the briefcase containing a communications transceiver that put the President in contact with the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon and several other military command posts—so he could issue instructions to the nation’s nuclear forces while on the move.

  Jerrod Hale quickly stepped over and stooped between the President and Vice President; a moment later, all three shot to their feet. “Meeting adjourned,” the President said quickly. The door to the Cabinet Room flung open, and Secret Service agents flooded in.

  “What’s going on, Mr. President?” Finegold asked excitedly as the senior Cabinet members and the President and Vice President were surrounded by Secret Service agents. Finegold and Crane tried to follow, but they were held back inside the Cabinet Room by the Secret Service. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Finegold cried out at the agent holding her.

  “You’re instructed to remain here until the President’s party departs,” the agent replied.

  “She’s the Senate Majority Leader! ” Congressman Crane shouted at the agent. “She’s supposed to accompany the President.”

  “You’re instructed to stay” the agent said in a firm voice, as if he were talking to his pet German shepherd.

  The Democratic congressional leadership could do nothing but watch in amazement as three Marine Corps helicopters touched down on the south lawn of the White House and scooped up the President, Vice President, and his Cabinet advisors. “It must be an emergency evacuation,” Finegold said, reaching for a cell phone in her purse. “Something’s happening.”

  “Hey! ” Congressman Joseph Crane shouted. “I see Gant and Fortier getting on the helicopter! Why the hell can the Republican leadership follow the President on his getaway choppers, but we Democrats can’t? They got plenty of room on those things. ...” But his outrage was drowned out by the rapid departure of Marine One. The three helicopters executed a position change shortly after takeoff, a sort of “shell game” in the sky with helicopters to confuse or complicate any terrorists’ efforts to kill the President.

  They were finally allowed to leave, long after the helicopters were out of sight, and Finegold and her colleagues, still hopping mad at their snub, made their way to the lower entrance to-the West Wing. They were surprised to see Admiral George Balboa standing in the doorway leading to the driveway just outside the West Wing, talking on a handbag- size transportable cellular phone handled by an aide. He did not see the congressional Democratic leaders approach as he slammed the phone down into its holder in disgust. “Admiral Balboa, I’m surprised to see you here,” Barbara Finegold said in true amazement. “I thought you’d be with the President.”

  “A little mix-up,” Balboa offered in a low, rather contrite voice.

  “I’ll say. Those two butt-kissers Fortier and Gant hop aboard the chopper and leave you stranded,” House Minority Leader Joe Crane said. “Since when do congressmen steal seats out from under important presidential advisors?”

  “I... I was on my way to the Pentagon,” Balboa said.

  “Since when does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff not accompany the President, especially during an emergency White House evacuation?” Finegold asked. Balboa’s eyes widened when he heard Fine- gold describe exactly what had happened—and only then did Finegold know she was correct. “I know Colonel McNeely’s function as well as I know yours, Admiral. Can you answer my question? Why is the chairman of the JCS not accompanying the President during a military emergency? ”

  “I should probably not answer,” Balboa said, “except to say that I have responsibilities at the Pentagon right now.”

  “I guess with the Secretary of Defense bugging out with the others, you’d be pretty much minding the store,” Crane said. “Where’s your chopper? Don’t tell me you gotta drive?”

  Balboa looked embarrassed, then
hurt. “The . . . the airspace around the capital has been closed,” he explained. “No aircraft can depart until ...”

  “Until NEACP departs,” Finegold added—and, to her surprise, Balboa nodded. Another correct guess, she congratulated herself. Crane looked a little confused, so she explained, “NEACP, Joe, is the National Emergency Airborne Command Post, the militarized version of Air Force One, designed so the President can be in touch with military and civilian leadership all over the world. It only flies when there’s a danger of some vital command and control center being knocked out—say, Washington, knocked out by a nuclear attack.”

  “What!” Crane exploded. “A nuclear attack! You’re saying someone is going to attack Washington . . . right now?”

  “I don’t know,” Finegold said. She turned to Admiral Balboa and projected every bit of charm, influence, authority, glamour, and friendliness she could toward the embittered veteran Navy officer. “Can you tell us, Admiral? We have a right to know.”

  Obviously, George Balboa had been struggling with some dilemma for quite some time, well before this emergency, and now the pressure of all these events were coming to a head in his mind. Fie nodded, more to himself than anyone around him, then motioned for them to follow him back inside. Using his passcards, he escorted Finegold and Crane, without their aides, back into the West Wing, then downstairs by elevator to the White FFouse Situation Room. Except for a staff of guards and communications officers, the rather small,unimposing room was empty. “I’m not going anywhere—it would take me an hour to get to the Pentagon in rush-hour traffic,” Balboa said after he closed the door to the secure conference room. “I’m isolated. I can’t talk with my command center or the national command authority.”

  “What’s going on, Admiral?” Finegold asked again.

  “This is strictly confidential.”

  “This conversation is not taking place,” Finegold assured him as sincerely as she could. At the same time, part of her politically brilliant mind was already searching for ways to cover her tracks when—not if—she leaked any of what she was about to hear. “Don’t worry, Admiral—we’ll get a briefing on all this shortly anyway. ”

  Balboa nodded. That was true—he would probably be giving the briefing in a couple hours anyway. Fie took a deep breath. “Two nuclear explosions have occurred near the Formosa Straits,” Balboa said breathlessly, as if wanting to get it all out as fast as he could. Crane gasped in surprise again; Finegold remained impassive. “Both were low-yield devices. One occurred at high altitude near the island of Quemoy, which is a Taiwanese island near the coast of mainland China; the other occurred at sea level in the Formosa Strait, about sixty miles south of Quemoy.”

  “My God,” Crane muttered. “Are we at war with China?”

  “The detonations occurred during a naval skirmish between a Chinese carrier battle group and a couple of Taiwanese warships,” Balboa went on. He fidgeted nervously, which told Finegold that he was concealing some other tidbit of information, probably something about American military units involved in the skirmish. “Both Taiwanese vessels were destroyed. No word yet on the Chinese ships.”

  “And what about the American forces?” Finegold asked. Balboa began to look like a fish out of water—he realized, as if waking up from a bad dream, that he had said too much. “What happened to the American subs?”

  Finegold saw the hint of relief in Balboas face—she had guessed wrong. “All four subs shadowing the Chinese fleet are safe,” Balboa said.

  “Thank God,” she replied. Time to take a chance, roll the dice, Barbara Finegold told herself. She leaned toward Balboa, turning him away from Joe Crane so it felt as if they were talking alone and confidentially, and asked, “What about the stealth bombers? Did they make it out? Hopefully they were far enough away when the nukes went off.”

  Balboa looked into Finegold’s eyes, searching to see whether or not she knew or was just guessing. In response, Finegold gave him her sternest, most confident expression, not breaking lock with his eyes even for a moment. Balboa asked himself the question, Does she know about the bombers? and his tortured mind answered, Obviously so.

  “They’re safe,” Balboa said. “They weren’t involved in the nuclear explosions—in fact, they probably shot down other Chinese missiles and may have even intercepted the missile that exploded over Quemoy, resulting in only a partial yield. They’re safely on their way back.”

  “Good ... that’s damned good news, Admiral,” Finegold said. Outside, she appeared relieved, but inside, her brain and her guts were leaping. The President sent stealth bombers over the Formosa Strait— bombers that could apparently fire anti-missile weapons? In the face of harsh congressional investigations that he might have illegally used stealth warplanes to bomb Iran, the President actually dared to use them again, just a few weeks later, in the middle of a China-Taiwan conflict? It was absolutely amazing, incredible, unbelievable! And now the “skirmish” was blowing up into possibly a full-scale nuclear war, one in which the United States was obviously going to get involved—and the President’s hands were in deep, deep, deep shit, up to his armpits. The new President of the United States was possibly illegally involved in precipitating a nuclear war. “This information will go no farther than this room.” “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Crane gasped, finally getting up to speed with the others. “You’re saying that. . . ?”

  “Let’s drop it, Joe—we’re not here to pump the admiral for information,” Barbara Finegold said, although she wanted nothing more than to do just that. “This conversation didn’t take place. It did not take place. All we needed to know was that the evacuation was precautionary, and that no American forces have been mobilized.”

  “Yes, completely precautionary—definitely not a prelude to war, and no American forces are on alert,” Balboa verified. “Our guys may have fired some weapons in self-defense ...”

  “The bombers?”

  Balboa nodded as he continued, “... but no attack orders were ever issued by the President. None.”

  “We can support self-defense,” Finegold said. “Even helping to protect innocent lives and property, especially if we knew the Chinese might use nuclear weapons. That action is acceptable.”

  “That’s all that was used,” Balboa added, looking as if a huge weight had been lifted from his chest. As long as he believed this conversation was off the record, Finegold thought, he felt confident in saying just a little bit more. Of course, she never said it was off the record, just that it never took place—which, of course, it obviously did. She took one more flyer: “You should be proud of your guys out there, Admiral.”

  His relieved expression hardened into a dark scowl, and Finegold was afraid she had said too much—or maybe she had hit the nerve that had been jangling in Balboa’s brain all this time. He said fervently, as if pleading with her, “Don’t look at the Navy, Senator. Not our ballgame.”

  “Jesus,” Finegold gasped with as much sympathetic horror as she could summon. “You mean, the President shut your boys out again in favor of some other secret no-name sandlot pickup team?”

  “You got it,” Balboa responded bitterly, now convinced that the Senate Majority Leader really did know the entire score. “You got it.”

  That was all he had to say—but Barbara Finegold’s heart was leaping in pure, abject joy. He had already said quite enough—and it might be enough to bring down a president.

  “When men have minds set on victory, all they see is the enemy. When men have minds filled with fear, all they see is their fear.”

  —from The Methods of the Minister of War; Fourth-century-B.c. Chinese military textbook

  CHAPTER THREE

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, BEIJING, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA WEDNESDAY, 4 JUNE 1997, 0809 HOURS LOCAL (TUESDAY, 3 JUNE, 1909 HOURS ET)

  “You have thirty seconds to explain,” Chief of Staff General Chin Po Zi- hong thundered, “why you ordered this insane, monstrous attack. I have already ordered that you be dismisse
d as my chief deputy. Your response will determine whether or not you spend the rest of your life in prison for what you have done—or if you are executed as a traitor! ” The Minister of National Defense, Chi Haotian, waited for the response as well, hands on the armrests of his chair, watching Chins deputy—rather, exdeputy—Admiral Sun Ji Guoming, with a sagging, tired grimace.

  “Our carrier and its escort ships were under attack by rebel Nationalist naval forces, assisted by an unknown force launching anti-radar and anti-ship missiles, sir,” Admiral Sun responded, his voice loud, steady, and assertive. “I suspected a stealth aircraft attack, based on the same type of reports during the recent United States-Iran conflict, and I immediately ordered a full-scale counterattack.”

  “You ordered? You are just a deputy, Sun, not a commander!” Chin thundered. “You have no authority to launch a strike mission or countermand my orders!”

  “I beg your understanding, Comrade General,” Sun said, with as much sincerity as he could muster, keeping his eyes averted, “but there was no time. Our forces were being decimated by the rebel warships and the American B-52 bomber. If I had gone through proper channels, the American aircraft would have wiped out our battle group.”

  “A B-52 bomber!” Minister of Defense Chi exclaimed. Chi knew well the power of the American B-52s—he had been in power during the abortive attack on the Philippines. “This is incredible! Are you sure, Sun?”

  “The Nationalists used an American stealth aircraft to support an illegal intercept on the high seas against our warships, sir,” Sun retorted. “The fighter pilots from the carrier Mao confirmed the sighting before they were shot down—another act of war. I used my judgment and ordered our battle group to commence their attack against Quemoy from long range—”