He heard Maggie’s groan as he said his good-bye. She absolutely despised Fitzwater and his style of browbeating his guests into submission.
Just then, his secretary advised him that Jack was waiting for him. This brought a smile to his face. He relished the hard-fought handball battles he had with Jack in the new White House gym. The vigorous workouts improved his frame of mind and helped him maintain a weight of about 190 pounds on his six-foot-two frame. At age forty-nine, he was secretly proud of his physical fitness.
“C’mon in, Jackson! Are you prepared to get your butt kicked today?”
“I’m always prepared, big shot, but I sure don’t see anyone around here that packs the gear to do it.”
“Before I forget, Maggie was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with us Sunday night when she gets back from her visit out west.”
“That depends. This isn’t going to be one of those ‘let’s fix Jack up with a nice lady’ nights, is it?”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that we haven’t seen you around much lately, and my daughters keep saying they want to see their Uncle Jack—though I can’t for the life of me understand why,” he said with a smile. Clayton ignored the blinking call line as they left for their battle in the White House gym.
Mankato, Minnesota
13 September 2017
Pastor Veronica Larson turned the page of the Mankato Free Press and sighed. On top of another stiff hike in gas prices, another local plant was closing and layoffs continued to mount. Mankato, a Minnesota town of over 33,000 people, was her home, and she loved the small-town feeling and work ethic of its people. It was painful to watch the rippling effect of rising fuel costs on agricultural production and the toll it was taking on the local economy. Boarded-up buildings and rising unemployment levels were two visible manifestations of the blight that troubled her greatly.
In response to this bleak situation, Veronica had created a formal ministry in Mankato called “Life Challenges.” It was a support group focused on the socioeconomic and personal problems of her congregation and others in the community, and it was designed to provide hope and practical solutions for a population devoid of confidence in the government and private institutions alike.
She often thought of her Life Challenges group as a good bellwether for the emotional and spiritual health of the community. The ebb and flow of meeting attendance levels correlated strongly, she observed, with local economic conditions. Greater stress produced higher attendance levels, and attendance dropped when times were good. The attendance trajectory line had moved steadily upward for some time, and that was not a good macroindicator for Mankato, though it was helpful for the people attending. She was troubled and unsure of what to do as she put down her newspaper and left for work.
3
Myrtle Beach, South
13 September 2017
Wellington Crane left his sprawling mansion for the short walk to his broadcast studio. He walked past his six-car garage and smiled contentedly at his mint 1998 Rolls-Royce, which sat in the driveway, waiting to be polished. He loved the beautiful self-contained complex he had created and named Wellington’s World, after his juggernaut show. It was a fitting testament to his greatness and contrasted sharply with the lifestyles of the shiftless Americans he so contemptuously referred to on his radio show. He reflected on his unique talents as he entered the front door of his high-tech studio.
“Good morning, Mr. Crane,” said his youthful receptionist in a cheerful voice.
“Get me a cup of coffee, Amanda,” he growled, “and make sure it isn’t as weak as that slop you made yesterday.” He then proceeded into his “war room” to prep for today’s radio show.
Crane was a heavy user of the Shared News Services. He detested the more conventional news reporting services—though he used them as necessary—but he regularly checked the SNS bulletins before going on air with his syndicated radio show. After all, he had a daily audience of over twenty million Americans who deserved the best. Shortly before his three o’clock afternoon airtime, a breaking story caught his eye: “Massive fires reported near a giant Chinese oil platform located in the Chunxiao area of the East China Sea. No details yet available, but fires are reported by several aircraft across large areas.”
Hmm, thought Wellington, this might be worth mentioning when I do my bit on China and how they are eating our lunch under the incompetent leadership of President Burkmeister and his commie sidekick, Clayton McCarty. If the flash bulletin turned out to be important—something he would know more about as his show progressed—he could once again claim a scoop over his bumbling cable and news competitors. He was always several steps ahead of them, and he had even bigger plans to trounce them in the near future.
Although it hardly mattered in radio, Wellington was as fastidious about his appearance as he was in prepping for his show. As he looked in the mirror before going on the air, he smiled and winked at himself. He liked what he saw and only wished his radio listeners could see as well as hear him. They would appreciate him even more—if that was possible—if they could observe his body language and handsome features. For a man of fifty-one, he could easily pass for someone in his early forties—maybe even late thirties—and he was proud of everything about himself. The mirror doesn’t lie.
Thus, his listeners would be pleased to know that he’d agreed to make a rare television appearance this coming Sunday as a panelist on Nelson Fitzwater’s Financial Issues and Answers. He was delighted to learn that Clayton McCarty, a man he despised, would be the cannon fodder for panelists. It would be a genuine treat for his adoring fans to hear and see him launch an audiovisual nuclear attack on the hapless McCarty—the VP half of the team he took delight in referring to as the BM movement.
After one last look in the mirror, he entered the broadcast studio, adjusted the microphone, and said in his deep, authoritative baritone voice, “Good afternoon, my friends and fans, and welcome to Wellington’s World.”
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
13 September 2017
Prince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz was in a foul mood as he prepared for a clandestine meeting with his coconspirators. The malfunctioning air-conditioning unit did little to improve his disposition as he waited for his team to arrive, but that was but one price to be paid for anonymity.
For the past two years, his small but powerful group had met in this nondescript office in south Riyadh to plot the overthrow of the royal Saudi government. His eclectic team was united by a common hatred of the decadent Western values inundating their society, the growth of the apostate Shiite movement in the Middle East, and the royal government’s benign neglect and unwillingness to confront the issues. These threats were a direct assault on the teachings of Allah, and Mustafa would not rest until the infidels were eradicated from his country, the region, and eventually the world.
Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz was a study in contradictions. At age forty, he had a muscular body on a six-foot frame but loathed the idea of working out or pampering himself with self-indulgences. He had the square-jawed good looks of a young Omar Sharif but spent little time in front of the mirror. Although a member of the monarchy by virtue of his place in the royal lineage of King Abdul Aziz ibn Saud, he despised everything about the monarchy. He had the fabulous wealth and power afforded the ruling members of the Council of Ministers, but he detested the sinful way in which the oil-driven economy picked away at the proper ways of Islamic society.
Still, he maintained a veneer of good cheer and impeccable manners that fooled all but a few in his inner circle. Mustafa hated Zionism and the corrupt Western culture that contaminated mankind. There was no other way but that of the Monotheism he faithfully practiced as a cornerstone of his daily life. There was comfort in the well-structured Islamic fundamentalism outlined in shari’a law, and he longed for the day it would be universally practiced and enforced as it was meant to be.
His coconspirators shared his driving passions, and together they planned for
the ultimate jihad. The planning was all but done, and they were now only waiting for the right set of circumstances to come about. They were all on edge, and Mustafa, an impatient and bitter man, was a time bomb ready to explode.
4
Beijing, China
14 September 2017
It was not unusual for the most powerful man in China, Chairman Lin Cheng, to be working at his desk in the Zhongnanhai—China’s equivalent of the White House—into the wee hours of the morning. In fact, it was the rule as he prepared for the weekly Politburo Standing Committee meeting scheduled for 8:30 on Thursday mornings.
Lin Cheng’s nocturnal habits were legendary, so it came as no surprise to the duty officer in charge of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy night watch that he was able to get through to Lin Cheng immediately.
“Chairman Lin Cheng,” the PLAN watch officer reported nervously, “I regret to, ah, inform you, sir, that a naval engagement with Japan occurred less than an hour ago, resulting in the loss of the Dragon II oil platform at Chunxiao.”
“Yes, Admiral, please give me all the details,” Lin Cheng responded in a dispassionate voice. Though outwardly calm, he was angry to hear that this marquee symbol of China’s technological prowess had been destroyed—not to mention the delay in access to the precious oil and natural gas that it was designed to extract.
The admiral gave a detailed report of the engagement, noting losses incurred and current disposition of forces in the area. “Sir,” he said, sounding more confident, “we have sufficient firepower in that area to handle anything the Japanese can throw at us.”
“Thank you, Admiral, for your report. This was an unprovoked attack, and clearly our navy responded in an exemplary manner. Please pass that on.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you, Chairman Lin,” said the admiral, plainly relieved.
“Let me be clear, Admiral, that you are not to pursue offensive actions against the Japanese navy unless fired upon. Is that absolutely clear?” Lin Cheng hung up the phone after the admiral acknowledged his command.
Lin sat for a moment to collect his thoughts. He had to resist the tug of war between his heart and his mind and work the problem. He was saddened by the loss of the Dragon II and its crew and outraged by Japan’s inexplicable sneak attack. In contemplating his next move, he wondered, What could they have been thinking?
True to form, he pulled out a pad of paper, colored pens, and yellow sticky notes in preparation for his one-man brainstorming session. Sitting at the desk in his stark and unpretentious office—almost devoid of personal memorabilia—he focused his brilliant analytical mind on the problem at hand. Working backward from his desired endgame, layer by layer, he systematically laid out the tactics and operations needed to meet his desired objectives. He completely lost track of time and was surprised to see it was almost four o’clock in the morning when he finally felt comfortable with the situation. The scrawled notes, torn-out pages, and reams of hard-copy report data surrounding his desk gave testament to the great intellectual battle that had just taken place.
Even at age fifty-seven, Lin still enjoyed the ability to recuperate from such exertions with a shower and two good hours of sleep. He looked forward to the regularly scheduled 7:00 a.m. meeting he would have with his trusted chief of staff, Wang Peng, in preparation for the Politburo Standing Committee meeting. He would have to be in top form to manage the heated debate ahead, as the hardliners in the PSC would be anxious to take on Japan—or worse, the United States.
The White House
13 September 2017
Lyman Burkmeister, president of the United States, was not having a good day. There were no bright spots in the gloomy economic picture. Gas prices now exceeded $6.00 per gallon nationwide, his popularity ratings had fallen another three points, and the contentious meeting earlier in the day with congressional leaders over budget cuts and healthcare costs reminded him of the challenges that lay ahead. To top it off, the indigestion and stomach cramps that had plagued him for weeks were worsening.
Burkmeister was not uncomfortable with the “workaholic” label ascribed to him. As a former military officer, CEO, and governor of Ohio, he seldom slept more than five hours a night, but he clung to a magic formula that worked wonders for him: a midday nap. His favorite getaway was the small private office off the west wall of the Oval Office, which he affectionately dubbed Shangri-la. His chief of staff, George Gleason, and everyone else understood the reenergizing value of Shangri-la and went to great lengths to preserve this respite for the president. It was considered an unwise career move to disrupt his reverie in any way.
Unfortunately, the magic of Shangri-la was not working today. Instead of resting, he was doubled over in pain from his ever-worsening stomach pains. He took a few deep breaths and diverted his attention to his two favorite pictures next to his sofa. The first was of his beloved wife, Karen, taken shortly before her fatal aneurism while celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Bermuda. The second was of him and his running mate, Clayton McCarty, waving victoriously at the 2016 Republican National Convention after accepting their call to duty. He smiled, recalling the fury of the party hardliners when he selected Governor McCarty, an Independent, to serve as his running mate. Good memories, he thought, as he closed his eyes to rest.
Outside Shangri-la, George Gleason was in a complete stew over the tsunami of urgent messages coming in from intelligence sources. It was an unwritten rule that the president’s personal hour was not to be disturbed. Gleason, however, always the historian, recalled how Hitler’s generals had refused to wake him upon hearing the allies had invaded Normandy, and the delay had most definitely affected that battle at a crucial time. He didn’t want the same footnote next to his name in the history books.
With trepidation, he knocked on the door to Shangri-la, entered, and said, “Mr. President, I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s been a development you need to know about before you get calls from foreign leaders.”
Still hurting from his violent stomach spasms, Burkmeister was more than a little annoyed. “It must be awfully serious for you to come here and roust me, George. What is it?”
“The code-red lines from the CIA and other sources are ringing off the hook, Mr. President. They are picking up some very unusual messages from both the Chinese and Japanese navies in the East China Sea suggesting that a major naval battle has just occurred between the two countries.” Gleason took a deep breath before continuing.
“We don’t know the extent of it yet, but I suspect we’re in for a barrage of new intelligence and media inquiries—maybe even calls from the Japanese and Chinese leaders. We thought it vital to get a jump on this immediately, Mr. President, but I do apologize for the intrusion.”
A surge of adrenaline overcame the latest round of stomach pains and, sensing Gleason’s concern, Burkmeister graciously let him off the hook.
“You were absolutely right to wake me, George. Please call whoever you can get to the Situation Room for a meeting at six o’clock tonight. What else do I have scheduled for the day?”
“You have a meeting with the vice president and Secretary Canton for a progress report on the new ETCC department plan, plus a few photo-op meetings with large campaign contributors. Other than that, it’s remarkably light.”
“Please cancel all appointments with regrets and get whatever intelligence you can from the usual sources. In the meantime, I’ll be doing a little digging on my own.”
The president then went into his private bathroom, washed his face, took a hefty dose of antacids, and said a prayer. He hoped he would be up for whatever might happen. He often felt like a triage nurse trying to decide which critical case took precedence over the other. It was difficult to follow an orderly schedule when dealing with a new crisis every hour. Japan squaring off with China? He had a gut feeling that this could be a defining moment in his presidency.
5
Beijing, China
14 September 2017
&nbs
p; Wang Peng enjoyed the give-and-take strategy sessions with his boss that preceded the weekly Politburo Standing Committee meetings. They were comparable, he thought, to a boxer’s physical and mental preparations for a championship fight, and like the boxer, he and Chairman Lin Cheng usually had cuts and bruises to show for their efforts after a PSC battle.
While Lin Cheng chaired the nine-member Politburo Standing Committee charged with making the important decisions in China, it was by a consensus arrangement. Lin never forgot this, even though he controlled the other levers of political, military, and party power by virtue of his positions as general secretary of the Communist Party and chairman of the Central Military Commission. Lin had been reluctant to take the title of chairman instead of president, but he had agreed at the insistence of the PSC. A sign, Wang felt, of his boss’s humility and pragmatism.
“Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” said Wang cheerfully, noting that his boss looked a little tired. Together, they had scaled the labyrinth of the Communist Party, and Wang sensed that something big was in the air today.
“Good morning, comrade,” Lin said quietly. He poured Wang a cup of tea with the deference of a servant and not the leader of almost one-fourth of the world’s population. He took a sip himself and then continued.
“An extraordinary and terrible thing has happened early this morning. For reasons we don’t understand, our Dragon II oil platform at Chunxiao was attacked and sunk by Japanese naval forces. We retaliated by sinking two Japanese naval ships, two platforms, and one auxiliary vessel.” Wang was stunned, but remained silent as Lin continued.
“We will scratch our PSC agenda for today and turn our full attention to the Chunxiao issue. I was in my office when the first call came in, and I have therefore had time to think through some of the implications.” After recounting the key features of the attack, he said, “Frankly, I’m more concerned about the United States than I am about Japan, and I would like your feedback on my thinking.”
Lethal Trajectories Page 2
