THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  "The Germans. Jan, can you believe it? The Germans apparently overran the Air Force base in Germany where the nukes were waiting for transport back to the States and seized them. You and Lewis seem to be the only people in this town that saw that coming. You're incredible."

  Jan didn't really hear anything after Mordal mentioned that the Germans had overrun an American base. For several seconds all she could think about was Scott and his safety. Where was he? Was the American Army already involved? Those and other questions rushed through her mind as Mordal, more animated than Jan had ever heard him before, rattled on and on. Knowing that sitting there in her bedroom wondering and worrying would accomplish nothing, Jan cut Mordal off. "Okay, Charley, thanks for calling. I'll be down at the studio in less than an hour."

  Without so much as a good-bye, Jan hung up, leaving Mordal wondering why she was coming to the studio at that hour. After thinking about it for a moment, though, he decided that perhaps it wasn't a bad idea. His only regret was that he hadn't thought of it first. Of course, Charley Mordal didn't realize that Jan wasn't going into the studio out of dedication to the network or her profession. Her motives that night were purely selfish. At the World News Network headquarters in downtown Washington, D.C., she would have firsthand access to every major news agency in the world and sources of information that rivaled the CIA's and FBI's. In the avalanche of information and news that would flow into WNN headquarters, Jan hoped to find a scrap of news about the only person in the entire world that she really cared for, a man who by his nature and profession was bound to be in the middle of things in Germany. Though she could do nothing to change things or help him, at least she would know what was happening to him.

  Bounding out of bed, Jan dashed to the bathroom. As she stood before the full wall mirror quickly combing her hair into a presentable style, she glanced down at the black nondescript comb, green toothbrush, and unused razor that sat next to the second sink that was Scotty's. Though he hadn't been able to tear himself away from his command in Europe for months, Jan, out of habit, kept his personal things in order and handy, just in case. For despite her reputation as a hard-nosed news correspondent, Jan Fields-Dixon was an eternal optimist. Scott, she knew, would somehow find his way out of this mess, just as surely as the politicians in the White House would find a way to suck him into it.

  Suddenly the focus of everyone in Washington shifted from an obscure spot on the eastern fringes of Europe to the heart of the continent. Overwhelmed by the new German crisis, matters concerning the Ukrainian crisis were relegated to other senior members of the State and Defense departments while President Wilson and key members of the National Security Council met to discuss and deal with the German crisis.

  As was her style, Abigail Wilson had listened to what everyone had to say concerning the matter at hand, in this case the German crisis, without comment. When she was satisfied that everything that needed to be known had been presented, she gave her initial guidance and then sat back and let her staff, in this case the Security Council, work out a solution. From her seat, Wilson watched the process in action. A steady stream of people, some in uniform, some in shirtsleeves, flowed around and past her, coming and going, sometimes giving the impression that they had no apparent direction or purpose. Every now and then one or more of these people would stop another in midstride and hold a quick hushed impromptu discussion where they stood. Finished, they would part and continue to pursue whatever mysterious errand they had been on. Elsewhere in the room small clusters of people were huddled discussing some matter or the other. The whole scene unfolding before her gave Wilson the feeling that she was sitting in the eye of a hurricane. After thinking about that analogy for a moment, she decided that it didn't do justice to the current situation. What she had started, Wilson decided, was shaping up to resemble more and more a firestorm. How to stop that firestorm, which at that moment was completely out of their control, was the question she pondered and the throngs of people around her debated.

  For several minutes Wilson studied each of her key staffers, people who had led her into the Ukrainian crisis and now were expected to find a solution to a new crisis in which all its attendant problems had yet to come to the surface. Off to her right, Peter Soares was holding court with her foreign affairs advisor and a number of serious-looking State Department bureaucrats. The expression he wore and the manner in which he held himself or threw his arms about to make his point reminded Wilson of when he had been running Wilson's gubernatorial and presidential campaigns. Watching, she had no doubt that his line of thinking and the approach he was using to deal with this crisis were similar to those he had used then. Unfortunately, this was not a political campaign. For a moment Wilson wondered if his ability to negotiate the American political landscape for diplomatic skills and his knack for organizing campaigns for leadership gave him the insight necessary for dealing with this issue. In her heart she knew that his tried-and-true methods, those that had gotten her into the White House, would be of little use in resolving the expanding German crisis, one which his decisions had precipitated. The fact that the Ukrainian operation had turned sour, despite his assurances, introduced an element of uncertainty into Wilson's mind that was now tainting her trust of anything that Soares said.

  To her front, among a cluster of generals and admirals, Terry Rothenberg sat. His long face, with drooping eyes peering through a pair of bifocals tottering on the edge of his nose, had never looked so long. As Wilson sat there watching him turn his head this way, then that, as one senior officer after another talked, she knew that Rothenberg was as much out of his element as Soares was. The brilliance that had made him New York City's successful contract lawyer failed to provide him with the tools he needed to deal with the harsh military decisions that were demanded when war threatens. Rothenberg, like Wilson herself, was often reduced to listening to his experts, both military and civilian, toss about one option after another, never knowing for sure who was right or even if there was a right answer.

  As she sat there, Wilson began to suspect that the people in the room, the same ones who had assured her that the plan to secure the nuclear weapons was sound and gave her a 95 percent probability of success, were not up to dealing with the German crisis. Like Rothenberg, Wilson had come into her office with only a very basic understanding of military affairs and trusted the experts and professionals to deal with the details. Now, like Rothenberg, she felt betrayed by those experts and was at a loss as to where to turn for the help and advice that she, and the nation, so desperately needed.

  Knowing that it would be several hours before anyone had a good handle on the situation, let alone viable options, Wilson decided to seek advice from a source that many would consider inappropriate. With a slight motion of her right hand, Wilson signaled the aide seated behind her. Leaning forward, the aide listened. "Tom, have the car pulled around front immediately."

  Knowing that as soon as he gave the order for her limousine to move, William J. Balick, the head of the White House Secret Service, would want to know, the aide asked Wilson what her destination would be. Balick, more commonly known as Billy B, had to know where the President was going so that he could plan a route and then scramble teams along it in advance to scout it and to provide security at her destination.

  Wilson knew the reason for the aide's question but ignored it. The one thing that bothered Wilson the most about being in the White House was the manner in which everyone tried to control her comings and goings. It was as if everyone, especially the Secret Service, was trying to force her into an airtight, bulletproof, controlled-access bubble. To a person who had known unlimited freedom all her life, such attempts were stifling, almost suffocating. From her earliest days as a child, Wilson had enjoyed coming and going as she pleased, often roaming her parents' large ranch in Colorado alone on foot or horseback. Half jokingly, Wilson had told a friend before leaving Colorado for the White House, "My mother and I have spent most of our lives in an effort to escape from hav
ing men dictate what we could and could not do. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them do it to me in Washington."

  While understanding the need for security, Wilson felt that the Secret Service men were far too compulsive and restrictive. Though she seldom felt the need to remind people of her office or title, when it came to the Secret Service, Wilson took every opportunity to remind them of who the President was. Wilson's response to her aide, therefore, was short and sweet. "It will just be you and me. Now we haven't got much time. It's late and getting later."

  In an effort to make sure that she was making a conscious decision about her security, the aide rephrased his question. "And where should I tell Mr. Balick that we are going?"

  Wilson stood up, causing most of the people in the room to stop what they were doing and turn to look at her. "Please tell Billy B that I am going out into the night with a lantern in one hand in search of an honest man and my hat in the other."

  Unhappy with her response, for the aide knew that Balick would ride him for not getting a straight answer, the aide glumly shook his head and called the White House garage to relay the President's order. Looking over to Vice President Kevin Wojick, in the middle of a conversation with several members of the Security Council, Wilson called, so that everyone in the room could hear, that she was leaving. Then, before she walked out, Wilson added, "Mr. Vice President, I leave you here to deal with this, this debating society. I will be back in two hours. If in that time you are able to get Chancellor Ruff on the phone and he is willing to speak with me—I mean really speak to me and not simply rehash his 'wounded national pride' speech again—contact me immediately." Wilson turned to leave, but then paused. Over her shoulder she added with a bitter note in her voice, "And if you can't have something that makes sense ready for me to listen to by then, please turn out the lights and lock the door before you all leave."

  From across the room, Soares watched Wilson leave. That she, like everyone else on the crisis action team, was tired and very much on edge didn't matter to Soares. It had been a mistake, he now knew, to put a woman like that in the White House. She neither understood the fine rules of the game nor how to conduct herself with the dignity that the office of the President of the United States demanded. While even he had to admit that she often displayed an intuitive knack for resolving difficult problems, her methods of dealing with men of high position, such as himself, were often irritating to the point of disrespect. The party, Soares had decided long ago, had been wrong. The nation wasn't ready for a woman President, especially this one.

  It wasn't until she reached Bethesda that the idea of stopping by to see Ed Lewis dawned upon Jan. Though she suspected that he already knew about the German seizure of the nukes, there was always the off chance that he might have gone to bed early. After all, she thought, with his newfound view on life, he just may have gone overboard and started getting all the sleep he needed.

  When she turned down the street where Lewis lived, Jan was surprised to see a number of cars sitting in front of Lewis's house and what looked like every light in the place turned on. At first, thinking that he was having a party of some kind, Jan wondered if her attire would be appropriate. Then she dismissed that idea as being foolish. Amanda and Ed Lewis weren't the late-night party type. When she got closer, Jan saw two men standing on the porch and caught a glimpse of another as he disappeared around the house. Her dismay suddenly turned to alarm when she realized that there may have been some kind of emergency or threat. If that was true, Jan thought, then maybe this was the wrong time to pay a visit. But again she dropped that idea. She was, after all, a friend of the family and, almost as important, a news correspondent. As was her habit, once she had made up her mind, Jan pushed forward with the single-minded determination of a charging rhino.

  Already upset with the President's sudden and mysterious foray into the night, the members of the Secret Service team that accompanied her were on edge and very nervous. Denied the opportunity to perform a detailed recon of Lewis's house, they attempted to clamp down on everything that went on in the house while President Wilson was there. They, of course, had not counted on Amanda Lewis. Roused out of bed by the sound of voices and the pounding of feet downstairs, Amanda threw on a robe and came down to find her house overrun by stern-faced men and women. One group was in the middle of searching rooms and scanning them with electronic devices while another, who had taken over the dining room as a command center, was busy moving furniture around. One overzealous agent, seeing Amanda descending the stairs, moved toward her in an effort to head her off. He pulled out his badge, flashing it in her face. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Agent Bradshaw, Secret Service. I'll have to ask you to go back upstairs and remain there while the President is here."

  Unimpressed by Bradshaw's badge, and angered at being ordered about in her own house, Amanda looked Bradshaw in the eye. "Young man, I am sure you have your duty and your orders. But this is my house. And if you want to walk out of here under your own power, I suggest you let me by."

  Taken aback by the defiance shown by this five-foot-four, 120-pound woman in a bathrobe, Bradshaw was about to call for his supervisor when Amanda pushed by him and headed into the kitchen to make coffee. Not easily put off, he followed her, asking her to go back upstairs. Bradshaw's persistence only served to irritate Amanda. Stopping just short of the kitchen, she turned on Bradshaw. With an angry look on her face and her finger pointed at his nose, Amanda Lewis shouted so that everyone in the house could hear. "Look, Mr. Special Agent whoever, if you or your friends here dare threaten me one more time, I'll run the whole lot of you out into the snow. Now back off." Without another word and before Bradshaw could respond, Amanda pivoted on her heels and marched into the kitchen, where two other Secret Service men gave her a wide berth when they saw her coming.

  Frustrated, his face red from embarrassment, Bradshaw turned around just in time to see Jan come through the front door at the other end of the hall. Without so much as a pause, Jan headed straight for the door of the study where she knew she would find Lewis. Recovering from his brush with the congressman's wife, Bradshaw hurried down the hall to head Jan off. Shoving his arm in front of Jan's face just as she was about to open the door, Bradshaw yelled in Jan's ear, "Hey, you can't go in there."

  Already charged up from having to deal with the Secret Service men at the front door, Jan backed off half a step, turned to face Bradshaw, and thrust her finger up at his face. "Look, mister, I'm in no mood to play cowboys and Indians with a troop of overgrown boy scouts. Either move it or lose it."

  Tiring of being abused by pushy women, Bradshaw was about to grab Jan's arms to push her away from the door when Jan lifted her right foot and brought the heel of her boot crashing down on the toe of Bradshaw's shoe. Shocked by her sudden attack, caught in midstride, and overcome by immense pain, Bradshaw lost his balance. While he was trying to grab his injured foot with one hand while flailing the other one about in an effort to find something to grab to keep from falling, Jan pulled the sliding door of the study open and popped in.

  Though she knew that the President was there, it still came as a surprise when Jan saw Wilson seated among the haphazard stack of books, files, and stray papers that Lewis found comforting. Lewis, seated at his desk with his feet propped up, looked over to Jan. "Welcome, Jan. We were just talking about you when we heard your rather vocal introduction to the President's bodyguard."

  Jan blushed slightly, looking over at Wilson and then at Lewis. "I apologize for intruding like this, Ed, Madam President, but I was on my way into the office and thought you might not have heard the latest news from Germany yet. And then when I saw all the people running about your house, I was worried that something had happened to Amanda or you."

  With a smile, Lewis invited her to take a seat, if she could find one. Wilson, surprised by Jan's appearance, glanced over at Lewis after he made the offer to Jan to join them. Noticing Wilson's look of concern, Lewis took his feet off the desk and leaned toward Wilson while Jan
searched for a clear place on the floor to dump a stack of books she had removed from the least cluttered chair. Without waiting for Jan to finish, Lewis started in on the President. "See, that's just the kind of thing you are going to have to stop doing. Geez, Madam President, the whole world knows we've screwed the pooch on this one. So why hide it? It's time you came out, just like you did with me, with hat in hand and told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

  Though her predecessor had warned her that Lewis could be a dangerous political adversary, not to mention brash and downright disrespectful on occasion, Wilson appreciated that Lewis had much going for him. Everyone in Washington agreed that he was one of the few people in Washington she could trust in a pinch. The former President himself, despite his warnings to Wilson, had used Lewis during a particularly sensitive crisis with Mexico. Through this and other such coups, Lewis had earned a reputation for being one of the most politically astute and respected authorities on international affairs in Washington. There had even been serious discussion about asking Lewis to serve as Wilson's Secretary of State instead of Soares.

  Suspecting that Chancellor Ruff wasn't in a mood to listen to either her or Soares, a man many Europeans had difficulty dealing with, Wilson decided that she would take the former President's advice. Of course, she also remembered his warning: "Lewis has a tendency to come on like a down-home good old boy, so don't be offended by his manner." Taking Lewis's comments in stride, Wilson was about to respond, when her comments were pre-empted by another interruption at the study door. This time it was the appearance of Agent Bradshaw.