Dead Heat

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  He grabbed the nearest object—his digital camera—and heaved it at the mirror again. This time, not only did the camera shatter but so did the mirror.

  His breathing heavy, his eyes glassy and dilated, Caulfield stormed out of the men's

  room and ran to the lounge. There was no one there. He headed next to the senior executive dining room, but it, too, was empty. Then he moved to a small kitchen down the hall and around the corner from the president's makeshift office, and there he found a military police officer pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  "Mr. Caulfield, you don't look so good," the MP said. "Everything okay?"

  But Caulfield never answered. Instead, he coldcocked the MP in the face, sending the

  man crashing to the floor, unconscious and nose bleeding. The man never saw it coming.

  Caulfield stared down at him, listening for voices, listening for footsteps. All was quiet.

  Then he began prying the MP's gun from his holster.

  * * *

  "I just spoke to the president of Liberia," Lucente said.

  "What did he say?" Oaks asked.

  "He told me about the Liberian-flagged container ship that your air force sank."

  "That was an act of self-defense," the president noted, sensing a confrontation.

  "I'm sure it was," Lucente assured him. "That wasn't my point."

  "What was?"

  9

  "The ship, apparently, had been chartered by a company in Bangkok, but it turns out the company isn't Thai owned."

  "So?"

  "So the company was bought last year by an outfit called Mercury Star Holdings, Limited, which Thai intelligence has determined

  ctually a front group for the DPRK."

  is a

  "Interesting," Oaks said. "What else?"

  "The head of intelligence for the PLA just told one of my deputies he's got nineteen hours of telephone intercepts between senior DPRK officials and known members of the

  Legion. He's got photos of Umberto Milano

  says Vincenzo

  in Pyongyang six weeks ago. He

  Milano, Umberto's younger brother, flew into Pyongyang three days ago."

  “why?,,

  "He doesn't know."

  "What about Aldo Clemenza?

  to the a

  " the president asked, referring

  lleged leader of

  the shadowy terror faction. "When was he in North Korea last?"

  w."

  "He doesn't kno

  "You asked?"

  "I asked," Lucente said. "He said he doesn't know."

  Oaks was skeptical at best. "Forgive me, Salvador, but I'm not certain this is the week I'm going to start relying on intelligence provided to me by the People's Liberation

  Army."

  "They're willing to make the tapes available to the CIA station chief in Beijing."

  "I'm sure the PLA would love to know who the CIA station chief is in Beijing," the eplied, then added, "Assum

  president r

  ing, that is, we even have a CIA station chief in

  Beijing."

  "Look, Mr. President," Lucente said, "I'm just telling you what I'm hearing. Do you really want a global thermonuclear war with the Chinese? Think about it. They could

  lose a billion people and still have a bigger population than the United States. But do you really think they won't resp

  kind? Of

  ond in

  course they will. And how many more

  Americans are you willing to lose?"

  Oaks said nothing.

  Lucente continued, "And, really, do you honestly think Beijing would be stupid enough to trigger a war that will force you to go nuclear? They're power-hungry; I grant you that.

  They want Taiwan back. They want to control the Pacific. Yes. But suicidal? Hardly. The North Koreans, on the other hand—that's an entirely different story. I believe they did this.

  They had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. And if you hit them— and hit them

  hard—you can show the entire w r

  o ld America remains the world's only superpower. Right

  now, isn't that really the point?"

  Oaks thanked Lucente for the call, reiterated his request that he persuade Al-Hassani

  not to launch hostilities against the Kurds, and hung up the phone. His

  council was

  war

  waiting, but his thoughts were racing so fast he needed a moment to refocus.

  Was he wrong, and Lucente right? Were the North Koreans, rather than the Chinese,

  behind everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours?

  her

  W

  e was the proof?

  He saw hearsay. He saw innuendo. But was that enough to go to war?

  He shifted gears and turned to the incident over the Sea of Japan. Had the U.S. jet

  purposefully or inadvertently strayed into DPRK airspace, or was this a deliberate act of g? And just w

  aggression by Pyongyan

  hat would happen if he were to order military strikes

  10

  against North Korea?

  On that, Admiral Arthurs and General Garrett were probably correct. The official

  OPLAN wouldn't suffice. They didn't have enough men or missiles in place to protect

  Seoul, much less defeat the North Koreans quickly and decisively with a conventional war.

  If he was really contemplati

  tion. But was he really

  ng war, the only option was a nuclear op

  prepared to launch a preemptive nuclear strike against the DPRK?

  The implications were almost too horrible to contemplate. Would China be drawn

  in? They had been in 1950. They'd signed a defensive alliance with Pyongyang in 1961,

  requiring them to intervene militarily if North Korea was attacked. They seemed ready,

  even itching, for war with

  e U.S. now. Was

  th

  that worth the enormous price the American

  peop e

  l would have to pay?

  * * *

  Caulfield quickly combed his hair.

  He tucked in his shirt, stuck the MP's 9 mm pistol in his waistband, then donned his

  suit coat and buttoned it. After washing and drying his hands and face, he checked the MP's pulse again and picked up his leather binder of notes, briefing papers, and schedules.

  Convinced he was ready, he straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed out of the kitchen, racing down the hall, around the corner, and toward the conference room where Oaks was now reviewing nuclear war plans with the head of U.S. Pacific Command.

  "I've got an urgent message for the president," he said breathlessly to Agent Coelho, standing post in the hall, and Coelho did what

  nd opened the

  he always did. He nodded a

  door. They had done this dance dozens of times since arriving at NORAD.

  Caulfield knew he wasn't going to be searched. The United States, after all, was at

  war. Caulfield had top secret clearance. He'd worked for Oaks for more than a year. He'd been thoroughly vetted by the Secret Service. No one suspected him. No one turned to look at him as he entered. Why would they? Everyone in the room knew Caulfield was

  practically a fixture at the president's side. He'd been in and out all night, and they were consumed with the urgent business at hand.

  As Caulfield moved behind the president, presumably to whisper something in his

  ear, he could see the plans on the table. He could see maps of the peninsula and various bombing scenarios on the flat-screen monito

  ll. He knew what they were

  rs on the wa

  doing. He knew why. And he knew they had to be stopped.

  As he closed in behind the president, he unbuttoned his jacket and carefully drew the 9

  mm. Quickly now, he drove the pistol into
th

  e president's temple with his right hand while

  putting his left arm around the man's throat.

  Stunned, the president began to gag. Everyone turned. Judge Summers, in the room to

  review the legality-of the war plans being contemplated, gasped in horror. Gener l Br

  a

  iggs

  rose from his seat and reached for the president, but Caulfield shouted him down.

  "Nobody move," he yelled. "Nobody."

  Briggs stopped in his tracks as Agent Coelho burst into the room, gun drawn.

  Caulfield took the pistol off the president's temple and fired two rounds at Coelho,

  hitting him once in the chest and once in the face. Everyone screamed. Coelho dropped to the ground, a pool of bl

  wing b

  ood gro

  y the second around his head, the acrid stench of

  gunpowder hanging in the air.

  11

  In the confusion, Caufield moved back a few steps, pulling the president in his swivel chair toward the corner of the conference room. Caulfield's back was now covered. He had a clear shot at the door. No one could get in or out of the room without him seeing them.

  Most importantly, no one could get behind him to take him out.

  "Bobby, why?" the president asked, his entire body shaking. "What are you doing?"

  "Shut up, Mr. President," Caulfield screamed, pressing the pistol against his temple again. "Everyone just shut up."

  The room quickly died down but it did not become quiet. Alarms were ringing

  throughout the complex. Caulfield could hear yelling and boots. Through the clear

  bulletproof windows of the conference room he saw agents and heavily armed Marines

  filling the hallway and staring in horror at the slain agent and the gunman holding the president hostage. But for now, he had the upper hand, and he was determined to use it.

  "No one is going to war—not against North Korea," Caulfield yelled. "You want to take someone out? You take out the Chinese. But not Pyongyang. Not the DPRK."

  He could see the fear in everyone's eyes, fear and confusion. No one had any idea

  what he was talking about or why. B t it didn'

  u

  t matter, he decided. They didn't need to

  know his reasons. Only his demands.

  "Bobby, please, everything's going to

  ," s

  be okay

  aid a voice from the back of the

  room. "Just take it easy, Bobby, and let's talk."

  Startled

  a

  , C ulfield turned and scanned the room. "Who said that?" he demanded. "Who was that?"

  "It was me

  J

  , Bobby," udge Summers said softly, and she began standing to her feet.

  But she didn't get far.

  Caulfield squeezed off two rounds. Summers screamed. Both rounds missed her but the

  plasma screen behind her exploded on impact. Then Briggs made his move. He leaped

  from his seat a few feet from Caulfield and the president and lunged at the young man.

  Two more explosions echoed through the NORAD complex and Briggs crashed to the

  floor, the back of his head gone.

  12

  57

  3:46 P.M.-THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, BABYLON, IRAQ

  An aide stood by to help Al-Hassani out of the water.

  Unless he was seriously ill, the seventy-six-year-old leader never missed his fifty

  laps a day in the Olympic-size pool just behind the former Saddam palace that had become his home, and today was no exception. Nuclear war. The deaths of millions. An imminent

  attack on Kurdish rebels. It made no difference. The man had his priorities. He had his routine. And he would not be deterred.

  Finally satisfied with his workout, Al-Hassani agreed to take the call. He grabbed one

  of the metal railings, stepped out of the heated water, and let the aide wrap him in a

  bathrobe and help him don his slippers. Then he took the satellite phone and retired to a chaise longue on the veranda, peering out over the teeming city of Babylon, his pride and joy, that not so long ago had seemed a godforsaken wasteland.

  "Premier Zhao," Al-Hassani said, lighting up his pipe and shooing away his viziers,

  "to what do I owe the honor?"

  "Mustafa, you must call off your operation in Kurdistan," the Chinese premier insisted, the urgency thick in his voice. "It could ruin everything."

  "Come, come, Mr. Prime Minister," Al-Hassani demurred. "These are rebels. They are thugs. They are dogs and must be put down. Must I remind you of Tiananmen Square?"

  "That was a disaster for us, and you know it," Zhao said. "Nevertheless, your party is still in power, are you not?" Al-Hassani noted.

  "This is different."

  "How?"

  "The Cold War was ending; tensions were subsiding; peace was breaking out everywhere,"

  Zhao said. "This is no longer the case."

  "Why? Because the Americans have a thousand nuclear warheads pointed at your head?"

  Al-Hassani tut-tutted.

  "Were they pointed at yours, perhaps you wouldn't be so cavalier," Zhao countered, his voice measured but his anger clearly rising. "Look, Mustafa, things are getting very dangerous. There is no room for error. The slightest miscalculation at this point could be catastrophic. You must pull back, at least for another day."

  "Salvador got to you, didn't he?"

  "Salvador has nothing to do with this."

  "But you spoke to him."

  "Of course I spoke to him," Zhao said. "But that's not the point."

  "Of course it's the point," Al-Hassani said, now springing to his feet, his face flushed 13

  with anger. "You two are conspiring against me. I just had the man in my home. And now he is willing to turn his back on me without a second thought?"

  "Mustafa, please, no one is conspiring against you," Zhao insisted.

  "Oh, really? Then why is he making you call me? Why doesn't he have the courtesy to call me himself?"

  "He's on the phone with Doron," Zhao said. "He's trying to broker the deal you asked him to make."

  "I never asked him to make it," Al-Hassani shot back, pacing the veranda now and discarding his pipe. "He's cut a deal with you, hasn't he?"

  "What? What are you talking about, Mustafa?"

  "Don't lie to me, Zhao. He cut a deal with you, didn't he? He's trying to turn you against me."

  "That's ridiculous, Mustafa. Please, my friend, take a deep breath and listen to what you're saying."

  "You offered to send a quarter million troops to my backyard, didn't you?" Al-Hassani charged.

  "Peacekeepers," Zhao said, "not combat troops."

  "What's the difference?" Al-Hassani asked.

  "Intent."

  Al-Hassani sniffed in disgust. "They'll be armed, won't they?" "Of course."

  "They'll be combat capable, won't they?"

  "They're professional soldiers," Zhao conceded. "Who else would I send, children?"

  "Then how will I know they're not a threat?"

  "Because you have my word that they won't be."

  "Your word?"

  "Yes," Zhao said. "And besides, Mustafa, they'll be based in Kuwait, in the Emirates, not anywhere near Babylon or Old Baghdad."

  "That's less than a day away by tank and armored car," Al-Hassani said.

  "So?"

  "So when I least expect it—when my back is turned—how do I know a quarter of a million heavily armed, combat-ready Chinese infantrymen won't march up the Euphrates River valley right into Babylon?"

  "Why in the world would I do that?" Zhao asked, his patience evidently wearing thin.

  "Oil? Greed? Lust for power? Let me count the ways," Al-Hassani said.

  "No one is conspiring to take you out," Zhao said curtly. "Unless you keep talking like this."

  "Is that a threat?"

/>   "No."

  "Did Salvador tell you to say that?"

  "Of course not. Look, Mustafa. I don't have time for your little conspiracy theories. I have enough troubles of my own. I've asked Salvador to come back to Beijing in the hopes that his presence will keep the Americans from launching against us. Perhaps it will buy us some time to turn President Oaks's attention elsewhere. We didn't attack the Americans. Those weren't our bombs."

  "Whose were they?" Al-Hassani demanded to know.

  "I have no idea."

  14

  "I don't believe you."

  "Believe what you want."

  "I hear you think the North Koreans did it," Al-Hassani said, stirring the pot.

  "I told you, I have no idea," Zhao said. "But one thing I know for certain: The Americans are on edge. They're angry. They're ready for revenge. They want justice.

  They're not thinking clearly, not yet. And if you keep provoking them with this whole

  Kurdish thing, who knows what could happen? Who knows whether they'll listen to

  reason? They could start a war, Mustafa, a war that could decimate my country."

  15

  5:48 A.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER

  Caulfield's hands were trembling.

  The conference room was completely silent. No one spoke. No one dared blink, much

  less move. All activity in the hallway outside the door had ceased. Caulfield could see the phalanx of agents and Marines, guns drawn, ready to storm in if he gave them an opening.

  But for now, two dead bodies had forced a standoff, and it was his move.

  Beads of sweat were streaking down his face and neck, but he didn't dare loosen his

  grip on the president's neck. With his right hand, he pressed the 9 mm harder against the president's temple and crouched down behind him to lower his profile, in case a Secret

  Service sniper he might not see took aim.

  His eyes were blurring. He winced as the throbbing pain in the back of his head

  intensified. His body craved a fix he wasn't going to get, and for the first time, thoughts of suicide gripped him. He told himself he didn't want to die. But he couldn't let there be a war.

  Not with North Korea. Not now. The thought of his older brother, Derek, stationed with the Eighth Army along the DMZ, being mowed down by the DPRK was more than he could

  bear. If there was something he could do to stop it, he had to, didn't he? Derek was all he had left.