Power Curve (23 page)

“Gwen,” Leland continued, “was against your joining us.”

“I do hope you will prove useful,” Anderson said.

Shaw sat down, his hands clasped between his knees. He knew what he was offering was more than enough to buy his way into the group. But by the same token, they had to accept it as sufficient payment because he knew who they were, and as the president’s chief of staff, he had the power to hurt them. He began to talk, slowly at first, laying out the president’s tax reform package. He was met by condescending nods. They were not impressed. When he got to the strategy he had formulated to get it passed, the nodding heads stopped. It was a masterful display of arm twisting, political bargaining, and, when all else failed, threats. Shaw knew where too many skeletons were buried and had the ammunition to make it a knockdown, take-no-prisoners brawl. He might have lost in the
end, but it would have been a costly victory for the winners.

“How long have you known about our group?” Leland asked.

“For about two weeks,” Shaw answered. “But I never told the president.”

“Is there anything else you have for us?” Leland asked.

“She’s afraid of a military confrontation with the Chinese and is going to roll over and play dead.”

Leland stood and squared his shoulders. “If you can deliver on that,” he said, “I do believe the lady is ours.” For Shaw, Leland’s voice and bearing conjured up the image of a vengeful prophet from the Old Testament.

“Damn,” Liz Gordon muttered as she answered the insistent summons from the phone. It was the night doorman. “Goddamn it, Charlie,” she snarled. He had standing orders to chase anyone away after 10
P.M.
and should have known better than to disturb her so late on a Monday night. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Sorry, Miss Gordon,” Charlie groveled, “but it’s Mr. Shaw.”

She clamped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Jeff, wake up. It’s Shaw.”

Jeff Bissell stirred. “Send the bastard away.”

“I can’t do that.” She gestured him to silence. “Charlie, put him on the line.”

“You said you weren’t fucking him,” Bissell growled.

“Shush,” she hissed. “Patrick,” she chimed, “what brings you here so late?” She listened. “Don’t be silly, come right on up.”

“Come right on up,” Bissell mimicked crankily. “Is it going to be a threesome?”

“No. You’re leaving. The back way. And be damned sure he doesn’t see you.”

“So you can fuck him in private.”

“I’m not going to sleep with him,” she said. “He doesn’t know we’re back together.” She threw his clothes at him.

“Then put something on,” he muttered as he headed for the kitchen and the utility entrance.

Liz had time to don a robe and to comb her hair before the front doorbell rang. She checked her appearance in the hall mirror, artfully loosened the robe, and fluffed her hair. She answered the bell on the second ring. “Why didn’t you call?” she asked.

“I was on the cellular,” he told her, shaking off his overcoat. Eavesdropping on a public official’s cellular phone conversation was a highly illegal, but widely used practice by the Washington press corps. Liz’s voice would have been instantly recognized and at least three reporters would have ambushed Shaw when he arrived at her apartment complex. “Don’t worry,” he told her, anticipating her next question, “I gave Charlie a healthy tip. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Come on in,” she said. “Drink?”

“Any good sour mash,” he replied.

“With water?”

“Already too damn much water in it,” he grumbled.

She recognized the signs and poured him a tumbler half full of a rich liquid amber whiskey. Her robe fell half open when she handed it to him. She had never seen him so depressed and for a moment thought he might be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She quickly discarded the notion. This was Patrick Flannery Shaw, one of Washington’s consummate actors. “Is it the China thing?”

“That’s not the half of it,” he grumbled. He didn’t want to talk about China and only wanted company and a sympathetic ear. He deliberately changed the subject. “Why are the feminists so angry with the president?”

Play this one right
, Liz cautioned herself,
he knows why
. She chose her words carefully. “They believe she is willing to compromise with the enemy. That makes her a traitor.”

“Gawd,” he moaned, “they can’t be that stupid. Politics is compromise.”

Liz shook her head, still playing the game, hoping she could get something useful out of him. “They’re true believers. I think you need a good night’s sleep. We can talk about it in the morning if it’s still bothering you.” She led him into the bedroom.

Jeff Bissell was parked in his car and saw the light in Liz’s bedroom go off. He hit the steering wheel with his fist and reached for his phone. He knew a reporter who would be most grateful. Then he reconsidered, slipped the transmission into first gear, and drove slowly off. It was the price he paid for loving Liz Gordon.

The noise of running water punched through the shroud of sleep that held Shaw tight. He stretched, vaguely aware that it was morning. Morning! On the edge of panic, he fumbled for his watch. Ten minutes before five. He had plenty of time to reach the White House and be ready for whatever the new day would bring. “Don’t worry,” Liz said. “I wouldn’t let you sleep in.” She was standing in the bathroom door, her naked body glimmering in the soft light. She came back to bed, holding a long feather in her left hand. “I do hope you’re up to this.”

“Darlin’,” he said, his voice low and husky, “we haven’t got time for games this mornin’.”

“Patrick Shaw,” she fumed. “When you wake me out of a sound sleep at midnight, you had better be prepared to pay the price or I’ll bite your balls off.” She made a snapping sound with her teeth and rolled into bed, reaching for him.

He made a mock show of protecting his scrotum. “What are the stakes?”

“An inside?” she suggested.

“And if you lose,” he said, “it’s doggie style, on the roof, in the snow.”

“Sounds like a chilling experience,” she replied. “But I’m not going to lose.” She went to work with the feather, trying to raise an erection. Nothing happened. After a few minutes, she looked at him, expecting to see his lopsided grin. But his eyes were wide with worry. “I must be losing my touch,” she said, drawing her long fingernails up his flaccid penis. Still nothing. “I guess it’s snow time,” she said, rolling out of bed and reaching for her robe.

He got out of bed. “I’ll have to take a snow check.”

She waited as he dressed and helped him on with his overcoat. Then he was gone. She was making coffee when
the phone rang, and as expected, it was Jeff Bissell. She listened for a few moments. “Absolutely nothing happened,” she told him. “He only wanted to talk and get a good night’s sleep. He’s a lonely man.”

Okinawa, Japan

O
nly the ruffling of pages punctuated the silence in the Battle Cab as Martini and his group commanders read their copies of the lengthy top secret message from headquarters CINC PAC. Pete Townly, the Intel officer, stood in a corner and read the message in bits and pieces as the Operations Group commander passed him pages of the detailed directive outlining how they were to respond to the blockade. Finally, Martini dropped his copy on the console in front of him and kicked back in his chair, his head against the back wall. “Supposedly, we’ve been blockaded for thirty-six hours,” he said. “Your thoughts?”

His vice commander was the first to answer. “Some fuckin’ blockade. All talk.”

“At least the rules of engagement are unchanged, and we can still defend ourselves,” the Operations Group commander added.

“What does it mean,” the Logistics Group commander asked, “when they say ‘Continue with preparations but do not disturb the local populace’?”

“It means,” Martini grumped, “that the Japanese government is telling its people one thing, while our government tells us to get ready to fight.”

“Does anybody back there have a clue what’s going on?” the Support Group commander asked.

“They don’t have the bad guys looking at them from 60 miles off shore,” Martini replied. He gestured at Townly. “Pete, what’s the latest status at Kumejima?”

Townly took a deep breath. “The Chinese have reinforced the island with approximately 10,000 combat troops, four batteries of antiship Silk Worm missiles and, at last count, thirty KS-1 surface-to-air missiles. They are digging bunkers and building aircraft revetments at the airstrip. But they got a fuel problem and are rigging fuel bladders. We calculate they will be able to start fighter operations within twenty-four hours. A Habu mission is scheduled for early tomorrow morning for an update.”

“Where’s the
Chairman Mao
?”

“At last report, it has withdrawn and is heading for Taiwan. But they left behind eighteen fast-attack craft .armed with missiles and torpedoes along with four destroyers and six frigates, which all sport a damn good antisubmarine capability. It’s safe to assume they have a few of their own submarines on patrol.”

“They’re not stupid,” Martini grumbled. “They don’t want to risk losing the
Chairman Mao
and have pulled it back before our carriers or submarines get here.”

“Sir,” Townly said, “I don’t think the Navy will risk bringing a carrier inside the range of those Silk Worms on Kumejima.”

“What’s the range of a Silk Worm?” Martini asked.

“They’ve deployed the HY-5 version with a reported range of 1,000 nautical miles,” Townly answered. “Until those missiles are neutralized, Navy air is forced into a standoff position, which seriously degrades their effectiveness.” Martini stared at the Intel officer, challenging him to continue. “At this point, it appears that everyone is in a hold position and is waiting for the other side to fire the first shot.”

Martini thought for a moment. “So they’ve got ships but no fighter cover. That means they can enforce the blockade at sea but not in the air. We have the right of self-defense, which means we have fighter cover, and have been told to continue with readiness preparations. To me, that means airlift.” He looked around the Battle Cab.
“Any disagreements?” There were none. “Gentlemen, I think we have a window of opportunity here.”

The Medical Group commander, Ryan’s boss, shook his head. “The message also says to not make the situation worse than it already is.”

Martini’s blunt fingers drummed on the console. “We’re not the ones who are going to make it worse. Besides, I mink those bastards are too clever to shoot at us.”

“But they will shoot at the Japanese,” Townly reminded him.

Martini studied the airlift status board. He had two C-130 Hercules transports on base. “I think it’s about time we establish a few ground rules of our own—before they can do anything about it. Ask for volunteers to fly a C-130 to Yokota.” Yokota was the big U.S. Air Force Base 30 miles west of Tokyo.

The C-130 crew was waiting for Martini inside Intel’s big walk-in vault. The aircraft commander was a junior captain and older than the copilot and navigator, the other two officers. The flight engineer was the oldest member of the crew, an ancient thirty-four-year-old tech sergeant. The youngest member was the loadmaster, a twenty-year-old mother who had just made airman first class. They all came to attention when Martini entered.

“I take it you all know what you’ve volunteered for?” he asked. He waited until each one acknowledged his question before continuing. “I want you to test this so-called blockade. Our latest Intelligence says the Chinese do not have the capability to intercept aircraft.” He stared at them. “That could change at anytime, and you could be shot at. I want you to fly as high and as slow as you can to Yokota. Once there, expect to be sent right back.” He looked at the loadmaster.
She’s not much older than my daughter
, he thought. For a brief moment, he considered ordering her to stay behind.
Bullshit
, he told himself,
she volunteered for this
.

“Any questions?” he asked. They all shook their heads. “Good luck then.” He walked out of the vault and back into the command post. He checked the time and ran the numbers. If the C-130 launched at 1300 hours and it took
seven hours to fly to Yokota and back, the crew should be back on the ground at 2000 local time on Kadena, which was six o’clock Tuesday morning in Washington, D.C.

Martini allowed a short laugh, not much more man a bark. “Someone in Washington is going to have one hell of a surprise when they come to work.” Now he had to wait, the curse of all commanders. The minutes dragged, giving him time to mink about the young C-130 crew. He had only met them a few minutes ago and now he was ordering them to put their lives on the line. “Damn,” he muttered. “The aircraft we’re giving them to fly are older than they are.”

“That’s not our fault,” the Operations Group commander replied. Martini did not answer and stared at the status boards as a sergeant posted the C-130’s takeoff time. Ryan entered the Battle Cab to give his commanders a “how-goes-it” on NEO. He waited to be recognized, but Martini was still thinking about the four men and one woman flying the C-130. “What do you know about that C-130 crew?” he asked.

“Not much,” the Operations Group commander replied. “They are stationed out of Dyess. The pilot is an Academy graduate. Apparently, the loadmaster’s husband was killed in a motorcycle accident about a year ago. She’s got a kid.”

“If I’m wrong,” Martini said, “I just made that kid an orphan.” The Operations Group commander did not reply. “What the hell,” Martini muttered. “She raised her hand and took the same oath as everyone else.”

Martini’s words cut into Ryan like a knife. It was another incident to add to his growing case book.
You are one mean-spirited son of a bitch
, he told himself.

“Major Ryan, how do we stand on NEO?” Martini asked.

“We are making progress, sir.” Working on the nonessential personnel evacuation operation had taught him what the word
coordination
really meant. “At last count, we’re dealing with over 26,000 people. That includes the Army, Marine, and Navy dependents, a big bunch of schoolteachers and civilian contractors. There are people
coming out of the woodwork no one knew were here. That includes a guy that was listed as MIA in Vietnam.”

“Did you arrest him?”

Ryan shook his head. “He’s mentally disturbed, and we committed him to the hospital for observation and a physical exam.”

“Other problems?”

“Our biggest problem is what to do with all the cars. So we’ve set up collection areas scattered around the different bases. We plan to call people in as airlift becomes available and use buses to get them to the flight line.” Martini seemed satisfied with his answers, and Ryan screwed up his courage to ask the big question. “Sir, why am I involved with NEO? I’m a doctor and should be at the Med Center, doing what I’m trained for.”

“Major,” Martini replied, “there are going to be a lot of upset wives and children who will need reassuring and special care. I’m betting that a doctor is more attuned to their needs than your average bear. Case in point is the way you handled that crazy MIA.”

But Ryan wouldn’t let it go. “Sir, I must protest. I am a doctor. This is not what I should be doing.”

“I heard you the first time,” Martini said, his voice calm. He was the father, explaining the facts of life to an impetuous and willful teenager. “Your job is where I say it is. If you are unhappy, I suggest you write your congressman, see the chaplain, or file a complaint with IG. Dismissed.”

Ryan jerked his head once in acknowledgment and beat a hasty retreat, his face a bright red. “Why so hard on the kid?” the Operations Group commander asked.

“That C-130 crew is willing to do their job. So should he.” He humphed. “We’re not a social welfare, all-hold-hands, feel-good, debating society. Once he learns that, he might turn into a halfway decent officer.”

Rather than cool his heals in the command post, Martini drove around his base. All the signs that marked the life of a small community were gone, and it was eerily quiet. He passed the chapel as a small group came out from a worship service. They looked at him in silence as if they
were holding their collective breath, waiting for the storm to hit.
I’m going to get you all out of here
, he told himself.

His car radio squawked: He was needed in the command post. He mashed the accelerator and switched on his emergency lights. His vice commander was waiting for him at the command post door. “Sir, the C-130 landed safely at Yokota, and CINC PAC has cleared us to continue with airlift operations. The C-130 is on its way back and more airlift is on its way.”

The steel bonds of responsibility that held Martini tight eased their grip. “It’s a beginning.”

Washington, D.C.

At exactly six o’clock Tuesday morning, Shaw escorted Turner from her private study in the residence to the West Wing. Jackie Winters, her personal assistant, followed in lock step, determined to use every available second to ease the strain on her president. But Turner seemed distracted, not concerned with the mundane matters that made up Winters’s world.
Maddy’s showing the strain
, Shaw thought as they entered the Oval Office.

Seven of her key advisors were waiting for her. Only this time, Bender and Hazelton were among them. “Good morning, Madam President,” Sam Kennett said. They all found seats as she stood in front of her desk. Shaw chose a chair against the back wall and tried to disappear. He made a mental entry for the secret journal he intended to keep:
Unless all the lessons of modern history were wrong, I knew this meeting marked the beginning of the internal breakdown that would lead to the end of Madeline Turner’s effectiveness as a president
. He mulled the words over and rejected the idea of keeping a journal. He opened his notebook and waited for the meeting to start.

“I plan to address this crisis on three fronts,” Turner began. “First, I want State to pursue a formal response through normal diplomatic channels and the United Nations. Second, I want the national security advisor to contact the Chinese secretly so we can talk behind the scenes. Third, I want an appropriate military response. The watch
word will be
caution
, and I do not want to make this situation worse than it is by precipitating action. Finally, my presidency will not be held hostage to this crisis by the Chinese. We are going to get on with the business of running this country.”

She looked around the room, stopping on the secretary of state. “What is the situation with the Japanese?”

“In a word, Madam President, chaos. They are waiting for our response.”

She pointed at Secretary of Defense Elkins. “Until we can reach an agreement with the Japanese, I do not want any hotheaded reaction from Overmeyer.”

Elkins looked very unhappy. “Understood, Madam President.”

“It may have already occurred,” the secretary of state said. “Apparently, the Air Force has challenged the blockade. They are flying airlift missions into Kadena.”

Turner’s head snapped up, and she fixed Elkins with a hard look. “Why wasn’t I told about it immediately?”

Hazelton answered her. “We only learned of it a few minutes ago. General Martini—”

“I’m getting tired of constantly hearing that name,” Turner interrupted.

“He is the commander on the cutting edge,” Bender told her.

“As I understand the situation report,” Hazelton continued, “Martini acted in accordance with the directives issued to all forces. He is ignoring the blockade and conducting regular airlift missions.”

“At last report,” Bender said, “the Chinese do not have the capability to enforce the blockade, at least in the air. Admittedly, that can change at any moment, and they may intercept or down one of our aircraft.”

“I will not risk lives needlessly,” Turner said. “I don’t want this to happen again. From now on, I will personally approve every flight into and out of Okinawa.”

Elkins’s jaw muscles strained as he ground his teeth. “Madam President,” he finally managed, “don’t do that!” His outburst shocked the room into silence.

Bender spoke, his voice quiet and reasonable. “With all due respect, Madam President, that would be a mistake.
We learned the hard way in Vietnam that you cannot fight a war from the White House or, for that matter, from the Pentagon. We tell our commanders in the field what we want them to do and then give them the latitude and the means to do it.”

“Need I remind you,” Turner said, “that I am trying to prevent a war.”

“Madam President,” Hazelton said, “General Martini established a precedent we can exploit in future negotiations.”

“Just like the Berlin airlift when the Soviet Union blockaded Berlin in 1948,” Bender added. “Not only does an air corridor offer us the means to resupply Okinawa, but we can evacuate dependents and civilians.” From the look on Turner’s face, he had made a telling point.