Power Curve (45 page)

Nancy sat in the car and leaned her head against the steering wheel. “Oh, Robert,” she whispered.

The Situation Room rapidly filled as the president’s security advisors filed in. Hazelton joined the crowd and stood behind Bender’s seat next to the DCI. The number of people and the tension in the room left no doubt that this was a full-fledged council of war. General Charles was standing at the far end with the JCS hovering at his back. Barnett Francis and the head of the State Department’s Far East Desk were opposite her. The key players from the Intelligence community clustered around the DCI. Shaw stepped through the door. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President.” He stepped aside, and Turner walked in.

She sat down. “Please be seated.”

The DCI held Hazelton’s chair as she sat down, a touch of old-world courtesy, and remained standing. The room was absolutely silent. “Madam President,” the DCI began
as the TV screen opposite Turner scrolled to an area map centered on Okinawa. “Chinese paratroopers have been inserted on the atoll where they detonated their nuclear device. The airdrop began approximately one hour ago and so far, we estimate they have air-dropped approximately 500 men on the atoll. The airdrops are still in progress as heavy equipment and artillery arrive.”

“When did we learn about this?” Turner asked.

The DCI checked the time/date stamp on the message. “Four minutes ago.”

“Where is General Bender?” she demanded.

The head of the National Reconnaissance Office answered. “Satellite imagery taken two hours ago show his plane is still at Shahe Air Base. Shahe is near Beijing.”

“I know where Shahe is,” Turner snapped. “When did the Chinese start this airdrop operation?”

“As best we can tell,” the DCI replied, “the aircraft launched from mainland China less than two hours ago.”

Turner studied the TV screen. “I assume this is their answer to my demand that General Bender and his crew be released.”

“Madam President,” Secretary Francis said, “this is consistent with their strategy from the very first.”

“Salami tactics,” Shaw muttered from his end of the room.

Turner ignored him. “General Charles, what is the status on Okinawa?”

“The island is at maximum alert. The team from the States should arrive in five hours. They need some time to inspect the weapons, but we can meet your deadline.”

Turner pointed her pen at the secretary of state. “Barnett, continue with your diplomatic offensive. Pull out all the stops. Someone, somewhere, must be able to reason with those idiots in Beijing.” The pen moved to the DCI. “Find General Bender.” The pen moved and pointed to Charles. “You have exactly twelve hours to execute that selective release. Make it happen.”

“Ma’am,” Charles said, “we can have an ICBM on target in forty minutes.”

“Too big,” she said. “I want to move down the scale, not up. And besides, what is the reliability of that weapon?
How many missiles will it take?” An embarrassed silence met her questions.

“Mizz President,” Shaw said, “press conference in five minutes.”

She stood up. “You know what I want done. Stay on top of this, and we will reconvene at five o’clock tomorrow morning. Sooner if we need to.” She paused, considering her next words. But she said nothing and walked briskly out the door.

Madeline Turner’s kitchen cabinet was waiting for her in the family dining room on the second floor when she finished the press conference. Dinner with her friends was exactly what she needed to break her hectic schedule. They clustered around one end of the table and sat down to eat. “Lord, child,” Noreen Coker said, “that was a ‘come-to-Jesus’ press conference if I ever saw one.”

Richard Parrish laughed. “Isn’t that the bell you used when you were a state senator?”

“When I was a freshman,” she replied, “I was the only woman in the senate and none of those old curmudgeons would listen to me. I rang it to get their attention. It seemed like a good idea to stop those reporters from asking the same questions over and over.”

Maura smiled. “It worked. You didn’t have to ring in once in the last few minutes. You reminded me of a schoolmarm with a bunch of unruly children. I think you made some of them very angry.”

“It did speed things along,” Coker said.

They deliberately steered clear of China as they ate and talked to give Turner a break and restore her strength. They all felt the pressure she was under and wished they could ease her burden. But the best they could offer was support and a few moments of quiet companionship. When the dinner was over and coffee served, Turner turned to business.

“I was very angry that not one reporter asked about Sam,” she said.

“I visited the vice president this afternoon,” Parrish said. “He’s in good spirits after the amputation. The doctors say he’s doing fine and they didn’t have to take as
much of his left arm as they originally thought. They’re still a little worried about lung infection. But it is yielding.”

“What’s Leland up to?” Turner asked.

Noreen Coker’s chair groaned as she heaved her bulk to a more comfortable position. “That snake?” She humphed. “Laying low in the grass for now. His most recent internal tracking polls are shaky.”

“So are ours,” Turner replied. “Do you have any idea what his are showing?”

Coker shook her head. “He may be sensing a new trend. I don’t know.”

Parrish set his coffee cup down. “What are you going to do with Shaw?”

“I can’t do anything until this is over,” Turner answered.

“Give him to me,” Coker said. “He’ll be squealing soprano for the rest of his life after I’m done with him.”

Turner was alone in her private study when Maura and Sarah joined her. Sarah was in her pajamas and ready for bed. She cuddled against her mother for a few moments. Brian burst through the door and skidded to a stop in front of them. “On the TV,” he gasped. “There’s a story about General Bender. Liz Gordon said he was being held hostage by the Chinese.”

“It’s true,” Turner said. “He’s being held with the crew that flew him into China.”

“Why?” Brian asked.

“The Chinese say they’re spies,” Turner told him. “I sent him on a secret mission to talk to them. But I wouldn’t give them what they wanted, so they took him hostage.”

Sarah cried. “That’s not fair.”

“Many things in life are not fair,” Turner said. “But I’m doing everything I can to get them out.” They talked for a few moments before Maura took them to bed.

Maura returned a few minutes later and sat beside her daughter. “Are you OK?” she asked.

Turner shook her head. “I’m so worried, Mother. I’ve
made so many mistakes. I don’t want to fight a war, I don’t want to use a nuclear bomb.”

“Then don’t,” Maura said.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Maddy.”

Madeline Turner shook her head. Maura didn’t understand. “No, Mother. The president doesn’t have a choice.”

Washington, D.C.

Jessica was waiting for Shaw when he arrived at his Watergate condominium. He was tired and wanted nothing more than a tall glass of bourbon and a leisurely soak in his Jacuzzi. “The senator wants to see you,” she said.

“Not tonight, Jess. I’m bushed. I’ve got to be back in a few hours and it’s been a hell’uva day.”
If only she knew
, he thought. The White House was controlled chaos.

“Now,” she ordered, handing him his topcoat. “I’ll drive.”

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered as he followed her to the elevator. Jessica was true to her basic instincts and drove like a maniac, thrilling Shaw in ways he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. They reached the farmhouse in record-breaking time. No one was waiting for them, and the house was dark. He followed her inside, not liking her easy familiarity with the house.
She’s just another power groupie
, he told himself.
Use her like all the others
.

Leland was alone and waiting in the den. He waved Shaw to a chair and looked at Jessica. She left the room. “I’m worried about you, son.”

Shaw heard the patronizing tone in Leland’s voice and felt his skin prickle. He tried to settle into the chair, but no matter which way he squirmed, he couldn’t get comfortable and kept slipping forward. It was an old trick Shaw had perfected in his earlier days to handle reporters and lobbyists. Now Leland was doing it to him. Shaw stood up and leaned against the mantle, his foot on the hearth. It was time to go on the offensive. “I’ve been having some doubts of my own.”

“I’ve always believed in rewarding my friends and burying my enemies,” Leland replied. “But I can’t figure out which group you fall in. You assured me you were in control in the White House and Turner was isolated. You failed to deliver on both counts and some of our mutual friends have raised serious questions about your loyalty.”

Loyalty!
Shaw thought.
What would Leland and the group know about that word?
“I take it, our ‘friends’ are losing their nerve,” he said. All traces of his southern accent were gone, and his voice was flat and hard.

“Not losing their nerve,” Leland replied. “They feel you have caused them to, ah, take a premature course of action by your rash promises.”

“I delivered Jackie Winters,” Shaw replied.

“Did you? A friend tells me the FBI is certain the, ah, undergarment found in her desk was planted and they’re following up on it. That’s a trail that will undoubtedly lead to you and ultimately to here. That was a stupid thing you did.” Leland held up his hand to silence Shaw. “Now let me tell you what
you
are going to do. You’re going to tell the world how our president is being screwed silly by her national security advisor, a married man, in the White House.”

Shaw tried to conjure up an image of Bender engaging in sex. Even for his fertile mind, it was beyond him. But Maddy was there, alone, demanding his attention. It wasn’t a politician he was sacrificing on the altar of power but the young and idealistic woman he had taken under his wing years before, the grieving widow, the caring mother with her children, Brian and Sarah.
Brian and Sarah
, he thought.
What will they think of their mother when I do this? Kids! Since when did they vote?
He forced a laugh he didn’t feel. “Maddy and Bender! No way, no how.”

Leland ignored his outburst. “According to our polls, that will drive the last nail into her coffin.”

Shaw came even more alert. He knew all about internal tracking polls, and the White House had its own number crunchers who constantly sampled the public’s mood swings. According to their latest polls, Maddy’s approval rating was low but holding steady.

“Perhaps,” Leland said, “a word in the shell-like ear of Liz Gordon?”

The first touches of panic brushed Shaw. Did Leland know about their relationship? What else did he know? Shaw clicked through the implications. Slowly, he calmed and held his panic at bay. He had to keep Leland looking in the right direction. “For openers, Bender hasn’t got a prick. Think what you want, but there’s nothing between them.”

“Son,” Leland said, “we’re very serious about this. If Turner survives, I’ll personally cut you up for shark bait and feed you to the media. You’ll be dead in this town.” The threat was very real, and Leland had the power to make it happen.

Shaw’s panic was back, much stronger this time. He fought the urge to find a bathroom. “Senator, you and me have butted heads before. We both wound up with headaches.”

“I’m not alone in this,” Leland said, his voice matter-of-fact. “A lot of good folks are going to be very upset. They can hurt you in ways I can’t even imagine. If I were you, I wouldn’t make them mad.” He paused, ratcheting up the tension before extending the olive branch. “On the other hand, if you help us render that bitch and get her out of the White House—” He smiled and did not finish the offer.

Shaw stiffened, and the urge to urinate went away. Relief shot through him, not because of the senator’s offer, but because of what he heard behind the words. It was a subtle nuance, a change of tone, the echo of fear. Leland was on the defensive. Why? Had Leland’s polls caught an early trend that his experts had missed? Was Maddy Turner gaining in the public’s esteem? He needed to check it out. He muttered a few words and beat a hasty retreat, leaving Leland alone in front of the fire.
Don’t threaten old Patrick
, Shaw thought.
Not while I’ve still got another time at bat
.

A side door opened, and four people filed in. The last was Gwen Anderson, the secretary of health and human services who Shaw had crushed with revelations about her
bouts of depression. “Did you get the bastard’s attention?” she asked.

“You’ll get your pound of flesh,” Leland said. “But he’s being obstinate and says there is nothing going on between Turner and Bender.”

“He may not be willing to give her up on this,” Secretary of Defense Elkins said. “They go back a long time.”

“My God,” Anderson said, “we’re talking about Patrick Shaw. Everything’s for sale.”

Shaw slipped into the passenger’s seat of the waiting Jaguar. Jessica’s feet danced on the pedals, and her legs flashed in the glow from the instruments. The car leaped forward and accelerated down the narrow lane. “Is everything OK?” she asked.

“Ab-so-loot-lee,” Shaw blustered. Whatever he told her would be back to Leland within minutes after she left him. “We had a meeting of the minds. Toot-sweet.” She smiled at his twisted French.
What a mess
, he thought.
What a terrible, fuckin’ mess
.

She pulled up at a stoplight and reached across to touch his cheek. “You look tired.” Her words were soft, full of concern.

“It’s been a hell of a Valentine’s Day, Jess.”

Okinawa, Japan

B
ob Ryan stood on the parking ramp with Pete Townly as the KC-10 tanker taxied into the chalks. Ryan shifted his weight from foot to foot as the boarding stairs were pushed into position. The door swung open, and a bearded bear of a man stepped into the hot and humid noonday sun. He shambled down the stairs, followed by seven men and one woman. Townly stepped forward. “Dr. Malthus?” he asked. The beard bobbed up and down in answer, and Townly made the introductions. “Major Ryan and I are your escorts,” he explained. “We’re going directly to the command post where General Martini is waiting for you.”

Martini was waiting at the entrance of the command post, and Townly made the introductions. “We’re set up in the Intelligence vault.” Martini said. He led the civilians, Townly, and Ryan into the vault. “We’ve received a valid emergency action message for a selective release with an execute time of no later time than 2100 local,” Martini told them. “Eight hours from now.”

Malthus’s beard dropped to his chest. “You don’t want much. OK, let’s go to work. First, we need every scrap of information you’ve got. While we’re crunching the numbers, those misfits from Brand X”—he pointed to four engineers from Sandia National Laboratories—“will validate a weapon and check out the circuitry.” He looked around the vault. “Can we work in here?”

“It’s all yours,” Martini said. “If you need anything, tell Pete here. He’s got the security clearances to get you anything you need. Doc Ryan is the head of our Personnel Reliability Program. He can escort you anywhere on base.”

Malthus grinned at Ryan. “You a shrink?”

“Flight surgeon,” Ryan replied, instantly liking the big scientist.

“Always good having someone watching for the gonzos,” Malthus said. He flipped open his briefcase and pulled out a laptop computer. The others did the same and linked them together. Ryan stared at the computers in disbelief. Malthus laughed. “Did you think we still used slide rules?”

“Major Ryan,” Martini said, “please take the gentlemen from Sandia to the fuel cells building.”

The turnstile at the end of the first vertical tank storage system clanked as the long line of drop tanks moved around the track. “Some dry cleaning store,” one of the civilians quipped as the tanks swayed and jerked. The operator stopped the track, and the mechanical loading arm gently extracted a tank. Two sergeants lowered it onto a dolly and pushed the tank into a corner of the main hangar bay where a huge curtain had been rigged for privacy. The dolly and the four engineers from Sandia disappeared behind the curtain. Ryan waited as the machine-gunlike sound of air wrenches split the air. Soon, a disassembled drop tank was shoved out.

“You ever seen a weapon up close?” one of the civilians asked. Ryan shook his head and followed him behind the curtain. He stopped, frozen in his tracks. The men were bent over a sleek silver dart, and if Ryan hadn’t known what it was, he would have said it was beautiful. “It had better be eleven feet, nine and one-half inches long,” the civilian said, “and weigh exactly 716.3 pounds.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Ryan asked.

“Then we got bigger problems than we thought,” the engineer answered.

Ryan stood back as the men started the first of their
tests, a simple weighing of the weapon. He was surprised by their speed and was shocked by their cavalier attitude. The main hangar doors cranked back, and he heard the unmistakable bellow of Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz as another F-15E Strike Eagle was tugged into the maintenance bay. Like the bomb, the F-15 gleamed with care. “It’s fresh off the wash rack,” Contreraz told him.

“Why?” Ryan asked.

“Why not?” came the answer.

Shahe Air Base, China

“Someone’s coming,” Burke said. He moved away from his spot by the back wall of the cell. “What d’you think?”

Bender looked at his watch. It was two in the afternoon. “Dinnertime,” he answered. His mouth still hurt, and it was difficult to talk.

The door opened, and a guard carried in the same basket and pot as before. The woman stood in the doorway and watched as Burke ladled out the thin gruel of rice and vegetables. “Who’s the dragon lady gonna beat the shit out of this time?” Burke muttered.

“Eat,” Bender said.

She waited until they were finished and a guard had taken the basket away. “We are not barbarians,” she said. Bender eyed the guards and said nothing. He would wait for a direct question. “You may speak,” she told him.

“My mouth hurts,” he said.

No sign of emotion crossed her face as her fingers touched his bruised face. “You were presumptuous,” she said, pulling her fingers away. “But I found your concern for your men most touching. Why should we let them go?”

“Because Mr. Wang—”

“Chairman Wang,” she corrected.

“Is he?” Bender replied. Her facial muscles tensed. He had made a telling point. Now he had to recover before the hoses came out. “Because Chairman Wang promised he would.”

For the first time, she smiled. It was beautiful but did not match her words. “Why should he honor a promise made to a spy?”

It was his turn to smile. “Because I told him the truth. Sooner or later, Chairman Wang will have to negotiate with President Turner. By releasing my crew, they are proof that he keeps his word.” Had he made a point with her? He couldn’t tell.

“You are asking too much for too little,” she replied. “Chairman Wang desires more details. You only said she would respond in kind. That is not enough. If she is going to drop a nuclear weapon, we need to know when and where.”

“I don’t know.”

She gave a little sigh. “If I fail, I will lose much face with the chairman. I could start shooting your men one at a time until you tell me.”

“I’d lie first.”

She spoke in Mandarin, and two guards grabbed Courtland. They straightened his arms out behind his back and twisted as they forced him to a kneeling position. She spoke again, and the same burly sergeant charged into the cell, his gun drawn.

“The island of Kumejima,” Bender said. “It’s the closest Japanese territory you’ve occupied and most of the civilians have left.” The sergeant froze, and they all looked at the woman. Did she believe him?

She barked a command, and the sergeant backed off, his automatic lowered. “When?” This was in English.

“It should have happened by now.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“That’s why I had a deadline to get out of China,” he answered.

Again, the passive look without any sign of emotion. “Chairman Wang is right. Your president won’t act and will only talk.”

“You’re misjudging her,” he said.

“Are we?” She turned to leave. She stopped and turned. “If you have lied to me, I will personally shoot you. In the mouth.” She smiled. “But then, perhaps Chairman Wang will have it done first.” She spoke quietly in
Mandarin and left. The guards withdrew behind her and slammed the heavy door. The Americans waited in silence as the lock rattled. Burke ran back to his position around the corner and pressed his ear against the wall.

“She’s leaving,” he said. “I can tell her walk.”

Courtland stood up and rubbed his arms. “Damn. I thought I was dead. What’s going on?”

“I’m negotiating for your release,” Bender told him.

“It sounds like you’re collaborating,” Jenkins said from his bunk.

“Is it ‘collaboration’ when you tell them the obvious?” Bender asked.

“General,” Courtland said, “that woman will shoot you if you lied to her.”

Okinawa, Japan

Toby Malthus kicked his chair back and stood up. He paced the length of the big vault. “Well, Ev, what do you think?” The one woman on the team typed a command into her computer and waited. Like him, she was a brilliant physicist. But she kept it hidden behind a pleasant and cheery personality. People often made the mistake of only seeing an overweight and hardworking single mother of two teenage girls. Malthus knew better.

“Everything checks so far,” Ev told him. “What are the Sandia toads saying?” The rivalry between the Sandia and Livermore Labs was an old one but more friendly than vicious.

“So far, the circuitry on the weapon they’re dismantling tests perfect. They’re almost finished and should be here any minute with the final results.”

“Maybe we just had a lemon,” Ev ventured.

“Possible. It would help if we could find the bomb. Townly tells me an SR-71 overflew the atoll and they couldn’t find any trace of the weapon or the parachute. Because it was a parachute-retarded airburst over a small atoll, the wind may have blown it over the ocean when it didn’t detonate.”

“And it landed in the water,” Ev added. “Lovely. An
armed nuclear weapon set for a ten-megaton yield just laying there.”

“If that’s the case,” Malthus said, “we’ll find it—eventually.”

“Eventually ain’t soon enough,” Ev said. She considered another possibility. “If there was only a low-order detonation or only the high explosive went off, we should be able to measure an increase in airborne radiation and plot the fallout.”

Malthus double-checked his notes. “According to the atmospheric samples taken by a reconnaissance aircraft before and after the release, there was no increase in radiation.”

Ev looked at him sadly. “It’s in the primary, isn’t it?” The B-61 was a two-stage bomb. The
primary
was the fission assembly, or atomic bomb, that set off the
secondary
, the thermonuclear part of the warhead. “So what do we tell the general?” she asked.

“I need to talk to the Sandia troops first,” he answered. They waited until the four civilians walked in, still escorted by Ryan.

“The weapons check perfectly,” their leader said. “As best we can tell, they’re all good to go.”

Malthus rifled through his notes and reread the crew’s debriefing. “The weapon system officer reported that the arm light took approximately ten seconds to change to green when he rotated the wafer switch. Check out the arming circuits on the aircraft.” He picked up the phone and called Martini as the Sandia engineers left.

The general was waiting for the call and walked quickly to the vault. Malthus explained where they were. “Damn,” Martini grumbled. “We don’t know any more than we did two days ago.”

“General,” Malthus said, “I’ve got a suggestion. We know the circuitry and batteries are good on the last bomb we checked. Upload it and get ready to launch. While you’re doing that—”

Ev interrupted him. “Toby, don’t do it. We haven’t got the right equipment.”

The physicist smiled at her. “I’ve done it before.”

Martini was an impatient man and not given to collegial discussions. “Do what?” he grumbled.

“We’ve got a bomb disassembled,” Malthus replied. “If you give me the go ahead, I’ll cut into the primary. If it’s OK, then you drop the bomb that’s already loaded.” He described the process of cutting into the core and what he was looking for. He concluded with “It will take about three to four hours.” Everyone in the room looked at their watches. They had exactly four hours and forty-eight minutes to go.

“What do you need?” Martini asked.

“A big pit, a couple tons of gravel, a steel barrel, and lots of concrete,” Malthus said. “Ev knows the details and what has to be done.”

Martini’s fingers drummed the table. “We got a concrete pit in an old maintenance hangar you can use.”

“General,” Ryan said, “can you do that? I mean, dismantle a bomb.”

“Why not?” Martini said. “I signed for the damn things.” He paused for a moment. “Do it.”

Ryan paced back and forth outside the old maintenance hangar. His agitation was growing with each step, and he was convinced that Martini had cracked under the stress and had become delusional, turning into a Dr. Strangelove. He wondered if PACAF or the Pentagon knew what he was doing? Probably not. He walked over to the frumpy-looking woman. “Excuse me, exactly why do you need a concrete pit to work in? And why did you cover it with gravel?”

Ev gave him a kindly look and tried to explain. They were disassembling the “physics package” and cutting into the basketball-sized core of the primary so they could examine the very heart of the weapon; specifically, the neutron-emitting initiator at the center and the plutonium surrounding it. But the core was covered with a dark waxy high-explosive material far more powerful than TNT, and there was a chance it might accidentally explode. If that happened, the plutonium, which was highly radioactive, would be dispersed into the air. “The gravel will rise a
few feet and settle down, containing the explosion and the radiation,” she said.

“But what about the people in the pit?” Ryan asked.

“No one could survive the blast,” Ev replied. “But Dr. Malthus knows what he’s doing so there’s not much chance of that happening. When he cuts into the plutonium, there’s going to be a lot of radioactive dust, which will be contained in the pit. We have to run a lot of tests, but it’s all pretty straightforward.”

“But the radiation,” Ryan protested.

“That’s why we have to work fast. With a little luck, no one should receive over one or two rems. We can live with that.”

“What do you do with the bits and pieces after you’re finished?”

“Burn the explosives, grind up the subassemblies, and put what’s left of the core into a special container we brought with us and ship it to Pantex in Texas for storage.”

“But what if that container leaks? What do you do then?”

Ev was a patient woman. “If we detect any leakage, we encase the container, in concrete, in a barrel. If it’s still leaking, we place the barrel in the pit. There’s a great deal of radioactive dust down there and the test equipment is contaminated. So we’re going to bury the whole thing in concrete when we’re finished. No problem.”

No problem!
Ryan thought. An image of mad scientists flashed through his mind. He saw Master Sergeant Contreraz walk out of the hangar and climb into a waiting van. Ryan excused himself and flagged the van down. “Can I hook a lift to my car?” Contreraz told him to climb in, and they motored slowly across the ramp. “Do they have everything they need inside the hangar?” Ryan asked.