The Foundation: Jack Emery 1 (9 page)

She frowned. “I don’t believe Ernest is
that
explicit about his agenda. I mean, I’ve heard stories, but—”

“They’re true.” Jack shrugged. “He’s a ruthless bastard and we write what he tells us to write whenever he’s interested enough to tell us. It’s worse than that, in this case. I spoke to Jo an hour ago on the sat phone.”

“Oh?”

“He gave me the same message that you got in the email. They’re running with a pretty explosive editorial tomorrow—a demand for pre-emptive US strikes to keep Chinese brinksmanship in check. He also told me it’s straight from the top.”

Celeste walked over to the rail of the observation deck. “Are they trying to start a war?”

Jack shrugged. “Don’t worry too much. Even though there’s a war brewing, it’s being held in check by this very ship. I’ll take the lead on the reports, you just help me with the background. I won’t make you write the piece that sparks the powder keg.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved.

Jack turned to go inside the carrier just as everything around him went bright and a shockwave hit him. As he stumbled and fell, he heard the explosion and Celeste cry out. He managed to brace, but he still landed hard on the deck. His ears started to ring with a high-pitched whine.

He felt the cold steel of the walkway on his cheek. He tried to move, but couldn’t. He was not sure how long he lay there, stunned, but it was long enough for the whine in his ears to subside. Through the gap in the safety rail, he could see several fires burning on the far side of the flight deck. The flames combined with the dozens of flashing red LEDs to light the night sky in a hellish scene. Men and women screamed.

Jack lifted his head and looked at Celeste. She hadn’t moved. He was about to try to get to his feet when everything went black.

Jack’s shoes clanked on the steel floor of the long, straight corridor. It was as if with each step the carrier was groaning again at the punishment it had taken. His nostrils were filled with the heady mix of burning rubber, insulation and electrical wire. Though most of the fires were out, the stink remained.

He was taking things slowly. Although he’d been let out of the infirmary with a few stitches and some aspirin, his head still ached. He couldn’t blame the doctors for being more concerned about the real casualties—those with burns and shrapnel—than with his cut lip and sore head. Celeste had likewise been released.

“Step aside!”

Jack moved to the wall and sank into it as much as the cold, hard steel would allow. He waited as a small team of men and women rushed past him without a glance in his direction. In the hours since the attack on the
Washington
, the same crew he’d watched maneuver jet planes had worked to put out fires or clean up debris.

Once the path was clear, he walked through a final bulkhead and up a small flight of stairs. He paused at the top and looked around at the banks of computers. Harried-looking men and women were crowded around several of the terminals. Above it all, on a raised platform, sat Admiral McCulloch. He looked like a man in control.

“Permission to come aboard, Admiral?” Jack spoke loudly enough that the man in the chair looked his way.

“Ah, Mr Emery.” McCulloch smiled. “Granted.”

He stepped into the Combat Information Center, which felt strangely untouched by the attack. He walked to where McCulloch sat and wondered when the man had last slept. Nonetheless, McCulloch’s aura of authority amazed Jack. He’d half expected chaos. Instead, all was calm, though the ship was listless and pathetic.

“Bad time, Admiral?”

McCulloch gestured for Jack to sit next to him in the executive officer’s vacant seat. “As good a time as any. Glad you’re okay, though. You had a fall?”

Jack shrugged. “Not too bad. Any idea what happened?”

McCulloch sighed. “Off the record? Chinese sub. A new one. Got right inside our guard, kicked us in the balls and got away again.”

Jack’s eyes widened. He knew a scoop when he heard one. “Anything for me on the record?”

McCulloch laughed. “You crazy? I’m not giving you your next Pulitzer. If I say a word, and you print it, the nukes might start flying. I’m no coward, but I don’t want to be stranded here if that happens. The Pentagon isn’t saying shit. I think they might still be in shock. And if they’re not talking, neither am I.”

“Fair enough, Admiral. You should know, though, that the word from my superiors is to talk up Taiwanese independence, the outrageous actions of China, and so on.”

McCulloch snorted. “That’s going to do wonders for our health and wellbeing.”

“Hopefully we won’t be here to find out.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. We’re sitting ducks. We’ve lost all propulsion and we’re trying to patch a great big hole in the side of the ship. We’re afloat but going nowhere soon.”

Jack was staggered to think about the amount of damage required to bring such a large ship to a halt. If the explosion had been caused by a Chinese submarine attack, as McCulloch had suggested, it represented a massive increase in the stakes. It wouldn’t take much more to trigger a war. Jack was surprised it hadn’t already happened.

“Why are you telling me this, Admiral?”

“Posterity, son. I’ve seen too many of my contemporaries hang from the rafters after the fact. I want this documented, and I want history to remember we tried to avoid a war.”

Jack smiled. “I can do that.”

“Good. The Joint Chiefs have ordered the USS
John C Stennis
to make a beeline from the Persian Gulf, but it will take a while to get here. The USS
Nimitz
is halfway to Norfolk for its refit but has turned around. Nothing is close enough right now.”

“So there's no help coming?”

“Oh, we’ve always got stuff in town. Some air power out of Japan and Guam. Some subs and surface boats. We’ve got enough to deny the Chinese sea control, if it comes to that, but we can’t project power or do a lot of the things we usually take for granted.”

“Who knew it would be this easy?”

“That’s the problem with steaming full speed ahead into somebody else’s war.” McCulloch sighed. “Sometimes they don’t like it when you appear on the horizon.”

“At least we’ve got a mini-Air Force on board.”

McCulloch stared at him blankly. “You haven’t noticed the silence? The torpedo took out some pretty important widgets. My engineers are working on it, but all those jets are shiny paperweights unless we can get this tub fixed.”

Jack’s mouth went dry as he realized the implications—the carrier was static and had no air power umbrella. It didn’t seem like a winning proposition. “Will the Chinese attack again?”

“I can't see why they would. They’ve proven their new nuke subs can get inside our defenses. There’s no need to show off and spike the ball in the end zone.”

One of the radio operators cut in. “Incoming transmission, sir. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

“Patch it through to my phone, Mr Jones.” McCulloch turned to Jack. “You’ll need to excuse me, son.”

Jack nodded and stood. Clearly McCulloch was not going to start speaking to his boss until Jack had left the CIC, so he made his way out of the room as quickly as he could. McCulloch and his crew had been more than welcoming, and he didn’t want to push his luck at a sensitive time.

He snaked his way back through the ship to his cabin. On the way, he saw more evidence of damage and the crews trying hard to fix it. Jack did his best to stay out of their way and at a respectful distance. He reached his cabin, kicked off his shoes and sprawled out on his narrow bed. He closed his eyes.

Jack’s eyes shot open and he sat up in confusion when there was a knock on the door. He’d obviously fallen asleep. “Come in.”

He rose to his feet as McCulloch entered and gestured for Jack to remain seated. “No need to get up.”

“Admiral? What can I do for you?”

McCulloch sighed. “I need to get a few things on the record, for use if and when this little party gets kicking.”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My call was from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The Chinese are insisting that we’ve drifted into their waters following the ‘accident’ and demanding we either abandon ship, allow them to rescue us or leave their waters.”

Jack saw where this was heading. “I’m guessing there’s a few problems with most of those options.”

“You could say that. We’re not moving without a tow truck, we’re not letting them on board and we’re certainly not abandoning a few billion dollars’ worth of carrier that easily.”

“So what can I do for you, Admiral?”

“I want it recorded that the Joint Chiefs have told us there’s nothing close enough to defend us, but that our orders are to hold the airspace if at all possible. They’ve also expressly forbidden us from entertaining any options of surrender or compromise. I’m just starting to feel like we’re the tripwire here. I’ll need you to capture a few things.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll get my gear.”

***

“
Good morning, New York, this is Dan Cuperino with your news on the hour
.”

Ernest opened his eyes with a groan. He resisted all temptation to throw the alarm clock across the room, or even to whack it a few times with his fist. Sandra stirred next to him and hugged in close, her head resting on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. She was asleep again in a second despite the noise of the radio, an ability he never failed to marvel at.

“
First this morning, there is shock around the capital as news of the arrest of Democratic Senator Patrick Mahoney on fraud and perjury charges surfaces. Early reports indicate that the arrest stems from testimony the senator gave to the Supreme Court nearly a decade ago, which DC police are now saying they can prove was false. We’ll have more on this as details come to hand
.”

Ernest closed his eyes as his head spun. While he’d known that something like this was coming, he hadn’t expected it to come so quickly. He was surprised that Dominique had held up her end of the bargain quite so boldly. Whatever her means, it was impossible to doubt her efficiency. Less than twenty-four hours after he’d agreed to her terms, she’d delivered.

Ernest turned the radio off and rolled onto his side. He scooped his wife closer into a hug, having not yet quite come to terms with the cost of saving his company. Mahoney was now the least of his concerns. He held Sandra tight, and she mumbled a little and stirred in his arms, but not enough to indicate any discomfort. He held her for several minutes, thoughts and options racing around his brain.

He knew Dominique would get everything she wanted: editorial control of his company whenever she desired and effective control over him. She’d have the means to influence, if not outright control, public opinion all over the world. It was a power Ernest had used at times, but soon it would be in her hands, not his.

The loss of his wife was a cost nearly too great to pay. But he knew, deep down, that it was no choice for him. His wives had come and gone, but the one constant in his life had been EMCorp. He had spent half a century building his empire, and it would be impossible for him to enter the last years of his life without it. It was his legacy. If given the choice, it was no choice at all.

She’d been a fine wife, the best of them all, by far. Intelligent, beautiful, resourceful and discreet, she’d been by his side during some of the more difficult years of his professional life. He wanted to hold her for days, weeks even, before delivering the news. She’d be shattered. Her whole life had been put on hold for their marriage. He’d compensate Sandra well.

He leaned over to check the time, and was surprised that a full hour had passed since the news. He hugged Sandra a little tighter and she snuggled in closer. He knew that this would be the last time he’d ever hold his wife, and possibly the last time he’d ever hold a woman, given his age. He’d never been the sort to procure sexual comfort through financial means, and he’d vowed years ago to never marry again.

He slid his feet into the slippers that waited on the floor like obedient pets. His back ached and his head hurt as he shuffled off to the shower. Sandra didn’t even stir. She was used to his early starts and wouldn't rise for a few more hours yet, snoozing in blissful ignorance about the bomb he would be dropping on their relationship later in the day. He could have told her now, but whether from cowardice or altruism, he decided it would wait. When he closed the door to the ensuite, he felt like he was closing the door on part of his life. Whatever her motivation, Michelle Dominique had achieved what she wanted. Ernest had grave fears for the future of his company and the United States of America. The woman was now in charge of the greatest media company in the world, about to start a war and might even get a bunch of her people into Congress.

He ran the shower. When it was hot he stripped off his pajamas, stepped inside and closed the door. The hot water did nothing to wipe away the disgust he felt at himself, but he was resigned to his decision. Later in the day, he’d phone Sandra and tell her, then let Dominique know. In coming days, he’d organize a settlement, Sandra would move out with a lot of cash and he’d be free to get on with his life, minus his heart.

He was a man in control of his company again, or at least partially. Yet he felt nothing but dread.

***

Michelle wondered what it felt like to live in the White House and to work in the Oval Office—to sleep, eat and work within the four walls of one building, albeit an impressive one, leaving only under heavy guard for stage-managed occasions and the rare, discreet, family holiday.

While she knew that it was refurnished in line with each new president's tastes, there were also leftovers from past administrations, such as the original
Resolute
desk, a gift from Queen Victoria and made from the timbers of a nineteenth-century British frigate. The sense of duty and the burden of history must feel overwhelming to anyone who sat at that desk. From there, wars had been started, waged and finished. Economies had been changed at the stroke of a pen. Rights given or taken away. Great social achievements in education, health, taxation and social welfare made.

She didn’t think that President Philip Kurzon was a garish man, or overly comfortable with the trappings of his wealth or power. She’d visited him in this office a few times during his first five years in office. Initially, he’d made minimal changes—a new rug, some curtains. But now into his second term, he’d redecorated.

Instead of opting for the less informal couches, she was surprised the President had elected to sit at his desk, with Michelle opposite. She was sure it was a bad precedent for him to lean back in his chair, feet resting on the century old desk, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Ms Dominique, if I’m going to lead my country into its biggest war in eighty years—with a disgraced senator on my plate to boot—I’d ask you not to judge my posture.”

It certainly looked like events were taking a toll on him. While the news about the USS
George Washington
had had half a day to sink in, it would still be a shock to the United States’ political establishment for weeks to come.

“Of all the men in all of the offices in the world, you’re the most entitled to have your feet on the desk, or anywhere you damn please, if you’ll excuse me.” It was late in the evening, and she was probably not his last appointment. When she’d called to ask to see him, she’d taken what she could get. Despite the power of the Foundation, and its tendrils that spread through all aspects of life in the capital, she was still sitting opposite the most powerful man in the world.