Power Curve (21 page)

“Do the Chinese really expect me to believe this was all a mistake over a military exercise?” she asked.

“Well, Madam President,” Secretary of State Francis said, “that is exactly what their ambassador is claiming. He is adamant: the
Chairman Mao
was in international waters at all times and only defending itself from hostile actions by the Japanese in international airspace. They were acting in self-defense the same as our forces did on Okinawa.”

“Did he make that comparison?” Turner asked. “Or is that your interpretation?”

“Those were his exact words, Madam President,” Francis replied. “Obviously, the Chinese are monitoring our reactions on Okinawa.”

Turner looked at the DCI. “Exactly who has who wired for sound?” There was no answer.

“It is the position of the Chinese,” Francis continued, “that they are the aggrieved party. The Japanese overreacted when a telephone call would have solved the whole problem.”

“Did anyone make that phone call?” Turner asked.

“Not to our knowledge,” the DCI replied.

“It was a probing action by the Chinese,” Overmeyer said. He really wanted to say the Chinese were testing her resolve, but he had learned discretion.

“Are we in a position to negotiate?” Turner asked.

“Of course,” Francis replied.

Sam Kennett, the vice president, cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Madam President, negotiate what?”

The boy’s got a head on his shoulders
, Shaw thought.
Listen to him
. For Shaw, it was a simple matter. The Chinese were doing a Mau-Mau on the Japanese and the United States and needed to get their toes stepped on. Otherwise, they would keep right on doing it. It was an old lesson that people forgot at the first opportunity.

“I want to draft a letter to the Chinese premier, Lu Zoulin, protesting in the strongest possible terms,” Turner said. “I want to negotiate a protocol for future naval exercises that will preclude this from happening again.”

“Are you going to back up that protest with a show of force?” Overmeyer asked. “Putting two aircraft carriers into the East China Sea would get their attention.”

“That is not necessary at this time,” she answered. “The Chinese are rational actors and will respond accordingly.”

It was the answer Overmeyer had expected, and he did not answer. He recalled a war game where he had caught the leaders of the opposing force exercising mirror imaging and projecting their own values and attitudes on him. He had stomped them. But this time, it was his president doing the mirror imaging.

The phone in front of Bender buzzed at the exact moment the TV screen flashed. “Sir,” the voice said, “the
Chairman Mao
has turned to the east.” The TV screen confirmed what the caller had said. “It may be reversing course.”

“Don’t bet your pension on it,” Bender told him. He dropped the phone and hurried out the door. This was a message that had to be delivered in person so it could not be ignored. He trotted up the stairs and charged through the outer office to the Oval Office with a brisk “The president is expecting me.” Wayne Adams, the Secret Service agent, was standing post and held the door open for him.

Turner looked up from behind her desk. “Yes, Robert?”

“The
Chairman Mao
has turned toward Okinawa,” he told her.

“When did this happen?” the DCI asked.

“Less than five minutes ago,” Bender answered.

“Premature,” the DCI muttered. “It may be maneuvering.”

“No, sir,” Bender snapped. “It is not maneuvering. By now it is moving at flank speed directly toward Okinawa.”

“The Chinese are not going to attack Okinawa,” Francis replied, condescension dripping from every word.

Bender stood his ground. “They are not going to attack our forces on Okinawa. But they are going to challenge the Japanese.”

The DCI scoffed. “How are they going to do that? How do they justify it?”

“The Japanese gave them the justification they needed at Iriomote,” Bender said.

The DCI shook his head. “That won’t wash.”

The secretary of state was a very worried man. “If they show restraint and don’t threaten our forces, the UN, Congress, might buy it. The Japanese are very unpopular.”

“Gentlemen,” Turner said, “reality check. Exactly
how
are the Chinese going to challenge the Japanese without involving us? Once I have an answer to that question, then I can proceed.” No one answered her.

Bender’s words cut through the silence. “With a blockade, Madam President.”

“What makes them think they can get away with that?” she asked.

“Iriomote,” Bender said. “They tested our resolve to defend Japanese territory and we failed.” Everyone in the room knew the “we” he was talking about was Turner.

Turner came to her feet, her face flushed with anger. Bender braced for the reprimand that was on her lips. Instead, “I’m going to the Situation Room.” He stood aside as she walked through the door. “You needn’t come, Robert.” Her advisors trooped out behind her.

Overmeyer paused to say something but only gave him a curt nod. Shaw was the last one out. “Well, boy, you stepped on the old foreskin this time. Gawd, that must hurt like hell.”

Okinawa, Japan

T
he sergeant walked onto the low stage at the front of the command post and paused in front of the big threat map that dominated the center of the status boards. Every head turned to watch him as he plotted the latest position of the Chinese fleet that was sailing directly toward Okinawa. Ryan felt his heart pound as the sergeant moved the red arrowhead closer to Okinawa and marked the time.
This is like a bad movie
, he thought.
This doesn’t happen in real life. But there it is, heading straight for us. It’s high noon on Sunday and there’s no way out
.

The wing’s vice commander was sitting in Martini’s chair in the Battle Cab and, like Ryan, felt the danger bearing down on them. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, “we do indeed have a problem. Major Ryan, please wake General Martini. Tell him we are now in missile range.”

“Yes, sir,” Ryan answered and headed for the small bunk room at the back of the command post.
How can he sleep at a time like this?
he wondered. Ryan had not seen a bed in over thirty-five hours and was dog tired. He knocked at the door and entered. Martini was sound asleep, and he nudged his shoulder. “Sir, you’re wanted in the Battle Cab.”

Martini stirred and rolled over. He blinked a few times
and then sat up. “I’ll be right there.” He turned on the light. “Status,” he growled.

“The
Chairman Mao
is approximately seventy miles to the west, and we are now inside missile range,” Ryan answered. “There has been no change in their air cover and they only have two helicopters on antisubmarine patrol.”

“How do I look?” Martini said. Ryan was shocked by the question and didn’t know how to answer. “Nervous ticks, shaking hands, weepy eyes,” Martini muttered. “That type of thing. You’re the doc, and your job is to keep me healthy.” He paused. “A commander isn’t worth shit if he’s dead on his feet or falling apart from stress.”

Ryan breathed an audible sigh of relief and gave him a quick visual check. “You look tired, but you’re OK. Eat something and drink lots of water. Walk around if you can for exercise.”

Martini nodded. “You look beat. Sack out for a while.” He stood up and pointed at the cot. “It’s called
hot bunking
.” Ryan sat down as ordered and was asleep when Martini closed the door. Martini stepped into the Battle Cab and studied the status boards. “Are they going to come ashore?” he asked his vice commander.

“I hope not,” the colonel answered. “No word from CINC PAC. We keep screaming for help and they keep saying ‘Stand by.’”

Martini made his decision. “If they launch missiles, aircraft, or those ships come inside twelve miles, we scramble. Tell CINC PAC our intentions. I don’t think they’ll override us.” The colonel picked up the phone and called the Control Cab while the Operations Group commander placed all his aircraft on five-minute alert. The phone buzzed, and the light from the radar early warning site flashed. Martini punched at the button, listened, and hung up. “The
Chairman Mao
is launching aircraft; judging by the speed and altitude, they’re helicopters, much more than they need for antisubmarine patrol. Why the increase?”

He stood and leaned forward, his hands resting on the console. “Gentlemen, our bosses are not telling us what to do. It looks like we get to make our own decisions.
Launch eight jets into a base CAP for air defense, and I want the four E’s that are carrying Popeyes airborne. We’re going to give those bastards something to think about.” The Popeye was a 3,000-pound medium-range standoff missile the United States had bought from Israel and adapted to the F-15E Strike Eagle. The Popeye’s special warhead was equivalent to 750 pounds of high explosive and could sink a ship.

Martini settled into his chair and waited. “Hell of a way to fight a war,” he groused to no one in particular. “Hey, anybody got an MRE? I’m hungry.” A meal packet appeared in front of him, and he ate the food cold, surprised at how good it tasted. The seconds passed, dragging into minutes, turning into a half-hour.

The sergeant walked back onto the stage and paused in front of the threat map, his hands pressing his earphones against his head. He moved quickly and circled a small island sixty miles due west of the southern tip of Okinawa. The loudspeaker squawked. “Attention in the command post. The
Chairman Mao
has slowed and altered course to the south. Chinese helicopters are reported landing on Kumejima Island.”

“Well, sir,” the vice commander said, “we got an answer to your questions about them coming ashore and why all those helicopters.”

“They just took another slice,” Martini muttered. “Cancel the scramble. I’ll be damned if I’ll start a war over a rock in the East China Sea. Keep sixteen jets on five-minute alert and start cycling the crews into crewrest.”

Major Bob Ryan was sound asleep in the bunk room.

Washington, D.C.

Madeline O’Keith Turner did not like what she was hearing. But Mazana Kamigami-Hazelton’s soft voice kept hammering, pounding the president with velvet blows. Turner wished she was alone in the Situation Room with the NSC analyst and not surrounded by men: Sam Kennett, the secretaries of defense and state, the DCI, Shaw, and
Overmeyer. She glanced at the crusty general, surprised that he was not showing any I-told-you-so signs.

Hazelton paused to clear her throat before continuing. “Please excuse me, Madam President, but I’m not used to speaking.” Shaw hurried to refill her water glass, and her graceful movements fascinated the men. Hazelton was a beautiful and petite Japanese-Hawaiian. Her clothes and the huge diamond in her engagement ring shouted money and influence, which went with the Hazelton name. But nothing could hide the fact that she was a brilliant analyst and not intimidated by her surroundings.

She set the glass down, ready to continue. “The Chinese have been ashore on Kumejima ten hours and are consolidating their position.” She gestured gracefully at the bank of wall clocks behind her. It was eight o’clock Sunday morning in Washington, D.C., and ten o’clock that evening in Okinawa. “Although the picture is incomplete, the National Security Agency has intercepted and decoded enough message traffic to verify this was a well-planned probe of our resolve to defend the Japanese. The Chinese were monitoring the disposition of our naval forces and our reaction at Kadena Air Force Base. Whenever they saw a show of force on our part, they pursued an alternate course of action that had been planned well in advance.”

The DCI struggled to hide his anger. This small wisp of a woman was telling the president the Chinese had played them like puppets. “Pure speculation, Mrs. Hazelton,” he grumbled.

Hazelton arched an eyebrow, and her lips drew into a straight line—her way of asking “Is it?” Turner caught the unspoken question. “The
Chairman Mao
,” Hazelton continued, “was in constant radio contact with Beijing and turned away from Iriomote five minutes after Kadena launched aircraft. From the message traffic, it is quite clear they interpreted this as support of the Japanese F-4s heading toward Iriomote. They then withdrew to the north to recover their aircraft and monitored our reaction to the aerial engagement.

“When we recalled our aircraft, there was another flurry of radio traffic and they advanced toward Okinawa, still monitoring our reaction. When Kadena again launched air
craft, there was another burst of message traffic. Again, they changed direction and occupied the island of Kumejima.”

Now it was the secretary of state’s turn to be angry. “Exactly what are the Chinese doing, Mrs. Hazelton?”

“It’s called salami tactics, Mr. Secretary.”

A monitor bleeped, and the words “Incoming message” flashed on the screen. The room was deadly silent as the latest message the NSA had intercepted and decoded scrolled on the screen: The Chinese ambassador was instructed to present a carefully worded letter to the State Department that the People’s Republic of China could not tolerate the unwarranted attack on the
Chairman Mao
in international waters. Therefore the PRC was forced to establish a peaceful blockade commencing at 1
P.M.
, Sunday, of the forces that committed the attack to preclude it from happening again.

“Peaceful blockade?” Overmeyer snorted.

“Lord, love-a-duck,” Shaw muttered. “Bender was right.”

“Madam President,” Hazelton said, “please note that the Chinese do not specifically identify who committed this so-called violation of international waters.”

“Nothing in international law,” the secretary of state said, “justifies this blockade.”

“The Chinese are making their own rules,” Hazelton replied.

Turner stood up. “I want to meet with the National Security Council in thirty minutes.” She headed for the door. “Sam, Mrs. Hazelton, Patrick, please come with me.”

The ever-present Jackie Winters, her personal assistant, was waiting in the corridor. “Your mother asked about the family dinner this afternoon.”

“Tell her I can’t make it. I’ll try to see them later this evening. And please have General Bender join us in the Oval Office.” Jackie scurried off to make it happen. Kennett, Shaw, and Hazelton trailed after her into the Oval Office. “Please be seated, Mrs. Hazelton. Do you prefer to be called Mazana?”

“I prefer Mazie,” Hazelton answered.

“Well, Mazie,” Turner said, “the Chinese certainly made a fool out of me.” Hazelton only looked at the president, her face an impassive mask.
She’s not contradicting me
, Turner thought. The truth hurt more than she could imagine.

“Madam President,” Kennett said, looking at Hazelton, “I think we’ve found your new national security advisor.”

Turner considered the vice president’s proposal. It felt right, and she trusted Kennett’s instincts. But before she could answer, Hazelton shook her head. “Mrs. President, as much as I’m flattered, I was in that room. You saw how those men reacted to me. I’m too much of an unknown quantity for them to accept.”

“You’re right,” Turner said. “We need to groom you under an acting national security advisor for a few months until you have the right amount of exposure. Are you interested?”

Hazelton considered her answer. “It all depends on who the interim national security advisor is.”

“You’re going to meet him in a few minutes,” Turner said.

Shaw stifled an unspoken “Ah, shit.” He mentally drove a knife into the vice president’s back for proposing Hazelton in the first place and wondered how he could salvage the situation. A discrete knock at the door caught his attention.

Bender entered and sat down.
What now
, he thought.

It was late when Bender finally arrived home that same Sunday evening. He was still wearing the same clothes he had put on forty hours earlier and wanted nothing more than a beer, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep. The lights were still on, and he could hear Nancy talking in the family room. Was she on the phone or did they have guests? He stopped by the refrigerator and found a bottle of his favorite beer waiting for him with a glass. He ambled into the family room and froze. Shalandra was curled up on the couch by the fire thumbing through a magazine.
Why is she still here?
he groused to himself.

“Robert,” Nancy said, “we’ve been waiting for you.” He didn’t reply and sat down. They would have to have
a long talk about the girl when they were alone. Nancy gave him her I-know-what-you’re-thinking look. “There were problems at the foster home,” she said. “We’ll have to get Shalandra into a new home tomorrow.”

He allowed a noncommittal “I see.”

Nancy shook her head. “Actually, you don’t.” She paused, waiting for Shalandra to speak. Nothing. “It’s OK,” Nancy urged. “He doesn’t hit women.”

The girl looked at him, her dark eyes full of worry. “D’ yo”—she hesitated, then regrouped—“do you remember what you said when Murphy called me a nigger hooker?” She fell silent. It was the longest string of coherent words Bender had heard her utter. Shalandra’s eyes darted between him and Nancy.

Bender had to think for a moment. “As I recall, I said, ‘Does it matter what she was?’”

“What’d you mean by that?”

“I meant a lot of things,” Bender replied. “First of all, you were a person who needed help. But for me, the most important thing is what you are now and what you’re trying to do with your life.”

“Why did yo—you—run over my uncle?”

“He was trying to kill Murphy,” Bender told her. “She was there because I had talked her into coming with me. I was responsible for her.” He looked at his hands. Did Shalandra understand?

“Mizz Bender, I wanna go to bed now.”

“Certainly, Shalandra. You know the way.”

Bender took a sip of the beer and waited until they were alone. “Nancy,” he said, “you know better than to get personally involved with a patient. And I do remember a promise being made.”

“I know,” she admitted. “But she ran away from the foster home Friday night when she was sexually molested.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “What is the matter with men?”

“It wasn’t a man this time,” Nancy told him. “She ran to the only shelter she trusted—the hospital. But there’s more to it. You heard her question. Look at her. She’s
pretty and so vulnerable. She can be a beautiful, decent woman given half a chance.”

“And you want to give her that chance.”

Nancy nodded. “She’s asking for help. Did you hear how she tries to speak properly? I talked to the admissions officer at the Georgetown Academy. He’s very interested and wants to interview her tomorrow and conduct some tests.”

“That’s a school for rich kids,” Bender protested. “Brian goes there. Think about that. The president’s son. How many ambassadors, legislators, cabinet officers, you name it, send their kids there?”

“Do you know how many of them have worse drug problems than Shalandra?” Nancy asked. “Or how many have been abused? Or how many are failing miserably in school? The Academy has a residence program specifically designed to treat these children.”