Power Curve (33 page)

“I’m fine, Madam President.” He fell in behind her as they headed for the waiting room. “I tried to contact Mrs. Adams, but a neighbor answered the phone and she refused to speak to me.”

“I want to visit her as soon as possible,” Turner said. “Patrick, please find out how Mrs. Adams is doing and help in any way we can.” She stopped and removed her topcoat as Shaw returned to the limousine to make the call. “It’s warm in here.” Winters held up a small mirror, but Turner ignored her and entered the room where Barbara Kennett was keeping her lonely vigil.

Bender stepped inside and stood beside the door with Jackie as the two women embraced.
They are so different
, he thought. Barbara was a heavy-set, handsome woman in her early forties and lacked the glamorous image demanded by Washington politics. They sat and held hands as they talked. Only fragments of the conversation reached Bender, but he sensed they were sharing an inner strength, comforting each other, and growing stronger together. A doctor wearing green surgical scrubs entered the room and waited to be recognized. “How is he?” Barbara asked.

Again, Bender only heard a few words, but he could tell the news was bad. Barbara paled but did not flinch. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “I need to speak to our children. They’re waiting at home.”

“Jackie,” Turner said, “please stay with Mrs. Kennett.” It was an unspoken order that the Kennett family was firmly under the presidential umbrella. Bender held the door for the two women to leave.

Shaw was outside, waiting for the right moment to enter. “Mizz President, the agent’s wife, Mrs. Adams, is under sedation. There’s more. O’Malley has been arrested and is in federal custody. She’s been advised of her rights and refuses to talk to a lawyer. She says Sam Kennett is a fascist pig who needs to be rendered for shark bait, and this is all a conspiracy to get her for what happened in Philadelphia.”

“We’ll deal with her later,” Turner said. “Get the DOJ involved and make sure her rights are fully protected. She’s not walking on a technicality.” She turned to the doctor. “I want to know the details,” she said.

“Madam President,” the doctor said, “I must warn you, it’s very—gruesome.” The doctor led her and the two men into an office and snapped the X rays onto the viewer. He handed her a set of Polaroid photos and spoke in a monotone. He pointed to the X ray of the vice president’s left arm and described how the bullet had shattered the bone above the elbow before penetrating the left side of his chest. The bullet still had enough energy to shatter a rib before tearing into the left lung. Turner’s hands were shaking and her face paled as he described in clinical detail the damage to the lung. “The bullet missed his heart by
three millimeters but still caused major damage. We think we can save his lung, but he may lose his left arm. It’s still touch and go.”

“For saving his arm?” Turner asked.

“No, for saving his life.”

“I can’t believe one bullet did that much damage,” she replied.

“It can,” Bender said. He studied the X rays. “The bullet must have been flattened before it hit his arm. Was it a ricochet?”

“Very possible,” the doctor allowed.

“Thank God,” Bender said.

“Thank God?” Shaw said, his words harsh and clipped. “How can you be thankful for this?”

“A .45 at that range has an awesome amount of striking power,” Bender said. “The bullet had to have lost some of its energy before hitting the vice president. Otherwise—” He did not finish the thought.

“Otherwise what?” Turner asked.

“Otherwise,” the doctor replied, “the vice president would be dead.”

“What are his chances of pulling through?” Bender asked.

“Not good,” the doctor answered. “I estimate less than thirty percent.”

Turner stepped back and stood beside the desk. The men looked at her, not knowing what to say or do. “One bullet,” she said. “One gun in the hands of a demented”—she paused and her voice steadied—“in the hands of a lunatic. So much damage, a fine man, his family. My God, why do we do this to ourselves? How can I allow it?” She stared at them, demanding an answer they could not give. “O’Malley. Did she act alone or did she have help?”

“We don’t know,” Shaw replied.

Turner’s face turned to granite. “Patrick, I want the park cleared. Tonight. Send the demonstrators home.”

Bender waited for Shaw to protest. Even he understood that was not a wise move and had far-reaching political consequences. But Shaw was silent, giving thanks in his own way that he didn’t have to force the incident that
Leland wanted. “Madam President,” Bender finally said, “that might be a mistake.”

“Doctor, please excuse us,” Turner said. The doctor gathered up the X rays and photos and made a hasty exit. “Robert, you seem to forget I’m your president. You do not question me in front of others.”

“Please accept my apologies, Madam President. I overstepped.”
Why am I doing this?
he asked himself. A knock at the door kept him from saying more. The door cracked open and an aide passed a message to Shaw.

“Mizz President,” Shaw said, his eyes fixed on the message in disbelief. “The Japanese fleet—at Kagoshima—it’s sailed.”

Okinawa, Japan

L
ieutenant Colonel Peter Townly sounded like a bored economics professor lecturing a freshman class on basic supply and demand theory. But no college professor ever held his class the way Townly held the attention of the command post. The Intelligence officer knew he sounded like an intellectual ass, patronizing and artificial, but it was the only way he could control his panic. He kept looking into the Battle Cab, wondering what the men were saying in their glass cocoon. The red dot of his laser pointer shook as he highlighted the situation map projected on the screen behind him and his message was simple: A battle was coming their way, and this time, there would be no last-minute reprieve.

“At last report, the Japanese flotilla has divided into three columns and is advancing towards Okinawa in an arrowhead formation. Each column is made up of ten to twelve destroyers supported by approximately the same number of frigates. At least three submarines are reported operating in front of the flotilla. The Japanese have 168 fighters for air cover stationed at these bases.” Townly’s pointer circled three airfields on the southern part of Kyushu.

Martini grabbed the microphone plugged into his console. “What can the wing at Naha put up?” he barked. His words hung over the big room like an ominous cloud.

Townly’s mouth felt like it was full of bitter cotton. “The Japanese have four operational F-4Js, sir.”

Martini’s fingers drummed the table in front of him. “And the PRC?”

“At last count the Chinese have committed over 30 attack submarines, 18 destroyers, 20 frigates, over 100 small fast-attack craft”—he gulped hard—“and the
Chairman Mao
.”

“When?” Martini growled.

“The Japanese are well within range of the Silk Worm missiles on Kumejima and the vans of the two fleets should meet here”—he circled an area in the East China Sea 200 miles northwest of Okinawa—“in approximately four hours, 2000 hours tonight.”

“Our Navy?” Martini asked. He was calming down.

“Their location and strength is unknown, sir. At last report, the president is withholding them.”

Martini stood up. Nothing in his words or actions betrayed the frustration he felt. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to witness the biggest sea battle since World War II. Bring the base to full alert, divert all inbound airlift flights.” He thought for a moment. Six transport aircraft were still on Kadena. “Get Major Ryan in here,” he ordered. He motioned for his staff to vacate the Battle Cab and punched the secure hot line to headquarters CINC PAC in Honolulu. Within moments, he was speaking to both CINC PACAF and CINC PAC, the admiral in command of all U.S. forces in the Pacific. “Gentlemen, our side is about to get its butt kicked and I got six transports I need to fly out of here. Can I evacuate dependents?”

“Negative,” the admiral answered. “No more evacuations by presidential order.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” Martini asked.

“The same as everyone else,” the admiral replied. “Go to max readiness and wait. Besides, we think the Japanese have a slight edge.”

“Sure,” Martini replied. “And the Chinese don’t have a nuclear capability either.”

“Washington doesn’t believe the Chinese will go nuclear over this,” the admiral said.

“Washington will not be glowing in the dark if Wash
ington is wrong,” Martini said. “How about asking them to declare DEFCON TWO and giving the Chinese cause for pause?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” the admiral replied. The CIA had worked hard to feed the Chinese hints that the nuclear posture of the United States changed as the DEFCON increased. But neither the Chinese nor the Japanese knew that when DEFCON TWO was declared for the Far East, a limited number of tactical nuclear weapons were moved into the forward area. “The president will never allow that.”

“At least you can ask,” Martini muttered. The admiral said he would talk to the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon and broke the connection.

Pete Townly was taking the stage again. He held a clipboard in one hand and was visibly shaking. He looked across the command post and into the Battle Cab. “Sir, the Chinese have launched ten Silk Worm missiles from Kumejima and four ships in the Japanese van have been hit. We have a report of one submarine being sunk. We don’t know the nationality.”

The air defense coordinator keyed his microphone. “The Tactical Operation Center at Naha requests that we assume the air defense of Okinawa.”

“Gentlemen,” Martini told his staff, “it seems the Japanese are going to drag us kicking and screaming into this.”

Major Bob Ryan rushed into the command post in time to hear Martini issue the order assuming responsibility for the air defense of the island.
What the hell is going on?
he wondered as he entered the Battle Cab. Martini came right to the point. “How many dependents are still left on the island?”

Ryan was ready with the answer. “Three thousand nine hundred seventy-six.”

“Children?”

“There are 286 left,” Ryan answered. He checked his clipboard. “That does not include 209 teenagers. Most of them are volunteer helpers working at various jobs around the base.”

Martini swung around in his chair to face the base map on the wall behind him. He traced the huge munitions
storage area on the north side of the base. “This is the 400 MUNS storage area. All the bunkers in the western section are empty. Shelter all the remaining dependents and as many Okinawans as you can there.”

Ryan looked puzzled. “Sir, isn’t that the nuclear weapons storage area?”

“We haven’t had nukes on Okinawa since 1972,” Martini said.

“But it’s in a weapons storage area. You can’t put civilians there.”

Again, Martini’s fingers drummed the table, the sure sign he wanted a quick answer to the problem.
The major has a point
, he thought. His fingers stopped their relentless tattoo. The OSI, the Office of Special Investigations, had provided the solution to the problem in a recent briefing. The Chinese rightly assumed that the movement of weapons was a warning of attack and two OSI agents had detected a team of Chinese informers monitoring the weapons storage area. Martini snorted in satisfaction. He had a way to feed information to the bad guys. “We’ll declare the area a civilian shelter. Light it up like a Christmas tree. The Chinese will get the message.”

“But it’s still next to a weapons complex, which is a legitimate military target,” Ryan protested.

Martini allowed a short, hard laugh. It was little more than a bark. “You don’t know much about nuclear storage bunkers, Major. Believe me, it’s the safest place on the island. Make it happen.”

Ryan darted out of the command post, convinced Martini was cracking up under the pressure. But none of the telltale signs of instability were visible, only his headlong, mad rush into war. And he was taking innocent civilians with him.

Washington, D.C.

Bender split his attention as the chief of Naval Operations briefed Turner on the battle developing in the East China Sea. As usual, Turner was ill at ease, uncomfortable with the masculine atmosphere of the Situation Room.
Why is she so nervous down here?
he wondered. He chastised himself for mentally straying and focused on the CNO.
He’s too technical, and she’s missing the point
, he thought. “Admiral, please forgive me,” Bender said, “but I’m losing the big picture in the details.” A grateful look from Turner.

The admiral saw her expression, caught Bender’s meaning, and used big arrows to explain the movement of the opposing fleets. Three big blue arrows represented the Japanese who were advancing to the south against one big red arrow, the Chinese, advancing to the north. “Because of the time difference,” the admiral said, “it is eight o’clock Tuesday night in the East China Sea. All our reconnaissance platforms and sensors indicate the battle was started.” He circled the area 200 miles northwest of Okinawa.

“Why are they fighting at night?” Turner asked.

“Because the Japanese timed their advance, hoping to engage at night,” the admiral answered. He struggled to keep his explanation simple. “Their electronics are much better than the Chinese and that gives them a distinct advantage during the hours of darkness.” Bender listened while he explained the battle in layman’s, in this case, laywoman’s, terms. He could sense Overmeyer’s growing impatience. Finally, a TV screen scrolled with a current update. They all read in silence. The Silk Worm missiles had sunk four Japanese ships and badly damaged three others. At least three submarines had been destroyed by other submarines, but there was no confirmation as to nationality. Aircraft were launching from both the
Chairman Mao
and Kumejima in support of the Chinese fleet.

“The Japanese will also launch aircraft, Madam President,” Overmeyer said.

“So what are they doing?” she asked.

“Going after each other’s ships, Madam President,” the admiral replied.

“Are our forces on Okinawa involved or threatened?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Secretary of Defense Elkins answered.

“However,” Overmeyer said, “the Japanese have rele
gated the air defense of Okinawa to us. There is a potential for our aircraft—”

Turner stood up. Her face was flushed with anger. “How did that happen without my permission?”

“Madam President,” Overmeyer answered, “that is a standard operating procedure that was worked out years ago. It is a decision based on the threat and availability of aircraft and is made by the local commanders.”

“Martini again,” she muttered. “Let me make it very clear, we will not get involved in this battle unless the Chinese directly attack our people.” She stared at Overmeyer to reinforce her point and sat down.

Overmeyer’s face was beet red as he fought for control. He was about ready to explode. “Madam President, General Martini is responding to conditions as they develop. He is our man in the hot seat. He’s not going to do anything stupid.”

“I wish I could be sure of that,” Turner replied.

“You can always relieve him of his command,” the director of Central Intelligence said from his end of the table.

“We’ve been down this road before,” Overmeyer said. “That would be disastrous at this time.” He faced Turner. “Madam President, sooner of later, we will be drawn into this. I urge you, act now before it’s too late. If nothing else, send a strong message to the Chinese to leave Okinawa alone.”

“I will call Chairman Zoulin on the hot line,” she said. Bender shook his head. “Robert, do you disagree?”

Be careful how you answer
. Bender warned himself. “No, ma’am. I’m thinking about the timing of the call and wondering if he will listen to reason.”

“He’s always struck me as a reasonable man,” she replied.

“Is he?” Bender asked. “Personally, I don’t think he sees the world the way we do and he’s going to keep on slicing away until he gets what he wants. Zoulin will respond to actions, not words.”

“Exactly what actions do you suggest I take?” she asked.

Overmeyer shot Bender a look of thanks. It was the
question he wanted her to ask. “Declare DEFCON TWO for the western Pacific, wait twelve hours, and then call Zoulin,” Overmeyer said. “Tell him you will cancel it the moment the fighting stops.”

“Why will that convince him to leave Okinawa alone?” she asked.

“Because,” Overmeyer explained, “the Chinese know we change our nuclear posture at DEFCON TWO. We deliberately let them see us seal our bases and recall personnel from leave. Their agents will report our boomers and support ships have all put to sea.”

“Boomers?” Turner asked.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Overmeyer replied. “Boomers are nuclear missile subs. It’s enough to send the message that we are very serious.”

“How serious?” she asked.

“Specifically, our ICBMs are targeted accordingly, and a military aide will always be in your immediate vicinity with the football.” She paled at the thought of the soft black leather briefcase that contained the nuclear launch codes. “There is more,” Overmeyer continued. “A small number of tactical nuclear weapons are moved into the forward area.”

“Is that necessary?” Turner demanded.

“Only if you wish to retain all your options,” Bender answered. The room was heavy with silence.
She can’t make that decision
, Bender decided.
The thought of the hell and destruction that is at her fingertips, her’s for the ordering, is beyond her
. The TV monitor bleeped and scrolled, breaking the silence. The Japanese had launched their last four aircraft from Naha Air Base on Okinawa. “There go eight good men into harm’s way,” the CNO said. “They won’t be coming back.”

“How can you be so sure?” Turner asked.

“Because they’re going after the
Chairman Mao
,” the CNO answered.

“How can you be so cold-blooded?” she raged. “Is this some sort of game you play? The ultimate Super Bowl?”

“I assure you,” Bender said, “this is no game.” He sensed she was moving toward a decision. “Think back twenty-five days ago when this all started and the
Chair
man Mao
was moving on Okinawa. We saw a definite pattern of behavior in response to our actions and the Chinese went out of their way not to engage us. Only once did they directly challenge us—”

“When they went after the first C-141 carrying dependents,” Turner said, interrupting him.

“Exactly,” Bender said. He almost called it the Turkey Shoot, but an inner voice warned him that would be wrong.

“And we monitored a quantum increase in their message traffic after that,” the DCI added.

“Not to mention the concessions General Bender got out of Wang Mocun at Paris,” Secretary Elkins said.

Turner came to her feet, her decision made.

Maura O’Keith shepherded Sarah into the dining room for breakfast. The ten-year-old flopped into a chair and reached for a glass of orange juice. She looked over the rim of the glass while she drank and studied her mother. “You look tired, Mom.”

“I’ve been up all night,” Turner replied.