Power Curve (36 page)

“Do you want us to do it or turn it over to the Japanese?”

“Who would be more efficient?”

“The Japanese. They don’t worry about legal niceties.”

“Let the Japanese do it.”

“They’ll enjoy it, sir.”

Major Bob Ryan was in his makeshift office in the old nuclear weapons maintenance building in the munitions storage area when he heard a commotion down the hall. He followed the sound back into the building, wondering what was going on. Two armed guards stopped him. “Sorry, sir,” one said, “you need a Class A security badge and two-man control to go beyond this point.” Ryan froze. From working on the Personnel Reliability Program, he knew Class A areas and two-man control meant nuclear weapons were involved in some way.

“This whole area is a civilian shelter,” he protested.

“Not this part of the building,” the guard said.

“Not to worry, Major,” the other guard said. “We’re moving the last of some equipment out of the storage vaults. The place will be all yours in a few minutes.”
Two men wheeled out a cart loaded with tool boxes and testing equipment. Ryan felt the tension slip away.

Pete Townly was having a good day. He was rested and freshly showered and for the first time in three days, felt human. The big intelligence vault hummed with activity, but there was none of the panic that had marked the first two days of what CINC PAC was now calling The Battle of the East China Sea. The green door to the top-secret communications room swung open and a wide-eyed sergeant handed him a printout. Suddenly, the day got even better. He double-checked the time and date in the message: Saturday, February 9, 5:37
A.M.
local time. The information was less than forty minutes old. He ran out of the vault and into the command post.

He burst into the Battle Cab without knocking. “Sir!” he blurted. Martini started to reprimand the Intelligence officer but thought better of it. “The Japanese,” Townly said, his voice under more control, “sank the
Chairman Mao!
”

“It’s about time,” Martini grumbled. “Details?”

“It happened at 0537 this morning. Three Japanese submarines penetrated the screen around the
Chairman Mao
and got four direct torpedo hits. Blew her in half.”

“What happened to the submarines?”

“Apparently, all were lost.”

Martini placed his elbows on the console, folded his fingers together, and rested his head against his hands and thumbs.
The battle has been going on for three and a half days; eighty-two hours of hell
, he told himself.
Not for us, for them
. He closed his eyes and visualized the action. He looked up, his face drawn and sad. “Three submarines is a hell of a price to pay,” he told Townly. “They’re rewriting naval warfare out there and I hope our people are taking notes.” He came erect and his fingers drummed the table. “My gut instincts tell me the Japanese are going to win this one—without any help from us. Townly, is your asshole still twitching?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “But not as bad.”

“What’s it telling you?”

“We’re not out of this one yet, General.”

Washington, D.C.

The black and white image was frozen on the large screen in the Situation Room. It had a grainy, blurred quality that reminded Bender of a World War II newspaper photo he had seen of a burning ship. But this photo was less than two hours old. The DCI’s voice droned over them, creating the intense irrationality of a dream. “Our satellites monitored a transmission from one of the
Mao
’s escort ships. They were downlinking a video of the sinking to Beijing.” A series of still frames cycled on the screen depicting the agony of the dying aircraft carrier.

“How many men died?” Turner asked.

“Unknown at this time,” the DCI answered. “The Chinese are much more blasé about casualties than we are. They consider human life an expendable resource. They place a much higher value on material assets, like the
Chairman Mao
.”

“Is the battle over?” she asked.

“Both sides appear to be withdrawing, Madam President,” the CNO replied. “But it is not a total disengagement. They’ll fight again.”

“When will they stop this madness?” she asked. It wasn’t a question the men could answer. “I thought wars with heavy casualties were a thing of the past.”

“That’s a misconception from the Gulf War,” Bender said. “When both sides are evenly matched in size and technology, modern warfare is a very bloody process.”

Turner looked away from the screen. “We must stop this,” she said. “It’s Friday evening, gentlemen.” She walked to the door. “This has been a difficult week, and you all deserve a rest and an evening with your families. We’ll review this tomorrow morning.”

Jackie Winters was waiting outside and escorted her to the Oval Office. “Madam President,” Jackie said, “I need to speak to you in private.”

Turner heard the pain in her voice and sat with her on a couch. She listened as Jackie related how she had been warned by a friend that the National Gay and Lesbian Network was going to publicly reveal that she was a homosexual. “Jackie, don’t worry about it. You’ve always
been a decent, caring, hardworking person, and your private life has never been a factor in our relationship. I’m not going to let it start now. After all, this is the twenty-first century.”

“But the political climate is so hostile, so partisan and unforgiving—” Jackie’s words trailed off. “I’m a problem you can’t afford now. I’m going to resign.”

“Jackie, you have done absolutely nothing wrong, and I’m not going to let you resign. That’s all there is to it.”

Ella, Bender’s junior secretary, took the call from Shaw’s office an hour later. Shaw wanted to see the national security advisor. She relayed the message to Bender and asked Norma, the senior secretary, why Shaw hadn’t called Bender directly, the way he usually did. “There’s trouble brewing,” Norma predicted.

Bender walked into Shaw’s office and remained standing. Shaw kicked back in his chair and twirled a letter opener between his fingers. “The president asked me to speak to you. Perhaps you recall that charming little conversation you had with her Wednesday morning?”

“When General Overmeyer resigned,” Bender answered.

“Well done, son,” Shaw said, his southern accent in place and patronizing. He saw Bender’s jaw harden, and he instinctively pushed a little harder. “You do remember.” Shaw couldn’t help himself, it was simply part of his nature. “Son, sometimes I think you must suffer from a terminal case of the stupids.”

Bender was tired, and Shaw had called him son once too often. Bender’s anger flared. He considered jamming the letter opener up Shaw’s ass—sideways. Instead, he became formally polite. “Mr. Shaw, may I request you please stop being so patronizing? I am not your son, which can be readily established by a simple DNA test as I am not genetically challenged. As to the stupids you mentioned, it seems to be contagious around here.”

“You don’t fit in here—” The look on Bender’s face cut him off before he could add son.

“Well done, Mr. Shaw. You got the message.”

At that moment, Shaw’s hate for Bender burst free of
the hiding place where it had festered and grown. The general was a man he could never dominate or control. Shaw’s face turned red and his eyes cold. All traces of his southern accent vanished. “You are the most arrogant, insubordinate bastard I have ever met.”

“From you, I consider that a compliment.”

Shaw did a mental fall back and regrouped. “As I was saying about Wednesday morning—”

“Are you having trouble staying focused, Mr. Shaw?”

You’re not going to drive this conversation
, Shaw thought.
I’m in control here
. “You seem to forget Maddy’s your president,” he blurted.

“I see. So the proper form of address is Maddy, not Madam President.”

“You do not debate or criticize the president,” Shaw said. He was ready for Bender’s rejoinder, but the general only looked at him, his face a blank mask. “You have done that once too often and been warned about it.”

“I do recall Miss Winters mentioning something like that,” Bender said. “But then, I didn’t know she spoke for the president.”

“I do speak for the president,” Shaw said.

“And you accuse me of being arrogant and insubordinate?” Bender held up his hand. Was it a cease fire? “Please, Mr. Shaw, tell me whatever it is you have to say without the histrionics. It’s much more efficient.”

“The president has asked for your resignation,” Shaw lied. “You can cite irreconcilable differences.”

“Ah, like a divorce.”

Shaw rolled out his heavy artillery. “Your inability to work smoothly and properly communicate with the president is only part of the problem. There is also the matter of—what’s her name? Shalandra?”

Nancy was cooking dinner when Bender arrived home that same Friday night. It was a familiar scene, one that he always found comforting. But there was a rushed, almost hectic, distracted rhythm to her movements. “About an hour,” she said. Normally, he would have reached for a beer in the refrigerator and changed clothes. But there were things they had to discuss first. He sat on a stool by
the breakfast bar. “This has not been a good day,” she told him. “Shalandra ran away from school.”

“I’m not surprised,” he replied. His wife stopped and dropped the knife she was using. She arched an eyebrow, demanding an explanation. “Shaw told me about the problems she’s been having at the Academy.”

“The boys wouldn’t leave her alone,” Nancy said.

“So he said.”

“Did you know two of the boys forced her into making a porno video?” Bender nodded his head in answer. “They found out about her past and wouldn’t leave her alone,” she said.

“How did they find out?”

Nancy picked up the knife and started dicing a green pepper for the salad. “Brian told them.”

Bender looked at her in shock. “How did he know?” He berated himself for asking such a stupid question. Obviously, someone in the White House had told him. A grinning image of Shaw flashed in front of him.
That fucking son of a bitch!
Bender raged to himself.
You don’t bring our families into this!

“She never had a chance,” Nancy told him. The bitter disappointment in her voice struck at him. “She never had a chance.”

Bender wanted to tell her to pull back from Shalandra and regain her professional detachment. Nancy could only put a patch on the problems Shalandra carried and hope for the best. Instead, “I know you wanted to help her. But I don’t think there was anything you could have done.”

“I feel so angry, everything I did for that girl was for nothing. I couldn’t change her. She’s bound and determined that she’s going to self-destruct no matter what I do. I could just shake her. Like I wanted to do when Laurie joined the Air Force.” She heard herself and stopped. It was a moment of revelation. “I never wanted her to join the Air Force, but she was always your daughter. Why did I think I could change her or Shalandra?” Her words cut into him and the old hurt was back. Had they both wanted too much from their daughter? He reached out, wanting to touch his wife. But she moved away, her back to him so he wouldn’t see her anger.

“You never cried, you know. Not once. I would have known.” She turned and looked at him. “It’s OK. I cried enough for both of us. Is helping Shalandra a way to avoid facing Laurie’s death or transfer guilt? I don’t know. Oh, I know all the terms, I’ve seen it in other people, why can’t I see it in myself? But it doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s run away and is probably back in ‘the life.’ She’ll probably turn up in an emergency room, ODed or beat up by her pimp or a john. They always do, you know.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You don’t see what prostitution and drugs do to women. I see it everyday. My God, she’s only fourteen.” She hacked at the chicken in front of her. “Why don’t you change before dinner?”

He wanted to comfort his wife but didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure if she would let him. He retreated upstairs and out of habit flipped on the TV to the evening news. It was the usual listing of murder, mayhem, destruction, and insoluble problems. Then he heard it. A gay liberation group had made national headlines by claiming the president’s personal assistant was a lesbian.
That’s why Jackie wanted to speak privately to the president this afternoon
, he thought. She wanted to warn her.

He flipped the channel to Peter Whiteside, the dean of the White House correspondents. He was standing on the steps of the Capitol with Senator Leland. “Senator, in this day and age, does the issue of a lesbian on the president’s staff even deserve our attention?”

“Normally,” Leland replied, “I would agree with you. But this has been hidden for years. Why? What was the exact relationship between Winters and the president? What else is going on in the Turner White House and being covered up? These are questions that many Godfearing Americans are asking. They deserve complete and honest answers.”

Bender shook his head in disgust, switched off the TV, and went downstairs. “Were you listening to the news?” Nancy asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard.”

“Did you know Jackie was a lesbian?”

“No, but I didn’t know her that well.”

“What are you going to say to the press?”

“There’s nothing to say. Turner’s asked for my resignation. It’s on Shaw’s desk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He shrugged. “I was waiting for the right time.”

Another thought came to her. “Did Shalandra have anything to do with it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Let’s get out of here for the weekend and find some bed and breakfast or country inn where they don’t give a damn about Washington.”

The tears were back. “Robert, are we going to make it?”

The night duty officer in the communications section of the White House took the call from the police. She did not hesitate and immediately called Shaw. As expected, he grumped at being so rudely awakened at 3:15 on Saturday morning. But it wasn’t a message he could ignore. “Wake the president,” he told the duty officer. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. He made it in fourteen and went directly to Turner’s private study in the residence. He knocked twice, and Maura opened the door.