Power Curve (4 page)

Shaw grinned. “Your word, Mizz President, not mine. But you saw one at work today.”

“Or maybe she was being a good reporter,” Turner replied. “Don’t worry about it—not yet.” She looked at him. “Where was General Bender? I didn’t see him at the press conference.”

So that’s why she wanted to see me
, Shaw thought.
Why is she worried about him? What’s the connection there?
“Ah, he did an interview or two and took off. Itchy feet.” He paused, wondering if this was the time to get rid of the stiff, reserved officer. “Mizz President, he doesn’t have anything to do, so put him out of his misery. Send him back to the Pentagon. There’s really no place for him on your staff.”

“So he’s bored?”

“Stiffly.”

“Then give him something to do.” No answer from Shaw. “No suggestions? Well then, tell him I want a detailed briefing on what’s going on in the Far East. I haven’t got the slightest idea what the Chinese are up to.”

So she was reading the briefing book on China
, he thought. He would have to spend some time reading it. “Rawlings or Murchison can do that for you.” William Rawlings was the national security advisor and Clement Murchison, the secretary of state she had inherited from the former president.

“I also want to know what my military options are.”

“That’s Overmeyer’s job.” General Overmeyer was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “He’s very territorial and—”

“It will give Bender something to do,” Turner interrupted.

Shaw smiled. He knew when to capitulate. “Can do. Mr. General Robert Bender is going to be one busy man. Anything else, Mizz President?”

She shook her head, dismissing him. He headed for the door. Her voice stopped him. “Patrick, did you put Liz Gordon on the Do Not Admit list?” He nodded. “Take her off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, closing the door behind him. He whistled a tuneless melody as he ambled back to his office. He filed away a few more pieces of information in his mental computer about Madeline O’Keith Turner. For some reason, she wanted to keep Bender around and was concerned about China. The Senate Foreign Relations Committee chairman would be interested in that.

He was vaguely aware that it was dark outside when he entered his office in the West Wing. His long-suffering secretary was still there, waiting for him with the president’s schedule for the next day along with a guest list. He initialed off the schedule and handed it back to her for distribution.

“Elizabeth Gordon has called twice on your private line,” she told him. “She wants to know why she is on the Do Not Admit list.”

“Go home, Alice Fay,” he said. He waited until she had left before picking up his private phone and punching in a number. He managed a “Liz” before the reporter hit him with a stream of invective.

“You bastard!” she screamed, piercing his ear. “You put me on the Do Not Admit.”

The grapevine is a little too fast and way too accurate
, he thought. He would have to do some fine tuning. He smiled and let her wind down. “You got it wrong, darlin’. I took you off the list.” He smiled. This was the stuff of disinformation and kept the reporters off balance. By implication, the president had put Liz on the list and he
was spending his
obligata
getting her off. “You did good out there today.”

After hanging up, he scanned the names on the guest list. His eyebrows came together, and he frowned as he deleted a senator’s name.
No way
, he thought.
You’re so crooked that if you ate a nail, you’d shit a screw
. He smiled.
Remember that line
, he told himself. He buzzed for the duty officer to pick up the revised guest list and made one more phone call. “I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” he said, his voice low and husky. He smiled at the answer and walked into the deserted corridor.

Not a bad day
, he decided, shuffling past the lone Secret Service agent still on duty outside the Oval Office.

Okinawa, Japan

I
t was still dark when the F-15E Strike Eagle taxied into the flow-through at Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa, Japan. The crew chief marshaled the jet into the last bay of the long, carportlike structure with its sawtooth roof. The canopy came up as the engines spun down and the crew unstrapped. The backseater was the first out, throwing two small canvas bags of flight publications, checklists, and charts to a waiting crew chief. She scampered down the crew boarding ladder and waited for her pilot, Captain Chet Woods, to descend.

“What’s the hurry, Laurie?” Chet asked. “Got a hot date?”

“At this hour?” she shot back. “Sure.”

Chet could tell she was anxious to get going, not that he could blame her after the long training mission. Unfortunately, a maintenance problem had delayed their launch, and what should have been a relatively short flight had turned into a grueling twelve-hour crew-duty day.

Then the tanker that was scheduled for a night airborne refueling had canceled, another maintenance problem, and they had to divert to Osan Air Force Base in South Korea for gas. The flight profile back to Okinawa had been a stresser because Laurie had simulated a failure of the Eagle’s navigation computer, her idea of having fun.

The production supervisor’s panel truck pulled up, and a grizzled master sergeant got out. “Anything for Maintenance, Cap’n?” he asked.

“She’s good to go, Sergeant Contreraz,” Laurie answered. “Out kickin’ butt this early?”

Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz frowned. As the production supervisor, he was responsible for the care and feeding of the Forty-fourth Fighter Squadron’s twenty F-15Es and eighty crew chiefs. He had heard about the problems Laurie and her pilot had launching and was going to solve the problem. “My people screwed up, Cap’n. It won’t happen again.”

Laurie called to the pilot. “Chet, you got any write-ups?”

“Just what’s already in the forms,” he answered.

“We’ll take care of it,” Contreraz told them.

Chet thought for a moment. By rights, he and Laurie should review the videotapes from the mission and debrief the flight. But it had been a long night. “Laurie, you’re cleared off hot. We’ll debrief the mission after the change of command ceremony this afternoon.”

“
Sigh-oh-nar-ah
,” Laurie said, drawing out the Japanese word for good-by.

The pilot and Contreraz watched her walk away. “She’s a real squatty-body,” the sergeant said.

“A bundle of energy moving at warp 8,” Chet said.

“I hear she’s a pretty good wizzo.”

“Oh, yeah,” the pilot allowed. It was the truth. She was an excellent wizzo, Air Force slang for WSO, weapon system officer.

Laurie drove to the BOQ, trotted up the stairs, and took off her flight boots before letting herself into the room. Without turning on the light, she unzipped her flight suit and pushed it past hips that no amount of exercise could make smaller. But Laurie was happy with her body, all five foot four inches and 140 pounds of it. She peeled off the athletic bra she preferred for flying, not that her small breasts needed much support to fight the
g’
s that came with flying the F-15 Strike Eagle. Because of her compact and sturdy frame, she could sustain over 12
g
s without passing out, an impressive
number. She slipped out of her panties and ran her fingers through her short dark hair, fluffing it out. Now she had another use for her body.

She slipped into the bed and cuddled against the back of its occupant. When the back didn’t stir, she whispered, “Come on, Robert Junior, wake up.” No response. “There’s always plan B,” she coaxed. Still no response. She reached into his shorts and had his attention.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

“After five.”

“Must’ve been a hell of a mission.”

“A real ballbuster,” she said, kissing his neck. Now he was responding.

“Do you always come home horny?”

“Always,” she answered.

“It’s the flying that does it,” he said.

“You’re the shrink, you know about these things.”

“I don’t want to be around if you ever fly in combat.”

“Why?” she murmured.

He sucked in his breath. “According to everything I’ve read”—a long pause as he tried to breathe normally—” the sex drive goes into supercharged overdrive in combat.”

“I hope you’re up to it.”

The long line of officers and their wives or husbands snaked out the door of the Officers’ Club ballroom and into the hall. Laurie moved with the line, hoping that Robert would arrive in time to go through the reception line with her to meet the new wing commander. Probably some problem at the clinic, she reasoned. She was wearing trousers and high heels with her class A blue uniform, but her heels weren’t high enough to let her see over the crowd.

He found her just before she reached the reception line. She looked up, suppressing an urge to kiss the tall and lanky captain. Lately, she had been wondering if their kids would have blond hair and blue eyes like him. “Lucky dog,” she kidded. “You missed the change of command ceremony. Boring.”

“I’ve seen enough of them,” he said.

“Seen one, seen them all,” she quipped.

They reached the reception line, and he went first be
cause he was more senior in rank than Laurie. The wing commander’s executive officer made the introductions. “General Martini, may I introduce Captain Robert Ryan, Jr., one of our flight surgeons. Captain Ryan is also doing psychiatric research while at Kadena.”

Brigadier General David Martini extended his hand. He was a heavy-set man, almost six feet tall, barrel-chested, and with a head of jet black, barely controlled, curly hair. His narrow-set brown eyes darted around, never resting, and his handshake was firm but abrupt. “Captain Ryan,” he said, “I understand you’re an expert on stress.”

“Not an expert, General,” Ryan answered. “But I am researching the physical and mental ramifications of stress and how it affects flying and judgment.”

Martini gave a short nod, little more than a jerk. Based on that short introduction, Robert Ryan knew he was dealing with a classic type A personality, a hard-driving, tightly wound, aggressive overachiever. Martini turned to the officer standing behind Ryan. “General Martini,” the executive officer said, “may I introduce Captain Laurie Bender, one of our weapon system officers from the Forty-fourth.”

They shook hands. “Any relation to Lieutenant General Robert Bender?” Martini asked.

“He’s my father, sir.”

The Pentagon

The staff car dropped Lieutenant General Robert Bender at the River Entrance to the Pentagon. He trotted up the steps, through the entrance, and past the Bradley Corridor and the office of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He took the escalator to the fourth floor and walked directly into the Air Force corridor. He turned left into the Air Force chief of staff’s outer office and was ushered directly into the office of General “Wild Wayne” Charles, the Air Force chief of staff.

No one had called General Charles “Wild Wayne” in years, at least not to his face. But the ferocious drive that earned him the nickname, four stars, and his current posi
tion was still very much a part of his personality. “Bob,” Charles called, waving Bender to a seat, “I understand you’ve got a problem.”

Bender told him about the briefing the president wanted on the Far East and her military options. Charles spun around in his chair and looked out a window. The Potomac sparkled in the summer sun, and a power boat cruised slowly upstream. “Not good. Briefing the president is the chairman’s job. You’ve
really
got a problem.”

“What a surprise,” Bender allowed, irony caught in every word.

Charles turned around and laughed. “I’ll be damned, Bob. Are you lightening up at last?”

“Somebody has got to tell the chairman.”

Charles nodded. “I’ll do it right away. Expect the shit to hit the fan.”

Bender nodded, understanding only too well the reaction of General Tennyson Overmeyer, United States Army, the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Overmeyer would read the situation exactly as Bender would have: A three-star general was playing politics in the White House and had gained access to the president, bypassing him, who, along with the secretary of defense, advised the president on all matters relating to the military. Bender fully expected Overmeyer to crunch him hard and force him into retirement. He would never see his fourth star and reach his ultimate goal, the capstone of his career: the command of Air Combat Command. It was all he had ever wanted.

“Chief,” Bender said, “this was not my idea. All I want is out of that place.”

“Which is exactly what we want,” Charles assured him.

“So what do I do?”

Charles said nothing and was silent, turning the problem over in his head. Finally, “Brief her.”

“Thanks, chief.”

“I may be able to salvage this,” Charles told him. “There’s things you don’t know, and as long as you’re talking the party line, the chairman may think you’re just his mouthpiece. I’ll try to convince him.”

“I hope so,” Bender said, not feeling hopeful at all.

“Bob, the only guy I know with a backbone as rigid as yours is Overmeyer. But he knows the truth when he hears it. Now chase your body down to Plans and OPs”—Plans and OPs was the deputy chief of staff for Plans and Operations—” and get your act together. I’ll do what I can with Overmeyer.”

Bender stood up. “Thanks, chief. I appreciate it.”

Charles watched him leave.
You are about to get your eyes watered
, he thought.

Bender left Charles’s office, turned left, and took the few steps down to the office of the DCS for Plans and Operations. In short order, he found himself inside and talking to the three-star general who headed the directorate. What Bender heard was worrisome, and there was no doubt that China was well on the road to becoming a major military power. The DCS for Plans and OPs calculated that if China sustained its current rate of military buildup, the United States would be facing a very credible threat within three to five years.

“How many people know this?” Bender asked.

“The chairman has briefed everyone in the current administration. But our take on China’s trending is not a popular position right now and no one is listening. But we’re doing exactly what we’ve always done, looking at military capability, not political intentions.

“As we speak, China has the capability to project its military power well into the Pacific and envelop Japan. Think of China as being Germany and Japan being England at the turn of the twentieth century. But there are two major differences when you compare them. First, Japan is an economic superpower that is militarily irrelevant. Second, China is the preeminent military power in Asia but an economic midget.”

The pieces started to come together for Bender. “Then the Chinese takeover of Taiwan is nothing but a grab by the biggest bully on the block for the goodies and we can expect to see more of the same.”

“That’s guessing at China’s political intentions,” the three-star said. “But we think so. Unfortunately, the State Department and the national security advisor have a different take on the situation.” A knock at the door cut off
any conversation. A lieutenant colonel entered and handed the three-star a note. “General Charles wants to see you ASAP.”

A worried Bender made his way back to the Air Force Chief of Staff’s Office. His condition did not improve when he was immediately escorted into Charles’s office and found General Tennyson Overmeyer, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sitting there. “General,” Charles began, “I think you know Bob Bender.”

“We’ve met,” Overmeyer grunted. He waved Bender to a seat. “I don’t like the idea of you briefing the president.”

“I assure you, sir,” Bender replied, “it is not my idea. All I want is out of the place.”

“So I’ve heard,” Overmeyer told him. “But it will be feet first if you’re not careful.” He pulled out a cigar and chomped off the end. But he did not light it and chewed on the tip. He studied Bender for a few moments. “Of all the damn situations,” he finally said, “this has got to be the one most screwed up.” The general shot out of his chair and paced back and forth, still rolling the unlit cigar in his mouth. “Wayne assures me you will tell the president exactly what we want.”

“You can rely on it,” Bender said.

“We’re dealing with too many unknowns here,” Charles said. “We better bring him on board. He can be trusted.”

“So help me God,” Overmeyer growled, “I’ll build a gallows and hang the bastard in the parking lot if he can’t.”

Bender assumed he was the “bastard” Overmeyer was talking about. “Sir, you sign off on the briefing, and I’ll give it word for word. For all practical purposes, it will be you up there speaking.”

The two four-stars exchanged glances. Overmeyer sat down. “A few days before Roberts died”—Bender caught the derogatory sound in Overmeyer’s voice when he referred to the dead president—” a satellite monitored the positioning of the Chinese fleet opposite Taiwan. The National Reconnaissance Office repositioned a Keyhole satellite—cut its useful life in half—to get the detail we
needed. It wasn’t just the fleet on maneuvers but a massive repositioning of the People’s Liberation Army—army, air force, and navy. Much more than the saber rattling that had been going on in the nineties. I called Roberts, told him I was worried and wanted to upgrade the DEFCON. He told me, and I quote, ‘Don’t worry about it. Return to normal readiness and stop all internal posturing. Do it immediately.’

“The bastard knew enough to know I had already started internal measures and was moving up the readiness ladder. He shut us down, and all we could do was watch. Naturally, I talked to the DIA and the boys in the basement.” The boys in the basement were the supersecret intelligence organizations that fell under the Pentagon’s control. “The boys put it together.” The general was chewing his cigar at a rapid rate, his jaws working like a pit bull gnawing a bone.

“Roberts had cut a deal with the Chinese under the table. Based on what happened, we probably gave them Taiwan. But for what? What do we get out of the deal? Peace in our time?” The general’s face had turned beet red as his blood pressure skyrocketed. “Our president appeased the Chinese exactly like Chamberlain did when he sold Czechoslovakia out to Hitler at Munich.”