Power Curve (47 page)

The night was blanked by streams of tracers rising from the atoll and sweeping the sky. A finger of fire reached out to touch them. But only one fifty-seven-millimeter shell hit their left vertical stabilizer. “Fuck!” Woods shouted as he retarded the throttles and fought for control. The jet twisted twice and stabilized. They were still flying. Two rocket plumes streaked out of the curtain of tracers etching the sky above the atoll. “Break left!” Byers shouted. “Two SAMS on us!”

The staff car pulled off Perimeter Road and stopped. Martini got out and walked to the guardrail on top of Habu Hill and looked over his base. It was enveloped in darkness, but he could still see vehicles moving in the moonlight. A gentle breeze off the East China Sea washed over him, and he savored the fresh tang of salt air. Toby Malthus joined him, and the two men stood quietly, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Is it going to detonate?” Martini finally asked.

“It should,” Malthus answered.

Martini was incredulous. “You mean you’re not sure?”

“No” came the simple reply. “You can never be sure in this business.” A long silence.

“Why do you do this?” Martini finally asked.

Malthus considered his answer. “When I was in high school, a teacher I respected said nuclear physics was the hardest subject there was. I guess it was the challenge.”

“But you stayed with it, so there must have been more to it.”

A little smile played across Malthus’s face. “Sometimes, when the answers are simple and clear, it’s like touching the face of God.” He laughed. “It doesn’t happen very often. But when it does, it makes it all worthwhile.”

“You’re not talking about designing nuclear weapons, are you?”

“No. Not at all. What we’re doing now is because of what we learned.”

A bright, incandescent, man-made sun lit the southwest horizon. They both turned as the fireball began to rise into the sky. Even in the dark and at their distance, they could see the fireball mushroom into a canopy cloud of bright spectral blue as the superheated air cooled in the upper atmosphere. They watched in awe as it faded into the night.

“Oh, my God,” Martini whispered.

“There is no joy in this,” Malthus said.

Washington, D.C.

Madeline Turner was alone in the Situation Room. Every chair was occupied, and Shaw was standing against the wall behind her, but she was alone. INCOMING MESSAGE blinked at her from one of the TV monitors. She waited. The DCI stood and read the message aloud as it scrolled onto the screen. “Kadena Air Force Base, Okinawa. 1005 Greenwich Mean Time, 15 February. Nuclear detonation observed over target coordinates at 1000 GMT. The time, location, size of yield, consistent with parame
ters of sel rel mission.” He paused and was met with silence. Then he read the last paragraph. “All contact lost with mission aircraft, aircrew assumed lost. Search-and-rescue mission underway.” He sat down.

“Casualties?” Turner asked.

Her question was met with silence. Mazie Hazelton lowered her head and spoke, her voice clear and distinct. “The pilot of the delivery aircraft was Captain Chet Woods and his backseater was Captain Raymond Byers, Jr. Our last estimate held 986 Chinese troops on the atoll. We can assume they all perished.”

Nothing in the tone of Turner’s reply revealed what she was feeling. “And Captain Rodney Davis. And Technical Sergeant Otis Jenkins. And Master Sergeant Larry Burke. And Major William Courtland.” She paused. “And Lieutenant General Robert Bender.” She stood up. “I only knew one of them.”

They all stood as the president walked from the room, still alone.

Shahe Air Base, China

“Someone’s coming,” Larry Burke whispered. He was in his usual position beside the wall. “It’s her.” He looked at Bender, fear in his eyes.

Bender walked to the door, straightening his tie and tucking his shirt in. He pulled at his coat, straightening it as the lock rattled. The door swung open. She was standing there, wearing an army officer’s uniform devoid of rank. Eight guards stood in the hall behind her, their submachine guns at the ready. Bender froze as she stared at him. “We had a deal,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

For what seemed an eternity, she did not respond. “You lied to me,” she finally said.

“Only when you asked me the details that compromised my country. But I was truthful when I said President Turner would respond in kind.”

Again the silence. Then, “Your crew is free to go.”

He watched them as the men filed out. It was enough.
Now, the only question left was when. But that was for him alone to discover. He stared at the wall above the woman’s head.
Oh, Nancy
, he thought,
I’m so frightened
.

“General Bender?” her voice was there, the same, without emotion. “General Bender?” He looked at her. She was holding a white envelope. “Chairman Lu requested that you deliver this letter to your President.” She smiled. “Perhaps you will also mention that we keep our word.”

“Most assuredly.”

Okinawa, Japan

“G
o right on in, Major.” Ryan tried to read the secretary’s expression. No luck. He squared his shoulders and pushed through the door into Martini’s office.

“Major Ryan reporting as ordered,” he said, snapping a crisp salute.

Martini waved a salute back and pointed to a chair. He waited until the doctor sat down. “This came in from the Security Police,” Martini said, handing him a one page report.

Ryan gulped hard and read. It detailed his accusations about Martini to the Security Police and was signed by one Captain Terrence Daguerre. “Sir, I want to speak to a lawyer.”

Martini stared at him for a moment, his look unreadable. “You’ll know when you need a lawyer. Do you remember when I told you to keep an eye on me?” Ryan nodded in answer. “I was mostly concerned with fatigue but the moment you had doubts, you should have come to me immediately and raised your concerns. Failing that, you should have gone to the vice commander. He’s the IG’s local representative and it’s his job to hear complaints.”

“Sir,” Ryan bleated in self-defense, “you wouldn’t have listened to me and what vice commander is going to let a junior officer criticize his commander?”

“You’re right about the first part,” Martini conceded.
“I was pressed for time right then. But he’d have listened or I’d have fired his ass. As it was, you almost got in the way of the mission at a very critical time.”

“Sir, I want to speak to a lawyer.”

Martini fixed the doctor with a hard look. He had no intentions of pressing charges but was more than willing to let the young major dangle on the hook. The longer the better. “Fine. But first, you’re going to do some listening. Ryan, you are an excellent doctor with the potential to make a difference. A big difference. But you can’t seem to get past being a self-centered, egotistical prima donna without someone giving you a swift kick in the butt.” He held up a hand, stopping anything Ryan might say. “You can separate from the Air Force in about six months. It might be a good idea if you looked someplace else for gainful employment. This isn’t the place for you.”

Ryan couldn’t help himself. “Why?”

“Because you’re not in the same league with Chet Woods and Ray Byers.” Martini shook his head at the confused look on Ryan’s face. “Surely, you remember them. The crew that dropped the bomb?” Ryan remembered. “The Air Force is not about making money, major, or getting your name in lights. We’re concerned with accomplishment. We do it by placing service, sacrifice, and obligation over the individual. Woods and Byers understood that. Pete Townly understands that. Sergeant Contreraz understands that. You don’t. Now you can go talk to a lawyer.”

Ryan saluted and spun around to leave. He almost made the door. “Ryan,” Martini said, “everyone benefits this earth. Some do it by living, others only by dying and freeing up space. You’ve still got time to make a choice.”

Washington, D.C.

Ben smiled at Liz Gordon when she walked onto the news set. She glanced at the cameraman, returned his smile, and quickly turned to speak to the director. Ben had seen it before. Liz had moved beyond him, and they would never work together again. He listened as Liz and
the director discussed how much leg she should show. “They’re not your best asset,” he said to himself. Finally it was decided to place a small writing desk beside Liz’s chair so she could swivel around to face the camera while she talked. When it was time for a commercial break, she could turn to the desk, giving the camera a profile shot.
Very good
, Ben admitted to himself.

The lights came on, the director cued her, and Liz turned to face the cameras alone, on center stage and in prime time. “Six months ago this evening,” she began, “the nation watched in stunned silence as President Turner held her first press conference after the death of President Roberts. At that time, I asked, Who is Madeline O’Keith Turner? We simply didn’t know, and within weeks, an untried Madeline Turner faced her first major crisis.”

Ben half listened as Liz recounted Turner’s first six months in office, cutting to sound and photo bites for emphasis and punctuation. The new intern he had seen before slipped onto the studio and stood beside him. Liz’s words came at him in fragments. “Sidestepped the sellout of Taiwan only to be confronted by an aggressive and expansionist China…a China driven by an internal power struggle…she engaged in a relentless search for peace…responded to nuclear blackmail by a singular, decisive show of force and discredited the Chinese generals bent on aggression…in the chaos, Lu Zoulin, the moderate premier, regained control and begged for peace.”

Ben studied the intern. She didn’t seem so tomboyish as before and was dressed as a reporter.
Maybe she needs a videographer
, he thought. The idea appealed to him. He focused on Liz. She had captured the cameras and the audience. “Finally, Madeline Turner has imposed her own style of leadership on the White House. The flamboyant Patrick Shaw has been reassigned as the White House director of communications and Richard Parrish, the former secretary of the treasury and an old friend, is now her chief of staff.”

The demotion of Shaw was, indeed, news. Ben almost laughed aloud.
Turner’s on to the bastard
, he thought. The image of Shaw shuffled into purgatory in the basement of the White House appealed to him. No longer was Shaw
the puppet master pulling strings. Maybe the news desk would assign him and the intern to interview Shaw. He made a mental note to check into it.

A camera zoomed in on Liz’s face. “Who is Madeline O’Keith Turner? The answer is simple: She is the president of the United States.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Shaw’s limousine was caught in heavy traffic a mile short of the Naval Medical Center. Jessica reached out and held his hand. “Are you worried?” she asked.

“Just a regular physical,” he replied as the limo accelerated, finally free of the traffic. “Haven’t had time for one in years. About time.” He grinned at her. “Nothin’ wrong with the old machinery.”

She returned his grin. “I know. I think it was the stress.”

“That’s the nice thing about being director of White House Communications,” he allowed. “No stress.” He brooded for a moment.
And no influence or power either
, he told himself. “I don’t know how Maddy fingered me. I thought I had covered my tracks better.”

“At least you’re still in the White House,” she replied.

“But totally off the power curve.” He gave a rueful laugh. “When you’re caught out all alone, buck naked, like Cinderella after midnight, you got to take what you can get. Sic gloria transit. But old Patrick will be back. Sooner than you might think.”

“Do you have a magic wand to make it happen?”

He didn’t answer her. Shaw had gotten inside the secret internal tracking polls that were Leland’s lifeline to the public’s mood. Everything the senator did, whether it was crafting strategy or decision making, was based on what his polls were telling him. It had been amazingly simple to slant the results just enough to feed Leland bad information. Shaw had simply bribed the genius who ran the computers that crunched the numbers, and sooner or later, he would turn it to his advantage. “You’re not going to tell
me, are you?” Jessica murmured. “What would it take to convince you otherwise?”

The limousine pulled up to the entrance of the hospital, and he got out. “Darlin’, these days it wouldn’t take much.”

Washington, D.C.

Noreen Coker was the first of Turner’s kitchen cabinet to arrive in Richard Parrish’s corner office in the West Wing. The black congresswoman dropped her bulk in a chair. “I cannot imagine Shaw risking all this,” she said. The vice president walked in with Maura. The empty left sleeve of his coat was tucked into the side pocket, and he looked pale and drawn. Coker sprang to her feet, amazing them with her speed and grace. “Child, you sit right down.” Sam Kennett did as she commanded. They waited while he caught his breath.

“We’re all here,” Parrish said. He led them down the hall to the Oval Office, matching Kennett’s slow pace. He knocked twice on the door, unable to suppress a smile, and ushered them in. Coker laughed at the shocked look on Maura and Kennett’s face when they saw Gwen Anderson, the secretary of health and human services, sitting on a couch next to Turner’s rocking chair.

“I’ll be damned,” Kennett said. “I thought you went over to Leland.”

“I did,” Anderson said.

“I asked her to,” Turner told them. “Jackie was her contact, and they passed information back and forth.”

Kennett nodded, thinking about Turner’s personal assistant who had committed suicide. “Very clever, getting someone on the inside like that.”

“It paid dividends,” Anderson said, “when Elkins and Shaw showed up.”

“Speaking of miserable bastards,” Coker said, “where is Shaw?”

“Recovering from surgery,” Turner replied, “prostate cancer. It was serious, and they had to remove his prostate
gland. The doctors say they got all the cancer, but he’ll probably be impotent.”

Coker let out a whoop. “Banished to the bowels of the White House in a nothing job, and now he can’t get it up? Oh, Lord, there is justice out there.”

“I’ll never understand why you’re keeping him,” Maura said. Coker and Kennett agreed with her.

“I believe Gwen knows,” Turner replied.

“In the final crunch,” Anderson said, “Shaw couldn’t give you up. Besides, what he’s doing to Leland is priceless.”

“Which is?” Coker asked.

Anderson laughed. “Don’t ask me how, but I think he’s cooking Leland’s internal tracking polls. And you know how closely the good senator guards them. The results of his polls are slightly out of kilter with what the public is really thinking. Leland is ending up on the wrong side of key issues, and he hasn’t got a clue why. I just wish I knew how Shaw is doing it.”

“Well, Gwen,” Turner said, “as long as you’re still on the senator’s good side—”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Anderson replied. “But I need a new point of contact. I’ll be dead in the water if I’m seen here for anything other than cabinet meetings.”

“Jackie will be hard to replace,” Turner said.

“Did anyone ever find that Polaroid I gave her?” Anderson asked. “It was a photo of the farmhouse where those bastards meet.”

No one could remember seeing it. “It doesn’t matter as long as Shaw doesn’t have it,” Kennett answered. “Sooner or later, he’d piece it all together. I can just hear him.” He put on a decent imitation of Shaw’s southern drawl: “Gawddammit, Mizz President, you just can’t go trustin’ anyone around here these days.”

Maura gazed contentedly at her daughter.
You beat the bastards
, she thought.
Savor it, Maddy. Enjoy the victory
. Then she saw the slight squint and amusement sparkle in her daughter’s eyes as a half smile played across her mouth. Madeline O’Keith Turner was enjoying her triumph. She had weathered her first six months in office and emerged from the crisis stronger, more sure of herself,
ready to face the battles looming on the horizon. But for the moment, the sweet taste of success was hers.

Langley Air Force Base, Virginia

Martini moved through the crowd in the Officers’ Club. The reception was packed with dignitaries who had attended the Thunderbirds’ first show of the season. Begrudgingly, he gave the team high marks for their performance flying the new F-22 Raptor. But he was still convinced his team had been much better in the old F-16. He worked his way past the Thunderbirds who were still in their flight suits and surrounded by a large crowd of admirers. He recognized the president’s son, Brian Turner, who was following the left wingman’s hands as he demonstrated a high-
g
maneuver.

“There goes a future fighter pilot,” a voice behind him said. Martini turned to see a tall, gray-headed, four-star general.

“General Bender,” Martini said. They shook hands, meeting for the first time. “Congratulations on your fourth star and your new command.” Bender had assumed command of ACC, Air Combat Command, two days before. “I imagine this is more to your liking than the White House.”

“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Bender said.

“I’ve heard a rumor that she’s looking for a new aide.”

“It’s true,” Bender said.

“The poor son of a bitch,” Martini muttered.

“I recommended you for the job,” Bender said.

Martini’s face turned livid, and he sputtered. “She doesn’t even know me!”

“She needs to,” Bender said, turning and leaving the speechless brigadier in his wake. He looked for Nancy and found her with Brian.

“Robert, we really must go. Brian has to get back to Washington, and we’re invited to dinner with General Charles.” Bender agreed, and they made their way toward the exit. But a procession of four waiters and two Thunderbird pilots pushing a serving cart with a large cake blocked them. “We really must go,” she repeated.

Bender’s face was granite hard as he stared at the cake and the pilots gathering around it. “It’s time to do something about that,” he muttered.

“Robert,” Nancy whispered, “don’t. Let it be.” But Bender ignored her and walked toward the Thunderbirds who split apart, making way for him.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked. “Is he mad?”

Nancy put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a Thunderbird tradition that the right wingman cuts the cake with a karate chop. He thinks it’s childish and always said he’d stop it if he could. They know he hates it.” She felt she had to explain. “Sometimes,” she searched for the right words, “he can be so, so rigid and prudish.”

Bender spoke to the right wingman who was poised to do the honors. The young captain’s face showed his disappointment as he moved aside. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bender said, “to the Thunderbirds and the new season.” His hand flashed down in a karate chop, cutting the cake. He looked at the startled captain, his face a blank mask. “That’s how it’s done, Captain.”

Nancy joined him and blinked away her tears. “Robert, you just might make it.”