Ashes of Victory

— 2 —

An edgy, quiet frustration filled the crowded Situation Room. The faces of senior civilian and military officials were uniformly grim. The combination of fluorescent lighting and the glare from the flat-panel televisions streaming the harrowing aftermath from Naval Station Norfolk in ultra-high definition gave them a sickly hue that only emphasized the dour mood of the room. It had been less than twelve hours since the attack and the number of casualties had already topped one thousand.

President Cord Macklin sat quietly at the head of the thirty-foot-long conference table looking every bit the quietly aging fighter jock. He wore a fitted white dress shirt and a Hart Schaffner Marx two-piece suit, a longtime favorite among American presidents. His steely blue eyes studied his audience.

He lifted his gaze briefly to scan the video feeds, then took a deep breath. Even with the sound muted, the images from multiple networks were hard to watch.

Slowly he put on his reading glasses to look at a note handed to him by Director of National Intelligence Hartwell Prost, who sat to his immediate right.

The president looked up from the note, gave him a half nod, and surveyed the room again. Next to Prost sat Secretary of State Brad Austin, Secretary of Defense Peter Adair, his vice president, the secretary of Homeland Security, and the directors of the FBI and the CIA. The Joint Chiefs of Staff monopolized the left side of the room, forming a unified wall of crisp uniforms, ribbons, and poker faces.

Though he seethed with anger and felt nearly overwhelmed with grief for the crew of Truman and their families and friends, outwardly Macklin kept his emotions in check, appearing businesslike and in charge.

A former US Air Force fighter pilot during the Vietnam War, Macklin had been to hell and back during his years of military service — some of them alongside a handful of the characters at this table. He had given and suffered violence while flying F-105 Thunderchiefs in the skies of Southeast Asia — and had the scars to prove it, earned a lifetime ago, along with a Silver Star and a Purple Heart.

And now someone had brought that violence to American soil at a level unseen since September 11.

Staring at the piece of paper again, Macklin read, “More than six hundred civilian casualties, two-thirds of them women and children, plus at least four hundred military personnel. And then we have the wounded… What are we up to now, Hart?”

“Three thousand two hundred and fifty-three at the last count, Mr. President,” Prost replied, reading from a tablet computer.

“Three thousand two hundred and fifty-three,” Macklin repeated. “God Almighty.”

Removing his glasses and folding them, he used them as a pointing device, which he directed at the Pentagon brass. “Before we get to how we allowed some bastards with obsolete planes to kill at least a thousand people and put a $6.2 billion aircraft carrier out of commission, I’d like to hear what we have learned about who is responsible.”

Directing the glasses at his DNI, Macklin added, “That’d be your cue, Hart.”

Prost took a breath to consider his words. He had had a long career in the CIA, joining it after graduating with honors from Harvard Law, a decision that had upset his parents, who had expected him to take over their family-owned investment business. But Prost had heard another call and went on to rise through the ranks at Langley to become its director of operations, before retiring from the agency and becoming Macklin’s national security adviser, until the president tapped him to fill the DNI chair. In his current role, Prost was responsible for the effective integration of all foreign, military, and domestic intelligence in defense of the United States of America. As such, the directors of the FBI, the CIA, as well as the Defense Intelligence Agency, answered to him.

Prost looked every way the intelligence type, average height and build, salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes, and an easy-to-forget face. And pale, perhaps from spending too much time in basement rooms such as this one.

The DNI tapped his tablet computer. The image on the seventy-inch flat screen on the far wall switched from the CNN feed showing images of body bags lined up on the pier to photos of mangled and charred sections of fuselage.

“Our civilian and military agencies have been collaborating nonstop to find a lead on the aircraft and pilots,” he began. “We were able to pull serial numbers off three pieces of the C-46. Most of the DC-9 vaporized or melted on impact.”

Prost paused to let that sink in, then added, “Using the serial numbers, we were able to trace the plane back to a shell company that had acquired it from a bankrupt air-cargo service. From there, it will just be a matter of time until we uncover the real buyer.

“In addition, our investigation has identified the airfield from which these flights originated: La Aurora Airport in Guatemala. A team of agents will be there within the hour. State already cleared it.” Prost looked at Secretary of State Brad Austin, who gave him a nod.

“That said,” the DNI continued, “the consensus from my colleagues at this table is that the US needs an immediate show of force to deter potential follow-on attacks or copycats.

“We have satellite imagery that has been confirmed by Special Forces on the ground that there is an ISIS training and logistics camp in Yemen that provides a good opportunity. It is isolated enough that the risk of hitting civilian structures is low. The greatest risk is to immediate family who may be living there with the terrorists. However, we have seen no evidence of a school, nor is there an actual mosque in the compound.”

Prost once again paused. He looked around the room, apparently to make sure there was no disagreement.

Macklin motioned him to continue.

“I believe hitting this target serves both locally to destroy a terrorist element and internationally by demonstrating that we will be decisive in our response to attacks upon us. We have a Virginia-class submarine, Missouri, in position and, with your permission, it’ll launch a Tomahawk against it.”

Macklin looked about the room and received nods.

“Fine,” the president finally said. “Get it done. Today. And make sure it happens when we have eyes on the target. I want it on YouTube.”

“Yes, sir.”

Macklin then said to no one in particular in a very calm voice, “It seems like a given that our carriers should be protected at all times. In fact, I’m baffled that there wasn’t any protection in place for Truman.”

Before anyone could answer, Macklin pointed the reading glasses at the ceiling and added, “Hell, I know there are two guys with SAMs up on my damn roof twenty-four seven. But we have nothing standing by to protect our ships while at port?”

Macklin knew that asking such a question would immediately turn the meeting into an old-fashioned exercise in accountability, but he needed to get to the bottom of this mess.

The silence he received prompted him to direct the reading glasses at General “Lucky” Les Chalmers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff — and also one of the best friends of Cadet “Cordy” Macklin back at the Air Force Academy.

“Les, if I understand the scenario correctly, a portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile could have saved Truman.”

Chalmers was built like a heavyweight boxer and had the prizefighter face to go along with it, hard and chiseled, even a slightly crooked nose. Many wondered how in the world this bear of a man actually fit inside one of those cramped fighter jet cockpits. The truth was he didn’t. Chalmers flew KC-135 refueling tankers for most of his career, but he had a gift for combat strategy that eventually had landed him a Pentagon assignment.

The general looked the part of a four-star officer in his starched uniform and ribbons crowned by a full head of close-cropped gray hair and a stoic face that reflected the sentiment in the room. He shifted in his black leather swivel chair as his narrowed eyes briefly looked away from Macklin’s armor-piercing gaze.

Chalmers stared into the distance, apparently considering his response, and when he finally spoke, he did so in a cautious tone but in his typical baritone voice.

“Theoretically, Mr. President, that’s true.”

The chief did indeed look uncomfortable and very much “unlucky,” but then again, Macklin couldn’t remember the last time the good general had been on the receiving end of an ass-chewing.

“In my opinion,” Chalmers added, “we would have had a better than fifty-fifty chance of bringing the plane down. But the bigger problem is firing authority. Even if we had shoulder-launched SAMs in place, there wasn’t enough time to identify the problem, go through the proper chain of command, and give the order to shoot it down, especially when it looked like a Mid-Atlantic airliner.”

“Les, I hear you, but on the other hand, you must agree that it was a good thing that Bush’s XO decided not to follow the chain of command.”

Chalmers nodded. “This time, yes, Mr. President, but it could also have gone very bad had that gun system locked on, say, a passing helo or patrol boat or commercial jet on final approach to Norfolk International. There are very valid reasons why we keep those weapon systems disabled at port.”

The general paused, and Macklin decided to give him the space to choose his next words carefully.

“Mr. President,” he finally added after several seconds of uncomfortable silence. “We do train our officers to make split-second decisions when facing life-or-death situations, and in the case of Commander Weathers, his decision to break protocol prevented a second disaster. But as you know, our military operates based on rules; it has to, or people die. Obviously, those rules failed us in the case of Truman, so we are reviewing them. But to your earlier point, until we develop a better system for defending our ships at port, we are placing crews armed with SAMs on all of them. We will not make the same mistake twice.”

Macklin nodded, deciding to stop the inquisition for now. Down the road, no doubt there would be congressional hearings on this disaster. And those hearings would likely result in some bloodletting — meaning the early retirement of some of those present here. But the president needed this team today, working the problem of today, without worrying about tomorrow. And to that end, he turned his attention to Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Denny Blevins, who sat next to the general.

“Denny, how long will Truman be out of commission, realistically?”

Leaning forward in his chair and resting his forearms on the table, fingers crossed, Blevins said, “I honestly won’t have a firm answer until we complete the damage assessment. But from what I’ve seen and heard so far, I’d guess around nine months, possibly a year. Obliterating the island is tantamount to destroying the ship’s brain, taking out most of Truman’s command structure as well as its radar capabilities. Having said that, however, the island is a stand-alone structure that can be swapped, but we’re concerned about damage to the carrier structure belowdecks. I’ll have something more concrete for you in a week.”

“But either way, losing Truman puts a hell of a strain on our Optimized Fleet Response Plan, Mr. President,” General Chalmers chimed in. “We rotate our carriers every seven months as part of the OFRP thirty-six-month cycle. With Truman out of the picture, it screws up the rotations, so we’ll have to be creative, think beyond the horizon.”

“The general’s right,” said Blevins. “On paper, we currently have a total fleet of ten Nimitz-class aircraft carriers. With Truman out of commission and Bush undergoing upgrades for another month, it leaves us with eight. Our oldest, Nimitz, is at Naval Station Kitsap on a ten-month maintenance cycle while our second oldest, Eisenhower, is in dry dock at the Norfolk Naval Ship yard undergoing hull repairs and engine upgrades right next to Washington, which is undergoing similar repairs.”

Although no one said it, everyone, starting with Macklin, was damn glad that the C-46 pilot chose Bush instead of one of those other carriers, since there would have been no crew aboard to mount a defense.

Blevins added, “And that leaves us with five operational carriers, Mr. President. Vinson is in the Arabian Sea, Lincoln in the Mediterranean, Stennis is currently at port in Singapore, and Reagan is at port in San Diego, scheduled to go out in a week to relieve Roosevelt, which is due to return from its seven-month deployment in the Sea of Japan.”

“Denny, what about Ford?” Macklin asked, referring to USS Gerald R. Ford (CVN 78), the first of a new generation of “supercarriers” coming out of Newport News Shipyards.

Blevins said, “It’s finalizing sea trials this week, sir. Should be back at its dock in four days to start the process of getting it ready for its first deployment in three months.”

Macklin exhaled, glad that the supercarrier had been away from port during the attack.

“And behind it is Kennedy, scheduled for launch in a year and deployment in three. It’s already starting to look like a carrier.”

Macklin did the math and the math sucked. They were stuck with five carriers for the next few months.

Blevins continued. “The general and I were conferring with the defense secretary right before this meeting, and we’re considering temporarily suspending the OFRP rotations and simply leaving a carrier strike group or two on station in the Mideast and rotate the ship’s crew and air wings. Now, we can’t do that indefinitely because sooner or later we need to get those carriers back to port for maintenance and upgrades, but we can extend their deployments for a few more months to buy us some time. And we could even dispatch a couple of Expeditionary Strike Groups to the region. That’ll get the bastards’ attention in a hurry. We’ll have a complete plan for your review in the next twenty-four hours.”

Macklin liked the idea of taking advantage of the much nimbler Marine Expeditionary Strike Groups, which included an amphibious assault ship that was basically a 39,400-ton aircraft carrier — just over a third the size of a Nimitz-class carrier — with 2,200 marines and a team of Navy SEALs. It was escorted by a cruiser, a destroyer, a Zumwalt-class guided-missile destroyer, and a Virginia-class attack submarine.

“All right,” Macklin said. “But let’s keep the pressure on and see if we can do better on the timing of getting these ships ready to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Chalmers and Blevins said in unison.

Shifting his gaze between them and the defense secretary, Macklin considered his next request for a moment, then said, “I would also like your recommendations on strike options after the Tomahawk launch today. I don’t intend to take my foot off their necks for the foreseeable future.”

Chalmers and Blevins exchanged a glance before the latter said, “We’ll discuss it with the defense secretary and our staffs and get you a strike package shortly, sir.”

Satisfied, the president turned his attention to his secretary of state, the only man in the room who probably had more combat flying experience than Macklin. And it wasn’t just the number of hours or the fact that, like Macklin, Austin had also been shot down. Macklin didn’t know any other American pilot who had flown a stolen MiG-17 into Vietnam disguised as a Russian pilot for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc behind enemy lines. It was the stuff of legends — though few actually knew the story, and even fewer knew of his harrowing escape. Not only was Austin’s MiG shot down, but he had been unable to eject because some intelligence type had had the ejection seat mechanism disabled to cover their tracks in case he ever went down. But the spooks had not counted on the hotshot pilot landing the burning plane in a rice paddy and walking away.

“Brad, I’d like to hear your thoughts on our situation.”

Bradley Carlyle Austin had graduated from Annapolis with a bachelor’s in aeronautical engineering before accepting a commission in the Marine Corps to fly F-4 Phantoms. He had done it against the wishes of his father, Vice Admiral Carlyle Austin, also an Annapolis alumnus and three-star flag officer who had expected him to join the fleet. But like all members of Macklin’s cabinet, Austin was an independent thinker determined to follow his calling. Rumor had it that just to drive the point home to his unrelenting father, who had tormented Austin during his senior year at the academy, the young jarhead had shown up at the next family Christmas dinner wearing his new Marine dress blue uniform.

While most people leaned forward when addressing the president, Austin calmly sat back, elbows on his chair’s armrests, fingers interlaced as if he were praying, as he considered his response. Unlike General Chalmers or Admiral Blevins, the man certainly didn’t appear at all uncomfortable or tense today, probably something to do with staring death in the face so many times and walking away.

Still thin but muscular and only a few pounds heavier than the last time he’d strapped into the cockpit of a Phantom, Austin had aged well. Though a full head of silver hair and more than a handful of wrinkles showed he was on the wrong side of sixty.

“Mr. President,” he finally said. “The delegates to the UN General Assembly are gathering for their annual meeting. With your permission, I intend to address them and clearly — and quite candidly — explain our position. The members, along with the Security Council, need to take immediate action to sanction the known host nations of terrorism.”

Macklin polished his glasses with his tie, leaned back, and sighed. “What do you think the odds are that the UN will take action?”

Austin chuckled, then said, “Zero to none. Most of those bastards can barely keep from cheering every time we get hit.”

Macklin shared Austin’s exasperation with the imaginary nature of any sort of cooperative atmosphere at the UN.

The secretary continued. “We still have to go through the usual and predictably… gutless motions, though. If we act unilaterally, without giving the UN and their handwringers a chance to argue the issue forty ways to Bombay, the whining and crying will be worse than a pissed-off Saigon hooker.”

Macklin held back a grin, feeling a touch of nostalgia at the mention of his old stomping grounds. Back in the day, when he had flown Thunderchiefs and Austin Phantoms, Saigon had been called Saigon.

Not Ho-Chi-Fucking-Minh City, he thought before asking, “And that translates into how long?”

“I’d say the longest those delegates can stand to sit with their thumbs up their asses talking in circles is about forty-eight hours, seventy-two on the outside.”

This time Macklin did grin, then said, “That sounds about right. Go ahead and schedule a visit to the assembly, and please let me know when you’re going to speak. Don’t want to miss that show.”

“You’ll be the first to know, sir,” Austin said.

An aide entered the room then and leaned in to speak quietly to Austin, who listened for a moment, then turned to Macklin and tapped his large aviator watch.

“Brad?”

“We have a call with President Jiechi in ten, Mr. President, then it’s the Russian president at twenty-two hundred, followed by the British prime minister thirty minutes later and a few other heads of state until midnight. The world leaders want to tell you how sorry they are and extend the customary offer of assistance.”

Macklin frowned, hating that dog-and-pony show, especially when he had so much on his plate. “Do I really have to?”

Austin shrugged. “I didn’t write the protocols, nor did I run for office, sir. Each world leader will be expecting the big kahuna at this end of the line.”

“All right, all right,” Macklin said, standing, which prompted everyone else in the room to also stand. “All of you have your marching orders. Get to work, and we’ll pick this up first thing in the morning.”

Standing by the door, Keith Okimoto, the head of the presidential Secret Service detail, spoke into his lapel microphone, “Big Mac’s on the move.” A compact, muscular martial-arts champion, the Japanese American’s tight features and dark eyes were usually enough to make people keep their distance. Macklin once said he thought that the man looked as if he’d just stepped out of a samurai movie set, sword in hand, ready for action, which was precisely how he ran the detail. Rumor had it that Okimoto had been the one who’d given Macklin the “Big Mac” code name.

Prost caught up to them halfway to the elevators.

“Mr. President, there’s one other thing I’d like to discuss.”

“Shoot,” Macklin said, stopping, as did Austin, Okimoto, and three other Secret Service agents surrounding them. The agents took a discreet step back, out of earshot. “But make it quick. Don’t want to keep our… favorite trading partner waiting.”

Prost hesitated briefly before glancing at Austin and then saying, “Maybe this is not a good time.”

He sensed the DNI’s concern. “Why don’t you join me at Camp David tomorrow afternoon? Can it wait until then? I’m addressing the nation tomorrow evening from the lodge.”

“It can wait, sir,” Prost finally said. “See you tomorrow.”

Back in in the Oval Office, a Chinese interpreter with a top-secret clearance joined Macklin and Austin, who represented part of the core of the White House National Security Council (NSC), the principal forum used by presidents when discussing national security and foreign policy.

Missing at Macklin’s request so they could actually get some work done before the morning meeting were DNI Prost, Defense Secretary Adair, the secretary of energy, his vice president, and the White House Chief of Staff. The latter was handling congressional leaders, running blocking and tackling so Macklin could work the problem without interruptions from Capitol Hill.

Aides to Prost, Austin, and Adair also stepped in, able to respond at a nod from the president for more information, based on what the Chinese president might say.

The president sat in a high-backed leather chair and pressed the speaker button on the phone next to him.

“Morning, Xi,” Macklin said, aware of the time difference.

“Good evening, Mac,” the new leader of the People’s Republic of China reciprocated in the British accent from his days at Oxford. “I wanted to express my condolences and offer assistance.”

Macklin raised his brows at the warmth and concern in the Chinese leader’s voice.

Nothing like having a major disaster or terrorist strike for world leaders to engage in a lovefest.

Although protocol required him to be here all night long listening to empty offers, nothing prevented him from taking the opportunity to make helpful suggestions to his compadres across the pond. “I appreciate the… offer, Xi. My greatest need from you, though, would be to put more pressure on North Korea to end its missile tests and stop creating so much drama in the region. That would go a long way toward helping us focus on catching the bastards who carried out this attack.”

He paused to let the Chinese president respond and smiled at the silence that followed. He glanced at Austin, who didn’t bother to hold back a grin, giving his commander in chief a thumbs-up.

Macklin wondered how many people were listening to this conversation on the Chinese side. He actually liked President Jiechi, a man who appeared genuinely interested in shifting the cooperation needle between their two nations in the right direction. Although he also understood the challenges the new leader faced while trying to drive some much-needed change in old-school Beijing, he couldn’t pass up the chance to get China to apply some pressure on the rogue nation-state.

“I… hear you, Mac,” Xi replied. “I will… look into it.”

Yeah, Macklin thought. You do that, pal.

“Thank you, Xi. I look forward to good news.”

The conversation came to an end, and as the Chinese interpreter stepped out and one of Austin’s aides summoned the Russian translator to get ready for the call to Moscow, Macklin looked at his secretary of state and said, “Need a minute, Brad.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Austin replied, ushering everyone out before closing the door behind him.

Walking over to the windows next to his desk, Macklin stared at the manicured lawn under the floodlights, his hands deep in his pockets as he thought of his predecessors standing on this very spot. From JFK during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1963 to Jimmy Carter during the Iranian hostage crisis to George W. Bush in the aftermath of September 11, each had stood here, knowing he was in the defining moment of his presidency. He thought of the crew of Truman and the civilians who had died and been wounded. Then his thoughts turned to the crew of Missouri, who would strike the first blow in retribution. What was that old saying? Mess with a bull, you get the horns.