Battle Born

CHAPTER TWO

Although the Nevada Air National Guard had a very nice all-ranks dinner club in Reno — in fact, one of the finest in the nation — few of the members of the 111th Bomb Squadron used it except for official social functions. Years earlier, back when the Air National Guard flew the RF-4 Phantom, the squadron members had “adopted” a run-down little bar and casino on South Rock Boulevard near the old Cannon Airport, now the Reno-Tahoe International Airport.

The bar’s real name was the Quarry, because it had been built near a small quarry used to provide sand and gravel for the concrete for Reno’s new airport’s runways, but no one used it. It was known to all as Target Study. It provided a convenient and convincing excuse or explanation to someone asking about a squadron member’s whereabouts, as in “He’s at target study” or “I’ll be at target study for the next couple of hours.” Because it was close to the airport, it also made for a fine place for crew members to wander up onto the roof and watch the planes come and go.

It was the first time since his accident that Rinc had been back in the place. Out front, there were six tables, a few booths, a couple of card tables, a few slot machines and video poker machines, and the bar. The place had become decorated over the years with photos, memorabilia, books, signs, and other items from the Air National Guard flying units in Reno, and from visiting flying units from around the world. Every new guest was required to sign his or her name on the walls — most chose the bathroom of the opposite sex. Signatures and messages at the bar itself were reserved for VIPs or high-ranking officers. Anyone uninformed enough to wear a tie or bring a hat into the place had it snipped off or removed and tacked up on the rafters, and there was a huge collection of these trophies overhead.

Behind the bar, up on the shelf next to the expensive liquors, Rinc knew there was a full set of B-1B tech orders, and he had no doubt they were in inspection-ready condition. There were also tech orders of all the planes the Nevada Air Guard had ever flown since its inception in 1946: P-39, P-40, P-51, T-33, and F-86 fighters, RB-57, RF-101, and RF-4 tactical reconnaissance fighters, and C-130 Hercules cargo planes, all in equally perfect condition. In the back was a billiard room with slot machines, movies, newspapers, and computers. It was off limits to all but Aces High personnel of all ranks.

Martina — no one knew her last name — was out front behind the bar as usual. She virtually came with the place, and she was most definitely in command here. Martina weighed more than 260 pounds and could have just as easily been the bouncer. Rumor had it that pilots paid off big bar tabs by sneaking Martina onboard their planes. She supposedly had over a hundred hours in the RF-4 Phantom, although it seemed impossible she could ever have squeezed herself into the seat.

“Hey, Rodeo,” she said, greeting Seaver as if she had just seen him the day before. She poured him a large glass of diet cola. Martina knew the flying schedule just as well as the crews did, and she always knew when a guy was within twelve hours of a sortie and would stop serving him alcohol. Woe to any flier who tried to argue with her.

Rinc was looking the place over, drinking in the welcome atmosphere. There was no air-conditioning, and it was stuffy and musty-smelling, but it still felt cozy, much like his dad’s old ham radio room in the basement of their house when he was a kid.

His eyes were drawn to the back of the bar and the “Snake Eyes” board. Fifty-three years of photos of dead members of Aces High were pinned up there — and yes, he saw they had added the pictures of his dead crewmates to the array. In fact, it was a crew photo, their Fairchild Trophy shot taken in front of their plane…

… with Rinc’s picture cut out of it.

He was frozen in place. It was logical that he be cut out of the picture — after all, he wasn’t dead — but they had left the pictures of the surviving crew members, and why his squadronmates had chosen that particular photo to use on the memorial wall made him uneasy. All the other pictures were individual shots, even in cases where multiple crew members had been lost. It was as if he were worse than dead — he was excluded, ousted. They had made a point of eliminating him, as if to remind him that he had survived an accident that he had no right to survive.

Rinc hadn’t yet selected a seat, but Martina made the choice for him by bringing his cola and a bowl of pretzels over to a booth. She picked the one farthest from the door to the back room. He looked at the closed door, then at Martina. Her expression answered all his questions: yes, some members of Aces High were back there; yes, the commander, Rebecca Furness, was there — and no, he wasn’t welcome.

“Don’t worry about it none, Rodeo,” she said in her raspy, cigarette-scratched voice. “Give ’em time. They’ll take you back.”

“Time is the one thing I don’t think I have, Marty,” Rinc said.

“You don’t worry about nuthin’ ’cept your check ride tomorrow,” she told him. She had the flying schedule pinned down as well as if she were on the operations distribution list. “You jes’ show ’em what you got. You ain’t a member of Aces High ’cause they let you in the back. You a member because you got what it takes.”

She noticed Rinc glancing over toward the Snake Eyes board again. “Fergit ‘bout dat too, Rodeo.” But she didn’t offer to take it down. She couldn’t even if she’d wanted to. The Snakes Eyes wall was like a shrine. However hurtful or even vindictive a posting, no one, not even Martina, could mess with it.

“Did that asshole Long Dong put that up there?”

“Long Dong’s sho’ enough an asshole. Don’t let him git under your skin none.” He noticed she didn’t actually answer him. “You listen good, boy,” she said, pointing a sausagelike finger at him. “You hold your head up like a man and don’t never be ashamed of anything anyone ever says about you — even if it’s a damned lie. You remember that.” And then she left him alone.

Rinc got out his flight manuals, charts, and target study notes and tried looking them over, but the words and pictures blurred before his eyes. He left all of it on the table — Martina would see to it that no one touched it — grabbed his glass, went outside, and climbed up the freshly painted wood steps that led to the roof. There he put on his sunglasses and sat down on a metal bench. The sky was ice-blue. The air was cold, but the sun felt warm. There were clouds piling up over Mount Rose to the west, and the Sierra Nevada mountaintops above eight thousand feet still wore a thin blanket of snow.

The winds were calm, so the tower was using the northbound runways. As he watched, two B-1B bombers pulled out of their parking spots and taxied to runway 34 left, a Reno Air Boeing 727 following them. It was easy to visualize the passengers straining to look out the windows as they taxied past the Air National Guard ramp and catching a glimpse of the sleek, deadly warplanes. At the end of the taxiway, the Bones turned right onto the “hammerhead,” a section of the taxiway with a high steel wall on the runway side, to make way for the commercial flight to pass. The warplanes were soon followed by the SOF, or supervisor of flying, an experienced pilot whose task was to do a “last chance inspection,” a drive around the B-1s to check that all streamers were removed and the planes were ready for takeoff.

The steel revetment wall in the hammerhead was supposedly there to protect commercial flights in case any weapons accidentally dropped on the runway and exploded. These days, almost all B-1 missions carried practice bombs, either small “beer can” bombs or concrete-filled bomb casings. But because it was only a replacement unit, Reno had no stockpiles of real weapons. All the weapons they might be called upon to use were stored at the weapons depot near Naval Air Station Fallon, and would be delivered to the base by rail. The steel wall was only window-dressing any-way — a two-thousand-pound Mark 84 would take out any aircraft and almost anything else above ground within a half mile of the blast.

A few minutes later, after the commercial flight had departed, the first Bone taxied into position and ran its engines up to full afterburner takeoff power. Watching a B-1B Lancer on its takeoff roll was just as thrilling to him now as it had been the first time he saw one more than ten years ago. The bomber looked huge on its long, spindly legs with its wings fully extended, but when the pilot pushed those throttles up to full afterburner, it leaped down the runway like a cheetah.

The noise was not too bad — loud, like the old Boeing 727 that had taken off just before it, but not irritating. But when the afterburners were plugged in, the sound was deafening, a low, piercing harmonic rumbling that you could feel in the middle of your chest from two miles away. Surprisingly, there were few noise complaints. When they took off to the north, the Bones flew within a half mile of the Reno Hilton and right over John Ascuaga’s Nugget Hotel and Casino, and they must certainly rattle the windows in those hotel towers! But Rinc had often seen hundreds of people gather outside the casinos to watch the Bones launch, especially during the rare nighttime launches when the bombers’ afterburner plumes stretched a hundred feet across the sky. It was like a mini air show several times a week. The Bones were part of the city’s attractions, like the glittering neon lights, the brothels, and the National Bowling Center. Eerie, a little ominous, yet curiously welcome. Nonetheless, takeoffs and landings between nine P.M. and seven A.M. were allowed only on weekends and only using military power, which produced about the same amount of noise as a commercial airliner.

Rinc must have been temporarily deafened after the Bone blasted off because he never heard her approach on the rooftop.

“Hello, Rodeo.”

He turned, startled. There before him was Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness.

He got to his feet, but as he stepped toward her, he sensed her body stiffening. “Rebecca, I… It’s good to see you,” he stammered.

Her eyes hardened, her jaw was set taut — and then she rushed into his arms. “Damn you to hell, Rinc,” she whispered, pulling him tightly to her and kissing him hard and hungrily. Tasting her lips, Rinc felt like a man on the verge of drowning who had just taken a deep gulp of sweet, fresh air.

They kissed for a few lingering moments. He sat down on the bench and tried to pull her next to him, but she remained standing. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked him, the hurt evident in her voice. “Why didn’t you call to tell me you got back on flying status?”

“I was going to that night,” Rinc said. “But the way you acted in the sim — I thought it was too early, maybe not right…”

“You’re a real jerk sometimes, Rinc,” Rebecca said angrily. “I love you. I care about you. You can’t just cut me out like that. I’ve hardly heard from you at all since you got out of the hospital. You’ve never returned my calls, never called me…”

“I tried.”

“Trying doesn’t help. It hurts too much. And then to see you in the sim, duplicating the crash — that was worse. You were well enough to hunt for a different cause for the crash, but not well enough to want to see me. I decided the best I could do was let Long Dong chew on your butt for a while.”

Her words sliced into Rinc’s very soul. “Oh God, Beck, I am so sorry,” he cried. “If I could, I’d trade my life for all of them. You know that, don’t you?”

“Dammit, Seaver, don’t you understand?” she said hotly. “No one wants you to trade your life for anyone on your dead crew. No one wants to see you dead — that’s the last thing anyone wants. Especially me. We want you to be one of us again. It’s you that has this chip on his shoulder. What you don’t seem to get is that we’re all hurting… dammit, I’m hurting. I want you back. I want you with me, the way it was before.”

“The way it was before?” Rinc interjected. “What was so great about that? Sneaking around? Not allowed even to come near each other in public for fear someone might see us? Nothing but a series of one-nighters…”

“Look, Rinc,” she answered. “You know this was the way it had to be. We talked it out when we first fell in love — that we’d rather have each other part-time than not at all. I am your squadron commander and your superior officer. If anyone in this unit learned we were sleeping together, I’d lose my job and you’d lose all credibility. There wasn’t any possibility of a normal relationship. There still isn’t — not until and unless we both decide, together, that we’re willing to make a serious career change — either you leave the Guard, or I do. But you know all this — my God, we’ve hashed it out over and over. What’s the point of bringing it up again? We’re stuck with the decision we’ve made — to stay in, and to see each other whenever and however we could.”

He started to speak but she cut him off, the pain evident in her voice. “Listen, Rinc,” she told him, “however difficult it is, this still doesn’t give you the right to ignore me, to cut me out when I needed to know that you were all right. It killed me to think that you were in pain or needed my help. And after you came out of the hospital it hurt even worse to be worrying that maybe you didn’t want me anymore.”

“You know that’s not true,” Rinc said. He took her hand, and she raised it to her lips. “Oh, Beck, I’ve been so lonely. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your body tight up against mine, making love to you under the stars…”

“I’m here, Rodeo,” she said. “I’ve missed you too, and I want you more than I can ever tell you.” She paused, waiting. God yes, she wanted him, wanted him inside her now. But he needed to invite her. She wanted him to ask for her. When she was younger, she’d had plenty of men who just wanted sex, release. But no more. She was too old to simply provide a warm place to put it. She needed to love and be loved, and being loved meant being asked.

Still, she was not above doing a little prompting, especially for this man. She smiled at Rinc, took his hand, and ran it down the front of her body, letting it graze her breast and his fingers just barely tug at the waistline of her blue jeans. “Rinc?”

“I’d… I’d better get a little more studying done,” she heard him say. He was watching her, watching for the hurt that he knew would spread across her face. “Hey, Beck, I’m sorry. It’s just the check ride coming up, you know… it brings back some memories. The crash, the accident… I don’t think I’d be much company.”

“I understand — although I’m horny enough to do you right here on this rooftop, big guy.” She smiled at him mischievously. “I’d be just as happy to talk with you and be with you if you’d like. Well, not just as happy, but it would be fine.”

“I’m not sure if I want to talk about it, Beck. Ever.”

“I know,” Rebecca said sympathetically. But then she let her voice and her body harden. “People die in airplanes, Rinc,” she told him. “It’s a dangerous business. I know you, and I know — knew — Chappie and Mad Dog. We’re all alike. We push the envelope hard. That’s how we survive — and sometimes don’t. That’s why we’re the best.”

“Then why does everyone blame me for the crash?” Rinc asked angrily. “Because I survived it? Why doesn’t anyone believe me when I tell them that I’m not responsible for the crash?”

Rebecca reached out her hand to stroke his face. “I believe you, Rinc,” she said.

“Like hell you do!” he shouted. “You’re like everyone else — I punched out, so I must’ve either chickened out or caused the crash. That’s bullshit. You and all the rest of this damned squadron can kiss my ass!” He pushed her hand away. “Leave me the hell alone, Colonel ma’am. I’m off the clock.”

Furness choked down the sudden, gut-wrenching pain and found she was furious. “Fine with me,” she said. “Whatever’s eating on you, I hope you enjoy it — alone. Good-bye, Major, and I hope you go straight to hell.”

He sat alone on the bench, steaming, looking down at his clenched fists. Minutes later there was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. It was a guy he’d never seen before. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“Sorry,” the guy said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was looking for Lieutenant Colonel Furness. Thought she might be up here.”

“You thought wrong.”

The guy didn’t move. Rinc was deciding whether to ignore him or chase him off the deck when he was surprised by a question: “You’re Rinc Seaver, aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s McLanahan. Patrick McLanahan.”

“So what?” The name registered somewhere in the back of Rinc’s mind, vaguely connected to when he was just starting out in the active-duty Air Force, but he was too angry and too dejected to pursue it. “You can see Furness’s not here, and I don’t feel like company.”

“It’s tough, losing a crew. The guilt will stay with you the rest of your life.”

Alarms went off in Rinc’s head. Who was this guy? He knew way too much. All thoughts of losing Rebecca Furness as a friend and lover vanished, replaced by an intense wariness.

He got to his feet and sized up the stranger. This McLanahan was not too tall, not too short. He looked solidly built, like he worked out — most crewdogs these days were thin, so Rinc doubted he was a flier. His hair was blond with graying temples, cut shorter than Air Force reg 35–10 required. He wore an Air Force issue — brown leather flying jacket, with no rank or insignia on it, over his civvies. Rinc stepped closer and noticed that McLanahan didn’t react — didn’t back off, but didn’t go on guard either.

“What’d you say your name was?” Rinc asked.

“McLanahan.”

“Military?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t say his rank, which meant he was probably a very low-or very high-ranking commissioned or noncommissioned officer. But by the way he acted, Rinc thought, the man most likely outranked him. What was going on here? “What unit?”

“Air Force headquarters. Office of the chief of staff.”

Definitely outranked, Rinc decided — he was probably a light colonel or colonel, maybe even a one-star. That explained a lot. He’d heard that the place was crawling with inspectors, investigators, and evaluators for weeks after the crash; in fact, he had been visited by a few of them while he was in the hospital recovering. But by the time he was out of the hospital, the investigation was just about wrapped up. It was one of the main reasons he felt such an urgency to get back on his feet and explore some alternate theories of the crash on his own in the simulator — he hadn’t had a real opportunity to present his side of the story and time was short. And now that he was trying to get back in the cockpit, the investigators and evaluators were back — gunning directly for him this time.

“Don’t tell me; let me guess. You’re flying with me day after tomorrow,” Rinc said. The guy was probably an ex-crewdog, tapped by someone in the chief of staff’s office or some other Pentagon staffer to decide his fate. The only bright spot was that it meant the brass probably hadn’t already made their decision. “You’re going to do my evaluation for the squadron. You’re also here to see what kind of shape my unit’s in, whether we’re ready to do the job or ready to be disbanded.”

McLanahan nodded. Seaver’s insight and honesty impressed him. “Exactly.”

“We get just one day of mission prep before you decide my future? I don’t get a Guard evaluator from my own unit? No sim ride with you first? That sucks.”

“Major Seaver, if you think the process is unfair, you know you have only one recourse — you can vote with your feet,” McLanahan said coldly.

“Everyone would like that, wouldn’t they?” Rinc snorted. “You ever fly the Bone before, sir?”

“Yes.” But before Rinc could ask the obvious question — when and where — McLanahan asked, “Are you in or out, Major?”

Rinc looked at McLanahan quizzically. A little evasive perhaps? Did this guy have a past, one he didn’t want to talk about? Curiouser and curiouser. He shrugged. “I’ll play it any way Air Force wants to play it. Sir,” he replied.

“There you go,” McLanahan said. “Proper attitude adjustment achieved. I’ll meet you at the squadron at six A.M. tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your ride. If I think we’ll need one, I’ll schedule the simulator.” Rinc knew the simulator was booked up for the next three weeks, but he had no doubt this guy could rearrange the schedule. “I’ll tag along when you mission-plan with your crew at oh eight hundred.”

“Fine by me.”

“See you tomorrow, then.” McLanahan headed for the stairs, then stopped and turned around. “There’s a lot more healing to be accomplished beyond the hospital and the check ride,” he said, looking down the stairs toward the parking lot where Seaver’s dead partner’s wife used to run. “You left the team when you punched out of that Bone. You’ve got to prove that you can be a part of it again.”

“So I’m a putz because I survived, huh?”

“I guess you will be, if you believe you are,” Patrick said.

“You think I caused that crash?”

“That’s for the accident board to determine, not me,” McLanahan replied. “I’m not here to pass judgment on what happened in the accident, Seaver — I’m here to judge if you’re still able to be a combat-ready Air Guard B-1B aviator. But you can ace this check ride and still be on your way out. There are a hundred ways to do it.”

“I know, sir,” Rinc said. This was a very smart guy. It was tough to realize that his skills, knowledge, dedication, and experience suddenly meant nothing — that his fate was in the hands of someone else, plain and simple.

“I think you’ve got the picture. Get some rest — you’ll need it. Tomorrow, oh six hundred.” And he left without looking back.

The big woman behind the bar gave Patrick an evil look as he stepped back inside. Both the place and the bartender had the same tough, hard-shelled atmosphere of the biker bars in his hometown of Sacramento that he had reluctantly tangled with in recent months, but the feel was completely different. Like the biker bars, this place sought to exclude strangers — but he sensed it also seemed to welcome future friends, especially military types.

Patrick walked over to the woman, about to ask where he could find the commander of the Air National Guard squadron, when she wordlessly jerked her head to the right, indicating a hallway. Well, she was consistent — she hadn’t said anything earlier when he said he was looking for Seaver. But the nod had a kind of implicit warning to it — she’s that way, but watch your step.

He followed the hallway. The two doors on the left were the rest rooms. One of the doors on the right looked as if it led to the storeroom or kitchen; the other door had a sign reading “Private.” Patrick had had enough of going into strange rooms in the back of redneck locals-only taverns, but duty called. He took a deep breath and entered.

Patrick always hoped to find a place like this when he was in the military — maybe he hadn’t looked hard enough, or maybe he really didn’t want to find it or believe one even existed. In any case, it was a crewdog’s idea of paradise.

Along with pictures of jets and models all over the walls and ceiling, the room had its own bar stocked even better than the one out front, slot machines, video games, old-fashioned pinball machines, a PC with flight simulator hardware installed, and card tables. It was a bigger room than he’d expected, and he saw half a dozen guys in flight suits, two of them sitting at the bar playing liar’s dice, the other four playing cards.

“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the guys at the table.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Furness.”

The guy looked Patrick up and down, noting the flier’s jacket. Didn’t mean a damn — anyone can get one of those by mail order, lots of wannabes had them. “You didn’t answer my question, ace. Who are you?”

“I’m Colonel Furness’s two o’clock appointment,” Patrick said.

The guy put his cards down and got up off his chair. He apparently knew nothing of the appointment and was clearly perplexed, even angry. “You should meet up with her in the squadron… sir,” he said. He had suddenly turned much more polite — apparently realizing it was a good idea to be a bit more sociable until he learned exactly who the newcomer was. He noticed the guy wasn’t surprised when he said Furness was a “her.” “We can show you where the squadron is — it’s on the other side of the airport. I’ll page Colonel Furness immediately and tell her you’ve arrived. May I tell her your name and organization, please?”

“No,” Patrick replied. “We can talk just as well here.” He maneuvered around the guy and began to survey more of the room. The other squadron members stared at him in surprise.

The cardplayer decided to drop a bit of his nice-guy routine. “I’m the colonel’s operations officer and second-in-command, and I don’t know anything about a meeting this afternoon. Are you sure the meeting with Colonel Furness was for today?”

“Yes, Colonel Long.”

John Long blanched. Shit, he thought, he knows who I am. “The colonel is probably back at the squadron right now, sir,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better head on over there.” He motioned to one of the guys at the card table. “Bonzo, take this gentleman to headquarters. I’ll page the colonel.”

“I don’t have an appointment with you or anyone else today, sir,” came a woman’s stern voice, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d be a little more candid with my men. The colonel asked your name. You can tell us, or you can get out.”

Patrick turned and found Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness standing right behind him. She was every bit as attractive as her official photos, but that took away none of the iron in her voice. Back when she was flying the RF-111G Vampire reconnaissance/attack planes as a flight leader and the Air Force’s first female combat pilot, Furness had earned the appellation “the Iron Maiden.” Patrick could see right away that it was deserved.

“We need to talk, Colonel,” Patrick said, allowing his eyes to survey her body.

Furness didn’t react — but John Long did. “Hey, asshole,” Long said angrily, “the lady said scram. You better leave or we’ll help you out.” A few of the squadron members started to move closer to the stranger.

“Colonel Long, sit down and relax,” Patrick suggested, continuing to stare at Furness. “We’re going to be working together for a long time — if you’re lucky.” He turned, went over to one of the slot machines, put in a quarter, and pulled the handle. A ten-dollar winner dropped a satisfying tinkle of coins into the tray. “Looks like I’m pretty lucky. You guys aren’t. Or maybe that’s all you guys are — just dumb lucky.” He left the money in the tray.

“Who the hell are you?” Furness demanded.

“My name is McLanahan, Colonel. Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan. From Air Force headquarters. General Hayes’s staff.” There was a startled silence in the room at the news that a one-star general had walked into the middle of their “unit training session.”

“I see,” Furness said. “Do you have ID, General? Orders?”

“Yes,” McLanahan replied. He withdrew a set of orders and his green Air Force ID card.

Furness checked the card and scanned the orders, her eyes narrowing in confusion. They were the shortest set of TDY orders she’d ever seen. She handed them to John Long. “These orders don’t say shit,” Long said. “It’s just a bunch of account codes.”

“I’d like something that tells me what you want with my squadron on my base, sir,” Rebecca said.

“Okay.” Patrick reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny cellular telephone, and tossed it to Furness. She caught it in surprise. “Speed-dial one for General Bretoff in Carson City.” Adam Bretoff was the adjutant general of the state of Nevada, the commander of all Army and Air National Guard forces in the state. “Speed-dial two for General Hayes at the Pentagon. Speed-dial three for the secretary of the Air Force. Speed-dial four for the secretary of defense.”

Furness looked at the phone, then opened it and looked at the keypad. “Who’s speed-dial five?” she asked flippantly.

“Try it and find out, Colonel. But be very polite.”

Furness glanced at McLanahan. “I’ll call your bluff, General,” she said, then hit some buttons. She was surprised to hear the beeps of a digital scrambler. A moment later she heard “Bretoff here and secure. Go ahead.”

Furness swallowed in disbelief, unable to control her surprise. She recognized the adjutant general’s voice immediately — the call went right to the secure phone on his desk, not to the comm center, his aide, or a clerk. This guy was carrying a secure cell phone — she didn’t even know they existed! “Colonel Furness here, sir.”

“Problem, Rebecca?”

No pleasantries, no chitchat. She decided that the other speed-dial buttons on the phone were too hot to even think about right now. “Just verifying the identity of the gentleman who was sent over here this afternoon.”

“Are you secure?”

Furness stepped as far as she could away from the noisy video poker machines. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

“McLanahan, Patrick S., brigadier general, Air Force,” Bretoff said. “Came from the chief of staff’s office. Identity verified. Is he there already?”

“Standing right in front of me now, sir. I’m using his cell phone.”

“You’ll get a classified memo first thing in the morning informing you about his arrival,” Bretoff said. “Frankly, I’m not sure what he wants, but whatever it is, give it to him.”

“His written orders don’t say anything about what he’s doing here.”

“He doesn’t need any other written orders. He’ll brief you on what you need to do. Give it to him. Anything.”

“Say again, sir?”

“I said, give the general anything he wants,” Bretoff repeated. “Treat him like the inspector general.”

“What’s his clearance?”

“Colonel Furness,” the adjutant general said with exasperation in his voice, “am I not making myself clear? Whatever the man wants, he gets. Full access. Full authority. Whatever he says, goes. He’s got a clearance you or I have never heard of. Two hours ago I had the governor in my office and the secretary of the Air Force on a conference call. They don’t even have this guy’s security clearance.”

“Sir, I understand what you’re saying,” Furness said, “but it’s damned irregular. I’d like written confirmation of my orders.”

“Written orders have been red-jacketed and placed in your personnel file, Colonel — and in mine,” Bretoff went on. “If you want, you can come down here to the vault and look at them. In the meantime, do whatever the man says. Understand?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Good. And, Colonel?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t let anyone in the squadron go anywhere near the back room of that bar, the Quarry or whatever it’s called, the one you guys hang out at near the airport, until this guy departs,” Bretoff said. “The last goddamn thing we need is for a high-powered scalp hunter like McLanahan to see how depraved you characters are. In fact, I don’t want any of you near that entire establishment until he leaves. Try showing your faces in the SANGA club for a change. We don’t have all-night poker or play dollar-a-ball eight ball, but you might actually enjoy yourselves there anyway. Got it?”

Furness grimaced, and McLanahan smiled, as if he could hear everything. “Yes, sir.” The line went dead after another chatter of digital descrambling beeps. Furness carefully closed up the phone and handed it back to McLanahan.

“You don’t want to try any of the other numbers?” McLanahan asked. “It’s not too late to call Washington.”

“Boss? What’s the story?” Long asked, dumbfounded by the expression on Furness’s face.

“This is Brigadier General McLanahan, boys,” Furness said. She made introductions to all of the squadron officers in the room. “He’s going to be with us for a while. You are to extend him every courtesy and comply with each and every request as if it was an order from the adjutant general himself.”

“We should show him a little more courtesy than that,” someone said sotto voce.

“Knock that shit off, gentlemen,” Furness said, her amused eyes studying McLanahan. “Please excuse that remark, sir. Some of my crew have been on edge. We’ve had a lot of investigators and other unwanted attention lately…”

“Yes indeed — a dead crew and a smoking hole in the desert,” Patrick said. The smiles and whispered comments vanished, replaced by angry glares. He looked around and added, “Good to see you’re taking the accident and the corrective action seriously.”

“Of course we are. But you can’t just order men to forget about the deaths of their friends and fellow crew members, General,” Rebecca answered. “It takes time. Please understand — this unit has been through a lot lately. We all deal with grief differently.”

“I see. Well, I can help you through some of your turmoil a little, Colonel. I came here to administer a requalification check.”

Furness frowned in confusion. “Yes, sir,” she said formally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “We can set up an orientation flight for you. Major Seaver isn’t currently qualified to fly the B-1, but…”

“I know that. I will administer his requalification checkout. Emergency procedures check in the sim tomorrow, then a flight ASAP.”

“I see,” Furness said, again noncommittally. “I would prefer that his requal ride be done by someone in the Nevada Guard. I would also like to know your qualifications, sir. Are you qualified to fly the Bone?”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it, Colonel?” Patrick replied.

Furness looked furious but held her anger in check. “Very good, sir. Well, this ought to be fun.” She slapped her hands together in mock excitement. “Well then, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t we get you set up in a hotel, schedule a meeting to review Seaver’s paperwork and fitness reports, and—”

“You don’t seem to understand, Colonel,” Patrick interjected. “I’m not here just to give Seaver his flight check, and I think we’ll all be too busy to worry about hotel rooms.”

“Then what the hell are you… pardon me, sir, but what are you here for, then?”

Patrick reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope. Furness saw the code “A-72” on it. Her eyes bugged out and her breath caught in her throat. He handed her the envelope. “You’ve just been notified, Colonel, that your squadron has seventy-two hours to put bombs on target and then deploy to a remote operations base to begin simulated long-range bombardment operations. Your unit’s predeployment evaluation has just begun. The clock is ticking, and as of right now, I am keeping score.”

“What?” Furness exploded. She grabbed the envelope and tore it open. Sure enough, it was a standard Air Force warning-order message, stamped “Confidential,” directing an air strike against simulated targets in the Nellis bombing ranges in southern Nevada. The strike would be followed by a deployment of not more than two weeks to an undisclosed location to conduct night and day bombing operations from a bare-base location. “This has got to be a joke!” the squadron commander shouted. “I don’t know you! I can’t generate seven Bones on your say-so only!”

At that moment, John Long’s cell phone beeped. He answered it immediately, listened, then closed it up. “Boss, the airfield operations manager just got a fax from Bretoff’s office, notifying them that intensive Air Guard operations will commence this afternoon.”

“That message was supposed to be secret,” McLanahan said. He shrugged. “You’ve got a good intelligence operation here, Colonel, I’ll give you that.” It was common courtesy for evaluators to give a “heads-up” to certain folks, such as local air traffic control facilities, before an exercise kicked off. It was also common for air traffic control facility managers to slip a heads-up call to the military guys when an exercise was about to commence, even though the information was supposed to be kept under wraps to enhance the shock and surprise element of the exercise.

“Also, Reno Approach Control reports a KC-135 twenty miles out, call sign ‘Blitz Nine-Nine,’” Long went on. The “99” suffix was a common one used by evaluation teams. “RAPCON says he’s parking at Mercury Air for two weeks and is requesting COMSEC procedures in effect for the Air Guard.” That, too, was typical of the kickoff of an exercise. From now on, under COMSEC, or communications security procedures, all movements of Air National Guard aircraft except for safety-of-flight concerns were not to be reported on open radio or phone lines.

Furness looked at McLanahan with a combination of irritation and surprise, then eased up. The predeployment exercise was usually conducted at another B-1B bomber base, usually with the unit flying out and beginning there — but nothing in the regs said it couldn’t start right at home base with a no-notice deployment generation exercise and Furness, like most good fliers, hated surprises.

But she also loved challenges, loved excitement, loved action. Exercises involving recalls, generations, en route bombing, and deployments were right there beside actual combat on the list of things that made Rebecca Furness’s blood race. McLanahan saw the fire ignite in her eyes. He was pleased.

“Long Dong, initiate a squadron recall,” Furness ordered. “Get Dutch and Clock’s sorties back on the ground on the double. The battle staff meets in fifteen minutes with their checklists open and ready to go, and I will personally kick the ass of the man or woman who is not in their seat ready to go by the time I get there. Notify Creashawn on the secure line, have them start a recall, and get ready to move live weapons for the entire fleet on my orders.” Creashawn Arsenal was the large weapons storage facility near Naval Air Station Fallon where live weapons for the B-1s were stored. “Then call Bretoff secure and inform him I’m generating my fleet for combat operations. Reference General McLanahan’s written orders and his own verbal orders.”

As Long got on his cell phone to initiate the recall, Furness turned to McLanahan, a mischievous smile on her lips and a malevolent glow in her eyes. She looked him up and down, then said, “McLanahan. I once heard of a McLanahan from a friend of mine, the chief of staff of the Lithuanian Army. He told some pretty extraordinary stories about him. Any relation, sir?”

“Maybe.”

“Interesting.” Furness grinned. “This McLanahan was in charge of some pretty cosmic stuff, real Buck Rogers high-tech gear, made for bombers.” There was no response. She nodded, then asked, “You ready for this, General McLanahan? We move pretty fast around here.”

“I’ll be with you the entire way,” Patrick said. “When the sorties launch, I want to be manifested with Seaver as copilot. He’ll be number two in your flight.”

Furness glared at McLanahan in surprise. “I can’t do that, sir,” she said. “I’m not going to put an unqualified person in the right seat during a live weapons mission. It’s unsafe.” She looked at him warily. “Or are you going to pull rank on this too?”

“Yes, I was,” Patrick said, “but I’ll make you a deal: I’ll fly in the copilot’s seat with Seaver in the sim. If you don’t think I know my shit well enough, you can kick me out. Deal?”

“Deal,” Furness said. “Have fun flying in the DSO’s seat, sir.”

“Don’t bet on it, Colonel,” Patrick said with a smile. He glanced over at John Long and added, “Put Colonel Long in my OSO’s seat.”

“Whatever you want, sir,” Furness responded. Then she shouted to the rest of the squadron members, “Get your asses moving, you grunts! That’s the last time I want to see any of you hogs standing around with your thumbs up your asses! Now move!”

It’s good of you to come, Minister Kang,” the President of the United States said. He shook hands warmly with Minister of Foreign Affairs Kang No-myong of the Republic of Korea. With him in the Oval Office were Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting, Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, and White House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale. Official White House photographers took photos of the handshakes; no reporters were present.

“Mr. President, Madam Vice President, Secretary Chastain, Mr. Hale, may I please introduce the South Korean minister of defense, retired general Kim Kun-mo,” Minister Kang said in broken but very understandable English. General Kim bowed deeply, then shook hands with each American. His Korean translator was also introduced, and all were led to seats around the coffee table in the Oval Office. As refreshments were served, the photographers snapped a few more shots of the leaders making small talk, then departed. The visitors looked around the famous White House Oval Office, as wide-eyed and awed as any congressman’s constituent on a “photo opportunity” visit. Jerrod Hale remained standing in his usual place behind and to the right of the President.

“This is an unexpected but certainly welcome visit, gentlemen,” President Martindale began politely. “We all knew that you were both in our country visiting military installations and preparing to address the United Nations. I’m glad we have this chance to get together.” The Koreans bowed in thanks.

Unexpected, yes — welcome, no, the President thought. Nearing the end of a tumultuous first term in the White House, following two terms as Vice President, the fifty-one-year-old divorced Texan, a former state attorney general, U.S. senator, and secretary of defense, was in the midst of the greatest fight of his long political life. He was knowledgeable in foreign and military affairs, but it seemed that almost every foreign policy decision he had made in recent years, especially those involving his military forces, had cost him dearly at home. And having Asian political and military leaders pop in on him at the White House was never good news.

“We thank you most profoundly for the honor of meeting with you in person, Mr. President,” Minister Kang said formally. Kang was pudgy, with thick glasses and greased-back straight black hair. He was a sharp contrast to General Kim’s wiry body, chiseled face, and cold, steady eyes. Nonetheless, despite Kang’s disarming features, Martindale knew he was an expert strategist and businessman, the former head of one of the most powerful oceangoing shipping companies in the world.

As impressive as Kang’s background was, General Kim’s was even more so. He had risen through the ranks from conscript to chairman of the chiefs of staff of the South Korean military. He had survived innumerable purges, dismissals, and outright assassination attempts, only to emerge stronger and wiser after every encounter with his foes. Kevin Martindale stared into Kim’s eyes and saw the general staring unabashedly right back at him, unblinking, challenging.

What was it like, Martindale asked himself, to live in a country like South Korea? The entire peninsula had been a pawn in an Asian chess match spanning many centuries. Like so many other world hot spots today — Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Germany, Africa, Israel, the Balkans — his country was spawned out of the ashes of war, trampled, blood-soaked land divided up between conquering invaders. But because the lines drawn on a map rarely take into account the social and cultural differences of a nation, the warring never ended for countries like South Korea. Kim’s country had known either foreign occupation or political and societal schizophrenia for centuries. What was that like? It sounded like an unending civil war.

Martindale noticed Kim give him a subtle smile and a nod before resuming his unblinking stare. It was as if he knew what Martindale was thinking and was thanking him for trying to understand. Although the President did not show it, Kim gave him the creeps. There was a war raging in that man’s head as well as in his homeland, the President decided.

Jerrod Hale noted Kim’s defiant gaze. He shifted his position slightly. It had the desired effect: it caught Kim’s attention. “I hope you’re finding your tour of our military installations informative, General Kim,” Hale said when Kim looked at him, his voice neutral, neither friendly nor challenging. The translator passed along Hale’s words; Kim bowed deeply in response but remained silent. The two men looked at each other unblinkingly. But Jerrod Hale, a former Los Angeles County prosecutor and police commissioner and a longtime political ramrod, took intimidation from no one. As he stood by the most powerful man in the Western world, in the most prized hall of power on earth, General Kim respectfully averted his eyes.

“Mr. President, I wanted to personally deliver to you some very disturbing and alarming evidence that we recently acquired,” Minister Kang said. He withdrew a folder from a briefcase. “I apologize if these pictures offend your sensibilities, Mr. President. I only offer them because of the enormous gravity of the situation they portend.”

Martindale studied them, his eyes narrowing in shock, then wordlessly passed them along to Vice President Whiting. She swallowed a gasp when she saw the photograph of the mangled, emaciated corpse of the North Korean fighter pilot. “Please explain, Minister Kang,” Martindale said.

“This starving, near-frozen man was at the controls of a North Korean attack jet that was shot down over South Korea,” Kang responded. “He was en route to Seoul.”

“An attack jet?” Secretary Chastain asked.

“A fighter-bomber on a one-way suicide mission, carrying two gravity bombs,” General Kim said via the translator. “Two nuclear bombs.”

Whiting’s mouth opened in surprise; Chastain and the President exchanged shocked expressions. “My God!” the President gasped. “Were they live weapons? Fully functional? What yield?”

“Older but fully functioning weapons of Chinese design, in perhaps the six-hundred-kiloton-yield range,” Kang replied. He handed Chastain a folder. “Here is an analysis of the weapons, as conducted by our military intelligence division. It is in effect a standard Chinese medium-range ballistic missile reentry vehicle warhead, modified for gravity bomb use. A rather dated design, not very efficient or reliable. Discarded many decades ago by Communist China because of a lack of safety features, large design, and heavy carriage weight.”

“Were the weapons destroyed when you shot down the aircraft?” Chastain asked.

“No.”

“Then you recovered them?” Kang nodded. “Were they intact?”

“Yes, sir,” Kang replied. “The weapons have filled in many vital pieces of a giant puzzle that our intelligence agencies have been investigating for years. We have suspected the presence of nuclear weapons in the North, but now, after examining the components of the bombs, we have pinpointed the locations of several bases and facilities that manufacture these and other weapons of mass destruction.

“What we now know, Mr. President, is that the Communists have nine key bases, mostly in the north close to the Chinese border and in the central part of the country,” Kang went on. “They not only manufacture and stockpile nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, but they are also staging bases for air and rocket attacks using these weapons against targets in the South, against Japan, and against American bases as far away as Alaska. The evidence is incontrovertible.”

“Jesus,” the President murmured. He turned to Hale. “Jerrod, get Admiral Balboa and Director Plank over here immediately.” Hale was dialing his staff before the President finished the order.

“We would like to examine these weapons as soon as possible and assist in destroying them,” Secretary Chastain said. “We would also like to examine your intelligence material, allow us to update our own records, and verify your data with our own intelligence assets.”

The President noted that, after the translation, General Kim seemed agitated, as if barely controlling his rising anger. Minister Kang hesitated uneasily for a moment, glancing at Kim nervously, then replied, “I have provided all the pertinent information on the incident and the weapons in that file, Mr. President.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to let us see those weapons, Minister?” Martindale asked.

Again, Kang squirmed uneasily. “Mr. President, we will of course gladly provide you and your intelligence staff with anything you request.” Hearing the translator’s version, General Kim seemed irritated at the equivocal statement, but he said nothing. Kang went on: “But I have been instructed to beg you for your advice and assistance in dealing with the threat from the Communists in the North once and for all. The threat to our peace and security is real, and it is at the breaking point. My government feels it must act.”

“Act? How? In what way? What do you want us to do?”

Kang took a deep breath, then said, “Mr. President, we plan to invade North Korea and destroy all of the bases identified as attack staging locations. We want the attack to begin immediately, within the next two or three days.”

“What?” Martindale exclaimed. “You want to attack North Korea? That’s insane!”

“Mr. President, the inevitable fact is that one of two things will happen,” Kang explained. “Either North Korea will be emboldened or provoked into attacking my country, or it will collapse under the sheer weight of its corrupt, bankrupt, and morally wasted system of government. A revolution or coup is impossible; President Kim is far more ruthless than his father. The North will not shed communism like East Germany because it is more isolated politically, geographically, and socioeconomically than the European Communist nations.”

“It will also not shed communism because of the influence of China,” the President interjected, “and that’s a major reason why any military attack against North Korea will result in disaster — China will certainly come to North Korea’s aid. At best, an attack will ignite another war on the Korean peninsula. At worst, it could start a global nuclear war.”

“If I may speak frankly, sir,” Kang said, referring to recent events all too vivid in the President’s memory, “the world’s opinion was that an attack by any nation against an American aircraft carrier, or against such a strategically important territory as the island of Guam, would be immediately met by a full thermonuclear retaliation. Yet this did not happen…”

“We don’t know the Independence was attacked by China,” Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain retorted, almost apologetically. “It could’ve been any number of terrorist groups…” But then he fell silent. The follow-up to that was obvious: there was no doubt about who had attacked Taiwan or Guam.

The President held up a hand. “Arthur, no need to try to come to my defense,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I had every right to order a full nuclear retaliation against China. I suppose if I had, few would have said I acted rashly or without sufficient provocation. Our nuclear forces had been fully mobilized, and the location of China’s ICBMs and nuclear bomber fleet was pinpointed. And it is true that we’ve spent trillions of dollars developing a force to deter such an attack, but when deterrence failed, I did not use those forces.”

The President leaned forward, looked Kang in the eye, and said, “The world might very well believe ours is a hollow force, that if we can’t protect our own forces and won’t avenge an attack against a vital territory, we certainly won’t come to the aid of a foreign ally. Is that what South Korea believes now, Minister Kang? Do you feel that the United States won’t protect you? Do you believe we’re so impotent?”

Before Kang could respond, Martindale glanced at General Kim and got his answer: absolutely. Kim clearly believed that the United States would not risk war with China if North Korea invaded the South.

“Of course not, Mr. President,” Minister Kang replied, looking Martindale in the eye in return. “The United States is a valuable and trusted ally, and it will always be so. But there are many in my government who feel that the time for reckoning is upon us and that we gain the upper hand by taking the initiative.”

General Kim spoke, sharply and resolutely. Kang did not even attempt to stop him. The translator said, “The general says, ‘The threat is real, Mr. President. We have a definite set of targets before us, and we have the resources and the will to strike a swift, crippling, but surgical blow. You must support us, sir. You must. We may not be so fortunate to stop the Communists’ next desperate attack.’”

“Let us see your data and verify it,” President Martindale said. “A few more weeks, perhaps after the Team Spirit exercises are concluded — North Korea’s forces will be on high alert anyway, and I don’t think you’d want to start a fight with all of their forces poised for war. If what you say is true, let us work together to…”

General Kim opened a folder and angrily tossed it on the coffee table in front of the President and his advisers. The interpreter translated his angry words: “The general says, ‘Here is our evidence, sir. Three bunkers in Kanggye, Chagang province, loaded with Vx nerve gas warheads suitable for surface-to-surface missiles. Verified. The main Western Air Combat Command air base at Sunan, with twenty-four F-4 fighter-bombers on alert loaded with Vx and anthrax munitions. Verified. The new naval and air base at Hungnam, with eighteen Scud-B missiles on alert loaded with biological and chemical warheads, plus six Scud-C missiles with nuclear warheads. Verified. Also at Hungnam, the frigate Najin, with long-range high-speed SS-N-9 antiship missiles with nuclear warheads, not old SS-N-2 missiles as we once believed.’”

Secretary of Defense Chastain was thunderstruck. He examined the photographs, scanned the translations of the field agents’ reports and observations. “This is… this is incredible,” he stammered. “I had no idea North Korea had so many WMDs in their possession.”

“All the same, General, even if we verify all this evidence, we can’t rush into anything,” Vice President Whiting said. “We need to confront the North in a global forum, show the world the evidence, and gauge the reaction of China, Russia, and the other Asian powers. There may be a way we can defuse this thing peacefully.”

“This will also give us a chance to start organizing our own forces,” Secretary Chastain said worriedly. “If you start a war now, with a lot of our forces ready to participate only in an exercise, we’ll be scrambling to respond if a general war breaks out. If we move forces into the region slowly and gradually, we can have a sizable force in place and ready to prevent the conflict from spreading and to give you maximum assistance — and we won’t look like we’re itching for a fight.”

As the translator finished, it was obvious that General Kim didn’t like what he heard. As the translation progressed, he had lowered his head so that his emotions were concealed.

“I promise you, General Kim, Minister Kang,” the President said, “that I will use all the forces in our arsenal to protect and defend the Republic of Korea. But an attack against the North is out of the question. The risk of China entering the conflict and retaliating with special weapons is too great. They’ve already proved their willingness to use them outside their borders. I think they would use them against anyone who dared stage a preemptive attack on North Korea.”

General Kim spoke again, and the translator said, “The general has asked Minister Kang to explain about our special forces apparatus, already in place.”

“What special forces apparatus?” the President asked.

“I have not been authorized to divulge this,” Minister Kang explained nervously. But General Kim barked at him in Korean, which everyone guessed meant, “Go ahead, damn you, tell them.” Kang swallowed hard and went on, “The general speaks of our newly formed Reconnaissance and Operations Department. It is a mirror group to North Korea’s Reconnaissance Bureau of the General Staff. It is composed of Regular Army soldiers and elite special operations forces, trained”—he swallowed hard again—“trained by Russian intelligence officers.”

“Russians!” Chastain exclaimed. “You have a clandestine military organization trained by Russians?”

“Why in the world would you do that?” Vice President Whiting asked incredulously. The President was silent; the appearance of the two famous silver locks of hair curling across his forehead was the only sign of his anger and concern. “What makes you think the Russians aren’t passing along information on this group to the North Koreans?”

“Because we pay them far more than the North Koreans could ever possibly hope to,” Kang replied matter-of-factly. “The Russians gave North Korea billions of rubles’ worth of training, equipment, and expertise in setting up their infiltration, sabotage, subversion, and terrorist network, and they were given nothing in return. We now get even better assistance from the Russians, and they receive millions of dollars’ worth of aid in return.”

“We… we knew nothing about this,” Vice President Whiting exclaimed. “This should have been approved by us in advance, Minister Kang. This could compromise all of America’s intelligence operations in Asia — perhaps even all over the world.”

“We have also used our new sources and agents to back-check and cross-check the North Korean government,” Kang responded. “I assure you, no American or allied intelligence sources or methods have been compromised. No information on the Reconnaissance and Operations Department exists in North Korea… or China.”

“China?” Chastain asked. “You’ve infiltrated China too?”

“At the highest levels, civilian and military,” Kang said. “We know the exact disposition of Chinese military forces within a thousand miles of the Korean peninsula, and we know exactly the chain of command, communications routing, codes, and procedures for relaying orders from Beijing to the field units. We can shut down the Chinese command and control system and all links to North Korea in a matter of minutes.”

Kang turned to President Martindale, true excitement building on his face. “Sir, we have operatives spread throughout North Korea and China, in the most sensitive and valuable locations. Over the past several months, they have created a vast network of informants, activists, propagandists, and agents in every level of society, government, the universities, and the military. It is not merely meant to destroy and kill, although we can do this if we wished. It is primarily meant to reassure our North Korean brothers that we are ready to help them unify the peninsula and the Korean people.

“What we have determined is that the people of North Korea are with us,” Kang went on. “The revolution is growing. It is not just a political revolution, but an ideological, cultural, and religious revolution as well. It is repressed, of course, because of the oppressive Communist regime, but as in the former Communist East Germany and Russia, it is alive and spreading. All it needs is a spark. That spark is the Republic of Korea, and the time to ignite it is now.”

“This is incredible, absolutely astounding,” Chastain said. “It’ll take time to assess this extraordinary news…”

“Time is a luxury we cannot afford, Mr. Secretary,” said Kang. “The North can launch a devastating attack at any moment.”

“I’m sorry, Minister, but we can’t afford to act rashly,” the President replied. As the interpreter translated for General Kim, it was obvious the Korean commander was growing angrier by the second. Martindale went on, “We need to analyze the information from your Reconnaissance and Operations Department, verify it independently, discuss it here in Washington, formulate a plan, then present it to our congressional leaders for funding and approval.” General Kim barked something in Korean at Kang, then glared at him impatiently. Kang kept his eyes on Martindale, not reacting; but it was obvious that the two Koreans were not receptive. “You have something on your mind, Minister Kang,” the President said warily. “Let’s hear it.”

“We have, as you say, placed all our cards on the table, sir,” Minister Kang said. “I understand your concerns and your desire to study and discuss this information. We do not wish to inconvenience you any longer with our presence. I thank you for your time and attention. I would be happy to convey your concern and thoughts to my government.”

“We would like to hear what General Kim has to say, Minister,” Martindale said stonily.

Kim shook his head sharply. Kang seemed relieved. “The general seems to have nothing more to add, Mr. President. Therefore, I thank you again for—”

“Hold on a minute, Mr. Minister,” the President said. Addressing Kim directly, he said, “If you have something on your mind, General, now’s the time to say it.”

Kang got up. “Thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

Suddenly, Kim exploded. He shot to his feet, firing words at Martindale, at Chastain, at Kang. Kang shouted something in return, but Kim would not be stopped.

“What did they say? Translate!” the President ordered.

“General Kim says that you have become too timid in the face of the Chinese,” the interpreter said. “He says that you are too concerned with your image and your reelection to risk it all by defending democratic Korea’s peace and freedom. He says you,” turning his head to Chastain, “counsel caution and ‘wait and see’ in safety while free Koreans worry about a nuclear holocaust. And he says that Minister Kang has not the courage to tell the Americans that if they will not help us, we will do what we must to protect our homeland. Minister Kang ordered the general to be silent or he will see to it that he is relieved of duty. The general says he will lead his forces to victory over the Communists whether or not he gets any help from the weakling Americans.”

The angry voices had penetrated outside the Oval Office, and at that moment Secret Service guards burst inside, automatic pistols leveled. Two plainclothes officers reached for the President, ready to shield him with their bodies. “No!” he shouted. “Wait!”

Kang shouted something at Kim, but Kim was already headed for the open door. More plainclothes and uniformed guards were ready to tackle him. “Let him go,” the President ordered. He turned to Kang. “Minister Kang, I want to talk with President Kwon immediately. If you’re considering war with North Korea, you must wait until I have had a chance to talk with him.”

“I assure you, Mr. President, we are not contemplating war with the North,” Kang said. “Many in my government are gravely concerned, but we agree that the best hope we have is calling the world community’s attention to the North’s aggression, backed up with the power and influence of the United States of America. But we must have assurances that America will support my country in our efforts.”

“I’ll tell President Kwon that he will always have the full protection and support of the United States,” Martindale said. “But listen carefully: we must not be blind-sided or railroaded into war because some hotheads in your government like General Kim think they can ignore the Chinese and can whip the North Koreans into submission overnight. We’ll fight by your side, but we want this to be a partnership. I can’t sell it to the American people any other way.”

Kang looked deeply hurt at that, hurt that the President had to “sell” the idea of protecting South Korea to the American people. His face was grim as he said, “I see, Mr. President.” He bowed deeply. “I am very sorry to have disturbed you and disrupted the peace of this eminent place. I personally apologize and take full responsibility for General Kim’s behavior. If you will excuse me.” And with that he left, neither looking up nor shaking hands.

Martindale, Whiting, Chastain, and Hale looked at one another as if in a daze. “What the hell was that?” Chastain asked incredulously.

“Let me hear it, folks — are the South Koreans planning anything?” the President asked. “Will they actually attack these targets?”

“I’d want to get some briefings from Central Intelligence,” Chastain offered, “but offhand, I’d say the Korean government is certainly leaning toward taking some kind of action. Kim seemed ready to charge across the DMZ by himself right this minute.”

“There is no way on God’s green earth that President Kwon can actually believe he could successfully stage an attack against North Korea unless we were totally behind him and ready to step in,” Vice President Whiting said. “He knows he wouldn’t stand a chance. North Korea’s military outnumbers his forces three to one. And China must have more cooks than Kwon has troops in his entire military. I think this incident with the nukes just spooked them. Kim’s was the voice of the hotheads wanting revenge — Kang’s was the voice of moderation. I don’t see a war happening.”

“Don’t guess, Mr. President,” Jerrod Hale said. “Call President Kwon. Ask him point-blank. Tell him how you feel. If you find he wants war, tell him to wait and suggest a peaceful alternative. If he still cares about one.”

At that moment, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Admiral George Balboa and Director of Central Intelligence Robert Plank entered the Oval Office. “That looked like South Korea’s foreign minister leaving the White House,” Plank said. “Was he here?”

“He was here — and he dropped a bombshell on us,” the President said, returning to his desk. “I want a full rundown of the military situation on the Korean peninsula, including a complete accounting of all of South Korea’s forces, and I needed it an hour ago.” Then he picked up the phone, called the White House Communications Center, and ordered a call placed to President Kwon Ki-chae of South Korea.