Firestorm

4

"Yes, sir, that's thirteen hours, precisely, that Mainland China's west coast is ahead of us timewise," Secretary of State Matthew Burdick told his President. "It's now 615 P.m. here, so it's 715 A.M. tomorrow morning in Taipei and China."

"That's because of the International Date Line, correct?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir."

There were only five of them in the Oval Office clustered around the big desk. Burdick had loosened his tie. He puffed on a big cigar, to the annoyance of the others, who nevertheless didn't comment. "Damned difficult situation," he said. "We've halfway committed to telling the Mainland Chinese that they can have Taiwan back eventually. Yet we throw up a fleet of carriers and hundreds of warplanes when they hold live missile-firing exercises in the Taiwan Strait."

Across from him sat Lambert J. Waldpole, the current director of the CIA. He was a tall man, with gray hair, a full salt-and-pepper beard kept trimmed to half an inch, and gray, watery eyes that never let you know what he was thinking. "We've got to give the Navy SEALS the go-ahead and try to stop this invasion," the head spook said. "If we don't, we could get sucked into a full-blown war with one and three tenths billion Chinese. We don't need that. I've seen the results of these commando SEALS. They are ten times as good as any of the commandos who operated during World War II, ours or the British."

"A damn bunch of cowboys," the next man in line growled. He was Secretary of Defense Franklin Inge. He sat slumped over, small and wiry, with a cherub face and a big smile, behind which was a deftly concealed sharp knife looking for an opening.

"What can half-a-dozen men do against Mainland China, for gawd's sakes?" Inge asked. "A division of Marines, maybe. We're playing with fire. Sure, keep it as covert as hell, but what if something blows, or we leave some dead SEALS or U.S. equipment behind? What the hell happens then, win or lose in our strike?"

"Then the international shit hits the big fan," the President said. He looked at the last man in the room, Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Lucian Quenton. He was the first black four-star admiral in the U.S. Navy.

"Lucian?"

"As everyone has said, a tough call that only you, Mr. President, can make. I know these SEALS. I've seen them train. I've walked through what they call a Kill House and seen the precision, the skill, the speed with which these men function. If it can be done in three days, this platoon of SEALS can do it. I'd vote for a go."

They talked over every aspect of the situation for another half hour. The group was split on which way to go.

The President stood, picked a quartet of multi-colored MM's off a dish on his desk, and popped them in his mouth. He walked to the end of the room and came back. His hands had been clasped behind him. He nodded at them all.

"Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I'll let you know what I decide within a half hour." They all stood and started for the door.

"Oh, Lucian, would you remain, please," the President asked.

The admiral sat back in his chair, his hands on the upholstered arms. When everyone else had left and the door closed discreetly, the President turned to Quenton with a slight frown.

"Lucian, what do you know of this SEAL unit that went in and brought back the Chinese invasion plans?"

"Best platoon of SEALS we have, Mr. President. Best leader, too. He led the SEALS on that nuclear threat by the Arab militant fringe in the North Sea on that oil-drilling and refining platform a few months back. Saved our hides on that one. He's had several SEAL missions before that. The nuclear material coming into the Near East on that Japanese freighter that was hijacked.

"If there's a man and a platoon in the SEALS who can do the job, it's Lieutenant Blake Murdock and his fifteen men."

The President winced. "Sixteen men to take care of four major invasion threats like these? How is that possible, Admiral?"

"The SEALS believe that anything is possible, Mr. President. I've seen them in action close up. Their planning is intensive. This isn't admirals and secretaries of defense setting around a table in the Pentagon spelling our strategies and assaults. "Mese are the men who will go in and do the work. Two officers and fourteen enlisted men, and every SEAL in the unit can have his say about how to do an operation.

"All of Murdock's men are bloodied. All have been on recent combat operations. It's your call, Mr. President. But I'd say a covert action right now is our best bet. Even if we don't pull it off, we'll hamper their invasion to some degree. On the other hand, if we don't act, they will swarm all over Taiwan and we lose another battle."

The President stood. "Thanks, Lucian. I can always count on you for the facts. I'll let you know which way we'll go."

"Thank you, Mr. President."