Hellfire

THIRTEEN

The president was just beginning his working day when the news began to break. His quarters were silent, save for the normal quiet movements of the staff and Secret Service. His wife, Nellie, was off on some junket or another. What was it this time? Something to do with farms, he thought. Or animals. If he really needed to know, he could check with her secretary or the Secret Service. He found it faintly tragic that they should know more about her comings and goings than he did.

His two oldest children were fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. He had made it a priority to try to let them have as normal a childhood as possible. “As possible” being the key qualification. At least the press had been fairly decent about that, he reflected. His kids were rarely in the news. Somehow, the Secret Service, long adept at dealing with children in the White House, had managed to work out a fairly normal schedule of activities and team sports. Their needs had changed rapidly over the last four years as they went from being winsome ten-year-olds to being teenagers, but the Secret Service had taken it a good deal more calmly then he and Nellie had.

Timothy, the youngest, was just barely out of diapers, or so it seemed to the president. At five years old, he was a powerhouse, and the president had more than once heard the comparison made to John-John. There was something still and quiet about Timothy, a sense of unexpected maturity. The president wondered how many years in therapy the last four years in the White House would earn him.

With a sigh, he relaxed and leaned back, elevating the leg rest on his easy chair. In a few minutes, the steward would bring in breakfast. Until then, he was free.

He shut his eyes and reflected on the last four years. Some successes, some failures. For the most part, he felt he had been a good president, one who had grown into the office. The prospect of another four years in the White House was both exhilarating and daunting. Of all the men and women around him, only Nellie knew the strain he was under. The Secret Service and his staff knew from long experience in general what he was going through, but the specifics were left to him and his family.

“Mr. President?” a soft voice asked. Jim Arnot, one of the more senior agents assigned to his detail. Arnot knew better than to interrupt him during these precious quiet moments unless it was absolutely necessary.

The president lowered his leg rest and brought the seat into an upright position. “Come on in.”

Arnot moved quickly to his side and held out a message. The president glanced at it then and snapped, “Turn on CNN and ACN.” Arnot switched on the three televisions, each one tuned to a different news station. The president wondered when the last time had been that he’d watched television for anything other than the news.

He focused on the report in progress on ACN. That new anchor, what was her name? Winston, that was it. He stared at her picture for a moment, watching the clear blue eyes and the satisfaction behind her reporter’s mark. That particular look in a reporter’s eyes never boded well for the White House. He clicked up the volume.

“The main concern at this point is how long it will take the United States military to admit their culpability in this tragedy. Our sources tell us that most of this expensive search-and-rescue effort is merely a cover, an attempt to shift attention away from inquiries into the actual sequence of events. Apparently the data tapes from the USS Jefferson, the aircraft carrier on the scene, show that there’s a significant probability that the Montego Bay was struck by an American missile, not a Russian one. If so, this could have significant repercussions for America’s maritime interests. The Montego Bay was one of the few ships still flying the American flag. Others have fled to countries with less rigid inspection requirements and lighter tax burdens.” Winston paused, a hard glitter in her eyes.

Her co-anchor chimed in just as he was supposed to. “Give us the bottom line, Cary. Are we talking about a cover-up?” He was as sleekly handsome as she was.

Winston nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mike. There’s no other way to explain the lack of information being released from the American military authorities. The Russians, on the other hand, have issued an open invitation for the press to visit on board their flagship. They have promised to provide full data packages to the media.”

It was her co-anchor’s turn to don a grave, stern look. “What about the media pool on board the aircraft carrier? Why aren’t they involved in this?”

“I can’t answer for everyone, Mike. I do know that several of those reporters have built their careers around cooperation with the military authorities. Maybe we expect too much from them. Do we really expect them to alienate the people who provide most of their stories? Oh, I’m sure there’ll be a major effort to characterize the silence as a matter of national security, but let’s be brutally honest about it. They have simply lost their objectivity.”

The expression on Winston’s face could accurately be described as triumphant, the president thought. He keyed down her volume, catching CNN at the top of its story cycle to hear the details. They were clearly taken directly from Winston’s broadcast earlier.

He turned to Arnot. “Get me the chairman and the national security adviser.”

Wexler surveyed the crowd. It seemed that every nation on earth had at least a small contingent here, with many of them garbed in native costumes. The more junior diplomatic staff sometimes affected Western dress, but she had noted an increasing trend among the very senior diplomats and representatives to celebrate their individuality.

And that was a good thing, wasn’t it? Even though nationalism had raised its ugly head more than once in recent years, in general strong, cohesive cultures were more conducive to peace. She found it especially interesting that the preference for native dress was increasingly evident outside of the United Nations building itself. The trend had started there, of course, with some African nations making a statement by wearing traditional garb to the sessions. Later, the Middle East states followed suit. Now it seemed that Western business suits had been abandoned for social functions as well.

The crowd had already broken into clusters along traditional lines. Despite the best efforts of the hostess to keep everyone circulating, the normal divisions were clearly evident. The Middle Eastern states and their clients were clustered around the buffet table, which had been carefully planned so that no religious preferences were offended. There was even a section of it labeled “kosher.”

The Europeans, on the other hand, had taken up their normal position near the bar. Good wine flowed freely, and there were more than enough discriminating palates to appreciate the hostess’s choices. The Central and South American states were split almost equally between the two groups, although Peru had chosen a corner table with Russia and India.

She turned to T’ing, the ambassador from China. “We can’t even choose a table without making a political statement, can we?”

T’ing smiled. “Some would say you already have,” he murmured.

“How so?”

“You wear white,” T’ing said. “White, the color of mourning.”

“Of purity and virginity,” she offered. T’ing was gentleman enough not to take advantage of the straight line.

“In some places,” he answered instead.

She surveyed the crowd and said, “I was just remembering how dull everyone looked not so long ago. It’s refreshing, isn’t it, to see so many styles?”

“It is,” he said. “And I appreciate the opportunity to have a choice.” He had selected his own native dress for this evening, although she knew full well that he had a number of exquisitely tailored Western suits in his wardrobe.

“And are you making statement?” she asked.

“Perhaps. But only to those who would understand it.” He shot her cryptic look. “And your choice of white — was that a statement?”

“Yes. Of a bold and daring nature. How many women do you know who would willingly choose white with a buffet dinner served? The opportunities for disaster are infinite. Do you know how hard it is to get red wine out of silk?”

He smoothed the fabric of his tunic, a delicately patterned red and gold. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

T’ing led the way to the bar and ordered a glass of wine for each of them. “The usual,” he said, as he passed her the drink.

At a far corner of the room, a small chamber orchestra was quietly tuning up. She recognized a few bars of a violin as Mozart, and nodded appreciatively. Perhaps this evening would be more entertaining than she had thought.

The social obligations of her position were entirely more onerous than her official duties. So many parties and receptions, so many opportunities to inadvertently create an impression or send a message that she had never intended. Like the business of wearing white, for instance. Of course she had known that, but she had elected to wear the suit anyway.

She was just leading the way over to a small table where the British ambassador was chatting with a member of his delegation when she saw her aide, Brad, slip into the room. She tensed. While Brad occasionally attended these functions, this one had not been on his schedule. It was, if she recalled correctly, a reception to welcome the wife of the ambassador from Uruguay. On the scale of social events, it was one that required a brief appearance, a polite greeting, and perhaps one drink before she could plead other engagements. Her staff was not expected to appear at all.

Brad spotted her immediately and made his way across the room. She sighed and said, “Excuse me, will you?” to T’ing.

“How soon can you get loose?” Brad asked quietly. “There’s a problem.”

“I don’t suppose you can give me any hint?”

Just then, there was a small flurry of noise coming from the general vicinity of the Russian ambassador. She turned to look and saw that his aide was whispering urgently in his ear. His face was growing choleric and his eyes were scanning the room. He finally saw her. His thick eyebrows drew down and met, deepening into a scowl.

Brad noticed as well and shrugged. “So they’re not as careful on security as we are.”

“Meet me at the door,” she said.

Wexler circled the room, greeting acquaintances and friends. She thanked the hostess for a stunning party, welcomed the new diplomatic wife, and then, as gracefully as she could, headed back toward the entrance. She veered off for a moment to find T’ing and offer her apologies. He did not bother asking what had happened. Soon enough, he would find out from his own staff. And from the expression on the Russian ambassador’s face and Brad’s urgency, she suspected the whole world would know before long.

Outside, even in the evening, the air was thick and humid. Her car was already in front of the building, but the twenty steps between the house and the car were enough to leave her sweating.

Inside the dark unmarked Mercedes sedan, the air would be cool — chilly, even. And dry — yes, dry. She could already imagine it surrounding her, soaking the sweat off her skin, cooling the blood she felt pounding in her temples. Of all the marvels of the modern world, air-conditioning had to be at the top of the list.

Brad’s security people already had the back door open. The cool air was beckoning her along with the silence after the chatter of so many voices in so many languages. Sometimes it seemed like her time in the car was the most peaceful in her day. Even when she was forced to discuss business — and Brad’s security policies had put an end to most of that — nothing seemed quite as urgent.

“Madam!” The rough, deeply accented voice of the Russian ambassador made her pause. “Is there an explanation for this outrage?”

So close. Maybe he would get into her car and they could discuss it there. Not that there was anything to discuss yet, although he clearly had a better idea of what had happened than she did.

No. Russians were reflexively paranoid and he would suspect they were being monitored. Brad stepped between her and the Russian ambassador.

“It’s all right.” Brad stepped to the side but stayed close.

“I see you are leaving the party early,” she said pleasantly. “A nice evening, isn’t it?”

“As are you,” he said, ignoring the pleasantry. “Do not trifle with me, Madam.” Wexler noted that he had dropped the honorific. “I want to see your president at his very early convenience. Surely there is some explanation for this? There will be many in my country who will take it for deliberate provocation. I must warn you,” he said, wagging a thick finger at her, “that I’m not sure I can restrain them. Not this time.”

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her voice still neutral and polite. “Just what is it that has annoyed you?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” The ambassador swore, then stepped toward her, prompting Brad and his security people to move in closer. He saw them, and his scowl deepened. “Surely you don’t take me for a barbarian? Do you think you are in physical danger? That I would attack you, perhaps slap you around a bit to knock some sense into that pretty little head? Or maybe,” he said, ignoring Brad and stepping closer again, “that I would assault you?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said crisply. “Brad, please wait in the car. I’m fine.”

“But—” Brad started.

She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “I’m fine. Go on.”

She stared until he reluctantly moved away and back to the car. Regardless of her orders, he stood outside it. She turned back to the Russian ambassador. “Now, what is all this about?”

“Is it possible that you do not know?” Seeing the incomprehension on her face, he laughed, an unpleasant sound to his voice. “So, the vaunted freedom of the press doesn’t make any difference if no one hears it, does it? You should listen to ACN, Madam.”

“And if I did, what would I hear?” she snapped, losing patience with the entire charade and almost as furious at herself for being caught unawares.

“That your American officers believe that your country may have been the one that hit that cruise ship. Not Russian missiles. American ones.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ask your gallant aide.”

She turned to look at Brad, who nodded, reluctance on his face. “It’s possible.”

“You have always been a poor liar, Madam Ambassador. Always.”

“Not always.” She said nothing more, simply smiled, her point made. The Russian’s face clouded over. She thought, You didn’t seem to think so when you fell for the cover story about the Patriot missiles.

Earlier that year, in an effort to discover who had planted a listening device in her office, she had intentionally faked a top secret conference with Brad about shipping Patriot missiles to Taiwan. There had been no such plan, but when the Russians had tried to blackmail her with the information, their perfidy had been exposed.

The Russian stepped closer to her. She could smell him, the rank odor. Brad stepped closer also.

“You know so little about how the world works,” the Russian said. “How your actions affect the rest of the world. How they think of you. Not everything in the world that you dislike can be vetoed, Madam. Sooner or later, you will face reality.”

“We faced reality on September 11,” she snapped. “Don’t talk to me about not understanding the world. What you’d better worry about is whether the world understands us.”

He drew back. “If the World Trade Center taught you anything, it should be that you are not unique. There are not separate rules for Americans. There never were. There never will be.” Before she could frame a reply, the Russian Ambassador stalked off. She slid gratefully into the air-conditioned car.

Either traffic was exceptionally light or both men had been expecting trouble. Probably the latter. Even in the lightest Beltway traffic, it would have been almost impossible for them to arrive at the White House so quickly.

The president had long ago given up apologizing for ruining either man’s evening. It was the price they paid for wielding power. And if you got right down to it, that’s what holding public office was about. Neither the general nor the adviser’s salary would have been sufficient to entice them into the hours they worked. No, it was the ability to control what was happening in the world, the feeling of power, and, in the best cases, the fervent belief that somehow one could make a difference in the world for the better.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” both men murmured as the Secret Service showed them in. The president had elected to receive them in his private quarters, and shoved the dinner tray away. He pointed at the televisions, which were now providing updates on the Montego Bay situation.

“Tell me what I need to know,” he said simply.

The two men had undoubtedly discussed it on their way here because neither bothered to glance at the other. The general began. “I spoke to the skipper of the carrier and the admiral of the battle group on the way over here, Mr. President,” he said. “We were not on a secure line, but I made sure that they would be standing by one later for instructions. From what they could tell me, the reporter — that Winston — ambushed the skipper on the bridge. Sure, maybe he said some things he shouldn’t have, but he thought he was talking to one of his officers. He’s read her the riot act.”

“A woman scorned,” the national security adviser said quietly.

The president shot him a disgusted look. “I don’t care if she’s female, male, or something in between. What matters right now is that the situation is a mess. I need some answers, gentlemen. And I need them now.” He pointed at the general. “Get the facts. You can use the secure phone in the situation room. I want to know everything.” He turned to the national security adviser. “Organize State and the embassies. I want it made clear to Russia right away that we are not certain what happened and intend to investigate fully. If they want to send an observer over, that’s fine.”

The general started to protest, and the president cut him off. “I know about the additional security precautions. I think your people can handle them, don’t you? We don’t admit we’re testing the system, nothing like that.”

“I was just going to suggest, Mr. President,” the general said, “that we have an exchange of observers. Surely the Russian data systems also captured the incident. If they’re coming over to take a look at our data, we should be taking a look at theirs. It seems only fair.”

The president nodded his approval. “I like it. It also shows that we’re not admitting culpability. Okay, let’s make that happen.” He turned back to the adviser. “Any other issues?”

“Just one,” the security adviser said. “It is not too soon to be thinking about our position if we are at fault. Will there be reparations? Exactly how will we handle it? I don’t think I have to tell you that the international repercussions will be severe and far-reaching.”

“You’re correct,” the president said.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll get my people started on—”

The president cut him off. “You are correct that you don’t need to tell me about the international repercussions. For the record, sir, I have every confidence in our people, our training, and our equipment. We were not at fault in this. I don’t know how, but I intend to find out.” He turned to the general, and saw the merest trace of a grim smile on the man’s face. “And pass that on to your people. This isn’t a witch hunt. It’s more like Ghostbusters. Okay, back here in ten minutes.” He gestured at the half-finished sandwich. “I’m going to choke that down, and I’ll meet you both in the situation room. Anybody hungry? Speak up if you are. It looks like it’s going to be long night.”

The ten minutes stretched into fifteen. Solar flare activity, the general said, had disrupted all communications. It took some time to get a clear line to Jefferson, and he’d had to resynch several times. In the end, he’d spoken to both the skipper and the admiral.

“It’s just as you thought, sir,” he said. “The admiral swears there’s no way they’re responsible. Yes, there was an anti-missile missile in the air, and yes, it overflew the Montego Bay. But there’s no way it hit the Montego Bay, Mr. President. No way at all.”

“The Russians aren’t agreeing with that, of course,” the security adviser said briskly. “They claim their data shows intentional targeting of the cruise ship.”

“And do they have any explanation for why we would target an American-flagged ship?” the president demanded.

The national security adviser shook his head. “No. They hinted that they believe their ship was the real target, and malfunctions in our own targeting resulted in the incident. But for some reason, they’re not screaming that at the top of their lungs — just whispering it.”

“Why, I wonder?” the president mused. “Any ideas?”

Both men shook their heads. “I didn’t think so,” the president said.

The lighting in the situation room was slightly dimmed, a condition the president found conducive to better briefs. He closed his eyes now, letting the facts tumble through his mind. None of it made any sense, none of it. Why would anyone nail an innocent cruise liner? There was no upside to that.

Unless she’s not an innocent cruise liner. Could there be something going on at JCS and NSA that I don’t know about? Possible, I suppose. If there was, that would make sense. It’s the only thing that does. So then the question is — why are they blowing smoke up my ass? Or do they really not know?

The president reached a decision. He opened his eyes and said, “I want everything we can get our hands on shipped to NSA for full analysis. General, order all forces to set DEFCON three. I want the Russians to know we’re serious.”

“But the escalation…,” the security adviser began, his tone incredulous. “Mr. President, if you do this, the Russians will go to a heightened state of readiness as well. This is how it starts, each side making a point, saving face until it all gets out of hand. We can’t risk it, sir. Not until we successfully test the system.”

The president fixed him with a cold glare. “It’s not open for discussion. Now do it.”

Drake was just rounding the corner when she saw Tombstone farther down the passageway. He was facing her, towering over Winston, who was blocking his way. Behind her, Jeff waited, his camera pointed at the deck.

“Why are you here?” Winston pressed as she stepped forward toward the former admiral. “Everyone knows you’re the expert in the naval conflicts, Admiral. Are you here to give Admiral Grant advice? Or to get an expert opinion on the cause of this disaster?”

“No comment,” Tombstone said, and stepped to the right. Winston matched his move, still blocking his way.

Drake could see Tombstone’s face go cold and hard. Even his normally impassive expression was frightening.

“I said, no comment.” Tombstone’s voice held impatience and irritation, although Pamela knew him well enough to know that one of his icy rages was coming on. Even she quailed before those.

Time to break this up. She started down the passageway. Tombstone looked up at her, and she thought she saw a trace of relief on his face. Drake planted one hand firmly in the middle of Winston’s collar, clamped her fingers down, and jerked back and to the right. Winston let out a howl of protest and tried to kick Drake. Drake held her at arm’s length, fury lending her strength. “Thank you for your time, Admiral Magruder. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Tombstone regarded the two of them with something that looked like amusement. “Thank you, Miss Drake,” he replied formally.

Just then, the door to the admiral’s mess opened and Admiral Coyote Grant and Captain Jack Phillips walked out. Both were in a towering rage. They immediately spotted Pamela, who was still holding Winston against the bulkhead. Phillips nudged Coyote, who sighed. “Let her go, Pamela,” Coyote said wearily. “I wish you’d done that a couple of hours ago.”

“Believe me, so do I.” She released Winston, who started to attack Drake. The cameraman caught the younger reporter by her elbow and shook his head warningly.

“Admiral, Captain — I had no part in this. I didn’t even know she left the room. I tried to head off the report but they’d already run with it. My apologies.”

There was no reaction from either man, and Drake knew the damage was already done. No doubt they had spent the morning fielding calls from their superiors, who would want to know why in the hell someone would make such a stupid comment to a reporter. Winston’s impromptu update would have far more international repercussions than she could ever have guessed.

“There will be a briefing for all media at ten o’clock,” Phillips said finally. “The dirty shirt mess. Which is, by the way, now where all the media will eat.”

“I see.” To be evicted from the flag mess was no great hardship, but it was a precursor of things to come. “And the flag mess?”

“Off limits,” Coyote said immediately. “As is this passageway. As is the bridge, Combat, and the flight deck, unless you’re accompanied by the public affairs officer.”

“You’re gagging us,” Drake said, disbelievingly. She had known it would be bad, but not this bad.

“Of course not,” Coyote said promptly. “We’re simply trying to make more use of your valuable time. After all, there are many areas of the ship you would not normally visit that we’ll arrange access to. The bakery, for instance. What a fascinating story, those bakers working through the night every night to produce all the ship’s baked goods. Cinnamon rolls, bread, pizza crust — it’s really quite impressive. And has there ever been a really good profile on garbage disposal at sea?” He turned to Phillips, as though directing the question at him.

Phillips tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “No, Admiral, I don’t believe there has been. But what an excellent idea.”

“I’ll get her off the ship,” Drake said, desperate to redeem herself and the rest of the media. “We know she was out of line — I’ve never done anything like that to you. Don’t punish all of us for her screw-up.”

The two senior officers regarded her blandly. “Punish? What an absurd idea,” the admiral said fondly.

Both senior officers left, met up with Tombstone farther down the passageway, and then disappeared into the side passageway that housed the ladder leading up to the flight deck. Drake started to follow, but then stopped. It was no use. It would take months, maybe even years, before this could be repaired. She turned on Winston, intending to blast her, but instead of a cowed reporter she saw Winston’s eyes gleaming again.

“Now this is a good story,” Winston said. “We’ll call it ‘Censored!’ ”