49

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
1921 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 24, 2006

As Sam Hanson entered the Oval Office, he found Benton Childress leaning against one of the window frames, looking out across the White House lawn.

“Hello, Sam,” the president said without turning. “I presume you’ve seen the latest in from the China crisis.”

“The Stormdragon mission proposal? Yes, sir, I have.”

Hanson didn’t go to his usual chair; rather, his marine’s instincts held him at parade rest beside the presidential desk.

“You’re my national security adviser, Sam. Start advising.”

“No, sir. I can’t. Not on this one.”

Now Childress did turn to face Hanson. “What do you mean, Sam?”

“I mean that the mission proposal and operational outline appear very complete and concise to me, Mr. President. I have no concrete additions or observations to make. As for whether or not this mission should be executed … I do not feel it as being my place to influence you either way, sir. This is a call solely for the president.”

“So it is, Sam. But at least you can sit around and keep me company while I make it. Pull the ramrod out of your spine and take a seat.”

Hanson obeyed. Childress returned to the desk and sank into his own chair. A single folder bearing the diagonal red slash of a confidential-materials cover lay centered on the blotter in front of him. He elected to ignore it for a moment.

“Sam, have you ever thought about running for this office?”

“Can’t recall as anyone has ever asked me.” Childress smiled and removed his glasses. “Well, if the topic ever comes up, you’re going to have one critical decision to make. Whether you are going to be a man damned for doing, or not doing.”

Drawing a handkerchief from his suit pocket, the president slowly began to polish the lenses. “You’re going to be damned no matter what, but you do get to pick the flavor of the damning.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“But not much,” Childress replied, redonning the glasses.

“If I choose to do nothing about this Stormdragon affair, I could be leaving the door open for humanity’s first nuclear war. Millions of people will die. A large section of the planet will be ravaged. The aftereffects will haunt us for centuries.

“On the other hand, if I authorize this strike, I could precipitate the same chain of events that I’m trying to prevent. Either way, this nation will be held responsible, as will I.”

Hanson had no reply for that, and silence dominated the room for a long minute. The president drew a silver pen from a desktop holder and rolled it between his fingers. Then, abruptly, he slammed it down.

“This wasn’t in the god damned job description!” Childress said savagely. “I gave my oath of office to the people of the United States, not to the people of China. They didn’t elect me! When did they become my responsibility!”

Sam Hanson settled a little deeper into his chair and met Childress’s eye.

“Sir, a little while ago, you wondered if anyone had ever asked me about running for president. If anyone ever did, I’d tell them to go directly to hell. I wouldn’t have your job for all the money they could print.”

A brief, low chuckle escaped from the president’s throat.

“Thanks a lot, Sam.”

Childress flipped open the cover of the folder. Reclaiming his pen, he signed the strike authorization with a single, swift scrawl of his name.

“Inform the Speaker of the House that I would like an immediate meeting with a senior congressional delegation. Then you may inform the Joint Chiefs that Stormdragon is a go.”

“Very good, Mr. President.”

“If I’m going to hell, Sam, it’s not going to be for sitting on my ass.”

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