The Arctic Event

Chapter Forty-four

The White House, Washington, DC

President Castilla rose from the head of the long mahogany conference table. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me for a moment, there’s a call I have to take.”

Castilla strode from the conference room, following his sober-featured Marine aide. The liaison officers from the Central Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, and National Security Agencies; the FBI; and the Office of Homeland Security exchanged silent glances, wondering what might be critical enough to preempt the morning’s national intelligence briefing.

In the Oval Office, Castilla lifted the internal phone from its cradle without bothering to seat himself behind the big mesquite-wood desk. “Castilla here.”

“Mr. President, this is the Operations Room. Please be advised, the Wednesday Island relief mission has launched and is airborne at this time.”

Castilla glanced at his desk clock. Twenty after. Major Saunders would have gotten his last weather update on the quarter hour, and true to his word, he’d been airborne within five minutes.

“Has Director Klein been notified?”

“Affirmative, Mr. President. He is monitoring the situation.”

“Do we have an ETA over the objective?”

“Roughly six hours, depending upon the weather conditions encountered en route.” The operations officer sounded faintly apologetic. “They’ve got over two thousand miles to fly, sir.”

“I understand, Major. Wednesday Island is one of those places you can’t get to from here. Keep me advised as things develop.”

“Will do, Mr. President. Please be advised, the Russian Special Liaison to the Wednesday Island Operation is still unavailable. Do you wish to inform the Russians of the relief operation?”

Castilla scowled at the bars of morning sunlight cutting across the rich reds and blues of the Navaho rug on the office floor. “Negative, Major. It’s apparent they have nothing more to say to us, and we have nothing more to say to them.”