“We’re approaching Misawa.” Karen’s voice sounded cool, totally under control. “One engine out, wing damaged, but we’re maintaining altitude and airspeed.”
“You’ll make it to Misawa? Met reports there’s a storm over the area.”
A hesitation. Then she answered, “We’ll make it, General.”
“Good.”
Silence, except for hissing static. What can I say? Scheib asked himself. What can I tell her with the rest of her crew listening in? Even if she tells them to stay off the line there’s no guarantee that they won’t eavesdrop. Hell, half the Pentagon could be listening to us. And it’ll all get recorded, too.
“I... I’m glad you’re okay.”
Again a long silence. She’s thinking of what she can say, what she should say, Scheib told himself. Helluva way for us to talk. For all I know this is the last time we’ll ever talk to each other. Helluva way for it all to end.
At last Karen’s voice said tightly, “I’m fine, General.”
“That’s good,” he said, feeling inane. Suddenly he couldn’t control himself any longer. He blurted, “Karen, I’m sorry it had to end this way.”
“I am too.”
“If things had been different. . .”
“Brad, it’s over and done with. You made that perfectly clear.”
Feeling utterly miserable, Scheib said, “I wish it could be different.”
“But it’s not, General. It couldn’t have ended any other way.”
He nodded in the darkness of his room. She’s right, he knew. It couldn’t have ended any other way.
In the cockpit of ABL-1, Karen Christopher heard the sorrow in Brad’s voice. And she realized that he felt sorry for himself. Not for her. Not for the mess she’d made of her career. For himself.
And she understood. He’ll never have the strength to leave his wife. His career is more important to him than I ever was. I made him happy for a while, but that’s all over now. It was doomed from the start.
“You still there?” He sounded like a lost little boy.
When she tried to nod, the damned helmet wobbled on her head. “I’ve got to sign off now, General. The weather’s closing in.”
Silence for several heartbeats. Then, “Good-bye, Karen.”
“Good-bye, General.”
And the connection went dead.
Karen looked over at Kaufman, who was studiously staring straight ahead. Looking out, she saw that the weather was indeed closing in.
“Colonel?” Sharmon’s voice.
“Go ahead, Jon.”
“ETA to Misawa, one hour seventeen minutes.” “Better get their weather report. Looks like we’ll be in for a shaggy ride.”
The Bakersfield residence was not pretentious, except for the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lot and the armored Humvee parked in the driveway, occupied by at least three heavily armed Secret Service guards at all times.
The Secretary of Defense was in bed, his fleshy face ashen, his corpulent body soaked with perspiration. His physician, a close friend since Lionel Bakersfield had first arrived in the capital as a newly elected senator, stood over him with a severe expression on his lean, nearly gaunt face.
“I could’ve been Vice President, you know,” said Bakersfield as he lay propped up on a mound of pillows in the king-sized bed. “One heartbeat away from the White House.”
The physician, rake-thin, white-haired, shook his head and replied, “Another day like this one and you’ll be one heartbeat away from your own funeral.”
The Secretary of Defense tried to chuckle at his old friend’s dismal attitude. “You’ve always been a sourpuss.”
“Lon, you can’t take so much stress,” the doctor warned. “I think you ought to retire.” Bakersfield snorted at the idea. “You’re killing yourself.”
“Bullshit! I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”
“You can’t put in days like this without hurting yourself. That old ticker of yours is going to explode if you’re not more careful.”
“Another year,” said the Secretary of Defense.
“After next year’s elections. If the President gets reelected I can retire with dignity. If not, I’ll be asked to leave anyway.”
The doctor shook his head again, his face a bony mask of disapproval.
The phone on the bedside table buzzed.
As the Secretary of Defense reached for it, his doctor snapped, “No!”
Bakersfield hesitated, his fingers inches from the phone. “It’s probably important. Only a half dozen key people have access to this line.”
“No more stress!” the doctor insisted. “You’ve had enough for today.”
The Secretary of Defense made a weak grin. “Just one more. It could be important.”
He picked up the phone’s receiver while the doctor gave a disgusted sigh and started for the bedroom door.
The phone’s minuscule screen showed a prim-looking young woman. “Mr. Secretary,” she said, “I have the Secretary of State on the line for you.”
“Put her on,” said Bakersfield. With his free hand he waved good-bye to the doctor, who shook his head with frustration and left the room, closing the door behind him with a bang.
“Lonnie,” said the Secretary of State, smiling her news-conference smile. “Celebrating our victory?”
Defense realized that the phone’s miniature camera showed little more than his sweaty face.
“Should we celebrate?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” State replied. “We shot down the Korean missiles. They didn’t bomb San Francisco.”
“And the President looks like a brave young hero.”
State’s smile faltered a bit. “I suppose he does.”
“What do you hear from the DPRK government?” Defense asked.
A small crease furrowing her brow, State answered, “Pyongyang says its troops have taken the site where the missiles were launched. Most of the rebel officers have been killed—or committed suicide instead of allowing themselves to be captured.”
“So there’s nobody left to question.”
“Probably not.”
The meds his doctor had given him were beginning to take effect, Bakersfield realized. He felt relaxed, no pain. Almost giddy, in fact.
“So we won’t find out why they tried to attack us,” he said, feeling nearly relieved about it.
“Oh, I think we’ll find out, sooner or later, one way or the other,” said the Secretary of State.
Backdoor channels, Defense thought. She puts a lot of faith in her personal contacts in China, he knew.
To her blandly smiling face, he said, “It was good of you to call me and bring me up to date.”
If she caught the sarcasm in his tone she gave no visible inkling of it. “Actually, Lonnie, the reason I called is about how we should react to the President’s position. He’s bound to get a big bounce out of this in the polls.”
Bakersfield shook his head wearily. “That’s for you to worry about, my dear. I’m not interested in the White House anymore.”
“Not interested? How…?”
The Secretary of Defense enjoyed the play of emotions flickering across the Secretary of State’s face: surprise, satisfaction, anticipation—all replaced by a hard-eyed calculation.
