Choke Point

“Thank God,” interjected Eleanor Prenty, “we had unofficial warnings about China’s intended move and weren’t taken by surprise.”

The President nodded. “That girl, Riser—”

“Yes, sir, Mandy Riser.”

“This country owes her a lot.”

“Yes,” agreed CIA head John Norris, who was ever ready to protect his agency’s turf in the bureaucratic war spawned by the White House’s push to consolidate intelligence agencies after 9/11 into a new giant Department of Homeland Defense. “But the agency had heard other unofficial signals of the Chinese build-up in the Northwest.”

“I meant,” said the President, “her hearing that this slimebag Li Kuan was working in Kazakhstan. Your agency dropped the ball on that one. Thought he was in some damned cave in Afghanistan?”

“We’re sure he was there, Mr. President. But he got out before we could nail him.”

“Like bin Laden. Well, how’d he get to Kazakhstan so quickly?”

Norris explained that if Li Kuan had gotten to Istanbul or Pakistan, he could have caught a Pakistani Air flight to Astan in a matter of hours.

“Well, whatever, but it was that poor girl who gave us the intel that the bastard was in Kazakhstan. And we know now after the rail line hit that Li Kuan’s clients there have quite a conventional explosives wallop. If he manages to sell them the slag for a dirty nuclear bomb, we’re all in trouble. Let’s hope the Chinese get him.”

“Yessir.”

Norris was tempted to explain that it had been the Chinese General Chang who had actually told Charlie Riser, the U.S. cultural attache in Beijing, that Li Kuan was reported in Kazakhstan, but he didn’t press the point. It would have seemed too pedantic.

“John,” the President said to Norris, “how are our Chinese surveillance flights going? Any problems?” The President could never bring himself to call the Aries II surveillance flights what they were — U.S. spy missions. One of the Lockheed Martin Aries had been shot down in April 2001, the crew held as POWs for a while by the Chinese.

“Flights are doing fine, sir. Chinese don’t like ’em, of course. Keep sending up MiGs to try and intimidate our boys.”

“Okay, but tell our Air Force guys to be careful. Last thing we need is another international incident now.”

“Yessir.”

As the meeting ended, the President, heading off for a press conference, asked the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, “How many men did we lose in that Li Kuan mission?”

“Seven, sir. Six Special Forces on the ground. One from the chopper, a medic, during evac.”

The President’s jaw clenched as he shook his head. “Only one survivor, then?”

“Yes, sir. Ex-Medal of Honor guy. David Brentwood.”

“Ex?” said the President.

“Yes — ah, well, yes. Story is, he choked.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ten minutes after the President had given his televised press conference the switchboard received a call from retired general Douglas Freeman, the George C. Scott lookalike who had been conscripted from the “retired” list to go on a sponsored goodwill tour for the troops in Afghanistan.

The general knew very well that his ad hoc phone call from Tora Bora was definitely not the way to make contact with the White House. Retired officers, even four-star generals, were supposed to follow normal channels, like everyone else. Write a letter. But even as a young officer, long before he had become a legend and what was known as a perennial PITA — pain in the ass — to Washington’s bureaucrats, Douglas Freeman had adopted Von Rundsted’s advice to an up-and-coming Wehrmacht oberleutnant, namely, that “normal channels are a trap for officers who lack initiative.”

“White House. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes,” said Freeman forcefully. “General Freeman here. I’d like to speak to the President. He knows who I am.”

That was the problem; the President certainly did know about the general, who, though retired, felt free, “like any other goddamned citizen,” as the general once put it, to give advice to the CEO who ran the world’s only superpower. Freeman wasn’t an arrogant man, but he was known to be as persistent as an M1, America’s main battle tank, the kind he had led during the famous winter battle in which, outnumbered by Russian-made T-80s, he’d ordered a running retreat in what was initially regarded by his men and an appalled Pentagon watching on live satellite feed as a blatant act of cowardice.

The operator directed the general’s call to Public Relations, who in turn promised to connect him to a presidential aide.

“Presidential aide? I don’t want some damn gofer who picks fluff off the President’s suit. This is a matter of national urgency, goddammit!”

“I’ll direct your call to Ms. Prenty’s office. She’s our National Security—”

“Yes, I know who she is. I gave a visiting lecture to her IR course at Emory in Vir—”

Ms. Prenty was “unavailable.” Would the general leave his number, and a member of her staff would—

“Goddammit!” exploded Freeman, slamming down the phone. Two minutes later he called back. It took him four more White House operators to reach the one he’d sworn at. She’d sounded so young. “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

“I’m Operator Eight, General.”

“Yes, well, look, I apologize for my rudeness.” A long, long silence. Goddammit, she wants me on my belly, thought Freeman, like Eisenhower wanted Patton on his belly before he’d forgive the general for slapping a soldier he’d accused of cowardice in Sicily. Patton sent Ike a damn turkey — big son of a bitch — for Christmas. Didn’t make any difference. Ike kept him out in the cold. Freeman knew he had the same problem. Temper. But goddammit — He took a deep breath. “Us older guys get a bit cranky now and then. Sorry.”

“Old or not, General”—the bitch, he’d said older, not old—“it’s still no excuse for rudeness.”

“No, no, it isn’t. You’re quite right.” Then a short shot of his own. “Operator Eight, you’re quite right. My profoundest apology. I’d be very grateful if you’d have one of Eleanor’s people call me back.” The “Eleanor” should help, he thought.

“Your name again, Colonel? Nicholas Feedman?”

Colonel—

Operator Eight heard an expulsion of air like a tire deflating. “Name is Freeman,” the tightly restrained voice answered her. “General Douglas Freeman, as in ’land of the free and the home of the brave,’ “ which if you want to help keep it free, you dozy dame—

“Would you like her voice mail, Colonel?”

“I’ll call back!”

Old! she’d said. He was sixty, for crying out loud. Douglas MacArthur was still active at seventy-two. Younger generation didn’t know a damned thing. Appallingly ignorant of the past, both geographically and politically. He recalled the young woman on NBC’s Late Show who’d thought it was the French who had attacked Pearl Harbor. And NBC hired her later as a reporter! So how in hell could they be expected to know who he was, about the stunning victory he’d pulled off years before during the U.N. intervention in the Russian taiga, a victory so brilliantly executed, so particularly reliant on his command of the minutiae and sweep of military history, that his exploit had fired the imagination of every soldier in the army.

One of those soldiers had been a young lieutenant called David Brentwood, who had gone on to win the coveted thirteen gold stars on the pale blue ribbon that signified he had joined the hallowed hall of warriors, the elite. Some wore the medal easily, part of a willingness to take life as it came to them; others, like Brentwood,