his feet hit the floor, Jan's mind needed time to come to life. Still not fully awake and having no idea what Mordal was talking about, Jan blinked her eyes a few times, looked at her alarm clock, and yawned before responding. 'Of course I was right, Charley.' Then after thinking for a second, she added, 'Exactly what was I right about this time?'
'The Germans. Jan, can you believe it? The Germans apparently overran the Air Force base in Germany where the nukes were waiting for transport back to the States and seized them. You and Lewis seem to be the only people in this town that saw that coming. You're incredible.'
Jan didn't really hear anything after Mordal mentioned that the Germans had overrun an American base. For several seconds all she could think about was Scott and his safety. Where was he? Was the American Army already involved? Those and other questions rushed through her mind as Mordal, more animated than Jan had ever heard him before, rattled on and on. Knowing that sitting there in her bedroom wondering and worrying would accomplish nothing, Jan cut Mordal off. 'Okay, Charley, thanks for calling. I'll be down at the studio in less than an hour.'
Without so much as a good-bye, Jan hung up, leaving Mordal wondering why she was coming to the studio at that hour. After thinking about it for a moment, though, he decided that perhaps it wasn't a bad idea. His only regret was that he hadn't thought of it first. Of course, Charley Mordal didn't realize that Jan wasn't going into the studio out of dedication to the network or her profession. Her motives that night were purely selfish. At the World News Network headquarters in downtown Washington, D.C., she would have firsthand access to every major news agency in the world and sources of information that rivaled the CIA's and FBI's. In the avalanche of information and news that would flow into WNN headquarters, Jan hoped to find a scrap of news about the only person in the entire world that she really cared for, a man who by his nature and profession was bound to be in the middle of things in Germany. Though she could do nothing to change things or help him, at least she would know what was happening to him.
Bounding out of bed, Jan dashed to the bathroom. As she stood before the full wall mirror quickly combing her hair into a presentable style, she glanced down at the black nondescript comb, green toothbrush, and unused razor that sat next to the second sink that was Scotty's. Though he hadn't been able to tear himself away from his command in Europe for months, Jan, out of habit, kept his personal things in order and handy, just in case. For despite her reputation as a hard-nosed news correspondent, Jan Fields-Dixon was an eternal optimist. Scott, she knew, would somehow find his way out of this mess, just as surely as the politicians in the White House would find a way to suck him into it.
Suddenly the focus of everyone in Washington shifted from an obscure spot on the eastern fringes of Europe to the heart of the continent. Overwhelmed by the new German crisis, matters concerning the Ukrainian crisis were relegated to other senior members of the State and Defense departments while President Wilson and key members of the National Security Council met to discuss and deal with the German crisis.
As was her style, Abigail Wilson had listened to what everyone had to say concerning the matter at hand, in this case the German crisis, without comment. When she was satisfied that everything that needed to be known had been presented, she gave her initial guidance and then sat back and let her staff, in this case the Security Council, work out a solution. From her seat, Wilson watched the process in action. A steady stream of people, some in uniform, some in shirtsleeves, flowed around and past her, coming and going, sometimes giving the impression that they had no apparent direction or purpose. Every now and then one or more of these people would stop another in midstride and hold a quick hushed impromptu discussion where they stood. Finished, they would part and continue to pursue whatever mysterious errand they had been on. Elsewhere in the room small clusters of people were huddled discussing some matter or the other. The whole scene unfolding before her gave Wilson the feeling that she was sitting in the eye of a hurricane. After thinking about that analogy for a moment, she decided that it didn't do justice to the current situation. What she had started, Wilson decided, was shaping up to resemble more and more a firestorm. How to stop that firestorm, which at that moment was completely out of their control, was the question she pondered and the throngs of people around her debated.
For several minutes Wilson studied each of her key staffers, people who had led her into the Ukrainian crisis and now were expected to find a solution to a new crisis in which all its attendant problems had yet to come to the surface. Off to her right, Peter Soares was holding court with her foreign affairs advisor and a number of serious- looking State Department bureaucrats. The expression he wore and the manner in which he held himself or threw his arms about to make his point reminded Wilson of when he had been running Wilson's gubernatorial and presidential campaigns. Watching, she had no doubt that his line of thinking and the approach he was using to deal with this crisis were similar to those he had used then. Unfortunately, this was not a political campaign. For a moment Wilson wondered if his ability to negotiate the American political landscape for diplomatic skills and his knack for organizing campaigns for leadership gave him the insight necessary for dealing with this issue. In her heart she knew that his tried-and-true methods, those that had gotten her into the White House, would be of little use in resolving the expanding German crisis, one which his decisions had precipitated. The fact that the Ukrainian operation had turned sour, despite his assurances, introduced an element of uncertainty into Wilson's mind that was now tainting her trust of anything that Soares said.
To her front, among a cluster of generals and admirals, Terry Rothenberg sat. His long face, with drooping eyes peering through a pair of bifocals tottering on the edge of his nose, had never looked so long. As Wilson sat there watching him turn his head this way, then that, as one senior officer after another talked, she knew that Rothenberg was as much out of his element as Soares was. The brilliance that had made him New York City's successful contract lawyer failed to provide him with the tools he needed to deal with the harsh military decisions that were demanded when war threatens. Rothenberg, like Wilson herself, was often reduced to listening to his experts, both military and civilian, toss about one option after another, never knowing for sure who was right or even if there was a right answer.
As she sat there, Wilson began to suspect that the people in the room, the same ones who had assured her that the plan to secure the nuclear weapons was sound and gave her a 95 percent probability of success, were not up to dealing with the German crisis. Like Rothenberg, Wilson had come into her office with only a very basic understanding of military affairs and trusted the experts and professionals to deal with the details. Now, like Rothenberg, she felt betrayed by those experts and was at a loss as to where to turn for the help and advice that she, and the nation, so desperately needed.
Knowing that it would be several hours before anyone had a good handle on the situation, let alone viable options, Wilson decided to seek advice from a source that many would consider inappropriate. With a slight motion of her right hand, Wilson signaled the aide seated behind her. Leaning forward, the aide listened. 'Tom, have the car pulled around front immediately.'
Knowing that as soon as he gave the order for her limousine to move, William J. Balick, the head of the White House Secret Service, would want to know, the aide asked Wilson what her destination would be. Balick, more commonly known as Billy B, had to know where the President was going so that he could plan a route and then scramble teams along it in advance to scout it and to provide security at her destination.
Wilson knew the reason for the aide's question but ignored it. The one thing that bothered Wilson the most about being in the White House was the manner in which everyone tried to control her comings and goings. It was as if everyone, especially the Secret Service, was trying to force her into an airtight, bulletproof, controlled-access bubble. To a person who had known unlimited freedom all her life, such attempts were stifling, almost suffocating. From her earliest days as a child, Wilson had enjoyed coming and going as she pleased, often roaming her parents' large ranch in Colorado alone on foot or horseback. Half jokingly, Wilson had told a friend before leaving Colorado for the White House, 'My mother and I have spent most of our lives in an effort to escape from having men dictate what we could and could not do. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them do it to me in Washington.'
While understanding the need for security, Wilson felt that the Secret Service men were far too compulsive and restrictive. Though she seldom felt the need to remind people of her office or title, when it came to the Secret Service, Wilson took every opportunity to remind them of who the President was. Wilson's response to her aide, therefore, was short and sweet. 'It will just be you and me. Now we haven't got much time. It's late and getting later.'
In an effort to make sure that she was making a conscious decision about her security, the aide rephrased his question. 'And where should I tell Mr. Balick that we are going?'
Wilson stood up, causing most of the people in the room to stop what they were doing and turn to look at her. 'Please tell Billy B that I am going out into the night with a lantern in one hand in search of an honest man and my hat in the other.'
