Leahy motioned to the other agents now standing behind the Ambassador, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off the ground with a groan.
Enraged, Wexler twisted her body and snapped her leg back, flexing it at the knee. She connected. Leahy let out the strangled yelp, stumbled, but didn’t put her down.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” the president said, stepping out of the Oval Office and shoving his way through a crowd of Secret Service agents who were increasingly convinced that the Ambassador to the United Nations had lost her mind. “Sarah, would you mind explaining yourself?”
“Tell your goons to put me down,” she snapped.
“Put her down, Jim. The Ambassador isn’t going to assassinate me.”
“Maybe.” But, with a grateful sigh, Leahy deposited her on the floor, “You might want to talk to her about protocol, Mr. President.”
“Among other things.” The president motioned her into the office and stepped aside to allow her to proceed him. Two Secret Service agents followed them and positioned themselves rather more closely to Wexler than was usual.
“Mr. President, you’ve got to turn
The president shook his head. “That would put all those tourists at risk.”
“All those American tourists, you mean.”
“If it comes to that.”
She studied him for a moment, disgusted by what she saw. She had known that the president had a strong political side, but never had it been so obvious. Over the last year, as the time for his re-election grew closer, she sensed a shift in his values, a cold distancing from what was actually right and wrong in the world. She had ignored it — had made her staff ignore it, too, because it would have been impossible to acknowledge what he was becoming — or whom he had been all the time — and continue to be his representative in the United Nations.
Anger flashed on his face, to be replaced immediately by a blank expression. “Now, Sarah. That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?”
She shook her head. “Not from where I stand. But suppose I grant you that this is purely a military decision. And suppose I assume that this is a decision you made after consultation with your secretary of defense and secretary of state — not after talking to your campaign manager.” She held up one hand to forestall comment. “This is how I read it. There’s a squadron of MiGs on the ground in Bermuda. I learned this morning that another is on its way. If you allow them to establish a couple of squadrons on the island, along with their antiair defenses, there will be no way we can gain air superiority immediately. And without air superiority, there’s little hope of dislodging them. Bermuda will become a frontier for Russia, a base like the Philippines was for us. Now, if that happens before the election, how do you think the American people will react?”
“There will be no strike on Bermuda,” he said at last, looking away as he did so. “Don’t you think I have discussed these options with my staff?”
“Yes, I think you have. And I think you have made the wrong decision.”
He stood suddenly, turned his back to her to the window overlooking the Rose Garden. A few blooms still flourished among the bushes, but most had shed their flowers as well as their leaves in preparation for the winter. Were there specific orders to pick up all the rose petals as they fell, she wondered. And where did all the flowers go — were they used for special presentations, to honor those visiting this seat of power? Or, were they merely for show, never used, simply allowed to bloom and die?
“Mr. President,” she said, a new note of formality in her voice. “You and I have seen what our military forces are capable of. Sir, we spent a lot of time and money developing the most potent systems in the world. Use it now, Mr. President. Whatever they launch from Bermuda, the Aegis cruiser can take it out. I’m sure your advisers have told you that the resulting explosion will neutralize antibiological or chemical threat. The nuclear material would be dispersed harmlessly over the sea. Send in the SEALs, disarm what you can, and let the Navy take care of the rest. That’s the way it’s got to be, Mr. President.”
“And if I disagree?” he asked, his back still to her.
“Then you will be remembered as the antithesis of John F. Kennedy,” she said grimly. “You have been an excellent president in peace — yes, even when regional conflicts have broken out I know you have the mettle to withstand this, to react appropriately, Mr. President. I’ve seen you in action before. And I don’t understand why you have taken the wrong path now — no, that’s not true. I understand what is on your mind, I think. But I’m asking you to reconsider your decision. I have no leverage, no way to force you to. But you know I’m right.”
He turned then, and she was struck by the anguish on his face. “If I lose the election, there is no hope. You know who the other party has nominated — can you see him in this White House? Making the decisions that you and I have had to make over the past three and a half years?” He shook his head. “No, for the good of the nation, I must consider my re-election.
“Then, you will be remembered as a president who failed to act. Who allowed a hostile government to establish an outpost virtually off our coast. And what will be next — Cuba? Once you have established this precedent, it will be impossible to back down from it. That will be your legacy, Mr. President. But if you do what is right, the people will understand.”
The president turned to Leahy. “I suppose you agree with her?”
Leahy looked as though he wished desperately to be anywhere else except where he was. But he cleared his throat, fixed his gaze on the president, and said firmly, “Yes, Mr. President. I do.”
A long, contemplative silence settled over the four. Wexler felt no pressure to speak. She had said her piece, done what she felt was best for the nation, and she recognized that Leahy had taken a similar risk. Now it was up to the one man the people had trusted to preserve their nation.
“Get me the secretary of defense and the secretary of state,” the president said finally. “Now.”
The message arrived simultaneously at all the ships in the battle group. The USS
The message flashed first over the computer system, ahead of informal traffic, warning of formal traffic to follow. The message was brief and to the point.
DO NOT ALLOW ANY MORE RUSSIAN AIRCRAFT TO LAND IN BERMUDA. COMMENCE PLANNING TO DEFEND AGAINST MISSILE LAUNCH FROM BERMUDA, FOLLOWED BY ESTABLISHING AIR SUPERIORITY AND RETAKING THE ISLAND WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF BRITISH FORCES. SPECIAL OPERATIONS PLANS FOLLOW BY SEPARATE MESSAGE.
Coyote was in his cabin, having a late lunch, when the message arrived in TFCC. He frowned as he heard howls coming from his watchstanders, and was just about to go see what the hell was happening when his chief of staff burst in, a grim expression on his face. He handed Coyote the message. “We’re going in, Admiral. Finally.”
“About time,” Coyote grumbled, as he scanned the brief message. “Let me know when the detailed order comes in. In the meantime, I want all department heads and COs on board in my conference room, thrashing out final details. We knew this was coming. Now, it’s just a matter of making sure we’ve covered all the bases.”
“He’s putting a lot of faith in the Aegis, isn’t he?” his chief of staff asked.
Coyote nodded. “With good reason. It flies, it dies, according to the Aegis community. I don’t think the stakes have ever been quite so high, but if I know those cowboys over on the ship, they’re just itching to take a shot at
