by Bobby Akart
“What about the Taiwan situation?” asked Ocampo.
“I imagine they’ll be focused on the vote,” replied Donald. “But if it comes up, tell them the Pentagon—no, the State Department will be issuing its own statement later this evening after daylight in Taipei.”
“Why not let the Pentagon handle it?” asked Crepeau.
“We don’t want the media to suspect the military would need to be involved at this point,” replied Donald.
“And,” started Sarge, “we never communicate or hint to our allies about our military strategies. Too often, prior administrations told the enemy what our plans were, giving them more than sufficient time to make adjustments. That has never happened in this administration.”
A light knock at the door preceded Betty, who slowly opened the door and poked her head into the Oval Office. “Congressman Trent has arrived.”
“That’s our cue to leave,” said Crepeau.
“Thank you both,” said Sarge as he rose to greet the House Majority Whip.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President, Donald.” Congressman Trent shook hands with both men. He had a spiral notebook and a legal pad tucked under his arm. His tie was loosened and he appeared generally disheveled and tired.
“Billy, have you slept?” asked Sarge.
The hefty man chuckled and replied, “Tonight, Mr. President, when I’m safely tucked in bed back at the farm in Salem.” Congressman Trent had served fourteen terms in the House and had never faced a serious challenge for his seat. Roanoke County and the rest of southwestern Virginia was very conservative.
“Billy, we’ll be brief,” started Sarge. “You’ve been a tremendous asset and a good friend to this administration during my two terms in office. I want you to know we don’t doubt your abilities on this. As you know, when I feel strongly about something, I’m like a dog with a bone. This vote’s in a few hours and I would be remiss if I didn’t touch base with you one last time. Please take a few minutes to update Donald and myself.”
“Yeah, Billy, humor us.” Donald took a seat on the sofa and he was quickly joined by the Majority Whip and Sarge. Like an eager child ready to hear a story, Donald scooted up to the edge of his seat, iPad at the ready.
“Well, first off, thank you, Mr. President. I’d like to think that I’ve attempted everything you’ve asked of me. Things didn’t change much after the collapse. The Senate remained the world’s most deliberative body and the House will always be, well—Congress is strange, gentlemen. A man can stand up to address the House and say absolutely nothing. Furthermore, nobody listens. But despite this, everybody disagrees. The same can be said of the Pacific statehood bill. There’s something in there for everyone to dislike.”
“Then voting nay should be easy, right?” asked Donald, wanting to stick to the subject.
“I wish it were that simple,” replied Congressman Trent. “But that said, based upon the reports from my deputy whips, we’ve held onto the same number of nay votes as yesterday afternoon when we met.”
“Plus six?” asked Sarge.
“Well, not quite, Mr. President. We’ve been focusing on the same forty-nine members since after the election results were in three weeks ago. Our deputy whips have done their jobs well except for the three that we know about. The two undecided members have publicly announced they’ll vote for the bill. In any event, we’re now looking at two twenty-two to two thirteen.”
“Is this your final tally?” asked Donald.
“I believe so. Technically, that puts us at plus five. However, if five switch to yeas, the bill passes.”
“Too close, but not razor thin,” said Sarge. “Billy, I’m gonna ask the same question I’ve asked for days. Do I need to make an appearance on the Hill or bring any members of the House in here to speak with them? I’ll make the time even though this thing is scheduled this afternoon.”
Congressman Trent thumbed through his notes as he made an effort to identify prospects for the president. Without making eye contact, he replied, “No, Mr. President. I believe it is what it is at this point.”
Donald and Sarge exchanged glances and Donald shrugged. Sarge had to rely upon House leadership to keep him abreast of attitudes on Capitol Hill. It wasn’t typically the province of the president to interfere in their activities. He provides gentle nudging from time to time, but rarely does he apply muscle. That was the job of men like Majority Whip Billy Trent and Donald Quinn.
“Okay, then,” said Sarge as he stood to dismiss the congressman. “Billy, as always, thank you for your efforts. I look forward to placing that phone call to you this afternoon with hearty congratulations.”
“Likewise, Mr. President.” Congressman Trent shook hands with Sarge and Donald without another word spoken between them.
After Congressman Trent left, Sarge wandered through the Oval Office and glanced out the window as the snow began to lessen. A chill came over his body as he turned to Donald.
“Thoughts?”
“We’ve done all we can short of dragging every one of the SOBs in here to bend a knee, as they say.”
“Billy said it best—it is what it is.”
Chapter 34
Noon
Joint Chiefs of Staff Conference Room
The Pentagon
Washington, DC
Officially, it was known as the JCS conference room, the sanctum sanctorum of America’s most brilliant military minds. Unofficially, it was called the Gold Room after the color of its carpeting and drapes. But for those who worked within the Pentagon, their meeting place was simply called the Tank.
Its moniker, the Tank, was a coinage from the Second World War when, in 1942, the newly formed American Joint Chiefs met with their British wartime counterparts in a basement room of the Public Health Services building on Constitution Avenue. To enter the room, the Joint Chiefs and their staff had to pass through an ornate archway that resembled, to some of the former members of the Armor Branch, the turret hatch of a tank.
The nation’s senior military leaders met routinely to wrestle with the country’s security challenges in order to formulate an appropriate response. The decisions reached here were then presented to the president who, as Commander-in-Chief, made the final decision on military strategy.
It was customary for the chairman of the JCS, in this case Brad, to sit in the place of honor midway down the table. He was always flanked on the left by the vice chairman, with the director of the staff to his right. On the weekly occasions that the Secretary of Defense joined the briefings, the director of staff sat to the Secretary’s right. The United States military respected the protocols they’d adopted over the years, and the formality adopted by the JCS was strictly adhered to.
Visitors were rarely afforded a glimpse inside the Tank, but typically their reaction was one of surprise. The room didn’t have the mysterious quality depicted in Hollywood, but rather, looked like an ordinary corporate boardroom, with lots of flags.
The meetings were normally scheduled for 2:00 p.m., but Brad moved today’s briefing up to noon because the matter was time sensitive. Based upon the scenarios presented to him by his staff, the president would need to make a decision soon about the redeployment of the USS Frank E. Petersen Jr. strike force from the Sea of Japan to the Taiwan Strait and East China Sea.
Donald had been brought into the briefing by teleconference and remained mostly silent while Rear Admiral David Faulkner explained their options. Admiral Faulkner presented maps to each of the attendees and to Donald via email. He also had a PowerPoint-style presentation, which he stood next to with a pointer. These maps laid out ship positioning for both the Petersen and the Chinese Navy in the region.
“For two decades, the world has been focused on the test of wills between us and Beijing in the South China Sea,” started Admiral Faulkner. “China began asserting their territorial claims long before their building of the network of artificial islands that now operate largely as military bases and outposts for them. They stepped
up their program during the two years that we recovered from the cyber attack, basically unchecked, because we had to tend to the defense of our own shores.”
Admiral Faulkner switched the slide from the South China Sea, which lay between the Taiwan Strait and the Strait of Malacca at Singapore, to the East China Sea.
“While our focus on the South China Sea was necessary, a thousand-plus miles to the north, in the East China Sea, tensions have quietly and steadily mounted into a potentially dangerous cocktail of disputed islands and a well-armed adversary. In the last year, China has begun sailing bigger ships, older naval vessels that were repainted and reflagged as their equivalent of the Coast Guard. Make no mistake, these ships are every bit as battle capable as their Navy.”
Brad interrupted. “Let me add for the Chief of Staff’s benefit, that it was these same Coast Guard vessels that carried out aggressive and provocative maneuvers near Japan last spring. We roundly condemned their activities and publically supported Tokyo with the promise to honor our treaty obligations and come to their rescue if requested.”
“Yes, thank you, General,” said Donald, respecting the formality of the briefing. “These activities were an ancillary reason for the deployment of the Petersen to the Sea of Japan.”
Brad nodded at Admiral Faulkner. “Please, continue.”
“The Chinese have strategically deployed Coast Guard vessels that are much faster and could easily outmaneuver our carrier strike force. As soon as the Petersen cleared the narrow strait between Japan and South Korea, the Chinese Coast Guard would swiftly move to block our progress.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Brad. “What are our options?”
Admiral Falkner walked away from the screen and turned to his notes. “The first option would place the Petersen strike group close to Taipei within thirty-six hours of redeployment. It is also the riskiest option.”
“Please explain,” said Brad.
“We would need the cooperation of the Japanese, sir, but what I propose is that the Japanese deploy a Takanami-class destroyer together with two small frigates into the Yellow Sea between South Korea and the Chinese coast. They would be reminded to remain in international waters. Further, Tokyo should make a casual announcement that these ships are performing routine maneuvers.”
“They’ll still draw the ire of Beijing,” interrupted Brad.
“That is true, General. However, the Takanami-class destroyers are not armed with guided missiles, so they are less aggressive than their Atago- and Kongo-class counterparts. Also, the suggested frigates, most likely Asagiri-class, are considered defensive in nature and, therefore, less threatening.”
“I see,” said Brad. “Regardless of their offensive capabilities, the destroyer and her escorts would draw the attention of the Chinese Coast Guard into the Yellow Sea.”
“And out of the way of the USS Petersen, sir,” added Admiral Faulkner, finishing Brad’s sentence.
Brad turned toward the camera. “Mr. Quinn, this would necessarily involve a quickly arranged conversation between us and the Japanese, most likely at the highest levels. We’re approaching a situation where hours matter.”
“I understand, General,” said Donald. “Admiral Faulkner, you mentioned a second option.”
He looked over to Brad, who nodded his acquiescence to continue. “Option two would require a longer sail for the fleet but would not involve the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense force except with one respect, which applies under both scenarios. As we pull out, the JMSDF will have to fill the void we leave between Japan and the DPRK.”
“We’ll make that clear to the prime minister,” interjected Donald.
Admiral Faulkner continued. “Currently, more than half of the Petersen’s escorts are located to the north end of the Sea of Japan, off the coast of Fukushima. The Japanese consider the nuclear plant there to be a primary target for the DPRK’s missiles. Accordingly, once the order to redeploy is given, we can sail the destroyers and escort vessels through the Tsugaru Straits, which separates Northern Japan from the south. The USS Petersen, with its superior cruising ability, would catch up with the fleet by the time it reached the southern tip of Japan, here.” Admiral Faulkner pointed to the rendezvous point on the map.
“Will the Japanese have an issue with our sailing the nuclear-powered Petersen that close to their shores?” asked Donald, before adding, “They have a prohibition against nukes within their borders.”
“You’re correct, sir,” replied Admiral Faulkner. “However, Japan’s territorial waters only extend to three nautical miles into the Tsugaru Straits instead of the usual twelve, which allows our nuclear-armed warships and submarines to transit the strait without violating Japan’s prohibition against nuclear weapons in its territory.”
Faulkner pointed to a map of the region to provide the deployment some context.
“The USS Petersen would regroup with the destroyers and support vessels near Okinawa, well outside the East China Sea Air Defense Zone identified by Beijing. At that point, we’d be three hundred miles from the Taiwan Strait, well within striking distance of any military installation within the Chinese mainland.”
“Yet clearly in international waters,” added Donald through the speakers. “I like it. But what about the remaining vessels within the Petersen’s strike force. Won’t they be cut off from the rest of the fleet?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Admiral Faulkner. “The only way to include them is to sail directly to the south and along the edge of the Air Defense Zone. If we do that, it’s likely the Chinese Coast Guard will move quickly to intercept. It’s not likely they’ll move into the disputed Senkaku Islands, which would be a direct affront to Tokyo.”
“What if hostilities escalate?” asked Donald. “Can the USS Petersen, with only half its fleet, effectively fight off a Chinese invasion of Taiwan?”
“Mr. Quinn,” replied Brad dryly, “that depends upon how big a fight the Chinese want. Every asset at our disposal in the region will be carefully watching what they do. You can assure the president we’ll be prepared to bring the house down with pleasure.”
Chapter 35
1:00 p.m.
The Trump Townhouse
Trump International Hotel
Washington, DC
Gardner Lowell could afford the most luxurious accommodations that Washington had to offer. When you were born into the kind of wealth the Lowell family had amassed over the years, it was easy to lose touch with what some considered ridiculously overpriced and ostentatious. Lowell could never say this out loud for fear of rebuke, but at his level of wealth, paying twenty-five hundred dollars a night for a hotel room was a speck of sand in his bank account.
As a result, he never thought twice about reserving the bi-level, sixty-three-hundred-square-foot Trump Townhouse, which featured a private entrance on Pennsylvania Avenue, a dedicated conference room, its own gym, and a dining room that could seat two dozen.
Gardner liked the private entrance as the most useful feature to the townhouse. He could easily meet with K Street lobbyists without being detected by the media or his political adversaries. These hired guns who populated K Street derived their power from grassroots organizing to control of various trade associations to the corporations who paid top dollar in order to influence the nation’s lawmakers.
Most of the K Street lobbying firms catered to a niche market. For example, S-3 Group focused on the appropriations committees. Eris was approached for their financial services clientele from hedge funds to payday lenders.
Beyond K Street, working in the shadows, were the so-called espionage firms known for creating dirty dossiers and digging up dirt on politicians both in office and those seeking office. Fusion GPS was one such opposition research firm. Apolitical by design, these secretive groups were hired by private companies and political campaigns all across the Washington spectrum.
Run by three former Wall Street Journal reporters, they’d uncovered dirt on Mitt Romney’s top donors during the 2012 pres
idential campaign. They’d also been adept at creating juicy innuendo out of thin air, delivering it to friendly alternative media sources, and promoted the fake news behind the scenes until it grew legs within the mainstream media. Oftentimes, it took a politician many months to debunk the reports, but by that point, the rumors had become fact and the reputation of their target was destroyed.
When Gardner was contacted by Fusion GPS with allegedly damaging information about two Republican congressmen learned during a trade junket to Phuket, Thailand, Gardner immediately demanded to know if the information they had was true or a manufactured rumor. As a show of good faith, the incriminating images of the two congressmen with several underage Thai girls were delivered to him by email. After his own team authenticated their attendance in Phuket at the time, he agreed to a meeting with Fusion GPS.
After an hour-long meeting, an accord was reached and Gardner paid Fusion GPS handsomely for their efforts. Then he made an unusual request. He demanded that neither the pictures, nor the circumstances, ever saw the light of day.
Gardner Lowell only destroyed careers and lives when necessary. He lived in a world of power and influence. While it was impossible to exert your will over a dead man, one whose career had been destroyed by their sexual indiscretions was of no use in Washington.
The doorbell to the Trump Townhouse chimed and the Lowells’ butler moved efficiently to provide their guests entry. Constance Lowell, who’d arrived early that morning, pushed herself off the white-tufted sofa.
“You’ll have to excuse me, dear,” she said to Gardner. “I have no desire to meet with these vermin. Make them do as we say while I retire to the bedroom to freshen up. I do, however, want to meet with our next guest. He deserves my personal thanks.”
Gardner stood and escorted his mother across the spacious living area to the walnut door leading to the master suite. He’d just shut the door as the two congressmen entered the room. He turned to greet the men.