The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Leland led the way into the room and sat down in one of the two easy chairs placed near a window. His staff found seats in the chairs grouped to his side, out of Leland’s line of sight. They were facing a single straight-back chair placed next to the door. Turner swept into the room, alone, and closed the door behind her. “John,” she chimed as the senator stood. “It’s good to see you.”

  They exchanged the customary courtesies and sat down. The battle was joined. She let Leland take the conversation where he wanted. “Madam President, my committee is fully aware of developments in the Gulf and your creation of the ExCom to monitor the situation and advise you. What concerns me is the role of the secretary of defense in that process. Mr. Merritt appears to be marginalized and left out of the decision-making process, which is contrary to the intent of the Goldwater-Nichols Act.”

  Turner grew very solemn, for Merritt was Leland’s man, a holdover from the Roberts administration whom she kept on board to appease the senator. “I asked him to serve on the ExCom, but he asked for General Wilding to serve in his place. I, of course, honored his request. I’m not sure why, but it’s his choice.”

  Her answer seemed to satisfy Leland, and they moved on to her foreign policy agenda. At a critical point one of Leland’s aides jumped in. “Madam President, we are concerned about the deterioration of Franco-American relations. France is one of our oldest allies, and—”

  Turner interrupted him. “John, exactly who am I talking to here?” Before Leland could reply, Shaw entered the room and sat in the single chair near the door. The entire constellation of the room changed as Leland’s eight advisers were looking directly at Shaw and Shaw was looking straight back at them. Shaw was carrying a yellow legal pad and made a big show of writing down everyone’s name. He smiled at them. Suddenly the five men and three women wanted out—the quicker the better. It was Washington game playing—trivial, childish, but of consequence. And Shaw was the master.

  Leland stammered a reply. “I…we…that is to say…”

  Turner reached out and touched his hand. “I, too, am concerned about our relations with France. In fact, the secretary of state is in France speaking to their prime minister with the express goal of improving relations.”

  “Madam President,” Leland replied, finally recovering, “I am also totally aware of your concern with the Middle East. But I do believe that our French allies have the matter in the proper perspective and that we should follow their lead in this matter.”

  “Really?” Turner said as a secretary entered. The meeting was over.

  Shaw chuckled as he followed Maddy into the Oval Office. “Those folks couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “Patrick, is there something going on between Leland and the French? He’s never been overly concerned with them before.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Richard Parrish, Maddy’s chief of staff, joined them. “The embassy in Paris is on the phone. It seems the secretary of state is cooling his heels at the Quai d’Orsay waiting to see the prime minister.”

  Shaw chuckled at the thought of the cranky Stephan Serick being put on hold by the French. “What’s keeping the chief Frog busy? A late lunch?”

  Parrish checked his notes. “It seems Monsieur Cherveaux is meeting with a delegation from Iraq tomorrow, and the French don’t want to send them the wrong message by Monsieur Cherveaux’s being too friendly with us.”

  Maddy let her anger show. To treat the president’s official representative in such a cavalier manner was a diplomatic slap in the face. “I thought this was all arranged?”

  “Indeed it was,” Parrish replied.

  Shaw grunted his disapproval. “Sounds like the Froggies are sending the Iraqis—and us—a message about their priorities.”

  Maddy thought for a moment. “I need to send them a message. Tell Stephan to leave immediately and return home. Recall our ambassador for consultations. Also, am I scheduled for anything with the French?”

  Parrish checked his calendar. “A dedication ceremony at the French Cultural Center next week.”

  “Send my regrets that I cannot attend and have the secretary of state send one of his assistants. The lower the better.”

  “Are we overreacting, Madam President?” Parrish asked.

  Shaw answered, “Nope, just choosing up sides.”

  Six

  Camp David, Maryland

  Sunday, September 5

  It only hurts a little, Pontowski thought as he pushed up the low hill. He was careful to favor his right knee and jogged slowly. Even though it was late morning and the heat hadn’t started to build, sweat poured down his face. Give it a rest, he cautioned. He slowed to a walk, and the pain went away. Maybe your running days are over. He hated the thought. He paused at the crest of the hill and took in the view. Low rolling hills stretched out in front of him, and he could see the presidential lodge. Movement in the trees off to his side caught his attention.

  A soldier dressed in camouflage fatigues and carrying an M-16 stepped onto the trail. “General Pontowski, the national security adviser is at the lodge. She requests your immediate person.”

  What an odd way to say it, Pontowski thought. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and headed for the lodge. His knee felt better after the short rest. Maybe his running days weren’t over.

  Mazie was waiting for him on the deck of the big cabin. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said. They stretched out in deck chairs, and a steward materialized to ask if he could be of service. Pontowski noticed he also was wired with a whisper mike and a radio. They ordered, and the steward retreated.

  “Security seems tighter than usual,” Pontowski ventured.

  “Maddy’s arriving later this afternoon,” Mazie said. “She’s taking one day off the campaign trail. By the way, Maura and Sarah are here.” Maura O’Keith was Maddy’s mother and Sarah her precocious fourteen-year-old daughter. “I imagine Sarah will want to know all about Zack.”

  Pontowski grinned and shook his head. “Kids.”

  Mazie turned to business. “I read your memo on the meeting with Zou.”

  “Sorry, but there wasn’t much there. We met for less than five minutes.”

  “What was your sense of the man?”

  “He’s changed, put on a lot of weight, balding. He keeps a big entourage around him.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I never trusted him.”

  “My people tell me he’s leading the moderates in Beijing,” Mazie said. “Zou could be a friend.”

  Pontowski shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a moderate or a hard-liner. They all dislike and distrust the United States. It’s a natural reflex with the Chinese.”

  “But Zou’s not a problem right now?”

  Pontowski caught the tension in her voice. Something’s going down, he thought. “I can’t say. My sense of the situation says there’s something cooking, but what, I don’t know. Maybe a change in leadership.” Mazie leaned back in her chair as the steward returned with a pitcher of water and one of lemonade. When he was gone, Pontowski took a sip of the lemonade. “I take it there are problems. The Gulf again?”

  “What do you know?”

  “What everyone can see on TV or read in the newspapers. Iran, Iraq, and Syria making common cause isn’t good, no matter which way you cut it.”

  “They’ve joined in a secret alliance called the United Islamic Front,” Mazie said.

  “They do hate us.” He thought for a moment. “We’ve underestimated them before. I hope we’re not making that mistake again.”

  “This morning Baghdad officially announced a joint training exercise starting next Saturday, called Shield of Islam. It’s been scheduled for some time.”

  “Not good,” Pontowski said. “Who are they in bed with?”

  “Their allies? The usual suspects.”

  Pontowski started to make connections. “No country in its right mind is going to take us on militarily unless they’
re suicidal.” Then he saw it. “Or they have one hell of a friend backing them up.”

  “Like Russia,” Mazie added.

  “I’m thinking China.”

  “In either case,” Mazie assured him, “we can handle it. The president is telling the voters we have the best and most powerful military in the world.”

  “That’s a true statement. But we’ve been focused on the war against terrorism and we’re out of balance. In the more conventional forces, our levels of readiness are down to fifty, sixty percent. Also, we have severe airlift and sealift problems. What happens if we have to respond quickly, say, in a matter of days and not months, on a massive scale to a conventional MTW?” An MTW was a major-theater war, much like the Gulf War of 1991. “Even worse, what if we have to fight two MTWs at once? We’re going to be hard-pressed to fight one, much less two.”

  “We don’t have to worry about that,” Mazie told him. “Maybe an MTW in the Middle East with the UIF, but with China? Where? The Chinese can make life difficult for us, but they don’t have the capability to project their power much beyond their borders. Besides, they would pay a heavy economic price. North Korea? Not as long as South Korea is itching for a fight.”

  “I hope you’re right. But I can see us getting kicked around a bit if we’re not careful.”

  Mazie changed the subject. “Here comes your future daughter-in-law.”

  Pontowski followed her gaze and saw the president’s mother and daughter walking toward them. He grinned. “I wonder how Zack feels about that?”

  “I don’t think he’s going to have a choice in the matter,” Mazie replied.

  Pontowski stood and gave the seventy-one-year-old Maura a hug. “Me next,” Sarah demanded. Pontowski gave her a hug, surprised at how she was filling out. “Tell Zack to answer my e-mail,” she said.

  “Well,” Maura said to Pontowski, “Maddy will be delighted to see you here.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you started sleeping together?” Sarah asked.

  “Sarah!” Maura scolded.

  Pontowski rubbed his chin. “Not tonight. I haven’t shaved and need a shower.”

  “I’m being serious,” Sarah said.

  By the time Marine One landed on the helipad with the president aboard late Sunday afternoon, all the signs of a building crisis were in place. Chief of Staff Parrish was huddled with Mazie and a Navy vice admiral in the Camp David communications center while two brigadier generals—one from the Army, the other from the Air Force—waited in the hall. Pontowski was sure of it when a second helicopter arrived and perched on the helipad, its crew also standing by for a quick launch. To his way of thinking, what else would cause her to return unannounced to the capital during the height of a campaign? And her arrival at Camp David would set off no alarms.

  Later that same evening they found some time to be alone. Maddy cuddled against his shoulder as she gazed wistfully into the fire crackling in the stone fireplace. “I do love this place,” she murmured.

  “It is beautiful,” Pontowski allowed. He waited, sensing she wanted to have a serious talk.

  “Mazie talked to you,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Pontowski gave a little nod. “Do you know a General Bernie Butler?”

  “I’ve heard of him. The Boys in the Basement. He’s got a good track record, lots of credibility.”

  “He’s saying the UIF is going to attack Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. The CIA gives it a lower probability. Mazie’s on the fence.” A discreet knock at the door caught their attention, and Maddy moved away. “Come,” she said.

  The Air Force brigadier entered the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Madam President. The UIF military command in Baghdad has implemented a communications blackout in conjunction with their joint exercise.”

  “Effective when?” Pontowski asked.

  “As of twenty minutes ago,” the brigadier said.

  Pontowski shook his head. “A communications blackout before the start of a major exercise is not business as usual.” He checked his watch and ran the numbers. “It’s four o’clock Monday morning over there. Sunrise is when?”

  “In an hour and forty minutes,” the brigadier replied.

  “Madam President,” Pontowski said, “I believe you need to return to the White House.”

  Maddy stood and walked to the fireplace. A log flared, and sparks rose up the chimney. “I didn’t want this,” she said.

  “No sane person does,” Pontowski told her.

  Maddy gave a little nod, her lips compressed tightly. She picked up the phone. “Please tell Mr. Parrish that I’m returning to the White House.” She turned to Pontowski. “Would you mind staying here with Maura and Sarah?”

  “Not at all,” he answered, wondering why.

  The White House

  Monday, September 6

  Secretary of State Serick joined the Executive Committee gathered in the Situation Room. He took his seat and did a head count: Mazie, Sam Kennett, the DCI, General Wilding, and Bernie Butler were all there. The door opened, and Secretary of Defense Robert Merritt entered. “Well?” Merritt demanded.

  Serick shot him a contemptuous look. The secretary of defense was Leland’s boy, appointed only to appease the senator, who demanded a presence in the administration in return for political peace. “The National Intelligence Officer for Warning has declared a WATCHCON I for the Persian Gulf,” Serick said. “The president is on her way and should be here any moment.” They waited in silence, each drawn into his or her own personal world of doubts, fears, and concerns about what the next few days would bring.

  The president entered. “Thank you for all responding so quickly,” she said. She took her seat opposite the big computer monitor. The DCI stood as the screen scrolled to a map of the Arabian Peninsula. He pointed to the Iraqi-Saudi border 135 miles west of Kuwait. “The combined UIF ground-force strength has reached corps levels in this area. The necessary logistics infrastructure is in place and fully functional. These forces could move in a southerly direction at any time with no warning.”

  “It looks like a good place to hold an exercise,” Vice President Kennett said. “And it is a fair distance from the oil fields.”

  Merritt coughed. “There’s nothing between them and Riyadh except some sand dunes.” Silence.

  General Wilding finally spoke. “King Khalid Military City is in their way, which we have been quietly reinforcing.”

  “What’s the latest satellite coverage?” the president asked.

  The DCI spoke into his intercom, and a heavy cloud cover appeared on the screen. He listened for a moment before speaking. “We are experiencing a most unusual weather pattern for this time of year.”

  “Coincidence?” Butler said in a low voice.

  “And what happened with that new Keyhole satellite with the wide-aperture synthetic radar?” Serick asked. “Can’t it penetrate the cloud deck?”

  “Indeed it can,” the DCI replied. “But it’s currently positioned to monitor China’s nuclear tests. Unfortunately, it’s low on fuel, which the National Reconnaissance Office is reluctant to use until the shuttle resupplies it later this month.”

  “Coincidence?” Butler repeated, a shade louder.

  “It would be nice to know what is going on under those clouds,” Turner said.

  “Madam President,” General Wilding said, “we’ll know more in a few hours without repositioning the satellite.” Every head turned toward the four-star general. “The Air Force has been developing an F-117 Stealth fighter as a reconnaissance platform. It carries a very sensitive high-resolution infrared imaging suite and is on its way to Saudi Arabia as we speak. It has the sensing capability to get up close and very personal. But we’ll have to wait for darkness.” He checked his watch. “It’s 0830 hours in Saudi. We should know something in another eighteen hours.”

  “Why haven’t we deployed it sooner?” Kennett asked.

  “Because,” Wilding said, “the Saudis have not given us permission to ramp up our capa
bility until now.”

  “It does make you wonder whose side they’re on,” Kennett muttered.

  “The Saudis,” Butler said, “have been walking a political tightrope for years, buying off and appeasing their fundamentalists. But even they know when they’re about to get their ass kicked by their brother Muslims.”

  “And they know who can help them,” Kennett added.

  The door to the control room burst open, and the duty officer rushed in. “Madam President…” He pointed at the screen.

  TANKS SUPPORTED BY APCS

  MOVING IN FORCE ACROSS

  IRAQI/SAUDI BORDER.

  FORWARD OBSERVATION POSTS OVERRUN.

  Serick came to his feet and leaned across the table. “The bastards!” Butler only stared at the screen, his worst fears confirmed. Kennett and Wilding looked at each other. The DCI contemplated mayhem. It was the worst intelligence failure since the CIA had missed the attack on the World Trade Center, and heads were going to roll. Mazie concentrated on Turner, who was staring at the screen, her face a frozen mask.

  The secretary of defense seemed relieved at the news and gave a little grunt. “A bad mistake. A very bad mistake.” He wondered if Leland was aware of the invasion. It didn’t matter, for he would soon tell him.

  Madeline O’Keith Turner, the forty-fourth president of the United States, looked at the master clock on the wall opposite her, the date and time seared into her memory.

  It was Labor Day.

  Seven

  Camp David

  Monday, September 6

  Maddy’s mother, Maura O’Keith, was fixated on the TV as she watched the coverage leading up to the White House press conference. “Don’t you know Liz Gordon?” she asked Pontowski, referring to CNC-TV’s White House correspondent.