“General Lockstetter, sir, Forces Command J5. I’ve been instructed to keep you here until 0630. Then we’ll escort you to the president.”
That word was what Thomas had wanted to hear.
“Sorry we can’t take you there immediately, but security has to be established. General Hargesty’s orders.”
“I understand.” General Hargesty was the commandant of the marine corps.
Thomas surveyed the noisy and chaotic camp. If this place didn’t attract attention, he didn’t know what would. But maybe that was the point.
“In the meantime, General, we have a tent where you can rest.” Thomas nodded. It was an appealing thought. He doubted he could sleep, but it was certainly worth a try. Morning was already on the way.
“Major, why don’t you get your men some chow? And some sleep,” said Thomas. “Can that be arranged, General?” he asked the brigadier. It wasn’t really a question.
The brigadier straightened. “Certainly, sir.”
Benton almost smiled. “Two of my men will be outside your tent at all times, General Thomas, and others nearby.” The Ranger wasn’t about to leave his charge to amateurs.
All the attention puzzled Thomas. He wondered what waited for him down the road later in the morning. “Show me the way,” he said to the brigadier. As they walked, Thomas reflected how when he was at the NMCC, he hadn’t expected to see another sunrise. Maybe this would be his last.
A violent but short-lived, early morning thundershower left the summer air thick with moisture, while the brilliant sun pumped the oppressive heat toward a forecasted ninety-five degrees. Thomas squinted into the blinding sunlight pouring through the windshield. They had left at 0645 and now sped along frontage roads. In the distance, he could see a major highway, he didn’t know which one. He hadn’t spent much time in this part of Virginia. So far they hadn’t seen a soul. Thomas bet most people outside of a city were hunkered down in their homes waiting to be told what to do. Leaving in your car was a good way to get killed.
The caravan reached an expansive office park set back among pine trees. The location provided decent security. The battalion of infantry shadowing the new president was dug in and ready. They weren’t going to lose another leader.
Thomas sat in the backseat next to Benton. His mind slipped back in time. Only twenty-four hours earlier, he had been at home, shaving, dressing, and getting ready for the commute to the Pentagon. It seemed an eternity.
After pulling through a checkpoint, the Humvee came to a stop at an eighties-looking three-story building. Thomas couldn’t recall the company logo over the double doors. Waiting was a grim-faced army major.
“General Hargesty’s waiting inside, sir,” he said peering through the window. Thomas looked over at Benton with a raised brow.
“Here goes,” he silently said. He had grown to like the quiet major. Thomas was halfway out when Benton spoke.
“Good luck, General Thomas.”
He turned and gave a short, small smile. “Thanks,” he answered.
Thomas followed the guide as best he could, the effects of too much sitting clearly visible. He wished he could take something for the pain in his arm. He did note with curiosity the occasional shattered window and the bullet holes in the walls. Inside the building’s airy atrium, a short, stocky figure was centered in the far doorway, hands on his hips, a scowl on his round, ruddy face. He gave an irritating hurry-up wave as Thomas walked in.
“Follow me, Bob,” he grunted, turning and pointing straight ahead with his hand. “Hurry.”
General Percival Hargesty was the commandant of the marine corps, with a face like a bulldog and a personality to match. Of medium height, but powerfully built, he was the quintessential marine. His hair was cropped so short it was difficult to tell how much he had, or, if he did, what color. An explosive temper kept adversaries off balance and had made him the terror of the JCS’s infamous Tank. A few select friends called him Pinky, a reference to his sanguine complexion, but most casual acquaintances didn’t dare risk the consequences. His testimony on the hill bordered on the theatrical, but had preserved the marine corps’ force structure during the budget massacre of the early nineties.
Inside someone’s private office, Hargesty plopped heavily on the edge of a large gun-metal gray desk. Thomas collapsed in an adjacent overstuffed chair. Hargesty eyed him suspiciously, like a doctor sizing up the physical and mental condition of his patient. After an aide shut the door, he jumped to his feet and paced the room. He stopped in his tracks and faced Thomas. His tough face was serious, yet surprisingly relaxed.
“What a fucking mess,” he said, shaking his head. “I was in my backyard barbecuing steaks when this goddamn army helo lands on the parade ground at the barracks. Some asshole tells me to get on board. He was ranting like a crazy man.”
The head marine eased back down onto the edge of the desk and almost cracked a smile. “I’m the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs now, can you believe that? By the way, Bob, you look like shit.”
Thomas locked onto Hargesty’s beady brown eyes. A swell of rage rose in his breast. Certainly his blood-stained, rumpled fatigues and unshaven face weren’t the picture of health, but Hargesty’s cavalier attitude struck Thomas as not only inappropriate but borderline sick.
“I beg your pardon, General?” Hargesty sensed he had stepped over the line.
“Relax, Bob, no harm meant.” Thomas’s continued glare signaled he hadn’t taken the last comment to heart.
Hargesty launched into a grueling interrogation, demanding details about everything that had happened, sucking out every last bit of information. He shotgunned questions and prodded and poked until Thomas again lost his temper.
“What the hell do you want, General? What’s the point?”
Hargesty feigned hurt, conceding that he had probably pressed too hard, but definitely was not willing to apologize.
“What’s the fucking point? You’re the only one that’s still alive. That’s the point. You were there from the start, the NSC meeting after the boats were first discovered. You alone were at the NMCC when the attack was first detected. You saw how things unfolded, how the president reacted. Then you were at the GMCC last night with Secretary Alexander. You’ve got a feel for how the decisions were made up and down the line, and that’s what the president needs. He’s in left field, being fed bullshit from both sides—candy-ass aides who want to unconditionally surrender and a gung-ho CINCSTRAT who wants to unleash the entire strategic reserve. Then there are civil matters. What a pile of shit. The president needs you, Bob.”
Hargesty stood with his arms folded. “Besides, you’ve got a reputation as a decent strategist and someone with backbone.”
Thomas sighed. “I don’t have any magical answers. I’m barely functioning.” He buried his face in his hands. Thomas felt overwhelmed.
“Your presence here is critical, even if you don’t say a goddamn word. You’ll lend credibility, legitimacy to the president. It’s your duty, Bob.”
Thomas looked up. The last statement was a cheap shot. Duty, my ass, he thought. He struggled to assemble his thoughts. He needed to figure out Hargesty’s game. “Secretary Alexander knew there would be heartburn over the speaker assuming the presidency. You must know that the CINCs weren’t thrilled. How about you, General?” It was the right question at the right time.
Hargesty gave Thomas an angry look. He leaned forward purposefully, riveting his eyes on Thomas’s eyes. He folded his beefy hands and rested them in his lap. It was lecture time. “I’m a simple guy, Bob. I don’t know why a supposedly merciful God let this happen, but I’m not going to get tied in knots trying to philosophize about life after nuclear war. We’ve got a nasty fight on our hands; it’s that simple. I obey the orders of the Commander-in-Chief. And I’ll personally kick anyone’s ass who is not on board. I’ve already relieved two commanders. I may appear cold and uncaring, but I’m no different than anyone else. Hell, my wife kissed me good-bye when I got on
that helo. She was crying her eyes out. And I felt like it.” Hargesty slapped his thighs and stood. “That’s in the past; let’s go see the president. He’s expecting us.”
Thomas nodded. Not bad, he thought. He rose and followed the stocky general out the door and up the back stairs. Fatigue was beginning to settle in his lower back as a dull ache.
“You were hit by Spetsnaz,” Hargesty offered out of the blue, “which is no news to you. A bunch of them flew in from Cuba on a couple converted Boeing 727s that stuck to commercial air corridors. How they got into Cuba undetected no one knows. Sons-of-bitches hit just about every command site in the east and military bases as far west as Colorado. They nailed our ass. So much for our vaunted operational security. That’s why we can’t go to the North Carolina bunker. An alternate is being worked farther south, out of ICBM range. But we won’t show up there until those assholes are mopped up. We’ve got the equivalent of two infantry divisions tracking them down. What a waste of resources.”
The topic made Thomas recall the building’s bullet-scarred exterior. “What happened here?” Hargesty looked puzzled but then caught on.
“The bullet holes? Trigger-happy soldiers early this morning—when we moved in, they swore they took rounds from the buildings. Maybe they did, who knows? We never found anyone.”
They exited at the third floor where a handful of young soldiers stood guard in a U-shaped hallway covered with plush gray and burgundy carpet that was now covered with an artful pattern of muddy footprints. Stylish paintings adorned the corridor, oddly contrasting the somber mood hanging in the air. Hargesty stopped in front of a large wooden door belonging to an important-sounding law firm, rapping. The door slowly opened.
Inside, the expensive overstuffed furniture and end tables had been shoved aside, and the mahogany desks were strung end-to-end, covered with a collage of maps and charts. Mobile communications gear in hastily assembled racks covered an entire wall. Private offices had cots erected. It had all the trappings of a government in exile, on the run, thought Thomas. Not a pretty sight.
In the far corner, a tall, distinguished man looked up from the crowd of officers and civilians huddled around a conference table. He excused himself, walking slowly to where the two generals were waiting. Thomas felt uneasy, on a knife’s edge, uncertain as to where he stood. The man didn’t say a word, but reached out and gave Thomas a genuinely warm handshake that melted his anxiety and brought a flush of relief.
The ex-speaker of the House struck a much-less imposing figure in loose-fitting casual clothes. Unpretentious, he didn’t sport the usual aristocratic air that marked his imperious style within Washington’s chummy power circles. His longish white hair was thinner than Thomas had remembered, and he bore a pale expression that summoned compassion and pity. His blue eyes were deeper in color than Thomas’s, but lacked clarity at the moment.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re alive, General Thomas,” he said sincerely. He gazed for the longest time into Thomas’s eyes.
Thomas experienced a powerful wave of guilt that washed over him for his earlier reservations about the man’s abilities. The president held his hand firmly and wouldn’t let go, clasping it with his second.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Mr. President.” The instinctive reply echoed strangely in Thomas’s head, but it had a soothing effect. He had experienced firsthand the power of orderly succession, the benefit of presidential continuity. When a leader falls, another must immediately take his place, or chaos ensues.
The president reluctantly released Thomas’s hand and gave him the once-over. His focus was on Thomas’s bandaged arm and blood-soaked shirt. “We’ll get a doctor to attend to you, General.”
“I’m OK, sir, just a little banged up.”
“Let’s step over here,” suggested the president, motioning to his right. They moved away from the doorway to a secluded corner. “Has General Hargesty briefed you?” The mere mention of recent events hurt, and it showed in the president’s face.
“Not really, sir. I don’t know anything that’s happened since two or three in the morning.”
The president folded his arms. “I’ll be frank,” he said, letting the words soak in. “I need your help. I need someone I can count on, someone I can trust.” His words carried an undercurrent of desperation. The president carefully studied Thomas for his knee-jerk response. That would be the key.
Thomas was too tired to think very hard on the matter. He wanted to get on with it. And, it felt right.
“I’ll accept any assignment you have for me, Mr. President.”
The president was obviously pleased. His voice softened, and his face relaxed momentarily. “Good.”
The president backed up a step and put his hands on his hips and sized up Thomas one last time. “It won’t be easy, you know. Certain people will be gunning for you.”
Thomas recalled his firm commitment to Alexander, to the chairman, to see this to the end. “I can handle it, sir.” He wasn’t sure what “it” meant yet.
The president didn’t keep him waiting. “I want you to be my senior military advisor. General Hargesty concurs. And for now, I’m making you acting vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs. You’ll be the number-two military officer in the armed forces. That’s right where I want you.”
Thomas’s face blanched. It clearly wasn’t what he expected.
Before he could muster a counter, Hargesty jumped in.
“I’ll work the theater CINCs, Bob, while you’ll do the strategic stuff and help the president make the tough decisions. You understand that crap. Your first job will be to call on CINCSTRAT and introduce General McClain to the facts of life. He can bullshit me. He won’t you.”
The gears in Thomas’s mind finally began to turn.
“I’m flattered, Mr. President, but you must know that I’ve made more than my share of enemies.” He sounded like he was whining. He wanted to yank the words back, but they were true.
“Let me worry about that, General.” The president put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “After you get something to eat, we’ll talk about your trip. I want you to brief me on your recollections of the last twenty-four hours.” The president turned and took three steps but stopped suddenly. He turned his head to speak.
“I thought highly of Matt Alexander. I’m not going to second-guess decisions already made under impossible circumstances. God knows I already experienced enough of that myself to last a lifetime.” With that, he returned to pressing business and immersed himself with his staff.
Hargesty quickly read Thomas’s mind. “He’s done a remarkable job, all things considered. He’s made a believer of me.” Hargesty put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders like a consoling uncle. “But the president’s got a problem. The government’s beat up bad, and he needs our help in pulling it back together. He can’t tolerate dissension within the military, no matter how well-intentioned. Any infighting will cripple his efforts to stop this war.”
Thomas nodded. “I’ll support him one hundred percent. You’ve got my word on it.” A flicker of hope touched his face. “You mentioned stopping the war. Has there been any contact with the Russians?”
“Some third-party feelers. Nothing substantive. Come on, let’s get you washed up and fed.”
CHAPTER 29
Captain Jim Rawlings, United States Army Special Forces, parted the off-white ceiling-to-floor drapes. The discolored folds of fabric covered the picture window in the lobby of the visiting officer quarters at RAF Woodbridge. The base was nestled in the lush English countryside ninety miles northeast of London. Pulling the bundle of material aside, Rawlings stole a peek. An early morning rain squall had left the concrete sidewalks and blacktop roads darkened. The overcast clung to the base, mounting streaks of grayish black threatening a repeat of the previous shower. Despite the season, Rawlings endured miserable weather during his stay in England for joint training operations with the Brits. He much preferred the muggy Caribbean or the hot, dry
deserts of northern Africa or the Middle East.
Rawlings leaned his lanky six-foot-two frame against the window and sighed. He was an Irishman with red hair, freckled skin, and pure blue eyes. Usually he fought persistent sunburn, but not here. An Alabama boy, born and bred, Rawlings loved the climate of his youth. The English weather was getting old.
But it wasn’t just the weather. He didn’t like change, and the army had been nothing but change. If it weren’t for the challenge of Special Forces, he would have called a military-career quits long ago. But there wasn’t much for a physical-education major to do these days.
In the distance, battle-dressed British Commandos patrolled the grounds, while mobile Rapier antiaircraft batteries set up shop near the crossed runways at the center of the base. Woodbridge was home to numerous RAF military squadrons and the NATO host to two squadrons of US Special Forces aircraft. Woodbridge had a twin, RAF Bentwaters, four miles down the road. The 21st Special Operations Squadron flew the MH-53J Pave Low helicopter, while the 67th SOS handled the HC-130P, a variant of the C-130 Hercules cargo plane. The Papas, as they were called, served as tankers for the helos. The extra gas gave them twice the operational range, permitting clandestine forays deep into central Europe. The end of the Cold War had thrown the war-planning process into complete chaos. Targets became obsolete overnight, and new target folders were taking years to develop. Creative mission planning became the watchword.
Rawlings released the folds of fabric and frowned. Even his normally fertile imagination drew a blank. He wandered to an old burgundy leather couch and crashed into the supple contours formed through years of rough duty. Rawlings was dressed in a blue-and-white rugby shirt, well-worn Levis, and neon-splashed running shoes. He pulled the sleeves to his elbows and leaned back to examine the ceiling, placing both hands behind his neck.
The Brits had been polite but firm. Under no circumstances was Rawlings to leave the building or make contact with his men across the campus in the enlisted quarters. And none of the phones worked. It was all very disconcerting.
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