Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (36 page)

 
          
“The
net effect of the President’s declaration is zero, Senator,” Secretary of State
Hartman said. “China might decide to retaliate by imposing strict tariffs or
even banning our goods, but we feel that China cannot long continue such a
measure. They need our markets just as much as we need their investments.”

 
          
“So
you tell American companies to be still and patient while they suffer because
we’ve turned away thirty billion dollars’ worth of markets in China in favor of
three billion dollars’ worth in Taiwan, all because we like supporting the
underdog?” Joseph Crane asked. “If you had consulted with Congress instead of
charging off, we would’ve advised further negotiations to help bring the two
Chinas back together gently and peacefully, rather than rip them apart
suddenly.”

 
          
“Mr.
Crane, Taiwan has been looking down the barrel of a Chinese artillery piece for
the past forty years,” Secretary of Defense Chastain argued. “China isn’t
interested in gentle reunification—they’re insisting on total absorption, by
force if necessary.”

 
          
“China
is ready to completely ‘absorb’ Hong Kong,” Crane retorted, “and the process is
going along smoothly and peacefully.”

 
          
“Apples
and oranges, Mr. Crane,” Hartman said. “Hong Kong is Chinese property leased by
Great Britain, and the lease is simply expiring. The Republic of China on
Formosa
represents a free and democratic society
that we’ve supported for nearly one hundred years, a society and government
that is one of the richest and fastest-growing economies in the world, modeled
after our own. Its being threatened by a totalitarian Communist power that
wishes nothing less than to eliminate it—not assimilation, not sharing, not
coexistence, but complete elimination of its democratic, capitalist foundation.
The President has chosen to act to support this Asian friend and ally. The
question is, what is the Senate leadership going to do—support the President,
or cut his legs out from under him?”

 
          
“You’ve
put us in a very embarrassing position, Mr. President,” Fine- gold said,
addressing Martindale directly. “You are the leader in all foreign relations
and matters of state. But those decisions affect the country, and so Congress
is given powers of checks and balances over your decisions, in the form of
ratifying treaties and passing laws. This relationship expects—no,
demands
—cooperation and compromise from
all parties concerned. Your unilateral announcement of support cuts
our
legs out from under us. We should
support our president, but what if his decision is the wrong one? We can’t
absolve ourselves of the blame if our own citizens are hurt by our decisions;
we can’t point fingers at the President. At the very least, Mr. President,
you’ve forced us to delay any action on repealing the Taiwan Relations Act or
recognizing the ROC until we’ve had a chance to study the idea.”

 
          
“For
how long?” Flartman asked.

 
          
“Impossible
to say, Secretary Hartman,” Finegold said. “The committee staffs are just now
being organized. It could take weeks just to be able to sit down and decide
what areas need to be studied.”

 
          
“Very
similar to the problems you said you’d encounter in deciding about what areas
of the air attacks on Iran and the Persian Gulf could be included in Senate
hearings,” Crane added.

 
          
“You’re
not suggesting that we do any less due diligence in examining the risks to
national security of revealing details of our military actions just so we can
see reasonable progress from Congress in furthering our foreign policy agenda?”
Hartman asked incredulously.

 
          
Representative
Crane smiled mischievously. “If the foot-dragging fits, Mr. Secretary ...”

 
          
“We
all
want progress, Secretary
Hartman,” Senator Finegold said, putting a hand on Crane’s arm as if to calm
him down. “If we all keep that in mind, I think we—”

 
          
Suddenly
a man in a business suit and wearing a wireless communications earset opened
the door, saw the chief of staff standing nearby, and whispered something in
his ear. Most everybody in the room recognized the newcomer as Marine Corps
Colonel William McNeely, the White House military liaison who worked in an
office next to National Security Advisor Philip Freeman’s. He was carrying a
plain black briefcase, and Finegold realized with a faint shock what it was:
McNeely was the man responsible for the “football,” the briefcase containing a
communications transceiver that put the President in contact with the National
Military Command Center at the Pentagon and several other military command
posts—so he could issue instructions to the nation’s nuclear forces while on
the move.

 
          
Jerrod
Hale quickly stepped over and stooped between the President and Vice President;
a moment later, all three shot to their feet. “Meeting adjourned,” the
President said quickly. The door to the Cabinet Room flung open, and Secret
Service agents flooded in.

 
          
“What’s
going on, Mr. President?” Finegold asked excitedly as the senior Cabinet
members and the President and Vice President were surrounded by Secret Service
agents. Finegold and Crane tried to follow, but they were held back inside the
Cabinet Room by the Secret Service. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
Finegold cried out at the agent holding her.

 
          
“You’re
instructed to remain here until the President’s party departs,” the agent
replied.

 
          
“She’s
the Senate Majority Leader! ” Congressman Crane shouted at the agent. “She’s
supposed to accompany the President.”

 
          
“You’re
instructed to
stay”
the agent said in
a firm voice, as if he were talking to his pet German shepherd.

 
          
The
Democratic congressional leadership could do nothing but watch in amazement as
three Marine Corps helicopters touched down on the south lawn of the White
House and scooped up the President, Vice President, and his Cabinet advisors.
“It must be an emergency evacuation,” Finegold said, reaching for a cell phone
in her purse. “Something’s happening.”

 
          
“Hey!
” Congressman Joseph Crane shouted. “I see Gant and Fortier getting on the
helicopter! Why the hell can the Republican leadership follow the President on
his getaway choppers, but we Democrats can’t? They got plenty of room on those
things. ...” But his outrage was drowned out by the rapid departure of Marine One.
The three helicopters executed a position change shortly after takeoff, a sort
of “shell game” in the sky with helicopters to confuse or complicate any
terrorists’ efforts to kill the President.

 
          
They
were finally allowed to leave, long after the helicopters were out of sight,
and Finegold and her colleagues, still hopping mad at their snub, made their
way to the lower entrance to-the West Wing. They were surprised to see Admiral
George Balboa standing in the doorway leading to the driveway just outside the
West Wing, talking on a handbag- size transportable cellular phone handled by
an aide. He did not see the congressional Democratic leaders approach as he
slammed the phone down into its holder in disgust. “Admiral Balboa, I’m
surprised to see you here,” Barbara Finegold said in true amazement. “I thought
you’d be with the President.”

 
          
“A
little mix-up,” Balboa offered in a low, rather contrite voice.

 
          
“I’ll
say. Those two butt-kissers Fortier and Gant hop aboard the chopper and leave
you stranded,” House Minority Leader Joe Crane said. “Since when do congressmen
steal seats out from under important presidential advisors?”

 
          
“I...
I was on my way to the Pentagon,” Balboa said.

 
          
“Since
when does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff not accompany the
President, especially during an emergency White House evacuation?” Finegold
asked. Balboa’s eyes widened when he heard Fine- gold describe exactly what had
happened—and only then did Finegold know she was correct. “I know Colonel
McNeely’s function as well as I know yours, Admiral. Can you answer my
question? Why is the chairman of the JCS not accompanying the President during
a military emergency? ”

 
          
“I
should probably not answer,” Balboa said, “except to say that I have
responsibilities at the Pentagon right now.”

 
          
“I
guess with the Secretary of Defense bugging out with the others, you’d be
pretty much minding the store,” Crane said. “Where’s your chopper? Don’t tell
me you gotta drive?”

 
          
Balboa
looked embarrassed, then hurt. “The . . . the airspace around the capital has
been closed,” he explained. “No aircraft can depart until ...”

 
          
“Until
NEACP departs,” Finegold added—and, to her surprise, Balboa nodded. Another
correct guess, she congratulated herself. Crane looked a little confused, so
she explained, “NEACP, Joe, is the National Emergency Airborne Command Post,
the militarized version of Air Force One, designed so the President can be in
touch with military and civilian leadership all over the world. It only flies
when there’s a danger of some vital command and control center being knocked
out—say, Washington, knocked out by a nuclear attack.”

 
          
“What!”
Crane exploded. “A nuclear
attack! You’re saying someone is going to attack Washington . . .
right now?”

 
          
“I
don’t know,” Finegold said. She turned to Admiral Balboa and projected every
bit of charm, influence, authority, glamour, and friendliness she could toward
the embittered veteran Navy officer. “Can you tell us, Admiral? We have a right
to know.”

 
          
Obviously,
George Balboa had been struggling with some dilemma for quite some time, well
before this emergency, and now the pressure of all these events were coming to
a head in his mind. Fie nodded, more to himself than anyone around him, then
motioned for them to follow him back inside. Using his passcards, he escorted
Finegold and Crane, without their aides, back into the West Wing, then
downstairs by elevator to the White FFouse Situation Room. Except for a staff
of guards and communications officers, the rather small,unimposing room was
empty. “I’m not going anywhere—it would take me an hour to get to the Pentagon
in rush-hour traffic,” Balboa said after he closed the door to the secure
conference room. “I’m isolated. I can’t talk with my command center or the
national command authority.”

 
          
“What’s
going on, Admiral?” Finegold asked again.

 
          
“This
is
strictly
confidential.”

 
          
“This
conversation is not taking place,” Finegold assured him as sincerely as she
could. At the same time, part of her politically brilliant mind was already
searching for ways to cover her tracks when—not
if
—she leaked any of what she was about to hear. “Don’t worry,
Admiral—we’ll get a briefing on all this shortly anyway. ”

 
          
Balboa
nodded. That was true—he would probably be giving the briefing in a couple
hours anyway. Fie took a deep breath. “Two nuclear explosions have occurred
near the Formosa Straits,” Balboa said breathlessly, as if wanting to get it
all out as fast as he could. Crane gasped in surprise again; Finegold remained
impassive. “Both were low-yield devices. One occurred at high altitude near the
island of Quemoy, which is a Taiwanese island near the coast of mainland China;
the other occurred at sea level in the Formosa Strait, about sixty miles south
of Quemoy.”

           
“My God,” Crane muttered. “Are we at
war with China?”

 
          
“The
detonations occurred during a naval skirmish between a Chinese carrier battle
group and a couple of Taiwanese warships,” Balboa went on. He fidgeted
nervously, which told Finegold that he was concealing some other tidbit of
information, probably something about American military units involved in the
skirmish. “Both Taiwanese vessels were destroyed. No word yet on the Chinese
ships.”

 
          
“And
what about the American forces?” Finegold asked. Balboa began to look like a
fish out of water—he realized, as if waking up from a bad dream, that he had
said too much. “What happened to the American subs?”