Lethal Trajectories (13 page)

“Thanks much for your report, Elizabeth—much appreciated,” McCarty said. He turned next to CIA Director Anthony T. Mullen. “Tony, what are your sources picking up on the Chunxiao Incident and related matters?”

Nodding, Mullen said, “Let me comment on a few things. First, we agree with the secretary’s assessment of the Chunxiao Incident. The rogue admiral Elizabeth mentioned had, we’ve learned, grandiose plans for a resurgent Japanese navy and was determined to reestablish Japan’s position in the East China Sea. China’s response, while excessive, was not out of line given Japan’s intrusion, the loss of their platform, and up to a quarter million barrels of oil production lost daily.

“Second, we did an assessment of both Japanese and Chinese oil and energy inventories and reserves. The Japanese have about an eight-week supply in their strategic petroleum reserve plus whatever is in their current inventories. The Chinese have a strategic petroleum reserve of over ninety days plus inventories. Accordingly, the Chunxiao oil loss will affect Japan far more quickly than China, and we can expect Japan to push hard for quicker remedial actions than China. It will undoubtedly frame the timing and manner in which Japan seeks support in the United Nations.” He cleared his throat, took a small sip of coffee, and continued.

“Last, we’ve been closely monitoring communications and military movements throughout the world. While activity has picked up everywhere as a result of the Chunxiao Incident, we’re picking up some unusually heavy communications traffic from Saudi Arabia that doesn’t necessarily relate to Chunxiao. As Secretary Cartright indicated, there’s something going on there that we can’t quite put our finger on.” This led to another speculative discussion on the Middle East that McCarty brought to a close in the interests of time.

“George,” Clayton asked, looking at the president’s chief of staff, “what are you hearing on the domestic front?”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President,” he replied. “First of all, we’re seeing a gradual shift in the daily news focus from Chunxiao to the president’s illness. Ever since that idiot Wellington Crane leaked the news, the media has killed us with questions and inquiries. As Chunxiao stabilizes and the president’s hospital stay lengthens, we expect media coverage to continue in that direction. Your remarks in the Rose Garden today, Mr. Vice President, will be an important first step toward the White House regaining the initiative.” McCarty nodded pensively at Gleason’s observation.

“Senator Tom Collingsworth is also making waves,” Gleason continued, “and the fringe media is eating it up. He’s convening the Senate Foreign Relations Committee to investigate whether or not we’ve violated treaties with Japan and are, in effect, selling them down the river. Crane and others of his ilk are touting this line as yet another sign of weakness in this administration. Other than Collingsworth, most of the others in Congress are letting events unfold before they weigh in.”

McCarty mused,
Collingsworth is a pimp and a lightweight, but I’ll need to keep my eye on him.

“The financial markets are reeling and have dropped over 14 percent since the Chunxiao Incident,” continued Gleason. “The key driver is oil, and with oil now over $268 per barrel and pump prices around $7.00 per gallon, we can expect Congress to feel the heat from their constituents and react. A quick resolution of the crisis would be the best thing that could happen, but it’s unrealistic to think we’ll get back to the pre-crisis price of oil for quite some time.”

McCarty ended the ensuing discussion just as Press Secretary Candace Pierson entered the room.

“Folks,” McCarty said, “this has been a productive meeting. We’ve covered a lot of ground, and I’ve asked Candace to join us to help craft a statement I can read in the Rose Garden at four o’clock. I’d like it to emphasize our military and diplomatic responses, our peace efforts as an intermediary between China and Japan, and our desire for them to work through the UN. We’ll also want a strong statement of assurance to the American people and financial markets that our oil supply is unaffected by Chunxiao and there’s no reason to panic.”

“Do you wish to comment on the president’s health, Mr. Vice President?” Pierson asked, perhaps hoping he would agree.

“I think not, Candace.” Clayton replied. “I’m uncomfortable getting too specific about it; I’d just as soon we leave that to the official statements released by Walter Reed.” He could see everyone in the room was uncomfortable with this dodge, but what else could he do? He adjourned the meeting, advising the NSC that he would call the president and then return to review the statement they were to develop.

Clayton left the Situation Room with three nagging concerns he was not prepared to share: First, he had a bad feeling about the president’s health. Second, he felt uneasy about the comments relating to Saudi Arabia’s stability—Chunxiao they could handle, but a destabilized Saudi Arabia was quite another story. And third, he didn’t think it advisable to tee up Peter Canton’s memo on climate-change at this time, but he knew it would soon be a frontline topic for the Situation Room.
For now, first things first,
he thought.

After talking to Burkmeister, he returned to the Situation Room to review and edit his announcement. As he left for the Rose Garden, statement in hand, he felt the weight of the presidency for the first time and recalled the sign on Harry Truman’s desk that read
The buck stops here.
He stepped up to the lectern, adjusted the microphone and, wishing the president was here instead of him, said “Good afternoon and thanks much for coming….”

V
eronica was disappointed and concerned as she left the principal’s office at Mankato East High School with Mandy. As a pastor, she had often been a part of meetings with authorities on behalf of members of her congregation, but this was different. It was her daughter she now had to represent.

Mandy was sixteen and rebellious, and this was not the first time Veronica had visited the principal’s office to deal with one of her indiscretions. It was serious today, however, because she had been caught skipping school with friends; some of them were smoking pot. While Mandy was not among the accused pot-smokers, Veronica guessed that Mandy might have used before. Veronica was scared silly that Mandy was making the same poor choices she had as a teen.

Not a word was spoken on the interminably long car ride home. Veronica reflected on Mandy’s suspension and the paper she had been assigned to write about her behavior as a precondition for readmission.
Hopefully, this will be a learning moment for her,
she thought.

Pulling into the driveway to drop Mandy off before rushing off to her Life Challenges meeting, she told her daughter, “Honey, you know that you are grounded until you get back in school, and I want to have a serious talk with you about drugs and addiction when I get home tonight. Just know for now that I love you and we’ll deal with this together.”

Tears came to Veronica’s eyes as Mandy gave her a kiss and said, “I love you, Mom, and I’m so sorry.” To her, Mandy was still that precious little six-year-old girl in pigtails asking Mom to pick her up, dust her off, and tell her that everything would be all right.

Veronica left for church praying for strength to redirect her focus on the Life Challenges meeting. Tonight, she planned to change the meeting format, based on the volume of distraught calls she had received over the past week. The church parking lot was already busy as she arrived, a sure sign that all was not well in Mankato.

Martha Earling, the church secretary, was at the door to greet her, and they quickly headed for the dimly lit church basement to move chairs, rearrange tables, and brew the coffee. A quick tally revealed the headcount had more than doubled, and she felt anxiety pangs as she walked to the front at six thirty sharp to start the meeting.

“Good evening, folks. I’m so glad you’re here for our Life Challenges program. Please make yourself at home, and feel free to get up at any time for a cup of coffee or cookies.” After saying a short prayer, she said, “I’d like to change the format of the meeting tonight and have you choose the topic for discussion.” Seeing no objections, she continued.

“I’ve heard from many of you this past week about your concerns with rising gasoline prices, personal finances, layoffs, making ends meet, and some of the scary things happening overseas. This definitely fits the purpose of our Life Challenges support group, and it might be helpful to get your concerns out on the table tonight rather than have me pick a topic. “What would you like to talk about tonight?” she asked, hoping for at least a couple of hands.

She was surprised when at least a half dozen hands shot up in unison. “Mary, what would you like to talk about tonight?”

Mary Inglebritson, the talker in her family, said, “We’re getting killed by the price of gasoline. It was over seven bucks a gallon when we filled up yesterday, and in a three-car family it’ll cost us over two hundred dollars a week for gas.” Others chimed in with similar complaints.

“Lawrence, how about you, what would you like to talk about?”

“I operate a small regional trucking firm with six drivers. They all have families, and I want to keep them employed, but my business is already off due to the economy. There’s no way I can pass off the higher gas costs to my customers, and I’m scared to death I’ll have to lay people off. I feel rotten and don’t know what to do.”

Margie Schulstad didn’t even wait to be called before she blurted out “I listened to that Wellington Crane the other day, and he said we were on a one-way street to Armageddon and would soon be there if we don’t take a stand with our Japanese friends. I just finished reading Revelation in the Bible, and I’m wondering if we aren’t living in the end times. It’s scary.”

Veronica was amazed at the outpouring. It seemed for every concern she noted, two more hands would go up in an endless procession of frustration and anxiety. She finally stopped to offer an observation.

“There’s a pattern here, and I’ll try to summarize it. The common denominator is
fear.
We are fearful for our jobs, our futures, our families, our community, our ability to drive our cars with these awful gas prices, and even our very souls as some of us wonder if we’re living in end times.” Veronica could see she had connected with her audience.

“As most of you know, I’m an alcoholic in a recovery program. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this: dealing with our fears, shame, anger, guilt, resentments, insecurities, and other things is a lifelong challenge. The events causing them—things you’ve mentioned tonight like loss of a job, raging gas prices, frightening international events, or whatever—won’t go away. That’s a given, but what we can do is change the way we address our fears and deal with them. Is this something we should talk about tonight?” Veronica received an enthusiastic response.

“Great!” she said. “Let’s start by not talking about the events per se, but rather about the fears that come about as a result of the events. You know, like fear of losing something, fear of survival, fear of looking bad, fear of not getting our way—whatever specific fears you have. My guess is we’ll all be surprised at how many common fears we have. We are not alone in our fears. Who has a fear to share?”

Getting the first person to talk was always a challenge, and she was more than a little surprised when at least ten hands went up.

The emotional spigot ramped up to full as members’ suppressed fears poured out. The therapeutic value of this verbal catharsis was immediately obvious, and the usual ninety-minute meeting went into overtime. Veronica regretted the need to wrap it up at nine thirty, but she was pleased to see that many people stayed around after the meeting to talk, listen, share, and heal. She was concerned by the intensity of the feelings and fears expressed, and knew the agenda in the coming weeks would have to focus on how to deal with these fears.

Driving home, she felt the strength of the group as she considered her fears. With emotions and mindset recalibrated, she felt better prepared for the conversation she would soon have with Mandy.

Lyman Burkmeister had a life challenge of his own: staying alive long enough to transition Clayton McCarty into his job as president of the United States. He had spent the last several days taking tests, managing pain, and regaining strength, but he still felt lousy.

Last night, as he sat in a cushy lounge chair in his corner suite at Walter Reed, he had been interrupted by three somber men: Doctor Toomay and two oncologists from the hospital. They had entered his room with worried looks on their faces.

“By your grim expressions, I’d guess it doesn’t look good for the home team,” Burkmeister said with a bravado meant to disguise his fear. “Go ahead, fellas, give it to me straight. As president, I’m used to hearing troubling news on a regular basis.”

Doc Toomay launched into a long medical dissertation on the president’s state of health, but he might as well have saved his words because nothing else registered with the president after the words
terminal cancer
and
imminent
were mentioned. Burkmeister was stunned.
What am I hearing? How can this be? I’m the president!
After what seemed like hours, his mind started to work the problem.

“… and you have one of the most virulent forms of stage four pancreatic cancer we have ever seen, Mr. President.” Burkmeister could see that Doc Toomay was having difficulty separating his emotions from his clinical diagnosis.

“How much time do I have left, Doc?” he asked.

“It’s hard to say, Mr. President, these things can …”

“Doc, cut the crap,” he interjected sharply, I’ve got a country to run, and I need to know how much time I have left to transition my presidency. Forget all the medical mumbo-jumbo and just tell me what your gut is telling you about my condition.”