Shattered Trident (49 page)

Karen Sanchez looked thoughtful. “The problem is, we could really do without the expense of another war—human and economic. We could spin a decision to nullify the treaties into a ‘take care of the home folks’ message. We can work with that. More than one president’s been elected by promising mothers that their sons wouldn’t be sent to die in some foreign land.”

“And how many kept their promise?” Myles asked. “This war will be over by the election, but the shockwaves will be with us for a very long time afterward.” He stood, and the rest stood with him.

“I apologize for the late hour, but things are moving very fast. I’m grateful for your insights and support,” Myles said, shaking their hands. “I need you to ask your colleagues for a little more patience. There’s a lot going on under the surface. If I’d picked the obvious answer three days ago, I would have been wrong. And remind your fellows there is a price we pay with any choice.”

*   *   *

Andy Lloyd waited until they’d left and Myles was sitting down again. As the president poured another cup of tea, the secretary of state said flatly, “I think we should join the alliance.”

“Then you’ve changed your mind,” Myles observed. His tone wasn’t critical, but it invited an explanation.

“I keep thinking of what the Japanese ambassador said about short, violent wars being better than long ones. The Chinese are losing; their economy is tilting over the edge. If we throw our weight in, the Chinese will lose all the more quickly, or perhaps, even sue for peace. That’s a good thing. And the Littoral Alliance has grown very powerful. I’d rather have them remember us as an ally than a judgmental bystander.”

“As we work with them to crush our second biggest trading partner,” Myles replied, smiling. “If we’re lucky, losing fifteen percent of our export market will only put us in a recession.”

“That’s going to happen anyway, if and when the alliance wins.”

“The Chinese losing is what scares me, Andy. But do we want to add the cost of another war to that?”

Ray Kirkpatrick, who’d organized the briefing, and suggested inviting the congressional leaders, said, “I’m going to have to officially disagree, Mr. Secretary. The Littoral Alliance is winning at sea, but their entire war is premised on the belief that the Chinese government, at some point, will cut their losses and agree to terms.

“We don’t know how far the Chinese leadership is willing to fall. Admitting defeat has personal consequences for the guys in charge. They’re not monsters, but they may be willing to let things go to hell if it keeps them in power. And here’s what I’m scared of: Do the Chinese want a postwar world where their country’s a wreck and the alliance is strong? If the Chinese think they’re going to go down, they’d almost certainly want to pull the Littoral Alliance countries down with them. I think we should keep clear.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your opinions, as always. You both have good arguments to support your views. My problem is that I have to reconcile the wildly diverse recommendations and make a decision,” Myles admitted wearily.

After a short pause, the president turned to his two most trusted advisors and said, “The only choice that’s entirely bad is doing nothing. Ray, I’m sure the joint chiefs have been updating the contingency plans for China. Tell them to get ready.”

Kirkpatrick didn’t look happy, but he nodded.

National Security Adviser’s Office

West Wing, the White House

Washington, D.C.

Patterson was waiting in the outer office when Kirkpatrick returned from the briefing. He nodded and wordlessly waved her in behind him.

After entering and closing the door, she found a chair. Kirkpatrick wearily dropped into his seat and she asked, “So no decision, then?”

“No.” Kirkpatrick shook his head reflexively. “On one level, I can’t blame him. Neither choice is what he wants, which is a cease-fire. We tell him he can either join the fight or sit back and watch until it’s all over.

“He’s scared, Joanna. Did you know the president has asked Greg Alexander for intel projections of a nuclear attack by China on the alliance? First, what a ‘demonstration’ might look like, and second, for a full-blown nuclear strike.” He nodded at Patterson’s horrified expression. “Thinking the unthinkable.”

“I’ve been away from the grid for an hour and,” Kirkpatrick checked his watch, “seventeen minutes. What’s new?”

“New casualty figures, higher of course. Someone posted a video from the traffic cameras inside the Tokyo Aqualine tunnel as it flooded.”

Kirkpatrick held up a hand as if warding her off. “That’s okay, I’ve got a thing about tunnels. What about governmental reaction?”

“Nearly identical statements asking their citizens to bear up under the attacks. ‘The alliance is strong, the Chinese are on the ropes,’ and so on. They promise new attacks that will bring the war to a swift and successful end.”

Kirkpatrick shook his head in disbelief. “They should have been in with us at the briefing. Greg Alexander gives the Chinese at least three weeks, possibly five, maybe more.”

Patterson read from one of the documents in her lap. “‘The end of our struggle is at hand. These attacks against our cities are China’s last gasp before they either see reason or collapse, exhausted and broken.’ This was released less than an hour ago in all the alliance capitals. Same wording.”

“China is nowhere near that far gone. It’s a bad sign if the alliance is lying to its own people.”

“Unless they think it’s true,” she countered.

“If they think China’s close to the edge, then this Komamura’s dropped a decimal point. Our briefer said the Chinese are preparing to move more group armies to the Vietnam border. That’ll take a lot of time, that’s a lot of people and gear to pack up, ship, and unpack. That takes scarce fuel and shows long-term planning.”

Patterson agreed. “They’re still committed to the fight. Can we pass that report on to the alliance somehow?”

Kirkpatrick took off his glasses, and rubbed his face with both hands. “Dunno. Cooperation’s been way down since the alliance declared itself. We’re still collaborating on the missile-warning stuff, but neither side is sharing any operational-level data, or even information on our own side’s movements. They might just take it and sit on it.”

Patterson brightened. “What if we released it publicly?”

“Another press release from the U.S. government? Would anyone even notice?”

“What if it wasn’t from the government,” she asked, “but a respected source?”

“Walter Cronkite died in 2009.”

“Ray, I’m serious. I know someone who can get our information out to a wide audience on the Internet. He’s respected and from what I can tell, knows what he’s doing. And he gets stuff from all over the world. Our information could just be folded in with the rest.”

He nodded, smiling. “I like it. The Internet. Citizens in the Littoral Alliance find out they’re in for a long haul, not a quick victory. Maybe they’ll push their governments for a cease-fire. Americans find out China’s not a pushover, and the president gets a little breathing room. Maybe it even gets into China somehow and the man on the street finds out what’s going on.”

Kirkpatrick nodded and called his assistant. “Denise, I need ten minutes with the president ASAP. Yes, before he goes to bed. Tell them it’s about improving our options. I’ll stand by.”

He hung up the phone and pulled out a notepad. “All right, tell me about this respected Internet source.”

“Well, he’s Canadian…”

9 September 2016

0800 Local Time

Ground Floor

West Wing, the White House

Washington, D.C.

Joanna hadn’t come home last night, and Hardy worried, as was a husband’s prerogative. It wasn’t about her fidelity so much as her health.

His cell phone rang exactly three minutes after the clock alarm, and he was relieved to hear her voice. “Lowell, it’s been a long night. Can I see you for breakfast, say at eight? In the West Wing.”

“Of course. I’ll be there earlier, if I can arrange it,” he answered. She sounded tired, which made sense if she’d been up all night. He felt guilty, then silly. It didn’t do her any good for him to lose sleep.

A taxi from Georgetown got him to the White House by seven forty, and he was waiting in the ground floor lobby when Joanna found him. Her good morning hug was especially welcome, but she did look tired.

When he looked up, her boss, Ray Kirkpatrick, was standing nearby. Suddenly flustered, Hardy said, “I understand. Go help your boss, we’ll have breakfast another time.”

“No, Lowell, Dr. Kirkpatrick and I both need to talk to you.”

Now he was curious, as well as hungry.

There were several small dining rooms on the ground floor, along with offices for people supporting the situation room. The three ate alone at a table big enough for six, one of two in the room. She’d ordered for him, and thus Hardy had his familiar cereal, toast, and juice. She liked fruit and a muffin. The familiar meal made Kirkpatrick almost a guest, but the national security adviser tore into bagels and lox while Patterson explained.

“Lowell, would you be willing to pass some information from us to a CNN reporter? It’s the one you told me about.”

“Laird? The one who made so much noise with Bywater’s Blog?” Even as he spoke, confirming the reporter’s identity, alarm bells sounded in his mind, enough to form chords.

“What kind of information?” he asked carefully.

“Information about the war, security-related information,” she answered guilelessly. “Freshly declassified.
Very
fresh.”

Hardy’s expression must have given him away, because Kirkpatrick explained, “This has the president’s permission and full support. In fact, he’s enthusiastic. Everything we give you will have been personally reviewed, maybe even chosen by him.”

One of the bells shut off. Leaking classified information was endemic in Washington, but it was also illegal as hell. If, for whatever reason, you were identified and prosecuted, there was nowhere to hide. But the president could declassify whatever he wanted to. Kennedy had used his authority to declassify photos of missiles in Cuba. If Kirkpatrick—no, if Joanna said this had Myles’s imprimatur, then it was all right.

“We want to get some background material onto the Internet and into the news. Too many people think the war’s going to end in a week, or that the Chinese are just going to say ‘uncle.’ We’d like you to contact Ms. Laird and offer her ‘background’ information. She will know what to do from there.”

There was no question of him saying no. Not to Myles, and especially not to Joanna. But he felt uncertain. “I’m a little new at this,” Hardy explained. He asked Kirkpatrick, “Can you recommend a good parking garage?”

After Kirkpatrick stopped laughing, he said, “Deep Throat didn’t have e-mail. We’ll give you a cell phone with an unregistered number. Use it only to speak with Laird, of course. You can also use a special e-mail address. If anyone else tries to trace it back, it will go to a different IP address each time.”

Joanna added, “While we want to make sure that your role can’t be traced, it will be obvious to Laird that this information is being deliberately leaked. Once she sees its value, she won’t be able to resist using it.”

She slid a small box over to him. “Cell phone and charger. A flash drive is in there as well. Her contact information is already loaded into the phone, and the drive has the first file, along with a fact sheet on Laird.” Joanna smiled. “She sounds nice.”

Kirkpatrick said, “I’m going to insult your intelligence, Senator, only because you said you’re new at this, and I think you’re too much of a straight shooter. You speak only to Laird directly. No staff, no messages, and definitely no voice mails. She has to know it’s you, of course, but no explanations about how you came by the data, or why you’re offering it to her. She will press you, hard, but you will have to be reluctantly unhelpful. Your identity as a senator is her guarantee that the information is worth looking at. If she shares your identity as a source with anyone, it’s instantly over. She should know the rules. If she breaks them, throw the phone away and tell us.”

The national security advisor added, “We need you to move on, this, too. The sooner this is on the street, the better.”

9 September 2016

0845 Local Time

CNN New York Bureau

Time Warner Center, New York

It was a Washington, D.C. area code, but Chris Laird didn’t recognize the caller. She was already behind schedule. A piece on an industrial accident in Malaysia that might actually be Chinese sabotage was supposed to be ready for the 9:00
A.M.
feed, but part of being a journalist was never ignoring a lead, or a call. And how did they get her personal cell number?

“This is Chris Laird,” she said carefully.

“Ms. Laird, this is Senator Lowell Hardy. I’m about to send you a file that you may find very useful.”

And that was why she always answered the phone.

21

PARTICIPATION

9 September 2016

0915 Local Time

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

The phone rang, and the only reason he answered was because it was Christine.

“Mac, I’m sending you a file I’ve received about the Battle at Spratly Island. I’d like you to look at it and tell me if the information is worthwhile.”

“What kind of information is it?” he asked. Christine had proven to be a sharp reporter and a fast learner. If she thought it was worth looking at, he’d take the time.

“Detailed. You’ll probably understand it better than me. I’m sending it now. You’ll have it in a few moments.”

“Fine,” Mac replied. “Who’s it from?”

“I can’t tell you, and for the moment, don’t send the file to anyone else.”

Now he was curious. “Seriously? I can’t use it on my blog?”

“Look at it first, then please, call me back.”