The War Cloud (8 page)

“Yes, sir.”

He could see the approval in her face.

“And while you’re at it,” Koz said, “check out the last communications between the White House and Pentagon. Check anything unusual that happened in the city within the past two or three days. Everything should have been backed up at remote DOD mainframes before the blast.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Find Jennifer Sachs,” Koz said as he sat down at the head of an empty conference table and looked up at the big screen on the wall, wondering how exactly he was going to explain Deborah Sachs.

I
nside the Nightwatch infirmary, Sachs recoiled as Nordquist flicked the long needle of a syringe with his finger until some clear liquid spurted out. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said as he approached her with the hypodermic. “You’ll feel a lot better after this.”

She braced herself against the edge of the surgical table. “Lieutenant, there is no way in hell that you’re going to drug me with whatever is in that thing.”

“Propofol,” he said, reaching for her arm. “A sedative-hypnotic drug to put you to sleep. It’s terrific. No side effects like hangover or nausea. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better when you wake up.”

She leaned against the surgical table, trying to escape his grasp.

“This is for your own good, ma’am,” he said, trying to jab her.

She arched over the table until she was almost on her back. But before he could take another swipe, she leaned back in a rocking motion, lifting her legs and then shoving both feet into his gut, pushing him back against the opposite wall. His head slammed against a cabinet and he dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.

She jumped off the table and grabbed the hypodermic he had dropped on the floor. He was trying to get back on his feet, and she couldn’t let him or he’d overpower her. With a quick thrust she plunged the needle into his arm before he slapped her away.

He began to sway back and forth, even as he shook his head at her.

“That wasn’t nice,” he said and then collapsed into her arms.

“Your medicine, doc,” she said, barely able to hold up his weight. She eas down to the floor, where he lay unconscious.

As she stood up, she felt a terrific pain in her shoulder. The regional anesthetic was starting to wear off. Somehow she managed to put her bloody blouse back on and surveyed the room: three first-class seats, two bunk beds, a sink, a refrigerator for blood and medicines and a closet full of medical equipment.

Outside the compartment, beyond locked doors, were more of Koz’s crew. So she was going nowhere. Not at thirty thousand feet.

She had a hard time believing Kozlowski could be in on this. He was a uniform like General Marshall and Colonel Kyle. But the way he touched her face with his hand—it was warm and caring, like Richard’s. His actions, however, seemed to have proven otherwise.

Perhaps he would say the same of her, what with the chopper landing and now knocking out the good doctor. But this was self-defense, she determined as she looked down at the medic. And the odds were horribly uneven—one woman in a plane filled with trained soldiers. All she had on her side were two weeks dropping in on Jennifer’s Wing-Chun Kung-Fu class. She picked up no moves, only the idea to use anything available to strike back at your enemy, even his own weapons.

In this case, it was the doc’s own hypodermic.

She checked Nordquist on the floor. He was completely out, but the angle of his body seemed uncomfortable. The least she could do was slip a pillow under his head.

She began to search for one and then saw her purse on a counter. Her cell phone was still inside. She wondered if it would actually work, and, if it did, if anyone would answer. She desperately wanted to talk to Jennifer and her sister Dina, find out if they were OK, tell them she was fine. Which she wasn’t.

She picked up the purse, pulled out her phone and pressed the #2 key to dial Jennifer’s mobile number.

J
ennifer turned the wheel hard, and the minivan skidded onto an unplowed country road. As she pulled at the steering wheel to adjust, her iPhone started ringing. She tightened one hand on the wheel and with the other dug into the front pocket of her jeans for her phone. But Robbie tried to stop her.

“You still have your phone?” he shrieked. “Don’t answer it! They can track us!”

But Jennifer’ s hand was already around her iPhone and pulled it out. The display showed “The Deb” and her mother’s number. She answered. “Mom, where are you?”

“Thank God you’re OK.” It was her mom’s voice, but the connection wasn’t good at all. Her phone showed five bars for reception, but her mom sounded like she was a mile underground. “Listen…Jennifer….Those men…chasing you ….”

“Don’t tell me they’re just trying to help, Mom.”

“No, Jennifer. They want…to hurt you.”

Jennifer felt a shiver up her spine and involuntarily swerved the minivan around the next corner. “What?”

“They want…”

“You’re cutting out, Mom.

Jennifer, trying to drive and talk, turned onto another road and saw a Westchester County Sheriff’s highway patrol car coming their way. She held her breath as they passed each other, then looked up in the mirror to see the patrol car make a long, sloppy U-turn in the snow.

“They found us!” she shouted into her phone.

“Jennifer!” Her mom’s voice rang out.

Robbie was screaming hysterically, “Get rid of the fucking phone!”

Jennifer lowered her window, tossed the phone into the snow and drove away as fast as she could from the flashing lights behind her.

“We’re screwed,” Robbie said. “There’s no way we’re going to outrun the cops.”

She had enough and slowed down.

“What are you doing?” Robbie shouted.

“Kicking you out of the van.”

“Shut up and drive!”

“You shut up, Robbie, and then I’ll drive.”

He finally chilled out and she looked up in her mirror in time to see the police car get rammed by a black Suburban. The Suburban pummeled the police car into an icy wall of plowed snow, then began to back up and ram it again and kill the driver. She could see two Green Berets inside the Suburban.

“Holy shit!” she screamed and hit the accelerator.

The minivan skidded forward until it got its grip on the ice, and she slowly applied more pressure to speed away. She made several sloppy turns through the maze of winding winter roads, losing sight of the Suburban behind her and praying against reason that the goons behind the wheel wouldn’t pick up her trail.

T
hree puzzled faces stared at Koz from their respective screens inside the Nightwatch conference compartment: General Block at Northern Command, General Carver at Strategic Command and General Marshall aboard the Looking Glass Airborne Command.

Carver in Omaha was the first to speak. “What the hell do you mean she’s incapacitated, Colonel?”

“Just that, sir,” Koz replied, learning forward in his seat at the end of the long, empty conference table. “She got pretty banged up when her chopper went down en route to the designated rendezvous.” Koz watched the generals closely for any reaction. “She said the Green Beret escort I sent tried to kill her.”

Block’s round face turned beet red. “Christ Almighty!” he said. “What did the Green Berets say?”

“Nothing, sir. They’re all dead.”

Koz thought he caught a tick at the corner of Block’s left eye, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Colonel, are you trying to tell us that this…woman…single-handedly took out an entire Green Beret escort in two choppers?”

It did sound unbelievable, Koz realized, the way Block put it. “She had the help of her Secret Service detail, none of whom survived.”

“How convenient,” Block muttered. “For all we know, Sachs is the one taking orders and the Chinese wanted her to be president.”

There was silence. Absolute silence. Koz stared at the screens, waiting for the first sign of an emotion to cross any one of the three faces. It was a ballsy, completely out-there accusation from Block, but something they had to chew on.

“We all know how the chain of command works in a situation like this,” Marshall explained, breaking the silence. “The National Command Authority is in charge of our nuclear forces. In peacetime, that’s usually the president and the secretary of Defense. In time of war, it’s their designated successors and us, the surviving commanders. As things now stand, the president is only one voice out of four. And in military matters, she’d obviously defer to us. But politically—constitutionally—we still need presidential authorization, and that requires a president. That president, for better or worse, is Deborah Sachs.”

More silence. Koz could sense both Carver and Block almost wishing Marshall to put up his hand for the job himself. He had earned it, Koz knew, that’s for sure. His deference to the Constitution only confirmed his leadership ability in time of war.

“Marshall’s right,” Carver concluded, his tone signaling that he was bringing the first attack conference to a close. “The last thing we need is a constitutional crisis. America can’t go into this war split. I think Sachs could work. She has to work. She will review the attack options while we move our forces into place. Then, when the time comes, Colonel Kozlowski can relay her strike authorization. If Marshall is right, she’ll play ball.”

“Play ball?” Block repeated incredulously. “How the hell do you expect her to play ball, boys, if she ain’t got none?”

Koz opened his mouth to offer his own observation when his comlink beeped. It was Captain Li. “Sir, we have an unauthorized, outbound transmission originating from the medical center,” she reported. “The officers on duty outside can’t break in. The door is jammed.”

Sachs.

Koz said, “I’ll be right there.”

S
achs texted her daughter from inside the infirmary of the Nightwatch plane:
J, where r u?
But Jennifer wasn’t responding since they had been cut off. She tried calling again, at least getting a ring this time. She waited for what seemed like an eternity when Jennifer’s voice came through. “Say what you gotta say and leave me alone, loser.”

She had reached Jennifer’s voicemail.

“Jennifer, it’s mom,” she said, trying to sound calm but forceful. “You know what’s going on with the attack. I have to know where you are and that you’re safe. We need to stay connected. Call or text me back right away.”

Knowing Jennifer, she was probably heading home to Dina’s, which would be the first place anybody after her would be waiting.

“Don’t go to Aunt Dina’s,” Sachs pleaded into the phone, then said it again quietly. “Don’t go anywhere near the house

Sachs hung up and paced back and forth in the medical center, deciding what to do next. She tried all of Dina’s numbers, getting only voicemails or service interruption messages. She had to reach somebody on the outside, someone in government or media, she decided, to let them know where she was and find out what was going on in the outside world. Someone beyond the D.C.-New York beltway. Maybe California. Rhinehart’s former press secretary, Vicki Blaze, was the news manager at NBC in Los Angeles. She might even put the call live on the air right there and then. Assuming NBC was still on the air on the West Coast.

She typed in Vicki’s name on her BlackBerry to call up the number and was about to hit “dial” when Colonel Kozlowski burst through the door with Captain Li and two armed Nightwatch officers.

Sachs froze as Li rushed over to Nordquist slumped on the floor. “He’s unconscious, sir.”

Kozlowski gave her a wild look and pointed an accusing finger at her BlackBerry. “Did you just make an unauthorized call?”

Before she could answer, he grabbed the phone and waved it in her face. “Our flight plan is secret!” His face was red with fury, the gentle touch gone. Somehow she was the enemy again. “You’ve compromised our location to anybody listening! Enemy missiles could get a lock on us because of your stupidity!”

He was shouting at her now. Her ears hurt.

“Listen, Colonel,” she replied calmly, the way she whispered to a rowdy classroom so the kids had to shut up to hear her. “I’m having a tough time getting up to speed on my new responsibilities. No thanks to the medication you gave me. I’d appreciate it if you treated me with a little respect and were more gentle.”

Koz looked at her like she was from another planet. “Gentle?” he repeated. “This isn’t the Lifetime Channel. This isn’t about you being a symbol of spunky feminism making her mark in a male-dominated world. This is war. You think the enemy is going to be gentle on you?”

“No,” Sachs replied, “but I expect my friends to be. Are you my friend, or are you my enemy, Colonel?”

Her words seemed to have an effect on him. He was looking at her as a real woman now, not some anonymous civilian. He seemed to be aware of the gravity of his verbal assault, because his tough facade began to melt.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Am I or am I not the designated president of the United States?”

Koz, aware of his officers, slowly nodded. “You are, Madame President, as soon as we swear you in.”

“And you have sworn an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I may not be everybody’s idea of a president, much less a commander-in-chief,” she told them. “But I used to teach American History. And the history of America taught me that right is stronger than might. Right now, the U.S. Constitution has decided that there is only one right person for this job, and that person happens to be me. If we stay on the right side of history here, we will win.”

She looked into the eyes of the various crew members. Some seemed barely older than the middle and high school students she once taught. Others, with weathered faces, had clearly endured much in previous wars and in the life that is the American military. She watched their heads nod, acknowledging her appeal to their moral conscience, deeply impressing her.