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AIR FORCE ONE

Stark was fiddling with the crease in the right leg of his trousers as he sat there deep in thought.

“Nervous?” Williams said.

Stark looked up. “Huh?”

The President was in the communications lounge on the upper flight level speaking with the Secretary of Defense over an encrypted line — hence Williams and Stark were able to talk freely, something they hadn’t done since the previous evening.

“I gather you think he’s moving a little too fast.”

“My God,” Stark replied. “Don’t you?”

Williams sighed. “We do need those planes back.”

“At what price?”

Stark checked the time. The F-117 which Tulloch had ordered up had now been in the air for fifteen minutes. In another thirty-five Air Force One would arrive at Luke Air Force Base, outside Phoenix. Forty minutes after that Tulloch’s Nighthawk would reach Mexico City. The President was allowing himself just forty minutes to get from the air base to the hotel, meet with Solano, and determine the outcome of the meeting. It was too short an amount of time for Stark’s liking. It left them virtually no leeway for error. In his opinion, Coleman’s actions bordered on reckless­ness. With so much riding on the outcome, what other word was there for it?

Stupidity? He wondered. How many times in private had he thought that over the years? How many more times had he covered for Coleman and wondered later if it had been the right thing to do? Stark felt genuinely sick as he thought it over. Right or wrong, he considered himself partly responsible for everything the President did. It was the result of having let the man lean so heavily on him over the years. The awful truth was that Stark himself had encouraged the President’s dependence on his chief of staff — and now he was having serious doubts about where it had led the two of them. Where it had led all of them. Sure, Coleman had put his foot down in the wrong place before and survived it without Stark having to run damage control. But this time the stakes were too damn high. “It’s going to look bad,” he said. “That we didn’t divert the Lincoln. People are going to die because of that one.”

Williams didn’t try to deny it. But his main worry now, he told Stark, was Solano. When arrangements for the meeting in Phoenix had been made fourteen hours earlier, their principle concern had been for the safe repatriation of the oil workers. Now the picture had grown vastly more complex. Whereas before they had believed Solano’s primary motivation was the recovery of the oil fields lost to Montoya’s privatization schemes, this no longer appeared to be the complete story. They now knew that the Mexican leader had been in contact with Chinese representatives, and very likely had engineered Montoya’s disappearance as part of a plot to slow the U.S. from responding to events in the Formosa Strait. What Solano had received from the Chinese in return for his cooperation was currently unknown, and without that information the likelihood of a favorable out­come at the meeting had to be reduced. Even more disturbing was that a U.S. destroyer been sunk as a result of Chinese hostilities, and a carrier crippled in the most recent attack and reportedly now sinking. Given this, how far were they to extend the olive branch to a man who just might have helped make it all possible?

“You have to settle it,” Stark told him. “You have to get the President to turn that damn plane back. Before it’s too late!”

Williams took a deep breath. “Question is, what are we going to do about the media? They’re going to be asking about the Eisenhower’s escorts when we land.” So far only a handful of people in the administra­tion knew about the successful cruise missile attack on the carrier earlier that morning. The media, playing catch-up, would be trying to determine whether either the Paul Hamilton or the Fletcher — the two destroyers known to have accompanied the Eisenhower on her F-16 delivery voyage to Taiwan — was the warship sunk the previous afternoon. “What are we going to tell them?”

“Nothing,” Stark hissed. “Not a damn thing! Not about Paul Hamilton. And certainly not about the Eisenhower. As far as I’m concerned that carrier’s still making her way back to Guam. Until we’ve dealt with Phoe­nix, let them keep guessing. One fucking crisis at a time, I say.” He heard something behind him, looked around, and spotted the President through the doorway on his way back from the flight deck. About time, he thought.

Coleman entered the cabin and plunked himself down beside Williams.

“Well?” Stark said.

“It’s bad.”

“How bad?”

“Estimate of two hundred plus either dead or wounded in the initial blast. Another three hundred…” Coleman stopped and averted his eyes.

Stark leaned forward. “Another three hundred…?”

“Trapped,” the President said, his voice hollow. “They won’t be getting off.”

Williams stared at the floor. “Jesus.”

“So that’s it,” Stark said. “She’s sinking.”

“They think she’ll be on the surface for maybe another four hours. After that…”

Stark’s tongue felt dry. At least four hundred dead. The final figure would be higher. Perhaps twice that number he told himself. Eight hundred. Maybe more. Christ. There was no way Coleman could justify sending the Lincoln on to rendezvous with SUBRON 3 under the current circumstances. No way at all.

“So you diverted her, then?”

The President stared at him vacantly. “What?” he said. “You mean the Lincoln?”

“Of course,” Stark said. “To pick up survivors.”

Coleman sat forward. “It’s very simple, Leon. The moment anyone can guarantee me the integrity of that picket line we’ll have something to discuss. As far as the Eisenhower goes, her escorts are taking up the slack until the two boats on route from Guam can get there.”

“But that won’t be for another…” Stark’s eyes shifted back and forth as he tried to produce a number.

“Nine hours,” Coleman said, restraining his emotions. “In the meantime they’ll have to do the best they can. God knows my prayers go out to them. But I’m afraid our hands are tied.”

Suddenly Stark’s earlier estimate of 800 casualties looked optimistic. The last of the Eisenhower’s crew to desert the ship would be in the water for at least five hours. It would be too long for many of them.

“Harry’s tried to get Takahama’s people to spell out their position once and for all regarding Beijing and its actions, including this morning’s attack.” Takahama was the Japanese Prime Minister. “But they’re not talking. Seems to me we have to assume Jeremy’s coalition idea is on the money, and proceed from there. Maybe he’s also correct when he says that if we play our cards right we get to stop the bastards in their tracks before this thing gets completely out of hand.” The President glanced at Williams and received a reaffirming nod. He then pushed himself back in his seat and stared at Stark. “Until I’ve reason to believe it’s not the case we’ll proceed as planned. Understood?”

Unhappily, Stark indicated his acceptance of the situation. “Then I guess that means…” His eyes shifted nervously between the two men opposite him. “We’re at war?”

“Yes, gentlemen,” Coleman declared. “I believe that’s precisely where we are.”

The President sat back while Stark and Williams went to work. For the next fifteen minutes he listened while they tried to draft a suitable press statement. It was too bad they’d left the press secretary behind — Perini had served earlier administrations as a speechwriter, and they could have used his help. The statement would be scheduled for release shortly before the return flight back to Washington. Coleman would deliver it himself on the steps of the Marriott hotel, just before departing to the airport.

Stark felt strongly that there should be absolutely no ambiguity to the message which the Chinese leaders would receive. The U.S. was taking a gamble — the assumption being that it could defend its Hawaiian bases by sending the Lincoln to help cover them. But the price for taking that bet would be high — they would literally be sacrificing the lives of an unknown number of USS Eisenhower crewmen to do so. Therefore Stark was ada­mant that the Chinese should be under no illusion as to the toll that would be exacted on them if further provocation caused the U.S. to strike back. He read the words aloud as he jotted the statement down on paper, demanding that, “The representatives of the Chinese people either declare an immediate and unqualified cessation of hostilities, or face — ”

“How about this,” Williams said, preparing to dictate. “Or face the commencement of such full scale retaliatory actions by the forces of the United States, as this government deems necessary to…” He turned and looked at the President. “Strong enough?”

Coleman’s face had taken on a glowering aspect to it. “For now. Go on.”

“Deems necessary to — ”

“To safeguard,” Stark said lifting his chin, “the lives of the people who have pledged to serve and protect the citizens of this country and defend its Constitution, so help us God.”

“What about Taiwan?” Coleman asked.

“We’ll add in a segment about our obligation to ensure the continued, ah, something, stability maybe, of the democratically elected nation-states of the free world. Just so they know we’ve no intention of backing off now. Let them know they’ve forced our hand.”

“Good.”

“Sanctity,” Williams said. “How about the continued sanctity of demo­cratic nation-states?”

“That’s sticking it to them,” Stark said. “I like it. And what about Japan?”

“Give them a way out,” Coleman said. He hardly needed to remind them that taking on the Chinese would be a difficult enough problem in itself. If they could pry Japan loose, the Chinese plan might very well fall apart on its own. “But be direct.”

“I’m not sure we can do both,” Stark warned him.

“Try.”

Williams and Stark worked quickly to provide the framework for the President’s statement before they landed. The final draft could be polished later, at the conclusion of their meeting with Solano.

While Stark and Williams argued about the precise wording for the portion of the statement concerning Japan, Coleman was thinking about an earlier conversation with General Tulloch, and doing no small amount of soul searching over the nature of the mission for which he had already given the preliminary go-ahead. Before he gave the final word on Mexico City, however, he was going to make damn sure it was because Solano had left him no other option.

Despite Tulloch’s assurances about the relatively benign nature of the Aztec Fire microbe — it was just a mild influenza virus, wasn’t it? — Coleman was wary about the political fallout should the source of the infection somehow be traced back to the White House.

“Relax,” the general had told him. “We’re way ahead of you on that score.” The Army, he said, had factored a stealth requirement into the program from Day One. The bomb itself, even after delivery, would never be detected. In the past, Special Operations had on occasion used “paper bombs” to disguise the origin of a warhead delivered as air-to-ground ordnance. Made from cellulose, the bomb casing simply burned away when the warhead detonated on the ground, leaving behind nothing to indicate that the bomb had ever been dropped from an aircraft, or who had sent the plane on its way. This time, however, the requirement that the bomb be detonated in the air with the least possible amount of fanfare had necessitated the use of a casing constructed from glass.

At first thought, Tulloch explained, this approach would seem to be flawed by an obvious design fault. “If the thing’s made of glass,” he had asked rhetorically, “how’s it going to stand up to the stresses of routine handling before it even gets to the bomb bay?” The answer, he said, was provided by the unique glass chemistry of the bomb casing. Although capable of exhibiting a state of super-fragility, this was less evident during the handling stages, when the glass demonstrated a degree of flexibility more in line with that of a plastic. However, in response to the instantane­ous stresses encountered at the moment of detonation, the glass had been designed to disintegrate to a fine powder, to be borne on the wind for kilometers.

Another advantage of the glass design derived from low observable technology incorporated into the F-117 in the area of the windshield, which was gold-coated for radar dissipation. Without it the pilot’s hel­meted head would have provided a radar signature a hundred times greater than that of the aircraft itself. The GBU-750 Aurelia exploited the same trick, lowering the radar cross section of the components internal to the bomb, in effect rendering them invisible. This had been an important consideration because the bomb would be detonated above the downtown area, just five short kilometers from the international airport and therefore susceptible to possible radar detection.

Moreover, the vacant lot over which the Aurelia would be vaporized — a mere two blocks from the Zócalo — had been strategically chosen to minimize post-operational fallout. Not in terms of viral infectivity, of course, which they sought to maximize, but in the political sense. By choosing an unused lot they reduced the likelihood that surviving compo­nents of the bomb’s wiring and guidance mechanism would ever draw the attention of curious passers-by. This in turn reduced the chance that COLD FIRE would ever be exposed as a deliberate act, and not some natural source of infection brought in, say, on some airliner from an undisclosed place of origin. This way the operation could not easily be — Tulloch had used the word ‘impossible’ — traced back to those responsible. Better perhaps that the operation be carried out under cover of darkness. But since that would have required a twelve hour delay which they could ill afford, it was not an option. Besides, Tulloch noted, the Square would be packed during the morning hours of the operation, and that was the impor­tant thing, because it would allow the agent to strike directly at the heart of the population.

Two days from now, the general claimed, Solano would be contending with more than the irate giant to his country’s north. His own people would be calling on him to seek outside assistance in the fight against a mysteri­ous and debilitating outbreak in the capital. He would then have no choice but to abandon his stand against the U.S. and ask for their immediate medical assistance. Failing to do so would invite an internal backlash certain to topple his administration from within. Either way, his chain of command would collapse as the illness infiltrated the National Palace. Unless of course Solano played ball in Phoenix and ceded to Coleman’s demands, allowing him to turn the F-117 around at the last minute.

“Here’s what we have,” Williams said, his face suddenly appearing in front of the President. Williams went through the portion of the statement directed specifically to the Japanese Prime Minister, Takahama, and his minions.

What was true of this administration’s intentions regarding China, they would say, would “also extend to each and every such nation that either finds itself already unlawfully aligned against the United States, or has intentions of becoming so. In particular, the U.S. seeks two assurances from the Japanese government: (1) That it condemns the Chinese actions taken against the Eisenhower and the Paul Hamilton, and (2) That Japan is recalling its fleet from the Philippine Sea forthwith.”

Coleman nodded in accord. “Crisp and to the point. Let’s hope they get the message.”

An Air Force One communications officer came down from the upper deck. He handed Coleman a single page which he quickly read over. It informed him that Solano’s Globemaster had landed at Mesa Municipal Airport, in Phoenix, fifteen minutes ago.

“All right, you son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “I’m ready for you.”

“You found us with this?” Cassie took Montoya’s belt in her fingers and felt its weight. She turned it inside out and noted the plastic-sheathed wiring that linked the individual segments of the belt, each of them about six centimeters in length. “These are batteries?”

“I didn’t know it was even working,” Montoya said. “It was Miguel’s idea. Even now he watches over me…” She crossed herself.

“I owe the man,” Kirby said, looking at his wife.

“He’ll be hard to replace.” Montoya’s voice radiated sadness.

Despite Myra Krep’s reservations about Rawley, he was behind the wheel as they hurtled north at 140 kilometers per hour.

“I’m not sure whether I like you better in the air or on the ground,” Parker said to him as they sailed past another pickup. They were traveling up Highway 85 in the car Kreps had lent them, a 1972 Jaguar with an immaculate leather interior.

“How far have we gone?” Cassie asked looking out through the wind­shield. In the distance the sky to the north looked cold and black. It sent a chill up her spine.

Parker glanced at the odometer. “Seventy-two kilometers,” she said, twisting her head back. “And it’s… just nine now. Should arrive around — ”

“Nine forty-five,” Rawley said. “If we’re lucky.” He glanced at Mon­toya in the rear view mirror.

Cassie also looked at her. “What time was — ”

“Nine thirty,” Montoya said anxiously. “My original meeting was scheduled for nine thirty.”

Watching from the side of the highway he saw that the driver approaching him was alone. The Lincoln Town Car rolled to a stop close-by, the gravel popping beneath its tires. Inside, the driver leaned across to the passenger window. “You going into town?”

Anders adjusted his new sunglasses and lowered his head to window level. “I could do with a ride. Yes.”

“Hop in.”

Anders opened the door and got in, putting the bag he’d carried from the helicopter at his feet. He glanced across the tiny lake on the opposite side of the road, reassuring himself once again that the Huey would remain hidden from passing motorists.

The driver pulled back onto the highway. Back on the road again he looked up through the windshield at the dark clouds covering the city. “Not a moment too soon for you, I’d imagine. Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain. Where you from?”

“Phoenix.”

The driver looked at him. “Really?” He seemed surprised.

“Just came out to look at the lake. It’s very pretty this time of year.” The morphine was making him feel wonderfully relaxed. Whatever pain he had felt before was gone. In fact he was beginning to feel almost invulnerable.

“The lake?” the driver said glancing at the sky again. “I guess so…”

A degree of skepticism had crept into his voice. Anders couldn’t be certain, but he imagined his new host to be furtively eyeing his bag.

“You don’t have a car?” the driver asked, making an effort to sound casual about it.

“Came out with my girlfriend.” Anders let out a deep sigh. “Trying to patch things up, you know?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Got into a fight and — ”

“And she left you there, stranded! Believe me, pal, I know where you’re coming from.” He shook his head. “Women.”

“Women.”

Air Force One was on the tarmac at 9:00, and by 9:05 the presidential trio were being escorted to a waiting helicopter by a half-dozen Secret Service agents. The agents, all of them dressed in black, had come out of hiding the moment the plane touched down, having followed until then the usual routine of making themselves scarce during flight.

Because of a last minute change of plans on the President’s part, the delegation was running late. When Coleman had learned fifteen minutes earlier that they would be arriving at Luke Air Force Base ahead of schedule, he had asked Stark to contact Solano’s people and have the meeting moved forward before they landed. It would now start at 9:20, a full ten minutes earlier than had been anticipated. Coleman was keenly aware of the difficulties he would face trying to get Solano’s cooperation; he was going to need every minute he could spare. The extra ten minutes would be used as a time cushion for his decision on whether to recall the F-117 before it reached its target over Mexico City.

And there was a second reason for wanting to get business with Solano over with quickly. Coleman needed to get back to Washington. For the first time since the Second World War the nation was to be informed of the loss of an aircraft carrier at sea. And like all presidents before him in times of crisis, Coleman sought the comforting security of the White House — where he could surround himself with a great number of talented people better equipped to handle the situation than he.

The wind began to pick up as they crossed the concrete to the helicop­ter. Stark was the last to climb inside. A member of the ground crew slammed the door shut and retreated, his head bowed beneath the rotors. A moment later they were in the air, sweeping over the roofs of the Luke control facilities. A few minutes from now they would arrive in Phoenix and set down in a park. From there, two limos would whisk their party a short distance to the venue where the meeting was to take place.

Outside the Marriott hotel reporters were milling about excitedly on the pavement. The previous evening’s report of an attack on an unnamed U.S. destroyer had generated a buzz within the Phoenix media and they had come to stake their ground.

Therefore, it was the profusion of TV vans which Anders saw first as the Lincoln turned into the street. They were parked outside the hotel, with their roof-mounted mini satellite dishes pointed toward the gray sky. In front of them, several of the female reporters were trying to keep their hair tidy for the cameras. But they were fighting a losing battle with the wind.

The owner of the Lincoln leaned forward over the wheel. “Say… This must be the place where the President is having his meeting this morning.”

“You can let me out here,” Anders said, surveying the frenetic scene on the other side of the street. Doors were being flung open at the backs of vans, cables run out to electrical outlets, TV cameras moved into position.

“You’re staying there?”

“No. Around the corner. But this is close enough.” Anders picked up his bag.

“Listen, I don’t mind — ”

But before the driver could offer to take him any further, Anders was opening the door, forcing the guy to pull over.

“Hey! What’s your hurry?”

As soon as the car had stopped Anders got out. “Thank you,” he said insincerely. The guy mumbled something to which Anders paid no atten­tion and the car sped away.

He stood there, staring across the street from behind his black sun­glasses and feeling as though he had just stepped into another world. It was the morphine. When he turned his head toward the phone booth at the corner, the world kept spinning. Still, he was adjusting to his condition, learning to command his body despite an eerie sensation of weightlessness now and then.

At the phone he punched in the number from memory.

A woman picked up at the other end. “I need ID for clearance,” she told him. “State your affiliate code first.”

“Red Team. Eugene Anders.”

Anders removed his glasses for a moment and tried to catch his reflec­tion in the scratched metal of the phone shelter. Someone came on the line.

“Anders?” It was General Tulloch’s voice.

Anders checked his watch — which somehow had survived the tumble down the hill. “It’s nine fifteen,” he told Tulloch. “Where are we at?”

“Relax. It went up on time forty-five minutes ago.”

“Tell me more about this meeting with Solano.”

“Why?”

“What’s the chance this thing will be resolved?”

Anders was concerned about the situation in the Campeche Bay. BDM750A would never be used if the two countries resolved their differences.

“I don’t think that’ll happen,” Tulloch told him. “Coleman’s only there to assuage his conscience. He knows the meeting’s a waste of time. They won’t patch up anything.”

“But if they do? The genie goes back in the bottle. Correct?”

“Listen,” Tulloch said, his voice seemingly tiny, as though coming from a distance. “There’s more at stake here than a few barrels of oil and the guys who pumped them, OK?”

“Like what?”

“That doesn’t concern you. My job on the other hand was to provide the President a solution he can fall back on if necessary. I’ve done that. But if he can come up with another way of resolving this mess, then yes, your genie as you call it won’t be needed. But so what? You’ll have done your part and so will I. The technology will always be available. That’s what’s important, right?”

“The technology…” Anders said without emotion. Tulloch was a moron if he thought Anders gave a shit about the technology. That was just a means to an end.

Across the street behind him a commotion was breaking out. Two dark limos were pulling up in the red zone directly outside the hotel. Out of the first car came four members of Coleman’s Detail. The press flocked around the second car as the four Secret Service agents fought their way across to it.

“Hold on,” Anders said. He watched as Coleman, the Secretary of State, and the chief of staff climbed out of the limo and were hustled through the crowd by their bodyguards to the entrance of the hotel.

“What’s all that noise?” Tulloch asked.

Anders had no intention of letting the general know that he was in Phoenix. He told Tulloch he was keeping an eye on the meeting as it unfolded on television. “Coleman’s just arrived.”

“He’s early,” Tulloch noted.

“Is that important?”

“I doubt it. Those guys will know where they stand within ten minutes of getting into the room. But as far as we’re concerned, the President will have until ten to decide whether or not to proceed with the mission. So we’ll know by then.”

Until ten. That was over forty minutes away. Why wait? Anders thought, and he set the phone back down in the cradle. He picked up his bag, and with icy calmness walked to the curb. He paused for a minute surveying the facade of the hotel, then set out across the street.

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