TEMPLE MOUNTAIN
by
Jake Kiehle
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Jake Kiehle on Smashwords
Temple Mountain
Copyright © 2010 by James Andrews Kiehle
ISBN 978-0-557-45416-7
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
* * * *
1. The Meet
Four days before the war to end all wars, Lt. Colonel Peter Grant waited for Li Cai Wen to formally grant him an audience and, informally, to get the fuck off the phone.
Grant’s foot tapped fast to an unplayed song as he scanned portraits of noted Sino leaders the average American wouldn’t recognize even if the dudes were working the counter at their favorite neighborhood Chinese restaurant.
Peter knew them all, had their dossiers memorized like a senior-year history exam. The President. The Party Chairman. The Vice Deputy Chairman and Defense Minister —the latter, one and the same. Defense Minister Liang Huatian was the most dangerous man in China, as recent evidence had shown, and ultimately the reason he was meeting with Li Cai Wen.
The door suddenly opened. Li, suavely attired, smiled warmly and ushered Grant inside like an English butler.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Peter,” Li apologized, “but that was an ever so important phone call. My wife, reminding me to pick up our son from soccer practice.”
“I appreciate you taking time for me,” Peter said, hovering over a chair.
“Sit.” Li said, then moved papers around, pretended to read something before he looked up and beamed. “So, why are we meeting, my friend?” he asked, clasping hands as if about to close a sale on a Hummer.
“It’s all the sudden movement, Mister Li,” Grant replied. “Rail cars. Fake houses. Big, long, scary missiles hiding underneath them. All that.”
Li asked, “These fake houses, do they have a double garage?”
Peter smiled grimly. “The Dong-Feng 51’s?”
Li made a show of indifference. “Ah, you are misinformed, my friend. DF-51’s would be very advanced weapons. They don’t yet exist.”
“We have them on satellite,” Peter stressed. “Plain as Amish girls.”
“Nonsense.”
“By my count, you’ve got eighteen DF-51 missiles, each carrying up to ten two-and-a-half megaton warheads; some in silos, some on tracks, some road-mobile. A range of fifteen-thousand miles, twice that of the previous generation. Hell, you could almost attack yourselves with these bastards. But it would seem they’re aimed our direction.”
“Peter, this aggressive tone of yours is unbecoming—” Li began but Grant cut him off .
“You haven’t even seen me in a bad mood yet,” Grant said.
Li Cai Wen sat back, stared at the ceiling and sighed. He seemed to search the room for new bugging gear, miniature mics he didn’t know about. Even a whisper presumably carried risks. He was clearly playing to hidden cameras, but was also wearing a smug smile, one that annoyed Grant no end.
“You must be mistaken—” he said absently.
“I’m not. So I ask you, why would you need to reposition missile batteries at just this moment? You have war games to the north. Is this a diversion?”
“This is a serious discussion,” Li replied. “Not for mid-level mortals like us. Shall we take a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
Walking up First Avenue, surrounded by traffic noise and tourists, Grant studied his counterpart: Roughly the same early middle-age, medium height, fit builds, nicely dressed —though Grant owned but five suits, all off the rack, and Li’s were tailored. Peter’s hair was military short, prematurely gray, while Li’s was casually stylish. Just then, the wind was having a field day with it, moving locks from side to side.
“I think we are safe,” Li said, checking behind him. Few people walked the street.
“Let’s get back on point then, shall we?” Grant pressed. “The DF-51’s you’re deploying to Guangxi province? Can you shed any light?”
“Peter, I can assure you, there are no DF-51’s yet; those are next generation,” he explained, using a teacher’s patient voice. “Perhaps by 2020—”
Peter interrupted. “For God’s sake, Wen, why are you dancing around this? We know for a fact that you’ve got sophisticated long-range ICBM’s ready to go over the top. You’ve been fast-tracking them up in Yunnan province for the last three months. I can tell you which factory if you like. The head foreman’s name is Mei. He has an eight-year-old daughter named Ki. She has asthma.”
“Try not to bore me, Peter.”
“Listen, Wen, our countries are buddies now. You walk down any Beijing street and people are happy to see us Yankees spending our capitalist dollars and charming you with our funny eyes. But right now you have 700 missiles aimed at Taiwan, and then there are those pesky Fifty-ones pointed at us. No one is blinking.”
Wen, unruffled, smoothed his tie in a store window. “If you believe this to be true, colonel, precisely why are you telling me?” Li wondered. He held up his hands as if to ward off dissent. “I’m merely asking, as a friend.”
“You know why,” Grant said. “Taiwan.”
“Ah, the renegade province,” Li Cai Wen nodded. “In all truth and in reality, colonel, your government is avoiding the central issue, which is Formosa’s —excuse me, Taiwan’s— bellicose attitude. Their posturing has set the stage for trouble.”
“That has nothing to do with us.”
Li’s eyes danced a bit. “No, Peter? The Aegis systems? The Arleigh Burke-class destroyers? These are not issues for you? Advanced command-and-decision; radar tracking and guidance systems—”
“Politics.” Grant replied. “And profit.”
“That is no answer, Peter. It is always politics and certainly always profit. Meanwhile, you are pretending to know things that are not true. Believe me, I understand the concept of bullshit.”
“Taiwan is not the only country with the Arleigh-Burke’s, Mr. Li,” Peter replied. “Australia, South Korea, Spain, Norway— they all have them.”
“China’s concern is not with Norway or Spain,” Li told him. “It is only with Taiwan. This delivery ratchets things up a tad. It strains our friendship.”
Grant leaned around him and watched his reflection in the tinted window. He spoke confidentially.
“Let’s be clear,” Peter said. “It doesn’t matter why, it matters how, because in a flash the stakes become unbelievably lethal. In reality, as you say, Taiwan is this close to a complete breakaway, and we both know your government will not allow that. The only thing standing between the PRC launching an embargo or, worse, declaring out and out war, is an official announcement from Taipei on establishing full independence. And that looks more likely with each passing hour. The new government has a mandate.”
“Peter, please tell me what you want in a language I can understand.” Li said, taking a step back, peering at his Rolex. “I need to pick up my child soon.”
“We want you to pull back from this obsession with Taiwan,” Grant answered. “Put the gun back in the drawer.”
Li Cai Wen looked bored as they began to walk again. “I will relay to my president your vital concerns,” he almost yawned.
Peter stopped suddenly.
“There is something you aren’t telling me,” Grant said, keeping an eye on a woman with a video camera, who nonchalantly moved inside a storefront. They stood with their backs to the street just in case.
“Perhaps there is something else, yes,” Li Cai Wen said candidly.
“What?” Peter was intrigued.
Li Cai Wen was thoughtful for a moment.
“There are high powers in my capital who wish to make a point, and unfortunately your delivery of the new destroyers and their advanced capabilities are the sharp end of that point.”
“What does this have to do with the DF-51s?”
The Chinese man stared at Peter, looking sympathetic.
“This you must understand,” Li Cai Wen almost whispered. “If you have family, I suggest that you move them far away, somewhere remote, somewhere safe. Antarctica, perhaps. Or the Moon. After that, you will thank me, if you ever get the chance. Do you understand?”
Peter Grant stopped by a pocket park wedged between buildings.
“You’re saying this could lead to war,” he said quietly.
Li nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Unless America acts appropriately,” Li Cai Wen replied, “this could lead to much worse than mere war.”
“But why?”
Li Cai Wen scanned in all directions before he answered.
“Taiwan has nukes, too.”
Twenty minutes later, Grant boarded a commercial helicopter on the roof of a New York City office building. His phone chirped and he read the caller’s name.
Spivey.
“Did you speak to the Chinese?” the general asked. “What did Li say?”
“Confirmed my findings,” Grant said. “But it may be far more serious.”
“Reliable?” Spivey asked.
“He gave me his word.”
“Oh, goodie.”
“Sir, Li didn’t want to link up with me by the river; he wanted to meet in his office so his handlers could hear, but then we took a walk.”
“Took a walk,” Spivey repeated, “That means they’re keeping the channels open. Someone in the PRC’s New York office is concerned about Beijing’s moves, right?”
“That’s my guess.”
“The problem this time?” Spivey asked, probably knowing the answer.
“Taiwan,” Grant said, stepping out of the way into a jumpseat area, out of earshot. “They’ve stepped out too far on the limb with this independence talk, and the shipment is rattling some nerves.”
“Of course. Hang on.” There was a short pause, like the phone was being cupped, then a moment later, Spivey said, “Give me the rundown. We’re secure.”
Peter said, “The DF-51’s are in play, probably aimed our way. Their range is too great to waste such muscle on Taiwan.”
“Any other good news?” Spivey asked.
Grant considered his next words.
“General, Li mentioned something else I need to ask about. It’s delicate.”
“Give it a shot,” Spivey said.
Certain he could not be overheard, Peter said, “As far as I know, Taiwan has not joined the nuclear club. Is this still true?”
Spivey, not answering, asked, “Where are you?”
“Boarding the helo to JFK now, sir,” Grant told him. “You?”
“The White House,” Spivey said. “Situation Room. President, Joint Chiefs, bunch of other yahoos. Take the chopper, Peter. I want you in D.C. two hours ago. This isn’t horseshit. The DefCon level has been kicked up a notch. We need your report live.”
“I understand, sir,” Grant said. He followed a flight attendant to his seat up front by a window and checked the time. “With my connection, I’ll be there at three.”
“Must be static on the line,” the General said. “Maybe you didn’t hear the order. Commandeer the aircraft. It has range and fuel. Get here now. We’re waiting.”
The line went cold.
Grant approached the flight attendant, briefed her on the need to vacate the aircraft, then strode to the cockpit and told the captain to alter his course and head for Washington, D.C. The pilot, uncertain of protocol, merely handed him some paperwork.
“I need to file a flight plan first,” the pilot said. “Where do you want me to land? Reagan, Dulles, Andrews—?”
“Drop it down on the White House lawn,” Grant replied.
2. The Bullet
Ninety-six hours before the shooting began, Ben Cage lost the Bullet.
Atop the highest ridge of Mt. Cochiti, a remote peak in New Mexico, Ben scanned the dark sky but came up empty again. Frustrated, he prepped to reposition a large array telescope called Betsy to a quadrant of the sky he’d not monitored for several hours, searching for a tiny but growing blue line that could either be a rogue asteroid or a large meteor making a beeline to earth.
They’d nicknamed it the Bullet, though Edwin Dark wanted to call it Amaria after some wacky psychic he read about. Dark joked it was his ‘Sky Goddess’ and Cage laughed and went along with it. Edwin had scary eyes.
In England, Dr. Mavis Kent wanted more data—measurements and relative speed, but Ben had instead followed the A2H-5 spectacle, neglecting the assignment.
“Baby, don’t hide from me,” Cage said, flipping through the previous day’s photographs, seeking a trace. “Do not become a ghost. Think I want Mavis the MILF to say I fucked the pooch?”
Breaking a promise, he’d concentrated instead on a remote section of the very distant Aquarius Dwarf Galaxy in the Milky Way, peering at A2H-5, witnessing the imminent collapse of the beautiful red giant. Nearly 3.6 mega parsecs from Earth, about 11.7 million light years, its demise was nothing less than glorious. A2H-5 had blown its planetary nebula, was now in the process of becoming a white dwarf.
Hot shit.
Still, Ben felt guilty. He knew that this special show would be going on for some time, and Mavis Kent was eager to the point of madness about Amaria, so he dialed in the distant coordinates and waited as the huge scope swung around to position; slowly enough that Cage was able to go to the men’s room, wash up, study his handsome black mug in the mirror, see if his tummy was still flat, pour a cup of coffee, and scan the lead story in the paper before a warning buzzer told him the thing was in place.
Cracked white NASA coffee mug in hand, Cage sat at the console, stared at the monitor sipping Peet’s coffee, a gift from his mother, now retired to the sprawling outskirts of Portland, Oregon. He looked at the clock and worried.
“Where the hell are you?”
So strange, the object wasn’t where it was supposed to be. There might be a thousand explanations for this; the obvious one that the thing was traveling faster than earlier thought and had gone out of frame. Either that or Cage was an idiot; unlikely, given his Ph.D. from M.I.T.
Damn, why hadn’t he spent just twenty minutes following up on it?
Mavis could be tough, even a little mean; Ben did not want to get on her bad side, so he adjusted the coordinates two clicks down and the big scope lumbered to a new spot where he guessed the object might be.
Still not there, which meant it was traveling far faster than he had imagined and, of course, might be much closer. Cage plotted a new position, thinking it was moving about 27,000 miles per hour, the norm, another degree south. He re-calibrated the angle of incline, adjusted for the gravitational fields and repositioned Betsy there.
The phone rang as the glass eye hummed to a new slant. Ben glanced at the wall clock —four o’clock his time, two o’clock in Greenwich, where Mavis Kent was working. He knew in his gut she was calling.
“I know you have nothing better to do than track A2H-5, Dr. Cage,” Mavis said in her tight English accent, “but I wonder if you’ve followed up on the anomaly? Our little bullet?”
Distracted, Ben replied, “Uh, yeah.”
“Pardon?”
Ben watched the screen as the telescope lurched to a stop.
“Hello?”
There it was. He found the Bullet and wiped his forehead.
“Tracking it now, Dr. Kent. Trajectory is off from its last position, but I’ll crunch the numbers and get back to you.”
“Please do.” She hung up.
Bitch, Ben thought. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than follow your pet anomaly. If you’re so interested, use your own damn scope… meanwhile, he input data of its last known position, coupled with its current whereabouts, then saw the results and sat back hard in his chair, the coffee forever untouched.
“Lord God,” he whispered, then fumbled for the phone and called Mavis back, suddenly so nervous he almost punched in the wrong code.
“Dr. Kent, I have weird, weird news: The meteor is heading our way,” he said excitedly. “It’ll pass within 7,000 miles of Earth —give or take a thousand miles— within the next 48 hours.”
There was a brief silence on the line.
“Mother of Christ,” Mavis replied in a whisper. “God threw a rock.”
3. Vacation
With less than one hundred hours until meltdown, Russell Perry drove his wife, Judy, and daughter, Iris, to Portland International Airport in the family Suburban. Russ called it a “Subdivision.” Overcast and rainy, the weather did little to make Russ feel better about them leaving to go on vacation in Hawaii.
The girls weren’t thrilled, either. Afraid to fly following a near plane crash over Russia the summer before, Iris chattered nonstop the entire drive up.
“Why do they call the weather man a Meteorologist? Shouldn’t they be a Weatherologist?” she asked. “What do they call someone who studies meteors?”
Judy fielded that one, saying, “Cosmologist, I think.”
“Like the woman at the M•A•C cosmetic counter?” Iris asked.
“That’s cosmetologist,” Judy said.
“Oh.”
Similar offbeat questions had been peppered throughout the trip; few were ones Russ could answer.
“I knew that one,” he said.
Judy patted his shoulder. “I’m so proud.”
Iris lugged her huge rolling suitcase across the parking lot. A heavy backpack filled with books slung over her shoulder made her list to port, and she seemed to be walking in slow-motion.
“Nervous much?” Judy asked. Iris didn’t answer but looked up with bright, questioning eyes that Judy found easy to read.
“I am not the happiest human,” Iris replied.
“I promise. It won’t be like last time.”
“Mom, you can’t promise that. We fell like 20,000 feet! We almost hit a mountain!” Iris huffed. “We coulda got killized.”
“Killized?” Judy laughed. “Well, honey, it was 9,000 feet or so, and we didn’t hit the mountain. No one got hurtized, to use your parlance.”
Iris pouted, “That woman next to me broke her thumb.”
“Look on the bright side,” Judy countered, “We seem to have lived.”
After they took care of the tickets and luggage, Iris asked for twenty bucks and ducked off to buy celebrity magazines with some of her classmates. Judy and Russ perched on sofa chairs near the security gate.
“What are you going to do these many days without us, Russell Perry?” Judy asked. “Poker with the boys? Yard work? Make a pass at Maggie Chapin?”
“Maggie’s married,” he replied, snapping fingers, darn, “and older than moveable type. Maybe Chris Berrenger…”
“She’s a lesbian.”
“Even better,” Russ smiled. “Kinky.”
Judy punched his arm, then pressed, “Seriously, what’s the agenda? Can you get away, too? Go to the mountains? Commune with grizzly bears?”
“Don’t know. There’s a new strip club in town; thought I’d check it out,” Russ answered. “Racks out to here…”
Judy laughed. “You’ve never even been to a strip club, Russ.”
“How do you know? We’ve only been married 16 years.”
“Stick to eyeballing Maggie Chapin,” she cautioned, taking his hand. “Safer.”
“Maggie it is.”
The announcement of a flight delay came over the PA system. Russ held Judy’s hand tightly. Her palms felt sweaty. “You okay?”
Judy nodded but didn’t look at him. “Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“You hide it well. Your hands feel like sponges.”
She spun around to face him.
“I used to love to fly. I hate it now, you know?” Judy said, then laughed behind a hand. “Of course you know. How many times have I told the story?”
“Seven million.” Russ put his hand on her shoulder and massaged it.
“You know. It might drop. The plane,” she said. “It’s a worry.”
He touched her cheek.
“It won’t. Not now, probably not ever. I read forty million to one odds of even a problem,” Russ said. “I’d play those odds in Vegas.”
Judy’s brain seemed elsewhere. “If we hadn’t paid in advance, we could all drive up to Canada, see the Ice Shelf, stay on solid ground.”
“Not that solid,” Russ said.
“I’m just saying—” she started, then seemed to take an interest in the ceiling. “I promised Iris we’d go someplace together, every year, just us girls, for as long as she could stomach being around her mom. I wish we weren’t going this year,” Judy said, “but there are other factors.”
Russ repositioned himself. “What other factors?”
She made a face. “Well… You. You hate to travel, Russ. You’d rather have a jalapéno shoved up your nose.”
“Tried it in college, didn’t like it,” Russ replied. “Made me sneeze and my eyeballs burned—”
“And you’re a hypochondriac,” Judy laughed. “Jeez, Russ, you’d relocate to Pleasantville, Missouri, sight unseen, just for a cool job, but you will not board a boat to travel the world. Not like me and Iris. We live for it. Wanderlust blood or something.”
Russ touched her chin. “That would be a ship, not a boat. But you’re right. I’m a bad traveler.”
“I’m a woman; being right is kind of my job,” Judy said, with a smile. “The point is, Iris and I have had a year to get over it —this fear of crashing— flying again is the answer. Hop back on the damn horse. Swim after nearly drowning. Just —”
“Get on the plane,” he finished. He held her arm and patted her bicep. “Good woman. Strong woman. Make good wife. Or motivational speaker.”
“Stop it,” Judy laughed.
“I’m a phone call away. Your knight in tarnished armor. Just ten digits to punch and I’ll magically appear.”
“Big help you are,” she said, leaned over. “And you know as well as I do that I always lose phones!”
He kissed her forehead. “You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Just drink heavily.”
Iris came back with half a dozen magazines as her friends scooted off. Russ glanced at the top cover and saw a pretty blonde, accompanied by the timeless headline: Rebecca Chase Is Not a Slut!
“Iris, why do you buy such crap?” Russ asked.
“What do you want me to buy, dad?” she asked with innocent eyes. “US News & World Report? Maxim?”
“Something without ‘slut’ in the headline?” Russ offered.
“Oh, daddy, it says she’s not a slut!”
The boarding call came an instant later and Russ kissed and hugged his dual beauties. He didn’t know what to say exactly, so he just said I love you fifty times and goodbye about ten. The girls walked through the gate, waved, blew kisses, then the door shut and the plane readied to taxi away.
Russ watched them take to the skies a few minutes later, after he parked the minivan and waved to the plane from the back road closest to the end of the tarmac. As the plane roared off, Russ imagined that he saw Iris wave back, but he wouldn’t know for sure until later.
He began the drive back to Bend and listened to the news, almost all of it concerning North Korea’s missile tests, but he was thinking of Iris and Judy, missing them already, but wondering why he had never been to a strip club.
The 747’s engines whined, settled down, then raced again. Iris looked over her mother through the little window; the plane was guided into position by a man with a flashlight or something.
“It seems chilly. Are you chilly?” Iris asked, sitting back.
Judy shook her head. “You want a blanket? You can use mine,” she offered.
“Thanks.” Iris took the thin blanket, laid it over her lap, then sat stiffly upright with folded hands. She looked past her mother at the rolling terrain outside the window, her eyes a veil of terror guarded by a fake smile.
“How much longer?” Iris asked.
“About two minutes,” her mother answered, gazing outside from the window seat. “We’re nearing the end of the runway. Airborne in—” She stopped and stared when she spotted a familiar figure standing behind a fence. “Hey, Iris, look— It’s your father.”
“Daddy? Where?” Iris climbed over the middle seat to look.
“By the Suburban. See him?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s coolness.” Seeing Russ seemed to jolt her into another gear. Iris was suddenly a happy girl. “Big, giant coolness.”
Iris waved, and if by miracle, Russ waved at the same exact moment. She tried to follow his figure even as the plane moved farther from him.
“I’m gonna miss my daddy,” Iris said. “He’s— he’s good with kids.”
Judy said, “He’s good with a lot of things,” then checked her seat belt again. “We’re about to take off. Ready?”
“I am so … so readyized,” Iris said, her smile wavering.
“Again with the new language,” Judy said and fluffed her daughter’s hair. “Where did that come from?”
“I’m making it up. It’s my twist on the English language.”
“So you’re languagizing?”
“Exactly,” Iris beamed. “Or ‘Makizing’. Either works. There are rules though: Only one ‘izing’ per sentence.”
“What happens if you use one twice?”
“Twiceizing?” Iris answered. “That would mean you have to fly on a plane!” They both laughed and felt better for it.
The engines whined louder, then calmed down. The aircraft stopped its taxiing, wheeled around, lurched a moment, then began barreling down the runway.
“Whoa!” Iris said, eyes wide, startled.
“Here we go,” Judy said, trying to sound happy. She reached for her daughter’s hand.
“Eeek!” Iris quietly screeched in pretend terror. They laughed valiantly, held hands, but not tightly, neither willing to show a modicum of fear. Judy’s eyes displayed a gentle reassurance, her smile beatific, but inside she had the heartbeat of a Hummingbird.
Iris knew her mother’s expression was a fraud, but she smiled back as if it helped, then spotted a pair of earphones, put them on, cranked an old Eagles song to 10. The airplane raced harder, then angled upwards sharply; the ground below sped by, the engines thundered.
Eyes closed, Iris hummed along badly —Wel-come to the Ho-tel Cal-i-for-nia,— feet dancing against the seat bottom without much rhythm.
Judy willed herself to look out the window. Her eyes seemed to be sweating.
The Columbia River dominated her view, followed by the city of Vancouver, Washington, on the north bank of the river. Suddenly, the plane banked left, hit turbulence and began its climb over the west hills of Portland, bucking up and down. Judy felt disoriented, lightheaded and fearful for a moment.
“If it’s going to get bumpy, it’s here,” Judy said, patting Iris’ hand. “The west hills, and again maybe a little further down the state.”
Iris looked up, eyes a little larger, “Okay, good,” then closed them tightly.
Just then the plane seemed to catch a second updraft, felt slightly out of control for an instant, but returned to normal. Iris, aside from drumming legs on the seat, pretended to ignore it.
Judy couldn’t.
Flying over Belarus the previous year, enveloped within a bright and cloudless sky, the Aeroflot Airbus A320 abruptly fell like a bagful of rocks; plummeting towards earth before God’s fist hammered the plane from below. Passengers heard a loud bang from the underside and the rapid descent ended, though the aircraft bounced around like evil spirits had possessed it. The oxygen mask finally dropped. Judy slipped one on Iris, screaming. Horrible sounds issued from the fuselage; a crunch of metal, some popping bolt sounds. The airplane veered hard right, then left and back, as if the pilot was dodging airborne orange traffic cones. Iris threw up on her lap; the woman across the way was launched from her seat and smacked her hand on the base of a wall, breaking a thumb. A flight attendant’s head hit the cargo racks.
Judy and Iris death-gripped the sides of their seats, saying Hail Mary’s. But, then, after one more series of bronco-busting turbulence, the flight finally, almost unbelievably, leveled out. The engines returned to a hum.
Everything was suddenly okay; smooth flying again. Prayers were suspended, cries dissolved to murmurs, drinks were free for the rest of the flight.
Later, the passengers learned that the plane had been hit by wind shears; had fallen to within 150 feet of a hilltop before the pilots wrestled it under control.
Iris said it was like a “Disneyland ride from Hell” attraction.
Miracle was not a word Judy tossed around lightly. Here it fit.
“May I get you anything to drink?” the smiling flight attendant asked, startling them both.
Judy said, “Scotch. A double. Any brand. Ice.”
“Certainly,” the woman smiled. “And for you, young lady?”
Iris tapped her chin. “Oh, I’ll just have a margarita, easy on the salt,” she answered, then, seeing a bemused glare from her mom, amended, “A Pepsi, please.”
“Coke okay?”
“Yum enough.” The attendant went away.
Within that exchange, the flight eased up, the skies became calm and the loudest sound was a baby crying from the aft of the plane and the reassuring turn of the engines.
Most of the other vacationing Cable School students were back there somewhere, though no one was moving around. Hearing some animated teen chatter to the aft, Iris turned back to see who was talking.
“It’s loud mouth Linda Jenns. She’s all nervous cuz her folks are splitizing.”
“Divorce?”
“Yeah. Her mom’s all paranoid that Linda’s pop is going to off them somehow. For the insurance or something. Linda didn’t want to go on this trip any more than I did. Different reasons though. Just the same, keep your eyes peeled for assassins. If she’s killized, we’ll know why.”
Judy studied her daughter for a moment. They wore the same haircut, bobbed, but in different shades — Judy’s was longer and nearly silver. With striking blue eyes, big enough to swim in, they sported a lean athleticism to their tallish frames. Emotionally, socially, they were alike in so many ways.
But Iris’s brain was all Russ.
Out of the box.
“What would it take to get you to drop the new language?” Judy asked. “Just for curiosity’s sake. No more Izing.”
Iris considered this, then said. “A new IPad would be a really good start. I could end languagizing in a heartbeat. Deal?”
“I’ll churn this notion around.”
Iris grimaced, and said, “You talk funny sometimes, Mom.”
Somewhere over the Pacific, the sky bright, winds calm, Judy looked below and saw nothing but ocean stretched out to the horizon like polished wet marble under a microscope.
“So, we good?” Judy asked.
“We’re good. This isn’t so bad. Lot of water.” Her grin was sheepish. “How long is it? The flight?”
“About five hours total,” Judy replied.
Iris rested her chin on her shoulder. “Know what, mom?”
“What?”
“There isn’t a mountain between here and Hawaii.”
4. Situation
It’s really more of a den than an office, and doesn’t really look lived in, despite its age and storied history. Everything is neat and tucked away, except for a few piles of papers stacked on the desk. There’s an aroma to the place, a mix of smells, like ancient pipe smoke, wood polish and fresh orchids, but subtle, like a mist of perfume after a woman has left the room.
The dimensions alone don’t make the Oval Office sound imposing. Called an ‘elliptical salon’ by its designer, it features an apsidal bowed end about 36 feet long, with a short axis of 29 feet. It has an arched ceiling eighteen and a half feet in height. Two couches face a coffee table.
Dimensions aside, the Oval Office was designed to be imposing, not in scale but in purpose. Specifically intended for hosting formal receptions, once called ‘levees,’ it was not the center of state business nor was it a place for the president to sign papers and give away pens. The purpose of the oval shape was to make all assembled stand equidistant from the speaker; partly so that all could hear the president plainly, but also to validate that he was the most important person in the room. In some ways, the president had merely emulated how royalty would be treated; the practice and design was picked up from the Maharajahs of India.
Nonetheless, it’s still the most intimidating room in the world, the center of global power for over 100 years. Now, while Peter Grant caught his breath after making his mad-dash from midtown Manhattan to Washington, he nervously waited with General Marco Spivey and Deborah Lansing, the White House Chief of Staff, as the president finished a phone call.
He said, “I realize it was your campaign platform, Minister, but the timing is rather suspect.” A female aide entered the room carrying a silver tray, matching coffee pot and three Wedgwood cups, along with a white mug with the words Big Cheese silkscreened on it. She poured coffee for the president in the big cup and set the tray on the table, in front of the general, who prepared a cup for Lansing, on another line, listening in.
The president said, “‘Suspect’ means that the timing couldn’t be worse. You need to think this over very seriously. You’re about to be clobbered.”
As the president spoke, Grant leaned close to General Spivey and whispered, “Sir, as I mentioned on the phone, Li Cai Wen said China thinks Taiwan has nukes. That is the cause of all this. The Arleigh-Burke shipment gave Taiwan confidence to act on independence but if Taiwan also has the bomb–”
“They do,” Spivey said.
Grant was stunned. The year before he’d been briefed on the juiciest intel available to anyone below a Joint Chiefs pay grade, but no one ever mentioned Taiwan having nuclear capability.
“What? For how long? Where’d they get them?” Grant asked, keeping his unease out of his tone.
“They got them from us,” Spivey said.
“How many?” Peter wondered.
“Enough.”
Perhaps the foremost feature of the Oval Office, beyond its shape, is the Resolute Desk, used by almost every president since Taft, with some notable exceptions, like Johnson and Nixon. Originally a gift from Queen Victoria in 1880, the desk was constructed from the timber of the retired British ship, H.M.S. Resolute, and is intricately carved, if not particularly large.
It was behind this desk that the president now sat with his right foot propped on the edge, scratching his ankle with the heel of his shoe. Behind him were three tall windows with a tranquil view of the green trees and brilliant flowers and discreet secret service agents outside.
On the phone, the president, resolute, was speaking with the Foreign Minister of the Republic of Taiwan. Though the Minister’s words were unheard, Grant could guess the substance of his message by what the president was saying.
“It’s a mistake, Minister Jong,” the president said. “You are absolutely taking the wrong turn here. If you proceed with this course, your country is asking for major trouble. From what I understand of China’s position, your wish will be granted. They are talking about an embargo, at the very least.”
A few choice words later, the president hung up, turned to face Grant, then said, “Help me out here, Colonel Grant. I’ve always found it curious that the biggest and most important words in the English language have the smallest number of letters, like the words Yes or No or God or War. You speak some Mandarin, correct? How would the Chinese say them, Colonel? How would they say the words God or War?”
Peter felt like showing off, telling the leader of the Free World that even the word ‘China’ was not a Chinese word, but first appeared in Sanskrit in 1555 and was introduced to the West by Marco Polo. There were at least thirteen significant dialects in China and most varied considerably from district to district. It wasn’t like America where there are accents, like southern or nor’easter or Texan; in China they were virtually separate languages.
In the huge nation that comprises the People’s Republic of China, the phrase ‘standard Mandarin’ is usually what people think of as ‘Chinese,’ but there really is no such thing. Hanyu, the accepted standard (which roughly means ‘the way big shots in Beijing talk’) is a dialect that only half the country can speak or understand. It was envisioned as a way to unite hundreds of languages, but local variations preempted that. Given this, even something as simple as the president’s words ‘God’ or ‘War,’ could take many paths in translation.
But Peter replied, “Zan is war, sir, but war is also Zan-Yi, Zan-Zung, Zan-Hwo…” He stopped himself before he could babble. “Zhu means God, for the most part. But God actually represents something more like ‘spirit’ or ‘heaven’. The literal is Da Tian Ren, which means ‘Great Sky People’.”
The president lifted his foot off the desk, sat upright and suddenly smacked his hand on the table. “See what I mean? Short words,” the president smiled. “Remember that guy who wondered why the word ‘abbreviation’ was so long?”
“Steven Wright,” Grant offered, smiling slightly.
“Exactly right, colonel,” the president said, nodding. “That’s the name. Steven Wright. Cracked me up. Brilliant.”
The others laughed. He sipped his coffee from the mug, made a face like it wasn’t sweet enough, then fixed his gaze back on Peter.
“Alright, Colonel,” he said, “bring me up to speed.”
Peter pulled files from his case. “I have what you need here, sir. It isn’t pretty.”
“Welcome to my world,” the president remarked. “Show me.”
“Mr. President, our research and inside contacts indicate that China has been moving several large mobile missile forces from the interior provinces to near the east coast by railroad, using manufactured homes as cover,” Grant said. “It’s been going on for weeks.”
“This have to do with North Korea at all?” the president asked, fingers laced, eyes tightening.
“No, sir. That was last week’s diversion. Our concern is that the Chinese are employing a new generation weapon; a super-long-range missile system with multiple warheads,” Grant replied. “It’s called the DF-51. Until now, we believed their missiles most accurate range was seven or eight-thousand miles, but this one more than doubles that.”
The president looked annoyed. “And what do you make of that?” he asked. “You actually think they’d nuke Taiwan?”
“No, sir. I actually think they’d nuke us.”
5. The Sun
Hunched over the Bend Sun’s cramped editorial desk later that day, Russ studied a printed satellite image and shook his head. “This looks bad,” he told his assistant, Chris Berrenger. “Really kinda—”
“Bad. Yeah, Mr. Perry, I get it. How bad?” Chris wondered. Chris sarcastically called him Mr. Perry. She was a goth-punk-lesbian and really didn’t care much what the good folk of Bend thought of her, nor what Russ thought either, for that matter.
Chris always wore black: Spiked accents, neck and wrist, snakebite lips and a gothic cross, sometimes inverted, which went over in Bend like a whale soufflé. Catholic skirts, baby doll shoes and fishnets were de rigueur. The look was alien to Bend’s conservative manner of dress, not to mention Russ’s own Banana Republic/Gap tastes. Needless to say, Chris really didn’t fit in. Along with her midnight black lip gloss and nail polish, she wore enough liquid eyeliner to repave a suburban street.
“Worse than before.”
“You mean Hollywood movie-style, Martians-will-eat-our-brains, end-of-the-known-universe kind of bad?”
“Right up there with Howard the Duck,” Russ nodded.
Berrenger moved even closer, peeked over his shoulder.
“Who’s Howard the duck?” she asked. Chris was in her twenties; shielded from the horror.
“Never mind.” Russ passed the magnifying glass, held up the picture for Chris. “Take a gander.”
“I get it, fowl joke.” Chris made a face. “When was this taken?”
“Just this morning.”
“Bizarre,” she said. She played with a nose ring and scrutinized the print. “Kind of scary, like the fucker could break.”
“Exactly like that,” Russ agreed. “But without the fucker part.”
The photo was a satellite image of lower British Columbia and northern Washington. There was a large, white, crescent-shaped object in the center. Any human trapped in the woods the last few years might have thought the mass was a snow-covered mountain range or that a blotch of liquid paper had spilled on it, but Perry and Berrenger knew better.
It was ice. A long bank of it. An arrow-shaped indent had suddenly appeared dead-center. There was a slim chance that the high waters backed-up behind the giant ice shelf would soon break free, unleashing a major flood.
“Missoula sized,” Perry said.
She handed the photo back. “What should we do?”
“Start building an ark,” he replied.
The Missoula Flood. 14,000 years ago, most of eastern Oregon and Washington, plus much of Idaho and Montana, had drowned in Canadian water. An ice floe had cut off the Columbia from its source and waters had backed up for hundreds of miles. When the ice shelf finally broke, 300,000 square miles of the Pacific Northwest had been six feet underwater.
This version wouldn’t be that bad, the theory went, but it would still cause a huge, wet mess.
Everyone called it The Ice Shelf. A major story for weeks, solutions to avoiding possible widespread flooding were yet to be found.
“Page one?” Chris asked, arms crossed. “Or hold it? Running out of time, Mr. Perry.”
“My gut says our river.”
“We taking bets?”
Russ grinned, quickly rifled through papers. “Chris, a few weeks ago our biggest problem was wondering if Mayor Parks would wear white before Memorial Day. And he did, too. I tried to buy ice cream from him.”
Chris looked bored. “Does this too-much-information saga ever end?” She lifted both eyebrows. “De-ci-sion?”
“I’ll check with Ted,” Russ grinned. “He’s got the pulse of the nation.”
“At least he’s got a pulse,” Chris said.
Russ Perry, managing editor of the Bend Sun, a small market newspaper in the center of Oregon, was second in command to Ted Gallo, the editor and publisher, both his boss and his best friend.
Ted was seated behind a worn oak desk the size of a ping-pong table, piled high with stacks of papers. A TV set was on, as always, with the sound turned low. The entire room was filled with boxes and filing cabinets. Gallo looked like he had just moved in.
“What’s that?”
Perry gave him the photo. “A new satellite shot from up north. Just want to know if you think we should lead with this.”
Ted slipped on glasses. “Not very sexy, this. Looks the same as the last time,” he shrugged. “What’s the diff?””
“The notch in the center.”
“That little thing? I’d need a microscope to see it.”
“It was the big story just a week ago,” Russ shrugged. “Could be again.”
“When it is, we’ll lead with it.” Ted read some of the top pages. “What happened to North Korea? I’ve lost track of their shenanigans.”
“Yesterday’s news. Suddenly, all the bellicosity stopped. No more temper tantrums is what CNN is reporting.”
“No kidding?” Ted said, chewing a pencil. “So maybe Kim Jong Il isn’t insane?”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Russ said. “So, what think? Run the Ice Shelf pic on page one?”
Ted tilted back in his chair. “Russ, we’ve got more local concerns to fret about. You know: Round Butte dam, the Deschutes, all that. Stuff people in Bend actually care about.”
“Point?”
“Well, if the flood control guys continue to release water at the rate they are, all those expensive homes by the river are going to be waist-deep in river water,” the publisher said. “It’s bad enough that the city is semi-sandbagging. Never done that before in my lifetime.”
“That’s a very long time,” Russ grinned.
Bend flanked two sides of a usually tranquil Deschutes river, named for a local native tribe, and the center city was on the verge of flooding.
On the west side of town stood mostly new homes on hills, built far into the woods on wide tree-lined streets with dazzling vistas of the nearby Cascade range mountains: Bachelor and the Three Sisters to the west; the high desert to the east. Downtown was nearly level with the river.
“You realize how many of my friends live by the Deschutes?”
“Yeah, a lot. I realize that,” Russ said, chewing his lip. “So what do you want to lead with? The Deschutes flooding, the B.C. Ice Shelf or China-slash-Taiwan?”
Ted took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you think?”
Russ was relieved. He was sick of the Ice Shelf danger. Taiwan was gaining momentum, but not the big ticket yet.
“Local, of course. Deschutes. Let the Washington state papers worry about the ice pack.”
Ted smiled. “Exactly. And hold the satellite shot until tomorrow. It’s too late to put it on page two, right?”
Perry said, “Right. The rest of the paper’s been put to bed, except for pages one and sixteen and the last page is mostly ads. Jump two of the leads there.”
“Tomorrow then,” Gallo said, then picked up the Reuters and Associated Press reports that Perry had brought for him and leafed through them. “That it?”
Russ snatched back the photo, said, “Yep,” and started for the door. Ted called out as he reached it.
“Wife and daughter get off okay?”
Russ looked at his watch. “They should be in Honolulu by the time we go to press.”
“And after that?”
“After that, I’ll just sit by the phone and pine,” Perry said.
The crew met the deadline with minutes to spare, and put the paper to bed. They led with Chris Berrenger’s well-written piece on the heightened potential for local floods and relegated the Ice Shelf story and the China-Taiwan squabbles to below-the-fold.
At seven-fifteen, Russ walked home in a light rain and sat down to a microwaved meal of frozen lasagna, a trio of cold Blue Ribbon beers, and a fresh loaf of garlic bread he’d picked up from the Safeway. There were leftovers in the fridge that he might have eaten, but his stomach told him that was a recipe for a trip to the hospital ward.
Russ never ate leftovers knowingly. Might not agree with his tummy.
Perry lay on the couch. He watched the Blazers beat the Sixers in game five of the NBA Finals, 106-90, then switched to the late news.
CNN covered the brewing China-Taiwan crisis as the main feature and only mentioned the ice shelf in passing, shortly after the first commercial break. The possibility of the Deschutes overflowing didn’t warrant airtime.
In the pre-dream state before dozing off, Russ imagined he was relaxing by the ocean with Iris and Judy in Honolulu. He dreamed of lounging in a chair on the sand, staring at the sea, holding his wife’s hand, watching his daughter grow up too fast.
And all of them far removed from danger and responsibility.
It was a beautiful dream.
6. The River
In late spring, when it was warm, Russell Perry would amble down Minnesota street, cut over to Wall, cross the wide green expanse of Drake Park, rest on an old, jade-colored bench that faced the Mirror Pond and eat his lunch. The antique seat had a missing slat and a loose bolt and tilted back slightly, as if about to topple. Despite its frailty, Russ preferred it to the other park benches, which were newer and better maintained, but had none of its weathered charm. Most of its surface was crudely engraved with the carved initials of lovers or vandals from another era, their public imprints seemingly immortal.
The letters GP were carved into a narrow strip of wood. Perry traced the groove of the markings with his index finger and wondered if they belonged to his nemesis, the mayor, Gavin Parks.
If so, page one news.
Russ withdrew his reading glasses, slipped them on and studied the preview pages of the paper while he ate a sandwich and sipped a can of chocolate Boost.
During this break, he’d usually edit the newspaper’s galleys away from the office, sitting in quiet, finishing his work long before the newspaper was sent to press that evening.
But now Perry found himself distracted by the activity around him and the thrust of several unsettling dispatches from Asia that sat on his lap.
The threat of a conflict between the United States and China now overshadowed the Sun’s previous lead story, the possibility of local flooding. The Deschutes river, fifty feet away, flowed along at record volume, splashed over sandbags meant to corral its hard wash, apt to spill even deeper into the park. Pockets of the undulating lawn were already under several inches of water.
For many weeks before, attention had been focused on the Canada Ice Shelf —now almost a glacier. There, a potentially far greater catastrophe was building on the upper Columbia River, five hundred miles north in Washington state and in Canada. But the big story was now relegated to the lower left corner of the page by the ominous and more immediate events overseas.
The headline, written by Ted Gallo, was to scream: COLLISION COURSE, but Russ changed the wording to BLOCKADE THREAT GROWS, set in 96-point Helvetica Demi-Condensed, about the largest point-size the paper would normally allow —short of announcing World War Three or heralding Jesus’s return. Surely, either the Second Coming or global war would demand really big type, five-inch or greater, but both events seemed to be only remote possibilities and 96-point remained the benchmark.
He read: TAIPEI (AP)– Defying mainland China’s assertion that Taiwan was on a collision course if it accepts the advanced weaponry from the U.S., the island’s new president, Ho Deng Chi, reaffirmed his nation’s stand that America’s delivery of three Arleigh Burke-class destroyers with Aegis defense systems was vital to Taiwan’s security…
Russ closely scanned the pages for typos and errors, marking up each offending page, circling suspect words and flagging badly written phrases with tiny yellow post-it notes, his comments lettered in handwriting so fine as to look typeset. The AP stuff was perfect; it was the local stories that needed correction, along with each and every column, opinion piece, editorial, and all the local, commercially-driven bullshit he had to try to make sense of and sometimes translate into both American English and acceptable AP style.
64 pages of trouble in his hands.
BEIJING (Reuters)– Underlining his nation’s concern, Chinese Foreign Minister, Wang Shu Zhi, told the annual Congress of Revolutionary Students that, “Any move to declare independence from mainland China would be resisted at all costs…”
WASHINGTON (AP)– An unnamed State department official voiced concerns over the movement of Dong-Feng-class missiles, solid-fuel MIRV’s each armed with multiple warheads, a mere 135 miles from Taipei…
It went on and on. The threat from the Ice Shelf had become almost an afterthought.
Russ thought: Jesus. Were there plagues of locusts he hadn’t heard about?
Of the many items he’d read, the only good news in the batch seemed to be that Edgar “Bolt” Bolton, a notorious convicted murderer who’d escaped from Two Rivers prison a week before, had been apprehended and was en route to the maximum-security Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem.
One small miracle anyway.
Russ closed his eyes.
A light mist touched his face, carried a mild musky scent. He sniffed the air: Lilacs and roses, car exhaust and diesel, drifting smoke and wet grass.
Nature played an indolent symphony. A light wind rustled the trees. A flock of ducks quacked for an afternoon snack. Smaller birds chirped their melodic Morse code. Dogs barked as if announcing an impending earthquake.
Then: Urban sounds. Faraway music. A single-engine Cessna banked hard overhead. A bus shifted harshly into gear. An ice cream truck played a relentless, annoying song, enticing neighborhood kids and women who jog to buy Nutty Buddy’s and orange Popsicles.
Cars drove the streets, sounding horns, gunning engines. A car alarm or two. A fire truck or an ambulance siren. Construction noises. Jackhammers and a bulldozer. Grunts from men moving sandbags.
Amazing.
Beneath it all, there was the sound of the river, nature’s eternal soundtrack.
It sounded pissed.
Russ opened his eyes.
A dozen men in tangerine uniforms moved heavy sandbags from a flatbed truck to the top of the temporary barrier; far fewer bodies than needed, it seemed. The river looked less menacing than the day before, but the workmen weren’t taking any chances. Without the temporary wall, the river would soon swamp downtown, especially if it started to rain again.
Standing a few feet behind the city workers, a local television news crew videotaped them, zeroing in on a burly man with a yellow helmet and a Death from Above tattoo on his bicep, lifting two bags at a time.
Downstream, a fascinated cadre of gawkers, young and old, watched the swiftly flowing waters and pointed at passing debris. Logs and branches and an old toilet scurried along as if late for a meeting. Across the river, a majestic old willow was branch-deep, the riverside pathway disappeared in the speeding muck. The elementary school beside it looked as if on an island. All the bridges, built low to the river, were dangerous, almost useless; the west side of town was close to being cut off from the central city. Police monitored the river and the traffic, and seemed to be deciding whether to shut the bridges down.
Russ watched ducks fly in, then cracked his neck and opened the galleys of the Metro section, a ball-point pen and post-it notes tucked in his shirt pocket, at the ready.
As Perry shifted again into work mode, the surrounding world was finally blocked out and his worries vanished in the hard light of labor.
Six days a week, Russ had to fill upwards of 48 broadsheet pages with national and international news, as well as local tales about crime and punishment, taxes and school bond issues, and anything else he could dredge up. On Sunday, he rested or did chores or played with his daughter or, if he was lucky, watched sports.
Filling these pages today was not a problem.
Perry was ward of twelve unfledged Sun reporters who toiled at a shade over minimum wage. He also supervised a number of freelance photographers who received next to nothing per shot. Russ was by far the most senior of the staff and had previously been employed by newspapers in Eugene, Portland, Miami, Houston, Los Angeles and, most recently, San Diego.
The Sun was a micro newspaper compared to other places he’d worked; Bend was far and away his smallest market yet. About 40,000 people resided in town, less than in his former zip code in San Diego.
Bend was the Deschutes county seat, located smack dab in the middle of the state. If one drew lines from the four corners of a map, Bend would be at the juncture. Unlike the western end of Oregon, which has legendary, seemingly continuous rainfall, central Oregon is usually much drier. There the western rains turn to snow in the mountains, then peter out east of the Cascade range, so that winter was cold and snowy, but not unmanageably so. This year, however, the rains came in unrelenting torrents and the snow pack was the deepest in modern history.
It was a year of a change in the weather, and seemingly in everything else.
Bend was the fastest-growing city in the state. Twenty-five years before, it had been populated chiefly by working cowboys in authentic Stetson hats and well-worn Tony Lama boots. Now it was waist-deep in expatriate Californians seeking vacation and retirement homes. The town sported large and costly residences, many on hills, and scads of resorts and golf courses, with more on the way. The terrain was rocky, high desert, with undulating hills that led to the Cascade mountains beyond and a normally serene river that cut through the middle.
Russ’s wife, Judy, had worked for a variety of types of companies and was currently the marketing director for a resort north of the city; one of half-a-dozen such enterprises in the area.
Judy had coped with Russ’s vagabond ways long enough, had insisted that his next job be his last job. No more hopping from town to town. Retirement wasn’t too far off, she cautioned. It was time to be grown ups and settle down.
“Retirement? That’s twenty years from now,” Russ said.
“Tough it out,” Judy told him.
Russ loved that Judy was the adult of the family, the stable one, eminently employable, while he traveled with a briefcase full of pink slips and severance-check stubs.
In truth, Perry had never held a job without eventually being fired. One time he had actually quit one, but knew he was going to be canned anyway, and it looked better on his résumé to jump than be pushed. In Russell’s case, getting fired was not an option, it was pretty much a job description.
Without this one, he’d be forced out of the trade, into selling manufactured homes or working as a greeter at Wal-Mart.
7. Two Seconds
Up most of the night, Peter Grant worked from a command center in the White House basement, poring over maps and images from space, trying to find specific movement of the Chinese DF-51’s.
Intel was actually spotty, circumstantial evidence at best, and largely a guessing game for Grant; he simply didn’t have access to the latest tools here. His regular and highly advanced station was in a warehouse HQ in New York, but Spivey and the president wanted him to stay in D.C. and there was no linkup between the stations yet. The security risk was too high.
Elsewhere in the country, there were other posts even more capable, but damned if he knew where they were.
Grant was on the phone, asking questions, simultaneously sending IMs all over the place, pressing for the latest news to reach him first. He wasn’t sure why he’d been assigned this temp position, but he seized on it.
Still, it was frustrating. Grant wanted to know for sure what they were dealing with.
And then came the answer.
At 0945, someone from Intelligence dropped off a transcript of a dialogue between China’s Defense Minister, Liang Huatian, and a deputy named Xiong Guoxiong. Grant read both the Mandarin and English translations, finding faults with interpretation. Still the bottom line wasn’t going to move: China was prepared for war.
Armed with this unsettling intel, he gathered all the finer points together and wrote a series of briefs, and by midday Grant submitted his report to General Spivey. He waited while his boss read it.
The general rose, put on his cap, said, “Let’s go see the president.”
The president seemed lost in thought, but whether it was about the threat or wondering if he could go for a ham and cheese sandwich was anyone’s guess.