The Threat

Dan was sitting at the desk he’d spent the night at, feeling as if he’d just vomited. The strike plan had been sound. As far as he could see, there was nothing else to do, if they didn’t want more trouble from the bandits and militias that had already massacred hundreds. Yes, there was a crisis in Korea too, but none of the forces tabbed for Eritrea were on call for a Korean response. “I was, till they scrubbed it,” he said.

“Can you take this? It’s from Camp Cougar. Isn’t that in Eritrea?”

“Who is it?”

“Guy named Wood.”

The joint force commander in Eritrea was named Wood. But why would he be calling here? Bypassing the National Military Command Center and his unified combatant command? Dan glanced toward Roald’s office. He could see her through the window; she was talking earnestly to someone out of his line of sight, drawing shapes with her hands for emphasis. He remembered how much he’d always hated being put off when he’d called headquarters, being fobbed from hand to hand.

Someone called across the room as he picked up. “Remember, don’t use your rank. And there’s no need to identify yourself beyond the Sit Room.”

The set synced, and an angry voice crackled out. “This is Lem Wood, in Keren. Who’m I talking to?”

“This is the Situation Room.” He choked off the reflexive “sir” at the end of his sentence.

“Sorry for the call, but I can’t get any consistent response from higher here and I can’t wait, my people are under fire. I’m standing by for support here—”

Dan said, “Your strike’s been canceled. You’ll get the word any minute now via your chain of command.”

The eight-thousand-mile-away voice went baffled. “Calling off my strike package?”

“That’s right.”

“But … the CINC signed off. NMCC signed off. What the fuck’s going on up there?”

Dan felt his feet go numb, as if the impetus of his heart no longer pushed blood that far. “That’s the decision, General. Sorry.”

“You people don’t understand. We need support here. I’ve got—”

“The issue was discussed at the highest level,” Dan interrupted. He was fighting to keep his voice level. Because everything he’d ever seen told him the furious, bewildered man on the other end of the line was probably right. So that now he said through a constricted throat, “There are other considerations involved.” Though he didn’t know what, so it felt like a lie before it was past his teeth.

“What’s higher than protecting our troops? We let these people keep pushing us back, this whole piece of the planet’s going to slide right back down the shithole.”

“This is no place for a debate,” Dan told him. “Your orders are on their way. The strike’s off.”

“Leaving people to get massacred? This is … goddamn it, I’ve got five KIAs now, fifty-plus wounded. Goddamn it. God damn it! I want to talk to the president. That … conscientious-objector son of a—”

This was getting out of hand. He still hadn’t found words when a calm, emotionless voice cut in. Roald’s gaze met his through the glass wall.

“General Wood?”

“Yes?”

“This is not an appropriate call,” the Sit Room director told him in even, clear notes. “Under the Goldwater-Nichols Act of 1986, the secretary of defense has full authority, direction, and control over all military forces. Military action must be directed by the national command authority. If your combatant commander disagrees, there are ways for him to make his disagreement known. And if you dissent from his action, you can tender your resignation as a serving officer. You know all this, General. Therefore I suggest you hang up and obey your orders.”

“Listen here. We’ve put up with enough of this … lack of support … this … backstabbing, when my guys are dying out there. I want to talk to that lying, cowardly son of a bitch—”

“I don’t want to continue this conversation. And I don’t think you want to either.”

Silence on the far end, the crackle of scrambled microwaves. A sucked breath that told Dan what the other was feeling. He knew that desperate rage. The kind that made your career worth throwing away. That rage at those who didn’t understand. Who didn’t want to hear.

The warble of a disconnected line.

He hung up too. Sweat trickled under his shirt. He understood now why they’d told him not to use his name. Why none of the watchstanders used their military ranks.

He dragged his hands down his face. The surge personnel were leaving. They looked subdued, but not as overwhelmed and guilty as he felt. They nipped out under the awning for a smoke, or went back to their offices, or down the street for the early Post to see what had leaked.

0600. Just another dawn in Washington.

* * *

He was so exhausted and furious that any thought of going home was out of the question. His neck felt tight as iron. He looked at his watch, then sprinted across West Executive between arriving sedans.

In room 303, Harlowe was already at her desk. A dozen e-mails were in his queue. By the titles, nothing that couldn’t wait. He grabbed his gym bag and went back downstairs.