War with Russia

“No problem, Sir,” came the response from the pilot. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll be ready to take you back to DC when you’re done.”

Typical of the boss, thought Colonel Bear Smythson. He never forgets to thank the troops for what they do for him. That pilot would never have guessed the gravity of the news he was carrying to the President.

Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, when the world had stood on the verge of nuclear Armageddon, the Soviets had pulled back at the eleventh hour. Today, however, the Russians had thrown caution and common sense to the winds and attacked three NATO countries without warning. It was going to take cool heads to ensure that nuclear missiles did not start flying and mutually assured destruction became a reality.

Bear had no doubt that MacWhite was the right man in the right place. Perhaps the only man who could extract America and the world from this horror. But what if the President disagreed? On such small matters as how the pair of them presented and explained the crisis to the President would such decisions be made. Unless she had absolute trust in MacWhite and his team, the President would not feel comfortable working with him. It would be difficult to overstate how much was going to depend on this meeting.

The side door slid open and MacWhite unbuckled his straps, then leaped out with the agility of a twenty-five-year-old, acknowledging as he did so the smart salute from the loadmaster.

Bear followed him into the waiting people carrier, driven by an immaculately turned out female US Marine Corps Lance Corporal, who took them up the front drive of Aspen Lodge. There, in the moonlight, sitting on top of a hill in a three-acre forest clearing, Bear saw the rambling single-story wooden cabin used by US presidents since Franklin D. Roosevelt had converted a camp built for federal civil servants and their families into a presidential retreat and refuge from the rigors of Washington.

The two men were shown into the living room where President Dillon sat chatting with Pete Chiarini, her Senior Executive Assistant, who invariably traveled with her to ensure the umbilical cord back to the White House remained unbroken. Both men knew Chiarini well and shook hands as he came forward to greet them.

It was Bear’s first visit to this room, the President’s inner sanctum, and he took in the atmosphere of relaxed, informal warmth and comfort: wooden walls decorated with paintings by classic American landscape artists, beamed rafters under the low roof, a glowing log fire in the grate to ward off the chill of a spring night in the mountains, deep-cushioned sofas and low table lights around a rustic, wooden coffee table. Large, picture windows, which in daytime would doubtless provide panoramic mountain views, were hidden by well-chosen check curtains.

Dillon, in jeans, a plaid lumberjack shirt and deck shoes, greeted them. “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m very glad to see you,” she said in her warm, vibrant voice, which Bear was beginning to recognize as a key element of the charisma she radiated.

“Madam President,” began MacWhite. “Good evening… or should I say good morning. It’s good of you to see us. I’m sorry we’ve had to disturb you at this time of night, but there’ve been some important developments I need to brief you on in person.”

“Of course, Abe. I appreciate that,” Dillon replied. “Now, you gentlemen have come a long way and it’s late. Please sit down. What can we get you to eat and drink?” She gestured at the sofa opposite where she’d been sitting.

MacWhite, the tall, rangy ex-Special Forces soldier, whose eccentric passion for sea buckthorn and ginger tea was well known, declined food and asked for his usual herbal tea. With some regret—it was going to be a long night and he could have murdered a Danish, but he did not want to be the only one with a mouth full of food while the others were talking strategy—Bear contented himself with strong black coffee.

“I understand you’ve been talking to SACEUR?” With the immediate needs of the men in her team satisfied, she was now all business.

“Yes, ma’am,” said MacWhite. “We’ve also got some satellite photos to show you.” He nodded at Bear, who unpacked his laptop, placed it on the table where Dillon could see it and switched it on. MacWhite then leaned forward to brief her on his recent Tandberg VTC conversation with Admiral Howard. The latter’s report had been devastating in its implications.