World War III

“I’d say here, sir.” He pointed to a place marked Duggan’s Fall. “It has good height to the west. They can’t go around here — too steep for their vehicles — and on that side they’ve got a river. They won’t risk equipment just to see if the ice’ll hold.” He nodded to himself. “I’d set up here, Colonel. They have to go through it.”

Caffey drew a large circle around it. He glanced at the men. “Choke point, gentlemen. Our next offensive. We’ll fly two platoons forward… here. Position our fire line… here, above them.” He looked at Cordobes. “I’d like to lay in some fougasse, Captain.”

“Sure. How much?”

“There are a couple of old snowmobiles in Jones’s Quonset. I think they’ll handle a pair of thirty-five-gallon drums each.” He touched his fingers to the map. “I want them placed here and… here. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find the best marksman in the company.”

“That’ll be Private Cable, sir.”

“Make sure he has the best rifle in the company.”

Cordobes nodded. “If I know Private Cable, sir, he has the best rifle.”

Caffey glanced at Kate. “Major Breckenridge, what’s the grenade and mortar count?”

“One hundred eighteen frag grenades, forty phosphorus. Thirteen mortar rounds.”

“We’ll need half the frags, all the phosphorus. I also noticed Mrs. Jones had a pantry full of bottled preserver. We’ll need the bell jars.”

Kate frowned.

“If those boys out there are out a missile-carrier, it doesn’t mean they don’t have portable heat-seekers.

As equipped as they are, they have to have Grail-type missiles. I don’t intend to lose any more choppers.”

Kate’s expression didn’t change. “What do bell jars —”

“Phosphorus burns hotter than any Huey engine,” Caffey said. “If we have to, we’ll make our own antimissile system.” He checked his watch. “Okay, it’s now 1750 hours. I want everyone assigned to this raid to get five hours sleep. We’ll move out at 0200 and be in place by 0500. I figure next contact before noon tomorrow.” He looked around the room. “Questions?”

No one even coughed.

“Right,” Caffey said. “Move out.”

THE WHITE HOUSE 2015 HRS

Kimball poked his head into the Oval Office. The president was in his shirtsleeves, sitting in one of the Victorian sofas that faced each other. Jules Farber sat opposite. Between them the coffee table was littered with Political Response Contingency Scenarios (PRCS) that the Secretary of State had drawn up.

“He’s here, Mr. President,” Kimball said.

McKenna got up and stretched. “God, I’m pooped.” He rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Wayne. Ask the senator to make himself comfortable in the Truman Balcony. I’ll just be a second.”

Farber looked up. “Shall I…”

“No, no, Jules. You keep at it.” He collected his coat from the back of a chair. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Senator Milton Frederick Weston rose from his seat when the president entered. He was slightly taller than McKenna, about ten years younger and, McKenna noticed with some surprise, his longish, tousled hair— the Weston trademark — was distinguished with flecks of silver. The one-time protege was taking on age gracefully.

“Milt, it’s good to see you.” McKenna shook his hand warmly.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Weston said a bit stiltedly. “You’re looking well.”

“I try.” He patted his stomach. “Dropped two pounds this week. Swimming twice a day. Did forty laps this afternoon.” He gestured toward the chairs. “Sit down, Milt, sit down. How ‘bout some tea?”

The senator sat down. “Thank you, no, Mr. President.”

“I think we can dispense with the ‘Mr. President’ business,” McKenna said amiably. “We’ve known each other too long to be politely formal.”

Weston nodded without a smile. “I’m glad you could see me on such short notice.”

“Anytime, you know that. As a matter of fact, I was about to watch a movie — Walter Matthau, Glenda Jackson, Ned Beatty. Spy stuff with a little humor. Interested?”

Weston looked perplexed. “You have time for movies?”

“Sure, why not. I can’t be in the office around the clock. Even the president has to relax once in a while.

Right?”

“I was under the impression—” The senator stopped. He eyed McKenna for a moment. “You’re not trying to sandbag me, are you?”

“Sandbag?” The president gave him a puzzled glance. “It’s only a movie, Milt.”

“Please don’t play games with me. I’m hearing rumors. That’s why I asked to see you this evening. I want to get to the bottom of it.”

“Everyone hears rumors in this town.”

“This one is different. Something is going on. Something big that has everyone’s mouth wired shut.”

“Oh?”

Weston sat straighter in his chair. “What are you sitting on, Mr. President?”

McKenna sighed. “You mean, what am I sitting on you should know, Senator?”

“Not just me. The country. I’m not asking anything from you that is legally privileged. If you’re sitting on a volcano, tell me. Let me help.”

“You want to help me?” Weston nodded. “That’s a change.”

“You are my president. My party’s leader… a mentor and… friend.”