World War III

“Crisis room?”

“Don’t give me that, Alan. You haven’t been to the Pentagon all week. I know.”

“Now, Milt—”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Weston said. He walked to a chair and sat down. “I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Tennant went to his desk. “We’re just—”

“If I hear someone else tell me that readiness-test story again, I swear to you, Alan, I’ll call a press conference and announce that the president is putting the military on alert without informing the appropriate congressional leadership.”

“Milt!”

“I’m serious, Alan. I want some answers. You owe me. Tom McKenna kept you on as secretary of defense because I convinced him you were the most talented holdover from Thorpe’s entire cabinet.”

“I know that, but—”

“You’re an authentic patriot, Alan. You balance love of country with concern for the people. You walk that elusive line between the generals and the politicians. I can’t believe you’d be part of a coverup.”

“Coverup!” Tennant exclaimed. “What are you talking about!”

“Dorothy Longworth has been to see me,” Weston said. “She believes Tom is sitting on something very big. She’s just looking for the slightest hint of conspiracy to break an exclusive story that the president and his military advisors are planning some reckless adventure.”

“Dorothy Longworth is an ass. You know that. She has her own ax to grind with this Administration.

Christ, she makes up half the rumors that circulate in this town! She’s not a journalist, she’s a manure spreader. If that bitch ever took the time to sit down she’d drown in the shit she’s stirred up.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I relied on what Longworth had to say. Fortunately, I have other sources. They confirm what I suspect to be true — that there is a major crisis brewing and the president is keeping the lid on.”

“What sources?” Tennant said.

“Personalities aren’t the issue here. McKenna’s boat is beginning to spring leaks. Not to the press, fortunately. But I know something is going on and, goddamnit, I want to know what the hell it is!”

Tennant shook his head. “If there were anything to tell you, Senator, it would have-to come from the president.”

“I’ve already been to see him.”

“Then I can’t elaborate on it any further.” Tennant took a shallow breath. “The president trusts me, Milt.

I’ve taken an oath.”

“So have I… to the people.”

“Look—”

“I’m trying to help him!” Weston snapped. “If there is trouble, let me help. I’m not a fool, Alan. I do have some competence. If McKenna is facing a crisis that is so important he’s afraid to share it with a political ally, what does he plan to do when Longworth and her cronies get onto it? He’ll be politically dead, that’s what. And the party with him. Or do you look forward to four years of Wes Nichols giving orders in the White House?”

“No, I… I…”

Weston leaned forward from his chair. “Alan, trust me. Please. Whatever it is, you know you can trust me.”

Tennant tried not to look at him. He tried not to think that at this moment the president of the United States was not on his way to Camp David for a short holiday vacation. Exactly eleven people knew where he was actually going, and Alan Tennant wished he were not one of them.

“Alan?”

Tennant glanced up. He was staring at Senator Weston when the intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Secretary, do you remember that you have an appointment in the conference room? It’s time, sir.”

“Thank you, Sara,” he said into the small plastic box. “Hold any calls for an hour, please.”

“But, sir, you—”

“Yes, I know. Just hold everything until the senator leaves.” He looked up at Weston. “Your word, Milt?”

“Of course.”

Tennant hesitated a moment. He stared at his hands. Finally, he said, “The president, Jules Farber and Kenneth Quade left for Reykjavik, Iceland, forty minutes ago.”

Weston gave him a bewildered look. “What?”

“He’s meeting secretly with Soviet Party Chairman Dimitri Gorny.”

“What?”

“It’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Jesus, Alan! Why? What’s happened?” Tennant shook his head. He almost laughed. “Because,” the secretary of defense began softly, “there are Russian combat troops in Alaska.” Weston came out of his chair. “WHAT?”

“You’d better sit down, Senator,” Tennant said.

“There’s more.”

JONES’S STRIP

The wind screamed outside as Caffey and Lieutenant Parsons walked among the men. Four pot-bellied stoves stationed at ten-foot intervals in the center aisle radiated only enough heat to keep the hangar from freezing. The wounded, covered with coarse brown blankets, lay on cots near the stoves. They were attended by haggard men with stubbled faces. Parkas and arctic underwear draped across makeshift wire clothes lines reeked of perspiration. More were splattered with blood than weren’t.

Some of the men slept on tarpaulins with their shoes for pillows between stacked rows of empty ammo crates (the fuel for the stoves), but most simply sat alone or in silent groups, cleaning their weapons or staring mindlessly at nothing, mesmerized by the inexhaustible sound of the raging wind.