Able One Read online

“We’re on the brink of war, for god’s sake!”

  Shaking his head ever so slightly, Quang replied, “The People’s Republic of China has no intention of starting a war with you.”

  “Nor we with China, but...”

  Quang raised a stubby finger. “But you wish to strike at the Koreans.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” the Secretary said. “They have two more missiles. And from what you say, those missiles are armed with nuclear bombs.”

  “Pyongyang has sent troops to capture the rebels.”

  “Troops? They should be sending in an air strike to knock out those missiles before the terrorists launch them!”

  “They are not terrorists,” Quang said flatly. “Do not fall into the trap of painting all your enemies with the same brush. That’s how you got into Iraq, remember?”

  “What are they then?”

  “A faction of the DPRK army, apparently.”

  “What do they hope to gain by destroying the whole world’s satellites?” the Secretary asked.

  Quang shrugged his round shoulders. “That we will learn once Pyongyang’s troops have captured them.”

  “And in the meantime they’ve got two nuclear armed missiles that can reach Hawaii! Or maybe even San Francisco!”

  “Or Beijing,” Quang said tightly. “Or Shanghai. Believe me, we are just as concerned about this as you are.”

  “So why aren’t you doing something about it?”

  “The council is considering several options. We believe the missiles are under the control of a rebel faction of the North Korean army. The government in Pyongyang, such as it is,” Quang added with a sardonic sneer, “is seeking to avoid an outright civil war. They want to take the rebels with as little violence as possible.”

  “They’re going to launch those missiles,” the Secretary said, her voice flat and hard. “Unless somebody stops them, they’re going to launch both those nukes.”

  “If they attack China we will obliterate them,” Quang said flatly. “They know that.”

  “But if they attack the United States . .”

  Shifting uneasily in the armchair, Quang said, “That would be regrettable. And an American strike on the DPRK would be even more regrettable.”

  “What do you expect us to do?”

  “Think before you act. An American invasion of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is no more acceptable to China today than it was in 1950. And a strike against the DPRK would force us to retaliate… to say nothing of the effect the fallout would have on Japan.”

  “We wouldn’t have to nuke them, necessarily,” the Secretary of State said. But her tone was subdued, tentative.

  Quang replied, “If you attack North Korea in any way the pressures on my government to protect our Asian neighbor would be overwhelming. It is a matter of face, as well as realpolitik.”

  The Secretary studied her old friend’s unreadable expression for several moments. Then, “You’d launch a nuclear strike against us?”

  Quang stared back at her for a long, silent moment. Then he murmured, “You must realize that there are factions within our council as well. We have our own hard-liners, you must understand.”

  “But that’s just what the terrorists want! Don’t you see, they want a nuclear Armageddon!”

  “As I told you, we do not believe they are terrorists. They do not seek nuclear holocaust.”

  “Then what do they want?”

  “Control of the government in Pyongyang. Reunification with South Korea—under their terms. Economic aid. Neutralization of Japan. The removal of American bases and influence in East Asia.”

  The Secretary sagged back in her chair. It was her turn to be silent now, thinking that what the North Koreans wanted suited the Chinese government perfectly. A stalking horse, she said to herself. Could Beijing be behind this? If we react against North Korea, will the Chinese use it as an excuse for striking back at us?

  “They want the impossible,” she said at last. “What they’re going to get is pulverized.”

  “Do not overreact, I beg of you.”

  “If they nuke an American city…” The Secretary shook her head. “You saw our reaction to 9/11. And that was only a couple of buildings that were destroyed. If they wipe out Honolulu… or San Francisco… if they kill the President… For god’s sake!”

  Quang leaned forward in his chair. The Secretary noticed a thin bead of perspiration trickling down his left cheek.

  “Madam Secretary,” he said, his tone suddenly stiffly formal, “I agreed to meet with you because I—like you—wish to avert a nuclear confrontation between our two peoples.”

  The Secretary nodded warily. There was more coming, she knew.

  “However,” Quang went on, “if the United States attacks the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, my government will be forced to respond.”

  “So we’re supposed to sit still while they nuke a couple of our cities?”

  “The rebels will be caught and dealt with. Do not attack North Korea, I beg of you. If you do, China will be forced to respond.”

  “And the Russians watch us destroy each other.”

  “This has always been the weakness of the retaliation policy.”

  “Mutual assured destruction,” the Secretary murmured.

  “A policy intended to deter nuclear attack. It has worked very well between your nation and ours.”

  “And the Russians.”

  “Yes,” Quang agreed. “But when fanatics gain nuclear weapons, such a policy becomes useless. Mutual suicide.”

  With that, Quang got to his feet. The Secretary rose on shaky legs and walked him to the door. They exchanged meaningless words, and he left her alone in the sumptuous suite, leaning against the tightly shut door, wondering if the world was indeed coming to an end.

  But then she straightened and headed for the phone. The President’s off on a macho trip to San Francisco, she told herself. The Vice President’s safely in the National Redoubt, as if saving his worthless hide means anything. I’ve got to get to the Speaker of the House and Senator Yanez. Somebody’s got to take control of this situation. Somebody’s got to start acting presidential, and it might as well be me.

  Spokane, Washington: Lukkabee’s Supermarket

  Phyllis Mathiessen was more annoyed than worried. Well, no, she really was worried—about the dinner she was planning for tomorrow evening. This was the third supermarket she’d driven to this morning, and none of them had pecans. She needed pecans for the pie.

  Feeling nettled as she pushed her grocery cart along the fresh-produce aisle, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why a big supermarket chain like Lukkabee’s couldn’t keep pecans on the blessed shelves. Pecans! It’s not like she wanted something exotic. Just plain old pecans.

  She saw one of the store’s employees staring glumly at a row of empty display cases, where they usually kept the lettuce and cabbage and carrots. The shelves were bare. The man looked as if he had nothing to do. His kelly green bib overalls were spotless, as if he hadn’t lifted a crate or carried a single package all morning.

  Phyllis knew the man, at least well enough to smile at him when they passed in the store’s aisles. What was his name? She hated to peer at the tag pinned to the chest of his overalls, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember—

  Giovanni! That was his name. Was it his first name, though, or his last?

  “Good morning, Mrs. Mathiessen,” he said with a toothy smile. He was short, bald, round of face and body.

  “Good morning, Mr. Giovanni,” said Phyllis.

  “If you’re looking for lettuce, this morning’s order hasn’t come in yet.” Giovanni glanced at his wrist-watch. “They’re awful late today.”

  “No,” she said. “I want some pecans. I’m going to bake a pecan pie.”

  Giovanni made an elaborate shrug. “They were supposed to come in this morning, with the lettuce and the rest of the produce.”

  “Will they be in late
r?”

  Another shrug. “Mr. Andrews, he’s been on the phone all morning. Called the distributor. Called the trucking company. Called Mr. Lukkabee hisself, got him out of bed.”

  “What’s the matter?” Phyllis asked.

  “Everything’s all screwed up. Nobody’s computers are working. The trucking company says they can’t even tell where their trucks are because the GPS ain’t working.”

  Phyllis had the vague notion that GPS had something to do with giving you directions when you were driving. Her husband had been hinting that he’d like one for Christmas.

  “So you won’t have any pecans?”

  “Maybe later today. I dunno.”

  Phyllis tried to hide her annoyance. After all, it wasn’t Giovanni’s fault. But she blew her stack half an hour later when she pulled into the gas station and the pumps weren’t working. The warning light on her gas gauge was already blinking, and before she could pull out of line she got blocked in by another car behind her. When the impatient old jerk behind her started blasting his horn she jumped out of her car in a fury and told him to behave himself or she would call the police. It took nearly ten minutes to untangle the jam and get on her way home.

  She ran out of gas on the way, right in the middle of the highway. Nervous as a cat, she glided the Cadillac to the shoulder of the road as cars and trucks swooped past her way above the speed limit. Then she couldn’t get her husband on her cell phone. Or anybody else. Not even the AAA. The phone seemed to be dead. Phyllis broke into tears when a police car coasted to a stop behind her, its lights blinking red and blue.

  She had never had a ticket before in her whole life. And it was starting to snow.

  The Pentagon: Situation Room

  “Do you trust him?” Zuri Coggins finished pouring herself a cup of coffee before she looked up at General Higgins. The general had called for a coffee break, and almost immediately a pair of army tech sergeants had entered the situation room rolling a cart bearing three stainless steel urns, Styrofoam cups, and two trays of buns and pastries. He must have had the sergeants on call outside in the corridor all morning, she thought.

  “Trust who?” she asked the general.

  His eyes flicking across the room to where Michael Jamil still sat at the foot of the conference table, pecking away at his iPhone, Higgins whispered, “Him. The Arab.”

  “I believe he’s Lebanese,” Coggins replied.

  “Lebanese, Arab, they’re all the same.”

  General Higgins had removed his tunic and loosened his necktie. His shirt was wrinkled and he looked sweaty. He could stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds, Coggins thought. But despite his physical appearance Higgins wore four stars on his collar and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had appointed him to head this emergency action team.

  “He was born here,” she added.

  Higgins nodded as he picked up a sticky bun. “He’s an academic. I don’t trust academics. They always think they know everything, but they don’t have any real-world experience. Ivory-tower eggheads.”

  Coggins felt a mild tic of surprise. She hadn’t heard the term “egghead” since a graduate class in the history of American politics, nearly ten years earlier.

  “Yet he’s made an important point, don’t you think? If the North Koreans are targeting San Francisco…”

  Higgins snapped up half the bun in one bite. His mouth full, he still answered, “Scheib thinks that’s bullshit, and Scheib knows more about missiles than that Arab kid.”

  Coggins nodded halfheartedly and stepped away from the general, as much to avoid the spray of crumbs from his mouth as to disengage from what could become an argument. I’m not here to argue, she told herself. I’m here to report to the National Security Advisor on what this team thinks we should be doing.

  Can we shoot down their missiles? she wondered. And if we do, would the North Koreans consider it an act of war? Would the Chinese come in?

  For several moments she watched Jamil intently hunching over his iPhone. He was the only person still sitting at the table; everyone else was standing in little knots of two or three, either at the front of the conference room, where the coffee cart was, or toward the rear, where the doors led to restrooms out along the corridor.

  Abruptly, she went to her own chair and opened her minicomputer. Not much bigger than a paperback book, it still had the power and speed of the best laptops. The Department of Defense’s internal data network did not depend entirely on satellite links; it was connected across the continent by hardened landlines. With a few touches of the little machine’s keyboard, Coggins pulled up Michael Jamil’s unclassified dossier.

  Born in Baltimore, she saw. Only son of Lebanese parents who fled their country during the civil war there. They were already living in Baltimore when Israel invaded Lebanon. Graduated magna cum laude from Johns Hopkins in information technology. Hired by DoD, moved up to the Defense Intelligence Agency, appointed to National Intelligence Council last year. A bright young man, Coggins decided. Then she realized that Jamil was only a year younger than she. Well, she thought, I’m a bright young woman.

  Clicking the mini closed, she got up from her chair and walked down the table toward Jamil. He was sitting alone at the foot of the table; it seemed as if all the others—military and civilians alike—were shunning him.

  He looked up as she sat next to him. He seemed surprised, almost perplexed.

  “I have a mini, if you need something more powerful than your phone,” Coggins said.

  His expression changed. Still surprised, but now pleasantly so.

  “I was just going over the figures for the Taepodong-2,” he said, almost apologetically. “General Scheib doesn’t believe it, but those birds could reach San Francisco, I’m pretty sure.”

  With a slight smile, Coggins said, “‘Pretty sure’ isn’t going to impress Scheib. Or General Higgins.”

  “I guess not,” Jamil admitted. His voice was soft, but he was clearly upset. “The thing is, I always thought that military men based their plans on the worst that an enemy can do, not on what they hope the enemy’s likely to do.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “We ought to recommend that the President stay out of San Francisco.”

  “We’ve apprised him of the possibility.”

  Jamil shook his head. “Not strong enough. It’s got to be a recommendation from this emergency committee. Full strength.”

  “I’m afraid General Higgins doesn’t put much faith in your calculations,” she said, as gently as she could.

  “He’s a jackass, then.”

  Coggins broke into a laugh. “That may be, but he’s chairing this group.”

  Jamil hunched forward in his chair, toward her. “You’re inside the White House. Can’t you make a recommendation to the National Security Advisor? On your own?”

  Her laughter cut off. He was serious. Deadly serious. And he was putting her on the spot.

  “I… I don’t know . . .”

  He slumped back again. “You don’t believe me either.”

  “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “It’s just... well, if you’re wrong, I’d look awfully stupid, wouldn’t I?”

  Very seriously, Jamil replied, “No, you’d look awfully stupid if the President gets killed in a nuclear attack on San Francisco.”

  She stared at him. He was intent, totally convinced that she had to stick her neck out and urge the National Security Advisor to get the President to turn back. Not his neck, Coggins told herself. Mine.

  “All right,” General Higgins bawled from the front of the room, where the snack cart was parked. “We’re out of sticky buns. Let’s get back to work.”

  U.S. Route 12, Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho

  “Look! It’s starting to snow!”

  Charley Ingersoll was passing an eighteen-wheeler when his eight-year-old son, Charley Jr., gave out his delighted squeak. It was getting close to noon, they were hours away from Missoula, and now snow was falling.

  “
It’s only a few flakes,” said his wife, Martha, sitting in the right-hand seat of the SUV. Charley Jr. and Little Martha, four, had the second bench to themselves. The rear was piled high with luggage and toys.

  “Can we make a snowman?” Little Martha asked.

  Cheerily, her mother answered, “If it’s deep enough when we get home, dearie.”

  Snow, Charley thought. Bad enough to be driving all the distance from Grangeville with the two kids yapping every inch of the way. Now they’ve gotta give me snow to deal with.

  He tapped the radio button but got nothing except hissing static. Hadn’t been able to raise Sirius Radio or XM all morning. He started to fiddle with the dial, trying to get a local station, but Martha slapped his hand gently.

  “You pay attention to your driving, Charley. I’ll find us some music.”

  “Put on one of my CDs!” Charley Jr. piped.

  Over her shoulder, Martha said, “Your father wants to get the weather report, dearie. Isn’t that right, Charley?”

  He nodded vigorously. The snow didn’t seem very serious, but out here in the mountains you had to be extra careful. He remembered seeing a sign a few miles back for an RV camp. If the weather turns really bad, Charley thought, we can turn in at one of them.

  Charley craned his neck to look at the sky. Some heavy gray clouds out there, but still plenty of blue. Might just be a snow shower. Or if it’s a real storm, maybe we’ll outrun it. Storms usually come in from the west. We’re doing seventy, that’s faster than any storm can travel.

  He had put the SUV on cruise control once they had hit an area of the highway where there were only a few other cars on the road. Charley didn’t mind traffic, although he couldn’t use the cruise control when he had to keep hitting the brakes all the time. It’s those dratted semis, he complained silently. Specially when it rains, they sploosh up beside you like a dratted tidal wave.

  Martha found a local station playing country and western songs. Charley relaxed a little. If there was a bad storm coming they’d be putting out a warning instead of playing their regular music. He decided to wait until the top of the hour, when they played the news and weather. And sports. Martha didn’t know it, but he had bet money on the Seahawks.