Authors: Richard Herman
Camp David
Monday, September 6
Maddy’s mother, Maura O’Keith, was fixated on the TV as she watched the coverage leading up to the White House press conference. “Don’t you know Liz Gordon?” she asked Pontowski, referring to CNC-TV’s White House correspondent.
“In the biblical sense?” Sarah Turner asked.
“Sarah,” Maura scolded, “you have an obsession with sex. Stop it this minute. Hear?” Sarah knew when not to cross her grandmother and flounced out of the room, her fourteen-year-old worldliness insulted. Pontowski was surprised to see Patrick Shaw come through the open door.
“Mind some company?” Shaw asked.
“Please join us,” Maura said, being very civil. She detested Shaw and wondered why he hadn’t returned to Washington with Maddy. He settled onto the couch next to Pontowski and turned his attention to the TV.
“Many insiders,” Gordon said, standing on the White House lawn with the West Wing in the background, “are asking if this crisis is being exploited by the administration to prove to the voters that Madeline Turner can lead the military as commander in chief.”
“That lady,” Shaw grumbled, “is out to do some crucifying.”
The scene on the TV switched to the press conference room as the press secretary took the podium. His words were solemn and matter-of-fact as he detailed the situation. “We can confirm that the combined military forces of Iran, Iraq, and Syria have crossed the Iraq–Saudi Arabian border and are driving southward into the heart of Saudi Arabia. The situation is very fluid, and we are not certain of the scale and intensity of this incursion. But we are responding accordingly and treating it as a full-scale invasion. The president has returned to Washington and is with her advisers. We are confident that we can contain this aggression with the forces currently in place.”
Shaw caught the frown on Pontowski’s face but said nothing. “I have one announcement,” the secretary said. “Starting in one hour, DOD will be holding regular press conferences in the Pentagon’s Briefing Room. We should have a better understanding of the situation on the ground by then, and you can talk to the experts who have the latest information.” He paused, the signal for the questions to start.
Liz Gordon was first. “Will the president be holding a press conference?”
“The president will be making a statement as soon as the situation stabilizes. I expect that should happen at some point later this afternoon. We’ll notify you well in advance.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor,” Gordon shouted, “that the president was at Camp David with Matt Pontowski when the crisis broke?”
“The president did stop by Camp David for a few hours yesterday on her return to the White House to see her family. General Pontowski was there, but so was the national security adviser and key members of her staff.”
“Did she know about the invasion?” another reporter asked.
“This was before the invasion,” the secretary replied. “Of course, we were monitoring the buildup, which was taking place under the guise of a joint exercise, and the president was concerned.”
“What did she and Matt Pontowski talk about?” a woman shouted from the back of the room.
The secretary ignored her. “Next question, please. I would ask that you stay focused on the crisis at hand.”
Shaw let his contempt show. “Them id-jits only think about one thing.”
Another reporter asked, “What about casualties?”
The press secretary glanced at his notes, carefully selecting his words. The number of soldiers killed was going to be a critical issue. “The initial reports are still coming in. We do know that at least four observation posts and nine defensive fighting positions were overrun. Again, we should have better information for you at the Pentagon briefing in one hour.”
The UPI reporter gained the microphone. “In the past, deep background briefings indicated Syria and Iran were cooperating with us in the war on terrorism and trying to reenter the world community of nations. Why should they choose this course of action now?”
Silence claimed the room. “Anything I say at this time would only be speculation,” the press secretary replied.
“Is it safe to say,” the reporter answered, “that we were so preoccupied with the war on terrorism that we were ambushed?”
The press secretary repeated himself. “Anything I say at this time would only be speculation.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and the reporters jumped on that subject. Shaw heaved his bulk to a standing position. “General, can we talk?” Pontowski stood and followed him out onto the deck. Shaw leaned over the rail and gazed into the trees. “It hurts when them id-jits get it right. We were looking the wrong way and got ambushed. How bad is this?”
Pontowski trusted rattlesnakes more than he trusted Shaw, and went into a deep defensive crouch. “I imagine the CIA has a better grasp of this than I do.”
“Then how come they missed it comin’?” Shaw paused to let that sink in. “I’m askin’ for Maddy.”
“Officially?”
Shaw shook his head. “Gimme a break. You know how the system works, and you know the Pentagon. So what’s
your take?” No answer. “For Christ’s sake,” Shaw grumbled. “We’re on the same side.” He pulled out all the stops. “Maddy needs to know the worst, and she trusts you.”
Can I trust this guy?
Pontowski thought. “Give me a moment,” he said. He made a decision. “I don’t know the numbers.”
“Which means?” Shaw retorted.
“I don’t know what they’re throwing at us and exactly what we have in place. But if this is a major offensive, my guess is that we’re in a world of hurt.”
“Would it help if you knew that the Seventh Marine Expeditionary Brigade from Camp Pendleton is arriving at Dhahran International and a squadron of Maritime Prepositioning Ships is waiting for them at Ad Dammām?” He almost laughed at Pontowski’s reaction. “Them MPSs are handy things to have around, and the Air Force has one AEF in place at Prince Sultan Air Base.” An AEF was an Aerospace Expeditionary Force, a response force made up of different aircraft for rapid reaction to trouble spots around the world. “Seven more are on the way.”
The fact that the Air Force had committed eight of its ten AEFs was very troubling. Pontowski’s face hardened as a cold feeling swept through him. “So Maddy knew it was coming,” he said in a low voice.
“She had strong suspicions and was quietly movin’ things and people around. She didn’t want to set off any false alarms, not during an election.”
Well done, Maddy,
Pontowski thought. His president did need his best advice, even though it would have to go through Shaw. This was why she had asked him to stay. “I’m guessing that the UIF is going for broke. This is going to be a real slugfest. With a little luck we should be able to halt their advance somewhere in the desert. But it’s going to take major reinforcements to stabilize the situation and a hell of a lot more to go on the offensive. Given our state of readiness, it’s not going to happen fast. The system is going to be strained to the limit.”
“Will it break?” Shaw asked.
“I don’t think so. But it will take time, which is exactly what the UIF is trying to deny us.”
“So the bottom line is that we can do this,” Shaw said.
“At a price.”
“Which is?”
Pontowski pulled into himself, not liking what he had to say. “We’re going to take some heavy casualties.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Shaw muttered. He ran his mental abacus, calculating the political cost of the war. “I don’t know if Maddy can take that. Not in an election year. She’s got to keep the body count down.”
“There’s no such thing as a bloodless war,” Pontowski told him. He doubted that Shaw understood the grim cost accounting of warfare, where the very effort to avoid bloodshed only prolonged it.
Shaw pounded his fist on the wooden railing. “God damn it all!”
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 6
The Marine colonel giving the briefing was short, stocky, and bullet-headed. From all appearances he was all muscle, hard lines, and not much else. But that was wrong. Colonel Robert Scovill had authored the textbook on the formation, training, and deployment of Marine Expeditionary Battalions and was one of the best briefers in the Pentagon. Everything Scovill said was tailored to the president’s level of understanding, and his voice was cool and modulated as he described the situation on the ground in Saudi Arabia.
“Our border defenses gave a good account of themselves but were overwhelmed. Minefields have slowed the advance, but apparently the enemy has reached its first objective, the Tapline Road that parallels the border twenty to thirty miles inside Saudi Arabia, and has laagered for the night. We expect them to resume their advance at first light. If they continue in the same direction, our main force should
come in contact here.” He pointed to a line fifteen miles north of King Khalid Military City. “In conjunction with the Saudis, we have deployed six infantry battalions of approximately three thousand men and four tank battalions with a hundred thirty-seven tanks.”
“I was under the impression a tank battalion had fifty-eight tanks,” Turner said. “Can’t four battalions put more tanks in the field than that?”
“Fifty-eight is the number for a standard army tank battalion,” Scovill replied. “But we are at approximately sixty percent readiness in the forward area due to the lack of spare parts and fully trained crews.”
“Do we have enough to stop them?” the president asked.
“Probably not,” he answered.
“I’m not going to sacrifice our troops.”
Scovill shook his head. “They are not going to be sacrificed. We’re going to engage the enemy, inflict as much damage as we can, and fight a retrograde action, making him pay for every meter of ground as he advances.”
“So what exactly are you telling me?” the president demanded.
The colonel never hesitated. “We’ve got some tough fighting ahead of us before we can stabilize the situation.”
Silence. Madeline Turner pulled inside herself as the one thing she feared most loomed in front of her. She was going to be a wartime president and send men and women to their deaths. Every instinct she possessed rebelled at the thought.
So this is the price of power,
she thought.
So be it. I didn’t start this war.
But even as her resolve turned to steel, the pain remained. She would have to live with it. “Any word on casualties?”
“No hard numbers yet.”
“Then give me some soft numbers.”
Scovill thought for a moment. “Four observation posts overrun, nine defensive fighting positions wiped out, hard fighting as we retrograde—I’d guess at least fifty KIA, an equal number WIA and MIA.”
Madeline O’Keith Turner fought the pain, not letting them see what was tearing at her. “Thank you, Colonel.” She
waited for him to leave before she turned to General Wilding. “Why weren’t we better prepared?”
Wilding looked at her, never flinching. “Madam President, we’ve been telling Congress this for years. But no one was listening. We have repeatedly identified our shortfalls to the secretary of defense, and, in all fairness, we are in a better position now than two years ago.”
The president felt sick. She knew how it had happened. “Every intelligence estimate I’ve seen has stressed that there was no credible threat on this scale in the near future.” She paused for a moment. “I need to speak to the ExCom.” Everyone but the five members of the Executive Committee rose to leave. “Robert,” she said to the secretary of defense, “please stay.” The room rapidly emptied as Merritt sat back down.
“I have two questions,” the president said. “First, how did intelligence miss this so badly?” No one answered. “So what happened?” she demanded. The room was silent.
“Our estimates,” Mazie said, “were based on the assumption that no two Arab countries, much less three, would form an effective alliance to attack another Arab state.” The silence grew heavier. “Madam President,” Mazie finally asked, “what was your second question?”
“How many casualties can we expect? Leland will make it a major campaign issue, and we need to get a handle on it—now.”
Again no one answered as Merritt stared at his hands. It was a subject he had to discuss with one Senator John Leland—the sooner the better.
Over the Strait of Singapore
Tuesday, September 7
The helicopter flew high over the water as it headed for the small island that marked Singapore’s southern boundary with Indonesia. Kamigami tried to count the number of cargo ships and tankers transiting the Strait of Singapore,
but the number escaped him. “It looks like a freeway down there,” he told Gus.
“Approximately forty thousand ships transit every year,” the old man said. “Singapore handles over four hundred million tons of cargo a year, which puts us ahead of Rotterdam.”
Kamigami counted three supertankers, deep in draft, lumbering toward Japan, China, and Korea. “Does that tonnage include oil?” Gus shook his head. Kamigami was not a geopolitician, but he understood what he was seeing. Geography had made Singapore the major transshipment hub of Asia, as it was on the shortest sea route between Europe and Asia. But more important, the island nation was at the narrowest point in the Strait of Malacca and had strategic control of the Middle Eastern oil that fed Asia’s economy. “No wonder England didn’t want to give it up,” Kamigami said.
“It is a prize,” Gus replied. Even over the noise of the helicopter, Kamigami heard the worry in his voice. The scene rapidly changed as they crossed the main channel and headed for an island. “Palau Tenang,” Gus said.
Kamigami had the pilot circle the island. It was big for a Malay Archipelago island—five miles long and over two miles wide. A low hill, almost two hundred feet high and covered with dense foliage, dominated the center. Deep ravines radiated out from the dome and ran down to the shore. A dirt road ran along the shore, and Kamigami estimated he could jog around the island in full battle gear in under three hours.
Not enough,
he thought. “Fly over the center of the island and hover,” he told the pilot. The pilot did as ordered to give Kamigami a bird’s-eye view of his new domain. Because of the hill and thick jungle scrub, most of the island was uninhabitable. The ridges were very steep and reminded him of the spokes of a wheel. From his vantage point he could see the main camp on the south side of the island on a small alluvial plain. With his binoculars he picked out a route that led directly from the camp, along a ridge, over the island’s center, and then down to the road on the north shore. He estimated the direct-line distance at
under two miles. A distinctive pair of boulders dangled over the north road, and the name “Devil’s Gonads” flashed in his mind.