The Persian Paradox “Allies and Consequences”

By Michael Reen

When a powerful bomb blast rocks Beijing’s historic Tiananmen Square during the National Day parade, all hell breaks loose in China’s capital. The explosion is no accident—it’s an attempt on the life of the Chinese president, and it’s successful, killing not only the premier but also several top Chinese officials and hundreds of civilians. The assassination sends shock waves that reach all the way to the U.S. White House, where the first woman president Hailey Duncan, struggles to determine who’s responsible and how our government should react. The United States has a vested interest in ensuring that China, under new leadership, remains stable, since instability in China would have a devastating effect on the American economy. When President Duncan and her top advisors discover who may actually be behind the killings, they also realize there is much more at stake. Spies, double agents, terrorists, and an organization dedicated to a free and democratic Iran will clash in a game of cat and mouse that puts the future of the world’s Middle East oil supply at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jan 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781621832799

Michael Reen

Michael Reen holds a degree in Political Science, and a passion for politics especially at the Presidential and geo-political level.Michael spent 6 years on the Navy’s bomb squad, formally known as EOD, a special-operations career that introduced him to many exceptional people, took him to multiple countries, and provided him with experiences that shaped his writing style, in addition to a wealth of ideas to draw from while creating The Persian Paradox.After spending his Navy career and almost twenty additional years in San Diego, Michael now makes his home in his native southern Michigan home. His other pursuits include golf, cooking, travel, and a love for arguing and discussing politics with his close group of friends and family.Some of his favorite authors are Tom Clancy, Stephen King and Earnest Hemingway.

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Chapter One

1 Oct 2017

0637 Washington, DC

1837 Beijing, PRC

Excuse me, Madam President.

Madam President?

Madam President!

Hailey Rodgers Duncan stopped swimming mid-stroke and gazed upward from the pool at Lt. Commander Joe Severino, who was looking down at her from the edge, feeling both concerned and slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the scantily clothed president. Interrupting POTUS (President of the United States) during her Saturday morning swim at the Pentagon’s enlisted pool was enough to make a newly minted lieutenant commander acutely aware of his junior status. It also placed him in the somewhat awkward position of talking to the leader of the Free World in her bathing suit and swim cap—looking decidedly like one of his mother’s contemporaries at the Cota de Coza golf and tennis club in Orange County.

The seriousness of the moment—or maybe it was the Secret Service agent who was now by his side and straight-up glowering at him—snapped him back to reality.

Special Agent Browning was making absolutely no secret of his displeasure at the interruption of the flow of POTUS’s workout, potentially disrupting the highly orchestrated nature of activities conducted by the POTUS detail. Even on a weekend, every movement and every second of the day was scheduled and adhered to as closely as possible, and the agent undoubtedly was perturbed that this squid was threatening to ruin the Saturday routine.

Madam President, I’m very sorry to interrupt you, Severino said, casting a somewhat nervous yet increasingly irritated glance toward Agent Browning. He was only doing his job, after all.

That’s quite all right, Commander, came the voice from the pool. How can I help you?

Well, um… me? The president hadn’t just asked how she could help him, had she? Focus and move on, he told himself. Ma’am, there is a situation that the watch commander feels warrants your immediate attention.

What is it, Commander? Hailey grabbed onto a lane marker and pulled off her goggles, giving Commander Severino her you have my full attention, but this better be good, look, which did absolutely nothing to calm his uneasiness. Agent Browning was now muttering something into his wrist microphone.

Madam President, I think you’d better come with me, he said with all of the confidence he could muster, knowing how not well this was going to be received by the Secret Service. But one look around the pool area at the small clusters of enlisted men and women who were now hanging on their respective lane markers and trying to figure out just what was going on apparently told both Hailey and Browning everything they needed to know. There were ears and eyes around that didn’t need to know what was going on yet.

Okay, let’s go, gentlemen, she said extending her arms toward Severino and Browning. One thing she and every POTUS before her had quickly learned was that when the military guys said, I think you’d better come with me, they meant it. Help an old lady out, gentlemen? she chirped in response to their hesitant looks at her outstretched hands. Browning and a very surprised Severino grabbed her by the wrists and forearms and lifted her petite frame up and out onto the pool deck.

Thank you, boys, she said, seeming unconcerned to be seen in a bathing suit. An agent with a towel and robe appeared as if from nowhere, and POTUS was wrapped in the familiar shade of dark blue terrycloth with the ubiquitous presidential seal on the left breast. A ball cap and flip-flops completed the basic requirements for the moment, and they were ready to move.

Let’s go then, Severino said. Please follow me, Madam President.

***

At the youthful age of fifty-four, Hailey figured she shouldn’t still be trying to catch her breath as they walked toward the waiting golf cart. That swim was way harder than it used to be—even after only a thousand meters. She slid into a seat for the ride across the Pentagon to the CENTCOM situation room underneath the second-innermost ring and two levels below ground. The lieutenant commander took the driver’s seat.

Civilians stopped to stare at the procession as they whizzed by, recognizing the seal first, the ball-cap wearing diminutive figure in the passenger seat next, and then confirming the mirage when they saw the Secret Service agents running alongside and following in the cart behind. Half of them seemingly talking to their shirtsleeves, the other half giving out looks that clearly said to get out of the way now, and looking very much like they meant it.

The hundreds of active duty personnel they passed were less of an obstacle to their progress. Most took it in stride, getting a minor chuckle at the civilians and their largely flustered semi-incredulous reactions before quickly returning to their tasks. Hailey noticed that some of them were in quite a hurry of their own, and she wondered just what the hell was going on.

I’m very sorry to interrupt your morning, Madam President, was all that the lieutenant commander seemed comfortable saying during the ride. This doesn’t look like it can wait, though.

That’s quite all right, Commander. I’m sure the pool isn’t going anywhere soon, and I feel like I’ve worked off most of last night’s pasta anyway. She elbowed him in the side, hoping to put him more at ease. It wasn’t working.

Here we go. He pulled the cart to a stop and sprang from the driver’s seat, heading to a corridor entrance security keypad. The placard next to the door read CENTCOM.

Okay, the jig is up, somebody needs to start spilling it—what the hell is going on? Hailey Duncan was the goddamn president and was through waiting for whatever this was.

Right this way, ma’am. The lieutenant commander passed his magnetic card over the reader and placed his right index and middle fingertips on the fingerprint reader. Hailey waited impatiently, though by now she should be used to this security business. After an audible click that accompanied a green light, he pushed the door open and held it for Hailey and the two Secret Service agents who preceded her, as well as the four who followed.

Hailey had been to several of the situation rooms in the Pentagon, receiving briefings every Saturday after a swim for the last six months here, but she hadn’t been in CENTCOM’s before and briefly wondered why. Entering the room, she could tell instantly that something big was going down. Everyone who wasn’t on the phone seemed hypnotized by whatever was happening on the huge monitors mounted on the wall.

One monitor was showing choppy footage that looked as though it was coming from a hand-held video camera, or maybe a cell phone. The subject seemed to be a massive group of soldiers streaming into and away from a burning building with a tall wall that looked instantly familiar but lacked the field of vision or scope for her to place it just yet. There seemed to be a large archway configuration and both people and smoke were pouring out of it chaotically and profusely, while others, ostensibly from her first impression, were in the early stages of rescue efforts.

The middle monitor of the three she instantly recognized as one of the high-resolution spy satellite images drilled down to neighborhood level. It was apparent to her that the neighborhood was seriously on fire in multiple locations.

What happened, did the Red Wings win the cup? Hailey cracked. No, wait, that doesn’t look like Detroit to me.

At the sound of her voice several heads snapped around, and calm was almost instantaneous. For a few seconds the only perceptible conversation was from a junior Air Force officer in the corner yelling at someone on the other end

Madam President, good morning.

"Good morning, Al. What the hell is going on? Al Snyder was the Deputy NSA director with China as his portfolio. Hailey quickly surmised his presence answered her question as to the basic geography of the images on the monitors.

China, I take it? She glanced back and forth between the situation in the room, which was once again growing more vibrant as conversations resumed, and the two monitors that were actively showing images. That neighborhood is starting to look familiar.

Yes ma’am, that’s Tiananmen Square, and those burning buildings are from the top, the Main Gate to the Forbidden City, to the left, the Great Hall of the People, and toward the bottom portion, Mao’s Mausoleum. Snyder gestured toward the satellite image monitor. And over here what we have is a loop of the last three minutes approximately of coverage on CCTV before someone pulled the plug on the entire network.

CCTV is off the air entirely? Hailey said. It was unbelievable that China’s state-run television network had gone dark. The thought that one person could give an order and one fifth of the planet could be cut off from all television was almost incomprehensible to someone who had 300 or more channels available to him or her for about fifty bucks a month.

Yes ma’am, every channel, even the weather.

When did this happen? Hailey started to wonder what she was doing when all hell had apparently broken loose in the Chinese capital.

About thirty-five minutes ago, Snyder said, looking at his watch.

And CCTV is still off the air?

Yes ma’am, that monitor over there is tuned in, so we’ll have an image as soon as they decide to share with the world what’s going on. He pointed to the blank monitor.

The in-house advantage that authoritarian governments had always enjoyed and subsequently exploited throughout history was virtually complete control of the media. If not always in term of content, frequently in complete control of availability, especially since the advent of television, which had the dual distinction of allowing an explosion in media content capability while simultaneously reducing the number of sources, making it vulnerable to manipulation in both content and availability.

And just what is going on, Al? The internal process in Hailey Duncan’s mind was telling her to get moving and start thinking, but she needed more information first.

Well, as near as we can tell, either China has suffered a massive and coordinated terror attack, or there is a coup underway as we speak, he said matter-of-factly. Hailey understood that what he really meant was that they knew almost nothing.

A coup? The words seemed to sound as crazy to her as the thought itself. A coup in the world’s largest country? A coup in the country with the world’s largest standing army, and a nuclear arsenal of unconfirmed size and capability? The thought sent a chill down her spine as images flew through her head of an unstable regime going rogue on the world. Deputy Snyder, let me be clear here: what do we know for sure?

All conversations in their immediate vicinity softened or halted in reaction to her change in tone of voice.

At this moment, unfortunately, not much, ma’am. We were monitoring the National Day parade as a matter of routine when all hell broke loose. If the sound were up on the looping monitor over there, you would hear the usual clap-trap about the wonders and might of China’s military power on display, and then two almost simultaneous explosions out of view of the camera, then another one a few seconds later after they had shifted camera feeds.

He pointed to the monitor. As you can see, the camera that was the only feed live at the time went off the air with the second one. Based on the camera angle, that one was located near the main gate to the Forbidden City, so it missed the attack on the Great People’s Hall, and the one that ostensibly killed or took down that signal, and then the feed switched to a handheld over in another location. By the time that one could focus in on the main gate, all it did was pick up the audio of the third explosion. That’s why in the video it shifts all around, seeming to show only smoke, but we don’t see any explosions live.

I guess that’s something Hollywood would have had to script for us to see them all, eh?

Yes ma’am, I guess so. He shrugged. We’re reviewing the entire broadcast to see if we can scrub some sort of intel and try to figure what exactly this was.

The government-controlled CCTV had been predictably broadcasting the images of national power and pride that any more evoked yawns of familiarity in the Western world. Legions of soldier marching in perfectly ordered and synchronized formations, punctuated by the most fearsome-looking mechanized units. Observers murmuring that it was perhaps as much to intimidate domestically as internationally. The Type 101 Main Battle Tank, fresh from the proving grounds of Urumqi in Western China, was this year’s source of prideful smiles among the gathered generals and party elites. Claims of superiority to any Western tank made it the darling of attention both inside and outside of China. NATO had been sharing intelligence gathered by both HUMINT (human intelligence) and months of daily and nightly satellite imagery for a year and a half now. Superiority was not fully conceded, yet it was proving a competent entry in the high-stakes field of heavy armor.

Today, however, was the Type 101’s grand coming-out party, and CCTV was sure to give it the attention worthy of this year’s homecoming queen in American parlance. The procession of tanks had indeed been occupying almost half of the parade route, wrapping around Tiananmen Square and passing on three sides of the Mausoleum of Chairman Mao Zedong when all hell broke loose. Not that the tanks could have done much about it, not carrying live rounds to a parade since the 1980s. After the assassination of Anwar Sadat in Egypt, the generally accepted international wisdom was that having leaders in the presence of large numbers of armed underpaid soldiers might not be prudent. The visual symbolism of their impotence was strikingly apparent to anyone witnessing, however, and so at exactly 18:17 local time in Beijing, CCTV went dark.

Such was the point of having state-controlled media, after all. Messages were variables, but the politburo still had their hands on the levers of infrastructure. Controlling the messenger in this case put them firmly in control of the message, Hailey knew.

Special agent Jennifer Barnes held out a pair of Levis and a University of Michigan Law School sweatshirt. Here are your civvies, Madam President.

Thank you Jennifer. Hailey took the jeans and sweatshirt and for a brief second considered changing on the spot. She considered the awkwardness of ordering the room to avert their eyes, knowing full well they certainly would, but that just wasn’t her way. Since it wasn’t the United States that had been attacked this morning (Yet, she thought), she would show a little more decorum.

There is a restroom right over there, Madam President. Severino gestured toward an alcove in the corner of the room behind a transparent status board that was currently the other focus of attention for a cluster of concerned-looking senior officers.

Thank you, commander. With that, Hailey elected not to wait for her security detail and half-jogged, which is all one can really expect in flip-flops after all, and disappeared into the only privacy she was likely to have for quite some time.

Thank God Jenny remembered everything—even a scrunchie for my wet hair, she thought. She quickly twisted her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and pulled it through the back loop of her ball cap.

Emerging from the relative quiet of the restroom into a now noticeably more active and energized situation room, she felt herself shifting gears and remembering why they had dragged her dripping wet in her bathrobe across one of the world’s largest buildings to bring her here as fast as was possible. It was to have her here right now. She was in charge, the Boss, the Kahuna, the Chick-in-Chief, an expression she had initially hated, but had come to embrace with a sassiness she found enjoyable in a hyperbolic-humor context.

The others were already doing their jobs; she didn’t have to worry about that, thank God. This was the finest military the world had ever seen, and it was operating at this very moment in a way it had rehearsed or executed hundreds if not thousands of times in some reasonable facsimile to this crisis. They were getting every bit of loose information at their disposal and starting to categorize and distill that information on the fly at breakneck speed. Messages were flying to alert force, fleet, wing, and unit commanders around the globe in over a hundred foreign nations. Allies were being contacted, and coordinated briefings were being scheduled. Officers and men were being subjected to emergency recalls and located, then ordered to report to duty immediately. Ships were being put to sea, planes launched, all without POTUS having to do a thing. Such was the efficiency inherent in the doctrine of the U.S. military. Practice, practice, practice, all for situations like this, so that POTUS didn’t have to get bogged down with the minutiae of the moment. Hailey Duncan had a healthy respect and regard for the junior and senior leadership because they were there to sweat the details so she wouldn’t have to.

Let’s go, she barked at the detail. Get me to the White House. Al, you and Commander Severino come with me in the limo. I want to hear more about what we know on the way. With that, she started for the door, taking one last look at the satellite image of Tiananmen Square, now swarming with emergency vehicles among three huge plumes of smoke.

Commander Severino? An officer at a desktop computer with a huge monitor was frantically trying to get the commander’s attention. I think you may want to look at this before you go.

The procession stopped, and all eyes turned to Air Force Captain Ken Hall who suddenly felt like his whole career was riding on the importance of what he was about to show the commander and the President of the United States.

Hall had been looping the CCTV feed over and over again, and thought he might be onto something. He hoped he was right when he saw POTUS following Severino to his desk.

What is it Captain? Severino said with his best "I’m staying calm but this better be good, I’m in a bit of a hurry here" look on his face.

Ma’am, sir, I’ve been looping the CCTV feed and I’ve found something on here that may be a step in helping to unravel this giant turdball…oh I’m sorry Ma’am-I mean Madam President! I didn’t mean to say…um…

That’s quite all right, Captain, I live with a sailor and I’ve heard worse, trust me. Hailey felt for the guy; he would probably hear it from the Air Force general who was now looking over his shoulder. What do you have for us?

Well ma’am, I’ve been looping the original feed from the camera that was mounted on the gate to the Forbidden City end of the square. Right here, just before the first explosion, which is almost exactly three seconds before this camera is taken out by the second explosion, look over here— Hall pointed to the edge of the monitor screen and with a mouse-click looped the film twice, for about five seconds each run-through. Did you notice the truck?

What the hell are you talking about? the general growled. What truck?

Right here. Hall pointed to the east side of Tiananmen Square and looped the tape again.

That white thing? What is it? Severino asked before Hailey could say it.

I think it’s a cement truck, sir.

You called us over here for a goddamn cement truck? the general asked incredulously.

Just a moment, General. Hailey was intrigued. This captain was unlikely to have alerted everyone and held up POTUS herself unless he had seen something important. Please continue, Captain.

This truck comes from nowhere and enters Tiananmen Square during the National Day military parade moving at what looks like thirty-five to forty miles per hour right before two explosions, and right before a third explosion. If you look at this map, right about where he would need to be if he was driving straight toward the Mao Mausoleum in time to be at the Mausoleum about the time of the third explosion, near as I can tell from this image on Google Earth. Hall clicked a key and up popped an image of Tiananmen Square. Right about here is where that truck is I think. Hall pointed to a secondary street that intersected with the parade route quite close to the Mao memorial.

I’m guessing he isn’t a local cement truck driver lost on his way to a pour, POTUS said, filling in the silence, who then found himself in the middle of the parade—is what you’re saying, Captain?

That’s exactly what I’m saying, ma’am. A cement truck could smash through just about any sort of roadblock that might be nearby. From there he just has to avoid a collision with one of these Type 101s. I used to work construction for my folks when I was in college, and the drum of a cement truck could hold a lot of, say, ammonium nitrate.

That’s the explosive that brought down the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Severino said. The size of the damage we’re looking at would fit a cement mixer full of fertilizer and diesel fuel. It worked for McVeigh and Nichols; it could’ve worked there.

Hailey listened and watched as the leadership around her performed their jobs.

Call the liaison to the PRC Army, Severino told his assistant, Ensign Bolfrass. Find someone with as much clearance as you can find and get them to the White House.

Yes sir, I’m on it. And Bolfrass was gone, running for the nearest unoccupied phone.

Severino smacked Hall on the shoulder. Outstanding work, Captain. Email that clip to me ASAP. I’ve got a limo to catch. He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

Roger that, Commander. Hall exhaled and leaned back into his chair.

Hailey exited the CENTCOM situation room, her cell phone to her ear. On the other end was a very focused and agitated Francine Raymond, who now was quite obviously relieved to have established contact with POTUS. Francine, I want the Joint Chiefs, NSA, CIA, and the Secretary of State in the oval office in one hour.

It occurred to Hailey at the moment she hung up, that she hadn’t had her phone until just now. How is it you had my phone? she whispered to Stephanie Robinson, her personal valet or bodyman. Stephanie was walking briskly beside her, able to keep up easily with POTUS since she was several inches taller than the diminutive leader of the Free World. Hailey tried to say it quietly enough to avoid being overheard by the Secret Service agents who were hustling them into the golf carts. She thought she had succeeded; the detail seemed rather outwardly focused and occupied at the moment, most of them intermittently talking into their sleeves.

I dropped it in the locker room when I was retrieving your clothes, Madam President, Agent Barnes whispered over the shoulders of the two women before Stephanie could respond.

There really isn’t any privacy, is there? Hailey said, and the three women from three distinctly different age groups shared a quick, knowing look. Agent Barnes surely didn’t need anyone asking why she was careless or flustered enough to remember a hair scrunchie but lose temporary custody of the world’s most important cell phone. Stephanie had merely been in the right place at the right time to see the phone under the bench in front of the locker marked POTUS in the enlisted women’s room at the pool. She would cover for Barnes because she liked her. No one had been harmed, so there was no reason to let anyone know outside of the three of them.

Outside the Pentagon, the golf cart came to a stop at the limo, and Hailey stepped inside and took her seat. She spotted Severino jogging toward them, out of breath; it was obvious he’d been running for a bit, his laptop under one arm, his jacket and his cover under the other, a briefcase strap somehow staying on his shoulder. Agent Browning, not amused, barked, Hurry up, Commander! Once POTUS was inside, that was normally when this show was on the road, and this guy was holding up the show.

I had to grab my laptop—sorry, Severino managed to get out between huge breaths. He had just run almost a mile as fast as he could carrying all of this crap. He practically dove into the back seat of the limo and felt relieved the door hadn’t slammed on him half a second earlier—that gorilla Browning used might have taken his foot off at the ankle. He figured that was a bit of a message from Browning. The motorcade was doing 50 mph before Severino got his bearings and realized he probably didn’t need a seatbelt. There wasn’t going to be any cross traffic for the nine minutes it would take to get to the White House.

Chapter Two

1 Oct 2107

0928 Washington, DC

2138 Beijing, PRC

Washington, DC—Oval Office

President Xu? You’re telling me they killed the president of China? Hailey felt at once lightheaded and very small as she walked into the Oval Office. Heads of state had been victims of violence throughout the annals of history; it was a condition met by leaders for as long as there had been leaders. This moment felt different, though, entirely different from the times she had spent learning and memorizing names and dates from a history book. This seemed even more surreal than the attempt on President Reagan’s life, which had stunned the nation when she was in college. The assassination of Anwar Sadat in Egypt had come to her mind on the trip from the Pentagon to the White House due to the military parade parallel.

But this assassination had a profoundly different feel to her because now she was a world leader. There were people desperate enough or crazy enough to want her dead to advance their particular cause. And this had happened to someone she had sat with in the Oval Office. She had enjoyed a delightful evening in the residence with President Xu Jao and his wife just four months earlier. This was personal.

Do we have any idea yet who or why? she asked her assembled security team, starting the meeting before she had even reached her desk. They were all on their feet, and she motioned for them to be seated. Were there any Americans? Were there any other leaders? Anyone else from the Chinese leadership?

Blank stares were the immediate response to her rapid-fire questioning.

Where is Director Griffis? Hailey was growing more frustrated by the second with the lack of responses, and at the moment, she wanted her CIA director in the room so she could start barking at a dog she suspected might be able to bark back. With a deep breath and a long exhale, she sat down in her high-backed chair behind Franklin Roosevelt’s enormous desk. It was the desk that fit her best when they had been offering furniture for her to choose from. It was lower than the other options due to Roosevelt’s being wheelchair bound.

She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. My apologies, gentlemen. I probably threw out a few questions there that are going to require several of you and a bit of time to answer. Let’s try it from the beginning, simple ones first. Where is my CIA director?

Just arriving at the portico, Madam President, Francine Raymond answered, emerging from her private entrance into the Oval Office.

Thank you Francine. At least somebody had an answer to something.

So far President XU, Secretary Ting, Secretary Xemin, and General Chang are all among the confirmed dead, according to Ambassador Valentine, Raymond read from a handwritten note.

My God, you’re telling me that China has lost its head of state, two of its most senior party members, its foreign minister, and their… Her voice trailed off and she struggled to remember the position held by General Chang, whom she could visualize but couldn’t quite place.

Army Madam President, General Chang is-or was the top People’s Army official. My guess is he was standing tall right next to President Xu when the blast near the main gate to the Forbidden City went off. Joint Chiefs Chairman Admiral John Drennen filled in her thought.

Thank you, John. I couldn’t place him for a second.

Yes ma’am. The room started to relax; the boss was getting answers, and a rhythm was developing among the group.

What about our people? I take it Ambassador Valentine has made it back to the embassy? Hailey wanted a map to study as she thought about how far the U.S. embassy was from Tiananmen Square. A map would make her feel more directly engaged. I want to go to the Sit-Room, gentlemen, if you please. She stood and started for the door, but Francine stepped forward to intercept her and get her aside for the moment, letting the others pass: members of the Joint Chiefs, NSA head Robert Simmons, China desk deputy Al Snyder, CIA deputy director-ops Roger Gant, and Lt. Cdr. Severino.

How are you doing? Francine asked Hailey when it was just the two of them and two Secret Service agents standing a few feet away.

I’m fine, why? Don’t I look it? She had to admit, blue jeans, a sweatshirt, a ball cap, and a ponytail probably were not how the other leaders around the world were scrambling around their various digs at the moment. I’m just trying to take it all in. What does the manual say?

It says ‘wing it.’ I looked it up.

Great, that’s quite a help. What would I do without you? With each reassured that the other was firmly in the moment, they hurried to the Situation Room located underneath the West Wing.

Once seated before the group, Hailey started over. Admiral Drennen, I’d like you to give me a run-down on what we’ve done and where we’re already heading so far. Hailey knew it was time to start filling in more pieces where she could. Getting the discussion going was always easy—simply ask the military guys what was happening. She had found they could update you to a degree never imagined until fully experienced in person. When one tired (and they never seemed to tire), another simply stepped in.

Yes, Madam President. Drennen stood at attention, giving Hailey a look and shifting his eyes toward the body of people in attendance. It struck her immediately that they were all standing at attention and all very much looked like they’d bust if they had to wait another five seconds without picking up their phones or getting on their tablets.

At ease, everyone, my apologies. She shook her head in self-rebuke. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the military’s fixation with rank, and the attending protocols that went with it. It was merely that not having served herself, she simply forgot to do her part sometimes to tell them to relax and do their jobs. It always seemed to be shading toward unnecessary to her.

Hailey had never shaken the humility that it brought to her as an individual. She had tried with every bit of intellect at her disposal to make sure that outwardly, President Hailey Rodgers Duncan, the forty-fifth president of the United States, was in fact firmly in control of the situation and certainly not anyone who could be mistaken for commander-in-chick. The awesome responsibility of the office was something nobody can prepare a POTUS to handle—it is strictly OJT. A fact that the six living presidents had all somberly and somewhat wistfully raised their glasses to during the POTUS-a-Palooza as her predecessor had called the half-day gathering between them the previous summer. Hailey had called them all together in the Oval Office, using the funeral of Senator Matthew Overmiller of Kansas who had presided over the Senate for almost twenty of his forty-six years in the Senate, spanning the duration of all their administrations. Buried in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors befitting the Silver Star for Combat valor and two Purple Hearts he had received during his time in Viet Nam. They had shared stories, wisdom, a few laughs, a few barbs, and before leaving had all agreed that the well-chronicled accelerated aging process that seemed so visible in photographs and paintings of Presidents dating back to Lincoln’s time were directly, or at least overwhelmingly caused by the tremendous weight on their minds, bodies, and souls of the Commander-in-Chief mantle they all had worn. All of them had commanded during times of international conflict, ranging from the Cold War with its various flare-ups, to guerilla wars, to wars that were indeed historic and gargantuan on the landscape of international relations. The ramifications of decisions made by these five men and one woman were the decisions schoolchildren would someday be compelled to learn and memorize in their lessons as benchmarks in history for their eras. Some were easy to categorize and typecast as non-controversial and just, easy to cast in the good vs. evil mold. The motivations for decisions made by past commanders-in-chief weren’t always obvious, nor were the outcomes always noble or right, when seen in balance against the costs and outcomes. But all of those moments had started exactly like this: POTUS enters Sit-Room, entire room stands, POTUS says at ease, decisions on whose ass gets targeted for kicking, where and when follows.

Thank you, Madam President. Drennen sat down while looking around the room as if to say, Let’s get some boys—a curious look to Hailey, since there really wasn’t any sort of clear enemy to be targeted, and maybe there wouldn’t be.

They would all admit privately, she knew, that they hoped never again to have to give combat orders. All of the men in this room had at one time or another both been given and asked to give out such missions, several of them many more times than they cared to remember, and definitely with more tragically sad letters to write afterward than they cared to think about. Outwardly, however, they were as ready for any conceivable crisis or conflict as their vast resources allowed. Each had his own fiefdom: Army, Navy, Air Force, Intelligence, and Homeland Security. The pyramid topped out at Hailey, and nobody’s ass was going to get kicked or put on the line without her say-so.

Hailey nodded to Drennen to proceed.

If we turn our attention to the monitor in the middle, we have Southeast Asia and the Western Pacific Rim. Drennen gestured toward the bank of monitors that lined one wall of the Sit-Room. To the left we are monitoring the primary news channel feed from CCTV. A Chinese anchor was reading from notes and trying to look as calm as he could but not quite pulling it off. It always amazed Hailey how people on TV looked so different when you couldn’t hear the sound. Trying to ascertain from their body language and facial expressions what the topic was and the emotional state was a practice she had taken from a communications class while at Wellesley, and she had found it to be a useful skill throughout her legal and political career.

How long were they down? she asked of nobody in particular.

Almost two hours, Madam President, replied Jay Harkins, the director of National Intelligence. They’ve been broadcasting normalized programming on all of their channels except for the two primary news feeds. They’ve been quite adamant that things are under control, nothing to see here, nothing to be concerned about, just a couple of fires and such, everybody just move along type of stuff. They are trying pretty hard to come across calmly—things will be investigated swiftly and thoroughly, those found to be responsible will surely be dealt with swiftly and harshly, yada yada. The sort of things you’d expect from almost any country that had such a crap-bucket dropped on ’em on a national holiday the way they have.

Artfully put, thank you.

Yes, Madam President, my apologies. I would also observe on my own that they appear to be taking a page from our very own playbook on this one.

How so? Hailey wondered where this connection was heading.

They are saying quite a few things in their own parlance of course, but pretty close in literal terms to what we said to the nation and the world in the hours and days after the September 11 attacks. The usual we’ll get ’em come hell or high water stuff, straight from the PR handbook for leaders filed under ‘In case of shit storm break glass and read here.’ You know, rattle sabers, shake fists, be seen in or on smoking rubble and so forth.

That’s an interesting assessment indeed. What’s next—do they invade someone next month? Hailey hadn’t meant to sound quite as sarcastic as that came out, but she wasn’t entirely buying into the director’s take on the situation. Besides, she had looked all over the office for that damned manual and had yet to find it. Director Harkins, if you haven’t already done so, I’d like you to start working on an SNIE (Special National Intelligence Estimate) of the situation as soon as possible. I’ll kindly ask that you have it on my desk tomorrow at, say, nine a.m. Hailey glanced at her watch and felt a twinge of pity for the CIA and NSA staffers who would be working all night to get the SNIE on her desk the next morning.

Yes Madam President, nine a.m. CIA Director-Ops Gant picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed his office. Debbie, get Deputies Nguyen and Olsen in my office in forty-five minutes. Tell them an SNIE on China is in their cards and ask them to start jawboning. Thanks—I’ll be along shortly. Gant checked his watch, feeling like every minute he was spending here was just delaying his review of the most pressing document in his world at the moment.

I’m guessing that’s a quick summation of China’s public response, Hailey said. "It seems we’ve interrupted you, Admiral Drennen—please continue. I’m envisioning a detailing from you of their