"Then they use WMDs," Garrett said.
"What do they have, and how much?"
"Mr. President, we estimate the DPRK is producing about three thousand tons of
chemical weapons a year. Best we can tell, they've weaponized mustard gas, sarin—you
name it, they've got it. As far as biological weapons, we believe they've weaponized anthrax, cholera, smallpox, and typhoid as well, sir. The last time I was at the DMZ—which was
maybe six months ago—a top South Korean general told me their intelligence shows that
the DPRK has between forty and seventy-five missiles armed with chemical and
biological weapons, all deployed on the front lines. They can launch without warning and would kill upward of 40 percent of the population of Seoul in less than an hour."
"And if the North goes nuclear?" Oaks asked.
Garrett was silent.
"General Garrett, I'm asking you a direct question," the president insisted. "How many could the North Koreans kill if they choose to go nuclear?"
"Mr. President, everyone in and around Seoul could be dead in less than four hours."
"How many people is that, General?"
"Twelve million," Garrett said, "including a hundred thousand Americans, sir."
Oaks winced.
"What's more, Mr. President," Garrett continued, "almost half of South Korea's population lives within an hour of the capital. The casualties, sir, would be apocalyptic."
The word jarred Oaks, though he took pains not to show it. Was that what they were
seeing—the dawn of the apocalypse?
"How much warning would we have before they attacked?" he asked.
"I suspect they're ready now, Mr. President," Garrett said. "Jack's plane was sent out 2
to confirm that. And based on the North's reaction, and all the other data we're seeing, I believe they could launch at any minute.
That's why the South Koreans and Japanese were asking the SecDef to move so
quickly, even before today's attack and the nuclear attacks back home."
Oaks could see it clearly now. Seoul and Tokyo were desperate that he not repeat the
mistakes Truman and Acheson had made back in 1950. On January 12 of that year, U.S.
Secretary of State Dean Acheson had delivered a major address at the National Press Club in which he had actually excluded South Korea from the "defensive perimeter" of U.S.
military strategy in Asia. Five months later, apparently convinced the U.S. would not
intervene, the North made their move.
Oaks remembered how infuriated his father had been, believing that
Truman and Acheson had effectively invited the war. He remembered General Dwight
Eisenhower's famous Cincinnati speech excoriating Acheson, stating, "In January of 1950, our secretary of state declared that America's so-called 'defensive perimeter' excluded areas on the Asiatic mainland such as Korea. He said in part: 'No person can guarantee such
areas against military attack. It must be clear that such a guarantee is hardly sensible or necessary. . . . It is a mistake . . . in considering Pacific and Far Eastern problems to become obsessed with military considerations.'"
Compounding matters, Acheson's top Asia expert at the time, Dean Rusk—then U.S.
assistant secretary of state for the Far East—had actually briefed Congress on June 20, stating that despite rising tensions, he did not believe an invasion of the South was likely.
Five days later, the invasion began, and the U.S. was caught disastrously unprepared to respond quickly and decisively.
There was no question now that South Korea was part of the U.S. security sphere in
Asia. But the U.S. had been steadily downsizing the number of American troops on the
peninsula. All U.S. tactical nuclear weapons had been removed from South Korea. The
danger of miscalculating again was enormous, Oaks realized.
He turned now to Admiral Arthurs. "How do we stop them, Admiral?
What's it really going to take?"
The admiral, fast approaching his forty-fifth year in the navy, took a deep breath.
"Mr. President, as you know, OPLAN 5027 is our contingency plan for a North Korean invasion," he began, somewhat tentatively. "Secretary Trainor ordered an overhaul of all our war scenarios after the Day of Devastation, based on the dramatically changed strategic situation. I'm afraid that's not yet complete."
"Just give me an executive summary of what you have," the president insisted.
"Well, sir, the version we developed for President Clinton in 2000 and updated for Presidents Bush and MacPherson called for more than 690,000 U.S. troops to be deployed
into South Korea in the event of an invasion by the North."
"Six hundred ninety thousand troops?" the president asked.
"Yes, sir," the admiral said. "We scaled that up from 480,000 in the early 1990s."
"But we've only got 25,000 U.S. troops there at the moment, right?"
"That's true, sir," Briggs said. "The plan is based on the Joint Chiefs' assessment of how many U.S. forces would be needed to drive the North back up past the 38th parallel in the event of an invasion."
"It assumes that the South would be overrun?" Oaks asked. "Yes, sir, almost immediately," the admiral said.
3
"And it assumes the entire peninsula would be held by the North until we could mobilize and deploy enough men and weaponry to drive them out?"
"Yes, sir. That's correct."
"How long would that take?"
"My staff is working on that right now, Mr. President," the admiral explained. "But it would take several months, at least; I can tell you that."
"How many troops could we get into Seoul in the next forty-eight hours?"
"Ten thousand, sir," Briggs guessed. "Maybe fifteen."
"How long would it take to get a hundred thousand troops there?" "A month, maybe longer."
"We don't have a month, do we, Admiral?"
"No, sir, I don't believe we do, Mr. President. Like I said, the DPRK could have Seoul by the end of the week, if that."
"So now we're back to my original question," Oaks said. "How do we stop a full-scale North Korean invasion of South Korea?"
"Mr. President, I'm afraid the answer isn't in OPLAN 5027." "But you do have a plan for this, right?"
"Yes, sir, but—"
"I want to see it."
"Mr. President, I have to tell you that—"
"I need to see it, Admiral. Now."
4
5:08 P.M.-SOMEWHERE OVER THE INDIAN OCEAN
Bennett had no idea where he was.
Or where he was going. Or how long he had been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? Days?
He had no point of reference. His thoughts were scrambled and foggy. He couldn't see a
thing. A black hood had been pulled over his head and was tied tightly around his neck.
Even if he had been able to see, his watch was gone. It had been stripped from him, as had his clothes, he now realized. What's more, his hands and feet were shackled, and he was strapped to a cold metal chair.
His head throbbed. Every muscle in his body ached. Perspiration dripped down his
face and neck and back. And someone was sitting very close to him.
A plane. He was on a plane, he realized as he became aware of the pressure difference
in his ears. That much was certain. Whoever was near him was now dialing an air phone.
Bennett could hear the touch-tone and someone mumbling something, though he couldn't
make out the words. And then, as quickly as he began, the man stopped talking, and
everything grew quiet again.
Bennett strained to listen for any other sound that might give him a clue as to who
was with him. Was it just one, or were there several of them? Were they armed? Were they going to beat him? kill him? If not, where were they taking him? But for no
w, he heard nothing save the roar of jet engines.
And then the fog began to lift. Like a flashback in a movie, he could suddenly see the
cement truck bearing down on him. He could see himself scrambling through the front
window of the ambulance. He could hear the impact and feel the concussion of both
explosions. He could feel the heat of the flames and see the fire roaring and crackling and hissing in the storm.
Another tsunami of guilt and grief washed over him. It had been his job to protect this woman he loved so dearly, but he had failed. He desperately wanted to believe it had all been a terrible nightmare. He longed to believe that when he opened his eyes, Erin would be sitting with him, holding his hand, in first class on some British Airways flight from Amman to London and then on to the States. But in his heart he knew it wasn't true.
She was gone. She was dead. And he was a prisoner. A hostage. A man drowning in
sorrow. His stomach ached terribly, and so did his heart. Denial was useless.
5
Daydreaming was pointless. He had lost her. He had failed her. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He began to weep, quietly at first, and then uncontrollably. No one stopped him. No
one said anything. No one cared. And then someone jabbed a needle in his arm, and that
was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
Caulfield's cell phone finally rang.
He'd been pacing the hallways of NORAD for hours. He'd been waiting for this call. But
now that it was here, he was too scared to answer it. His vision kept blurring. The intense cramps in his stomach nearly made him double over in pain. What if . . . ?
The phone rang again. And again. And a fourth time. He finally picked up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Robert Caulfield?" said a man's voice at the other end. "Speaking."
"This is Special Agent Karl Miller. I'm with the FBI field office in Dallas. I'm
returning your call."
Dallas? Caulfield had called several FBI field offices around the country in the past several hours, but he certainly didn't remember calling Dallas or talking to a Karl Miller.
Perhaps this wasn't what he thought.
"Uh, I. . . I'm not sure that I did . . . call you," he replied, his voice raspy, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed.
"You asked for Missing Persons," Miller explained. "All that's being run out of Dallas for the moment."
"Oh," Caulfield said, now even more worried than he'd been earlier. "Okay . . . right . .
. well . ."
His voice trailed off. He was sweating profusely and could barely stay on his feet. He
staggered into a nearby men's room, locked himself in a stall, and sat down, his head in his hands.
"Mr. Caulfield," the agent continued, "I understand you work for the president."
Caulfield didn't respond.
"Hello? Hello? Sir?"
He finally snapped to. "Yes? . . . What? . . . How's that?" he mumbled.
"Are you okay, Mr. Caulfield?" the agent asked.
"I'm fine," he lied. "What about my family?"
"You were calling about your mother, Dorothy Caulfield, and your younger brothers, correct?"
"That's right," Caulfield said. "How are they? Are they okay?"
"Your brothers' names are Kevin, James, Lawrence, and—"
"Christopher," Caulfield nearly shouted. "His name is Christopher. He's the baby.
Now talk to me—what's happening with them?"
The silence at the other end of the line was chilling.
"Mr. Caulfield," the agent finally said, "I hate to say this . . ."
"No."
" . . especially over the phone. But I'm afraid . . "
"No!"
6
" . . . I'm afraid I have some very bad news."
* * *
The voice of a colonel came over the speakerphone.
"Mr. President, we have the secretary-general on the line. You ready for it now?"
"One moment," the president said, turning to Briggs and those on the
videoconference. "Can you gentlemen hang on? This will only take a few minutes."
"Of course, Mr. President," Briggs replied. "Take as much time as you need. We'll be fine."
The president thanked his team, then scanned the bank of phones in front of him, picked up a receiver, and hit the one blinking line. "Salvador, is that you?"
"Yes, Mr. President; thank you for taking my call."
"Sorry I wasn't able to call sooner," Oaks replied.
"No, no, it is quite all right," Lucente said. "I can't fully imagine what you are going through, Mr. President. How are you and Marie doing?"
"We're doing reasonably well, under the circumstances," Oaks said, dodging the question about his wife. "Thanks for asking. I appreciate it very much."
"Of course, Mr. President," Lucente said. "I wanted to tell you personally that I am doing everything I possibly can to build an international coalition to punish whoever is responsible for this. I know you've had your hands full just dealing with the immediate crisis, but I went ahead anyway. I hope you don't mind."
"Actually, I am very grateful," Oaks said. "My staff told me about your press conference.
It was the first bit of good news we had in hours. But, Salvador, before we go any further, please accept my condolences for the loss of your staff in Manhattan. It was our duty to protect them. I cannot tell you how horrible I feel about our failure to do just that. Please forgive us. Please forgive me personally."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Lucente replied. "You are very thoughtful. But you have nothing for which you must apologize. We have all suffered in this tragedy. Indeed, in
talking to leaders all over the world, I can tell you firsthand that the entire international community is grieving for the evil that has been unleashed. What's more, I believe we are more united today than ever before, and perhaps that can be a positive legacy from all of this horror."
"Perhaps it can," Oaks said. "Where are you right now?"
"En route to Beijing, Mr. President," Lucente explained. "I just left Babylon."
"How is my friend Mustafa?" Oaks asked, choosing not to comment on the reference to China.
"Sickened by your losses," Lucente replied. "He wants to know if there is anything he can possibly do to help."
Oaks didn't miss a beat. "He could stand down his 150,000 or so troops headed into Kurdistan."
Lucente seemed caught off guard. "I'm not sure it's quite that many, Mr. President."
"It's at least that many, Salvador, and I won't have it," Oaks said firmly. "Not today. Not right now. The last thing we need is another war in the Middle East."
"I quite agree, Mr. President. But the Kurds' timing couldn't have been worse.
They've declared independence at a time that could really provoke a conflict."
7
"Then why are you flying back to Beijing? You need to get Mustafa to pull troops back—now—before things spin out of control."
"It's a problem, I know," Lucente said, conceding the obvious. "But compared to the situation between you and China, I must say it doesn't even come close. I will see
Premier Zhao in a few hours. Perhaps there is a message I could convey for you, Mr.
President."
"I will call the premier myself in a few minutes," Oaks said. "But my message to him will be the same message I give to Mustafa: stand down."
"Beijing has mobilized its military because you have, Mr. President," Lucente said.
"They mean no harm. They're only taking defensive measures."
"Salvador, have you seen the intelligence?" Oaks countered. "Those aren't defensive measures. The PLA looks like it's getting ready to invade Taiwan, and the Taiwanese are apoplectic."
"The premier insists he has no hostile intent," Lucente reiterated. "But he fears you are about to blame them
for the attacks on your cities." "Should I?" Oaks asked, careful not to tip his hand.
"No, Mr. President," Lucente insisted.
"You sound quite certain, Salvador."
"China is not your enemy, Mr. President. Of this I am sure." "Then who is?"
Lucente was silent.
"If you know something, Salvador, now is the time to tell me," Oaks said.
"I have spoken with the chiefs of several intelligence agencies within the last few hours," Lucente said.
"And?"
"They have nothing definitive."
"But they have something."
"Pieces. Chatter. Nothing conclusive."
"Where does it point, Salvador?" Oaks pressed. "I have to know." Lucente paused.
"The world cannot afford a miscalculation, Salvador," Oaks insisted.
"My only reluctance to speak is that my job is supposed to be that of a peacemaker,"
Lucente protested, "not judge, jury, and executioner."
"You'd be none of the above," Oaks said. "Only a witness."
"Fair enough," Lucente said, "but please don't say anything—publicly or privately—
about where you are getting this."
"We're doing an intensive investigation, Salvador," Oaks assured him. "We won't take any action unless we have hard evidence. But I need every lead I can get at the moment."
"Very well," Lucente said. He took a deep breath and then said, "Everything I'm hearing points to Pyongyang."
8
5:42 A.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER
Bobby Caulfield didn't hang up the phone.
He slammed it onto the men's room floor, where it smashed into pieces. Then he
stomped on each piece until it was just bits of plastic that scattered like dust under his feet.
He burst out of the stall and grabbed his briefcase off a sink. He tore through it in a rage but didn't find what he wanted. It was gone. All of it. How was that possible? Where was he going to get more?
Caulfield grabbed the leather bag and flung it against the bathroom mirror. When all
of its contents spilled out and crashed onto the cold tile, his rage only seemed to intensify.