Page 30 of Dead Heat


  James was silent for a beat, clearly moved by the general's simple yet sincere expression of faith.

  "Thank you, General Park. I'm touched, and I'll take all the prayers I can get," he finally replied. "Please tell the president how grateful I am, and when all this is over, perhaps both of you and your wives could come for a visit. There is much I would like to discuss with you."

  "I will do that," General Park said. "It would be a great honor. You can count on us, sir."

  "I'm sure I can, General, and I appreciate it very much."

  Garrett thought the president sounded stronger than he had expected. General Stephens at Mount Weather had told him shortly after Oaks's assassination that James had been put on antidepressants and painkillers. But to his surprise, the president seemed to have a new sense of calm and confidence that Garrett found reassuring.

  "Now, gentlemen," James said, "let's get to the business at hand. What does the latest intel show?"

  "It's not good, Mr. President," General Garrett explained. "The North has two million reservists moving toward the DMZ and two million more being readied for deployment in bases 31

  around Pyongyang."

  "Do you think they've made the decision to attack?" James asked.

  "Strategically, yes, I do, sir," Garrett said. "Tactically, I'd say they are still another twelve to fifteen hours away."

  "Which means if we're going to launch a preemptive strike, our window is closing," the president said.

  "Rapidly," Garrett agreed.

  There was a long pause.

  "Are all your assets in place if I were to give a launch order?" the president finally asked.

  "We could use another six or eight hours," Garrett conceded. "But yes, sir, we could go now if you gave the order."

  "General Park?" James said.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President?"

  "I assume you're aware that I have spoken to your president."

  "Yes, sir; I just spoke to him myself."

  "He is hoping for some kind of diplomatic solution," James said. "But he understands the situation I'm in, and the stakes."

  "He does indeed, Mr. President."

  "Is it your military assessment that we should strike first?"

  "That is not for me to say, Mr. President," General Park demurred. "I am a strong believer in the civilian chain of command."

  "I appreciate that," James said. "But do you see a way to prevent massive casualties in Seoul and the South as a whole if we don't strike first with the plan that you and General Garrett have drafted for me?"

  "No, sir, I'm afraid I don't."

  "Can we win?" the president asked bluntly.

  "We can decimate the North with this strategy," the general said. "I'm not sure if that will be a victory. I hate to see it come to this, personally. But it will save my people. I do believe this."

  President James paused while considering that, then turned his attention back to his

  on-site commander. "What am I missing, General Garrett? What are the downsides we're not talking about?"

  It was a good question, Garrett thought. They had discussed the military and political

  implications for much of the past day. James seemed to be warming, however reluctantly, to the conclusion that he had no other choice but to hit the North hard, fast, and with such cataclysmic force that the regime and its forces could never recover.

  "The economy, sir," he said at last.

  "Go ahead."

  "Well, sir, given South Korea's wrenching historical poverty and the devastating war of the 1950s, you really have to think of this country as an economic miracle," Garrett noted. "The ROK's GDP was negligible in 1953. By 2004, it had joined the trillion-dollar-plus club. Now it's the eleventh largest economy in the world and the third largest in Asia.

  Exports have grown to more than $325 billion annually. Thirteen percent goes straight to the U.S. What's more, this Asian tiger is still roaring. For the past few years, her

  economy has been growing at 5 percent a year or better, in real terms. The contrast with 32

  the North—a $40 billion economy, if that—is as stunning as it is sad."

  "And all that's now in jeopardy," the president noted.

  "I'm afraid it is, sir," Garrett agreed. "The electronics and steel industries, the chemical and plastics industries, and of course automobiles and consumer goods. All of it could be gone by tomorrow. If the North attacks, it's gone, even if we fight back and win.

  Our only chance to save the South is to strike the North hard, fast, and now. The

  implications for the global economy cannot be overstated."

  "By hard, General Garrett, you don't see an alternative to going nuclear?"

  "No, sir, I don't," Garrett replied. "I wish there were another way, but there isn't.

  Believe me, Mr. President. I run the war games. I run the models. I eat, sleep, and breathe how to protect the South. I don't relish the idea of killing millions of North Koreans, sir.

  Not for one moment. But it's them or us. It's as simple as that. Don't forget, sir, we face an enemy who once said he would 'destroy the world' or 'take the world with me' rather than accept defeat at the hands of the Americans and the ROK."

  "Do you believe him?"

  "I do, sir."

  "What about the '61 treaty with the Chinese?" James asked. "What if Beijing comes to the North's defense after we attack?"

  "I don't think the Chinese will lift a finger, Mr. President," Garrett said.

  "That's what the CIA and MacArthur told Truman in 1950," the president countered.

  "They were wrong."

  "Yes, Mr. President, they were," Garrett conceded. "But Truman didn't go nuclear against Pyongyang. If he had, the Chinese never would have entered the war."

  The president noted for the record that he had not made a final decision. But he ordered the U.S. military to do everything necessary to launch a full-scale nuclear attack against North Korea in the next six to eight hours. He specifically ruled out the use of long-range ballistic missiles, for fear that China could misinterpret the launch of ICBMs as an attack on them. Instead, the president ordered that they prepare B-52s and cruise missiles. But both he and Trainor agreed that if they went forward with this plan, they would have to use

  absolutely overwhelming force and do so with as much speed and surprise as possible to

  minimize casualties in Seoul and the rest of South Korea.

  The president told them to finalize their operations, be ready for his call, and make

  absolutely sure none of their preparations leaked.

  "Everything depends on the element of surprise," he told them. "Everything."

  33

  5:54 A.M.-A PRISON CAMP, SOUTH HAMKYUNG PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

  Bennett awoke in a room with no windows.

  There was one door. No furniture but a chair to which he was chained. Gray cinder block walls. A filthy white tile floor with a hole at one end that he assumed must be the toilet, though he wouldn't have been able to reach it if he had needed to. And that was it. No color.

  Nothing to read. Nothing to watch. And it was brutally hot. Humid, too. The cell was bathed in harsh fluorescent light, and the only sound he heard was the electric hum of the lamps on the ceiling.

  He was wearing a green prison jumpsuit. His hair was damp, matted with perspiration.

  Beads of sweat trickled down his back and neck. He was handcuffed with his arms behind his back, but he could lean a little to the left and a little to the right to wipe the sweat of his eyes and face on the shoulders of the jumpsuit. His feet were shackled to each other and to the large wooden chair, which seemed to be bolted to the floor.

  Surveying his own physical condition, he found that his stomach and sides ached, and

  he suddenly had flashbacks of two men beating him while trying to get him off the plane.

  His head was pounding. His eyes felt a little swollen. He still felt groggy from whatever drugs they had used to s
edate him. But as best he could tell, he had no broken bones and saw no blood on him, or on the floor around him.

  Then, just as on the plane, the fog began to lift again. He remembered what had happened.

  He remembered what had been ripped away from him, and he began to convulse with

  sobs that forced their way to the surface.

  * * *

  The press corps was in a frenzy.

  America had been attacked, but no one knew by what enemy. The military was clearly

  preparing for another war, but no one knew with whom. Millions of Americans in four

  major cities lay dead or dying. Tens of millions more were on the move, fleeing the

  radioactive hot zones but unsure where to go or what to do next. President MacPherson was dead. President Oaks might be injured, they were hearing. He seemed to have been

  34

  involved in some sort of violent incident inside the world's most secure military complex.

  But as of yet there was no central information center, no White House press operation, nor a White House to base it in.

  Reporters, editors, and producers kept calling Ginny Harris, who, as the vice

  president's press secretary, was the highest known ranking media official in the government.

  But most of the colleagues she had served with in the Communications Department at the

  White House were dead. She was overwhelmed by the events of the past few days. And no

  one was giving her direction on what to tell a pack of media wolves as scared as they were hungry for the latest information.

  Chuck Murray was finally given permission to speak to President James via

  telephone. He gave the new commander in chief an earful.

  "This is getting dangerous," Murray warned. "The United States government has to have a voice. A message. Answers to people's questions. Otherwise we're allowing a vacuum. It's not that we look pathetically disorganized. It's that we look unable to function."

  "Chuck, I get it," James said. "But I've got more than I can handle at the moment. Press relations isn't at the top of my to-do list. In case you hadn't noticed, we're about to launch a war."

  "Mr. President, you can't launch a war right now," Murray countered. "Why not?"

  "Because no one knows you're the president."

  "I've been legally sworn in," James insisted. "It's legal. It's all constitutional. You saw on the video feed, didn't you?"

  "You're not hearing me," Murray said. "Of course you're the president. But no one knows it. You need to get out there, explain what happened."

  "I can't. Not yet."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want to panic people."

  "Too late," Murray said. "They're panicked. And now there're rumors of a gunfight inside NORAD. People don't know if the president is alive or dead. They don't know

  who's running the country. And it's not just Americans who don't know—North Korea

  doesn't know; the Iraqis don't know; the Chinese don't know. There's blood in the water, Mr.

  President, and if the military guys aren't telling you, I will—we're running the risk of drawing another attack because people think the U.S. government really has been

  decapitated."

  * * *

  In time, Bennett's tears slowed.

  His breathing calmed. And memories of Erin came drifting back, one by one. He

  could see her sitting on the steps of the medical clinic back in the camp, surrounded by eight or ten Lebanese and Syrian orphan girls, all sitting in a circle, reading them Bible stories and answering their questions.

  He could see her with precious Fareeda, all of nine years old, alone in the world, but

  always at Erin's side—hanging on her every word, trailing Erin all over the camp,

  volunteering to do any errand, however tiny and insignificant. Erin had told Jon that in Arabic Fareeda meant "unique, matchless, precious pearl or gem," and that's certainly what this little one had been to Erin—a daughter almost, a name and a face and a heart

  35

  into whom Erin could pour her boundless love and see it matter, see it register.

  Fareeda loved to hear Erin tell her about "Eesah," Arabic for Jesus. "Tell it again,"

  she would say when Erin would recount stories of Jesus healing the ten lepers or making the blind see and the lame walk. Had anyone told her that he and Erin had left the camp? Did she know what had happened? He hoped not. Everyone that little girl had ever known had

  died. Bennett could suddenly hear Erin teaching Fareeda to sing "Jesus Loves Me" in Arabic and English, and that's when he lost it again, dissolving into a bitter wail that echoed through the halls.

  Why? The question haunted him. It refused to let him go. Why had God let it happen?

  Any of it? Was it really so much to ask that he and Erin be allowed to enjoy a few years together?

  And yet, as much as Bennett wanted to be angry, he knew deep down that he was grateful

  for every minute the Lord had let him spend with Erin. He hadn't earned her. He hadn't

  deserved her. She had been out of his league and he knew it. He'd known it from the moment he'd laid eyes on her.

  He hadn't been able to figure it out at first. It was a mystery that had taken some time to unravel. It wasn't just that she was the smarter of the two, though that was certainly the case.

  And it wasn't just that she was braver than he was, though that was true too. It was that she was better than he was. Not to be self-deprecating, but she genuinely loved people more than he did. She loved Christ more passionately than he did. He was learning, no doubt about it. But he was following her lead, though she never made him feel awkward about it. She never held it over him. That wasn't her way, and it made him love her all the more.

  Every Tuesday night, she'd bring him to visit a widow and her six kids whom she had met on the other side of the camp. Bennett had constantly pleaded with her to take the night off.

  She was exhausted and so was he. But she wouldn't listen. She didn't want to just make

  meals and feed them to thousands of nameless, faceless refugees, even if she was doing it in the name of Jesus in a U.N. camp without so much as a pastor or any other Christian leaders.

  She wanted to touch real lives. She wanted to help real people meet Jesus. "How else are they going to see Him," she would always say, "unless we take Jesus to them?"

  So once a week, she would take this little family candies or toys or some kind of treat. She would bring her guitar and play songs for them. Eventually she helped the mother pray to receive Christ, and then she gave her an Arabic New Testament and bought them a little

  handheld, battery-operated radio so they could listen to Trans World Radio's Bible teaching in Arabic every night before they went to bed.

  At first, Bennett recalled through his tears, it had really annoyed him. They were working twelve- and fourteen-hour days. They needed time to themselves. They were newlyweds, for crying out loud. But Erin was on a mission. She knew she couldn't save anyone. But she could love the ones God put in her path, she insisted. She could be the hands and feet and smile of Jesus for those who had never heard of Him or felt His gentle touch. She said God had once spoken to her during her study of John's Gospel, during their first week in the camp. "You do the loving, Erin," God had said to her, "and I'll do the converting." Bennett had never seen her so happy. She had heard from God. She knew what would make Him happy. And she never

  looked back.

  The ache rose again. The tears began to come again. He had never imagined he could

  miss someone so much. And all he could ask was, Why?

  36

  4:28 P.M. MST-NORAD BRIEFING ROOM

  Ninety minutes later, the press conference began.

  No members of the media were allowed into the top secret complex. Certainly not in a

  time of war. But Murray was right, the president had concluded. It was critical to begin co
mmunicating directly and consistently with the nation and the world. So at the president's directive, NORAD's acting commander, two-star general George Mutschler—son of the late

  General Ed Mutschler, who had served as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff under

  President MacPherson during his first term—made his way to the NORAD briefing

  room with Chuck Murray at his side. Speaking via satellite to nearly a hundred reporters gathered at a hotel in Chicago, another hundred or so reporters gathered in Boston, and three dozen European editors and network news bureau chiefs based in Brussels, the general began by reading a short statement.

  First, he announced that the president would be making a televised address to the nation at precisely 9 p.m. Eastern. He would be speaking from a secure, undisclosed location.

  There would be no interviews tonight, and no Q and A.

  Second, he confirmed rumors of the events that had occurred thirty-six hours

  earlier inside the NORAD complex. He confirmed three deaths—those of General

  Briggs, Agent Coelho, and Bobby Caulfield. Then General Mutschler added,

  "Everyone in the senior

  leadership of the U.S. government has been shocked and saddened by the event, but

  the president is committed to leading the country through this crisis and to bringing the perpetrators of the attacks on America to justice."

  Not once, however, did the general ever mention the president by name.

  Third, he announced that Charles T. Murray had been named the new White House

  press secretary and counselor to the president. Ginny Harris would serve as the new White House director of communications. The White House itself would eventually be rebuilt,

  the general noted, but he had no specifics on when or where. Then he stepped aside to let Murray speak briefly and answer questions.

  * * *

  The president watched the briefing with General Stephens.

  They were joined in the general's second-floor office by their senior staff, with Agent Santini and several other agents standing a few steps away and Ginny Harris still working the phones, lining up logistics for phase two of their media rollout.