Contagious Page 19

“Phillips, I don’t give a f.u.c.k if the gate is built right on top of a compound full of orphans and nuns. I’m taking it out.”

“Charlie, come on. You’re talking about two-thousand-pound bombs on U. S. soil. We have to get approval from Murray on this.”

“No we don’t,” Ogden said. “I have authority from the president to make any necessary battlefield decisions up to Option Number Four. That one has to come from the big man himself. Other than that, it’s my call.”

“But that order was from President Hutchins. Gutierrez probably doesn’t even know about it.”

“I have my orders,” Ogden said. “We have to strike immediately, and with force. Nice work uncovering this location, Dew. All I can say is thank G.o.d we’ve got Dawsey. He’s the only thing keeping us in this game. Ogden out.”

Charlie broke the connection.

Dew put the handset back in its cradle.

Thank G.o.d we’ve got Dawsey. Imagine that. The kid was twelve doughnuts shy of a baker’s dozen, and he was their ace in the hole. What would ol’ Charlie have thought if he knew that Dew had almost shot Dawsey in the mouth with the .45? Sorry, Charlie, our ace in the hole has a hole in his head.

Dew rubbed his face with both hands, then picked up the handset again. The explosion caused by the Strike Eagles’ bomb run would be huge, probably even register on seismographs. Covering up such a thing would require spin, obfuscation and lies. And for something like that, there was no one in the world better than Murray Longworth.

YOU DROPPED A BOMB ON ME

The Situation Room buzzed with conversation. Images of the Marinesco gate lit up most of the flat-panel monitors.

To Murray there was something inherently defeating about that image. Via satellite, drone and surveillance planes, they had watched Ogden’s men attack the gate in South Bloomingville. They had watched it catch fire, watched it burn and crumble, and yet here was a second gate that looked almost exactly the same.

Other monitors showed digital maps of Michigan; a green circle in the Upper Peninsula marking the gate, F-15 icons marking the position of Ogden’s Strike Eagles. Those planes were just edging over Lake Michigan—they had already covered half the distance from South Bloomingville to Marinesco.

One large monitor showed nothing but a countdown: fifteen minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. When that hit zero, the Strike Eagles would drop their payloads . . . unless the president called off the attack.

Gutierrez had given up on trying to look presidential. Small beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Despite appearances, though, he hadn’t given in to the stress. He asked intelligent questions, he demanded intelligent answers and he had the Joint Chiefs jumping at his commands.

“G.o.ddamit, gentlemen,” Gutierrez said. “You cannot tell me we have no other forces that can reach Marinesco and attack that gate in the next fifteen minutes.”

“That’s exactly what we’re telling you,” said General Hamilton Barnes. As Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, delivery of most military-related bad news fell to him, although Monty Cooper, the marines’ top man, wasn’t afraid to enter into the conversation uninvited.

“Mister President, sir,” Cooper said. “We are in the middle of fighting two wars and a police action on foreign soil. Even if our troops were not badly depleted because of that, there is no way we could put a company-size element into play in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in less than an hour. The fastest-responding unit is the Division Ready Force, from the Eighty-second Airborne. First-response elements of the DRF can be anywhere in the world in eighteen hours, anywhere in the United States in probably seven, and you have no idea how fast that is in military terms. With all due respect, sir, we can’t just wave a f.u.c.king magic wand and make troops appear.”

Barnes turned toward Cooper, obviously to lay down a fast rebuke.

“Save it, General Barnes,” Gutierrez said. “It takes more than a little language to offend me. But don’t do it a second time, General Cooper.”

“Sir,” Cooper said.

Gutierrez’s eyes flicked up to the clock. Murray looked as well. Thirteen minutes, fifty-four seconds.

“How long until Company X reaches the gate?” Gutierrez asked.

“Their Ospreys just took off from South Bloomingville,” Barnes said. “A little under two hours until they can attack. The Apaches are over an hour away.”

Gutierrez gave the table one quick, frustrated fist-pound.

“I don’t understand,” Vanessa said. “How can a colonel have the authority to launch a bombing attack like this? Doesn’t he need to clear it with at least the Joint Chiefs?”

General Barnes answered. “Ogden is the battlefield commander. He has the authority to use any elements at his disposal to achieve the objectives set before him. He doesn’t need approval to deploy resources already under his command.”

“This is ridiculous,” Vanessa said. “He doesn’t need approval for anything?”

“President Hutchins set it up this way for a reason,” Murray said. “In the time it’s taken us to get the information and begin a discussion about what to do, the jets are already halfway to the target. Ogden can order Options One through Three without oversight. Only Option Number Four requires presidential approval.”

“And what, exactly, is Option Number Four?”

“The big whammy,” General Cooper said. “Option Four is a tactical nuke.”

“A nuke?” Vanessa said. “On American soil? Are you kidding me?”

“A tactical nuke, ma’am,” Murray said. “We have three B61 warheads available. They’re variable-yield warheads. We can dial the blast for anything from point-three megatons to one hundred and seventy.”

“Murray,” Gutierrez said, “how could Hutchins even consider dropping a nuke?”