Our Sacred Honor

Just then, the phone on the bedside table began to ring. It made a funny sound, not so much a ring as a buzz, or a hum. It sounded like a monk with a bad cold chanting in meditation. Also, it lit up in blue on each ring. Luke hated that phone.

“You want me to get it?” he said.

She smiled and shook her head. Now he watched her come back across the room, moving faster this time. For a brief moment, he imagined another world, one where they didn’t have their jobs. Hell, maybe even a world where they were both unemployed. In that world, she could climb right back into bed with him.

She picked up the phone. “Good morning.”

Her face changed as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. All of the fun went out of it. The light in her eyes faded, and her smile dropped away. She took a deep breath and let out a long exhale.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

She hung up.

“Trouble?” Luke said.

She looked at him, her eyes showing something – a vulnerability perhaps – that the masses never saw on TV.

“When isn’t there trouble?” she said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

7:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

The Situation Room

The White House, Washington, DC

The elevator opened and Luke stepped into the egg-shaped Situation Room.

Big Kurt Kimball stood at the far end of the room, his bald head gleaming, and he spotted Luke right away. Kurt usually ran these meetings with an iron hand. He had such a deep, effortless, and encyclopedic command of world affairs that people tended to follow his lead.

“Agent Stone,” he said. “Glad you could join us this early.”

Was there a hint of hidden meaning, even sarcasm, in that statement? Luke decided not to touch it.

He shrugged. “The President called me. I got here as soon as I could.”

He glanced around the room.

Ultra-modern, the place was much more than a conference room – it was set up for maximum use of the space, with large screens embedded in the walls every couple of feet, and a giant projection screen on the far wall at the end of the table. Tablet computers and slim microphones rose from slots out of the conference table – they could be dropped back into the table if the attendee wanted to use their own device.

Every plush leather chair at the table was occupied – a few military uniforms, several business suits. Most of the people were middle-aged and overweight – career government types who spent a lot of time sitting down in comfortable chairs and eating lunch. These chairs all looked like the captain’s chair on the command module of a spaceship crossing the galaxy. Big arms, deep leather, high backs, ergonomically correct with lumbar spine support.

The seats along the walls – smaller, red linen chairs with lower backs – were filled with young aides and even younger assistants, most of them slurping from Styrofoam coffee cups, tapping messages into tablets, or murmuring into telephones.

Susan sat in a leather chair at the closest end of the oblong table. She wore a blue pinstriped pantsuit. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and she leaned in close to hear what a young aide was telling her. Luke tried not to stare at her.

After a moment, she glanced up and nodded to him.

“Agent Stone,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

Luke nodded. “Madam President. Of course.”

Kurt clapped his big hands, as if Luke entering was the cue he had been waiting for. The clap made a sound like a heavy book dropping to a stone floor. “Order, everybody! Come to order, please.”

The place went silent. Almost. A couple of military men at the conference table continued to talk with each other, heads leaned in close.

Kurt clapped his hands again.

CLAP. CLAP.

They both looked at him. He raised his hands as if to say, “Are you done?”

The room finally went dead quiet.

Kurt gestured to a young woman sitting in a chair to his left. Luke had seen her before, many times. She was Kurt’s indispensable aide, practically an extra appendage. She wore her auburn hair in a short bob cut like Susan’s – short bob cuts like Susan’s were all the rage with young women these days. Magazine editors and fluff news shows hadn’t exactly overlooked this fact. Critics called it the Hopkins Bob if they liked it, the Hopkins Helmet if they didn’t. They all seemed to be in agreement about what to call the women who styled their hair that way, however.

Susan’s Army.

Luke enjoyed that one. He didn’t wear a bob, but he supposed he was also in Susan’s Army.

“Amy, let’s see it,” Kurt said. “Israel and Lebanon, please.”

On the screen, blue and yellow icons that represented explosions began to appear across southern Lebanon, reaching as far north as the southern edge of Beirut, the explosions becoming sparser the further north they went.

“Hours ago, the Israeli air force began a bombing campaign, attacking the Hezbollah tunnel systems and fortifications along the Blue Line, as well as the Hezbollah-dominated neighborhoods of south Beirut. This is not a surprise, and in fact was telegraphed to us by Yonatan Stern’s government last night.”

On the screen, large red icons in the same shape as the earlier ones began to appear across Israel. There were maybe fifteen of them in total. A moment later, smaller red icons, tiny starbursts, began to appear in northern Israel. There were dozens of these.

“Soon after Israel began its air strikes, Hezbollah started to launch missile attacks into Israel. This is not unusual, especially when there is exchange of fire between the two forces. The 2006 war followed more or less this same trajectory. But a problem has arisen. In the intervening years, Hezbollah has obtained better firepower.”

A photograph of a large missile on a mobile launch pad appeared.

“This is the Fateh-200 missile. It is an Iranian-built weapon system, long-range missiles with multiple warheads that pack a powerful punch. Launched from inside Lebanon, it can reach nearly anywhere in Israel, except perhaps the sparsely populated Negev Desert in the south. It has sophisticated control and guidance features that for the first time give Hezbollah precision-strike capability.”

Kurt paused. “From what we can gather, it now appears that Hezbollah has obtained the Fateh-200. We believe they have launched anywhere from twenty to thirty of these missiles so far, each with as many as a dozen warheads. They targeted civilian and military infrastructure in population centers across Israel, including Tel Aviv, the western edge of Jerusalem, and the center of Haifa, among others. Israel’s medium-range missile defense system, known as David’s Sling, knocked perhaps half to two-thirds of these from the sky. But that wasn’t good enough.

“Several civilian neighborhoods were hit and numerous buildings destroyed. A warhead landed within half a mile of the Knesset, the Israeli congress, while it was in session.”

“What are the current casualties?” Haley Lawrence, the Secretary of Defense, said.

“Thus far, all we have are the official figures that have been released. More than four hundred civilians killed, thousands wounded, amid widespread destruction and panic. No figures on military casualties have been released, but the Israelis have mobilized for total war, calling for duty all reservists and able-bodied veterans of previous wars. They have intensified the bombing campaign in Lebanon dramatically, probably in an attempt to destroy any more Fateh-200s before they’re launched.”

“Has it worked?” Luke said, already knowing the answer.

Kurt shook his head. “We don’t know. We doubt it. As we speak, Hezbollah is still launching small, unguided missiles and rockets into northern Israel, demonstrating that their response capability still exists. We believe they are holding back the Fateh-200s for the time being, but will resume those launches on a timetable of their choosing.

“Israel has publicly blamed the Iranians for providing Hezbollah with the new missiles. In all likelihood, this is an accurate assessment. Hezbollah is a cat’s paw for Iran. Thirty minutes ago, Israel threatened to attack Iran if another Fateh-200 or similar missile is launched into Israeli territory.”