In the years since communism had begun visibly crumbling, the world had become far more dangerous and uncertain, not less. The brief horror of the Gulf War had proven that. Now Pakistan and India were at each other’s throats again.
And the bureaucrats wanted to trash die very ships and aircraft and men that could make a difference. Magruder leaned back, fingers pressing against his eyes. It was a losing fight.
66
Keith Dougtess
Months before, in the Sea of Japan, he had faced personal and national disaster as he replied to a North Korean challenge with a military response. But the day-in, day-out struggle for sanity in the Pentagon was infinitely harder to bear.
The limo turned left at E Street, then swung north again onto Executive Avenue. Parts of the street had been closed off to vehicular traffic, but a Marine sentry ushered the limo past a checkpoint to a stretch of road that had been turned into a parking lot. The sergeant stayed with the car, but Haworth and the civilian accompanied him. Ahead, the White House stretched across green grass between the Treasury and the Old Executive Office Building. Magruder found himself staring like a tourist and had to tear his eyes away to watch where he was going.
“Ever been in here before, Admiral?” Haworth asked.
“Never have,” Magruder replied. He gestured toward a colorful line queuing up for the daily tours. “Never could stand to wait in line that long.”
“Well, you get the special tour today.” The colonel seemed amused.
Magruder felt his stomach knot. The President of the United States had asked for him by name, had sent a driver and car to pick him up. Why? As they showed dieir ID cards to Marine and Secret Service personnel and were signed in at the east door, the questions grew more urgent.
They passed several more checkpoints before a civilian dismissed Magruder’s escort. “Admiral Magruder?” the man said. “I’m George Hall, White House Chief of Staff. If you’ll come with me, sir?”
The Oval Office was much as Magruder had pictured it, though it was smaller than he expected. The windows overlooking the Rose Garden and the South Lawn were heavily tinted and so thick he could barely see through them. He remembered reading that they were designed to stop heavy-caliber rifle fire. A TV monitor set into a wall cabinet was tuned to a cable news channel. The President rose behind his desk.
“Admiral Magruder,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. He was considerably shorter than Magruder had imagined. He had the warm smile of the practiced politician. “We meet at last. Welcome.”
ARMAGEDDON MODE
67
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Hall showed him to a chair and he sat down. He’d not felt this out of place since the first time he’d attended a formal military ball. He was an ensign at the time.
“Well, Admiral,” the President said, seating himself behind the desk, “How do you like your new assignment?”
That was the second time in the last thirty minutes someone had asked him that question. His eyes shifted to George Hall, then back to the President. “It’s not quite what I expected, sir.”
The President chuckled. “I daresay it’s not.” The politician’s smile faded. “Listen, Tom. I know what you must be going through over there, across the river. And I’m sorry things worked out this way for you. But something has come up … something new, and right now I’m damned glad you’re here in Washington. I need you.”
Magruder waited. He could hear the undertone of worry in the President’s words.
The President nodded toward the TV screen, “I’m sure you’ve been following the news. You know where your battle group is right now.”
“Last I heard, they were in the Indian Ocean. Gonzo Station, I imagine.”
“Actually, it’s east of Gonzo Station, a couple of hundred miles south of Karachi. We call it Turban Station.
“CBG-14 was ordered there a week ago. Purely routine, in light of the events over there lately. We wanted to send New Delhi and Islamabad both a strong message, that we would not tolerate any threat to American lives or interests in the region.