The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [495]
"Write that up. I'm going to hang a CRITIC on it," the DDO announced.
CRITIC—shorthand for "CRITICal"—is the highest priority in the United States government for message traffic. A CRITIC-flagged document must be in the President's hands no less than fifteen minutes after being generated. That meant that Joshua Sears had to get it drafted just as quickly as he could type in his keyboard, and that made for errors in translation.
Ryan had been asleep for maybe forty minutes when the phone next to his bed went off.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. President," some faceless voice announced in the White House Office of Signals, "we have CRITIC traffic for you."
"All right. Bring it up." Jack swung his body across the bed and planted his feet on the rug. As a normal human being living in his home, he wasn't a bathrobe person. Ordinarily he'd just pad around his house barefoot in his underwear, but that wasn't allowed anymore, and he always kept a long blue robe handy now. It was a gift from long ago, when he'd taught history at the Naval Academy—a gift from the students there—and bore on the sleeves the one wide and four narrow stripes of a Fleet Admiral. So dressed, and wearing leather slippers that also came with the new job, he walked out into the upstairs corridor. The Secret Service night team was already up and moving. Joe Hilton came to him first.
"We heard, sir. It's on the way up now."
Ryan, who'd been existing on less than five hours of sleep per night for the past week, had an urgent need to lash out and rip the face off someone—anyone—but, of course, he couldn't do that to men who were just doing their job, with miserable hours of their own.
Special Agent Charlie Malone was at the elevator. He took the folder from the messenger and trotted over to Ryan.
"Hmm." Ryan rubbed his hand over his face as he flipped the folder open. The first three lines jumped into his consciousness. "Oh, shit."
"Anything wrong?" Hilton asked.
"Phone," Ryan said.
"This way, sir." Hilton led him to the Secret Service upstairs cubbyhole office.
Ryan lifted the phone and said, "Mary Pat at Langley." It didn't take long. "MP, Jack here. What gives?"
"It's just what you see. They're talking about fueling their intercontinental missiles. At least two of them are aimed at Washington."
"Great. Now what?"
"I just tasked a KH-11 to give their launch sites a close look. There's two of them, Jack. The one we need to look at is Xuanhua. That's at about forty degrees, thirty-eight minutes north, one hundred fifteen degrees, six minutes east. Twelve silos with CCC-4 missiles inside. This is one of the newer ones, and it replaced older sites that stored the missiles in caves or tunnels. Straight, vertical, in-the-ground silos. The entire missile field is about six miles by six miles. The silos are well separated so that a single nuclear impact can't take out any two missiles," MP explained, manifestly looking at overheads of the place as she spoke.
"How serious is this?"
A new voice came on the line. "Jack, it's Ed. We have to take this one seriously. The naval bombardment on their coast might have set them off. The damned fools think we might be attempting a no-shit invasion."
"What? What with?" the President demanded.
"They can be very insular thinkers, Jack, and they're not always logical by our rules," Ed Foley told him.
"Great. Okay. You two come on down here. Bring your best China guy with you."
"On the way," the DCI replied.
Ryan hung up and looked at Joe Hilton. "Wake everybody up. The Chinese may be going squirrelly on us."
The drive up the Potomac River hadn't been easy. Captain Blandy hadn't wanted to wait for a river pilot to help guide him up the river—naval officers tend to be overly proud when it comes to navigating their ships—and that had made it quite tense for the bridge watch. Rarely was the channel more than a few hundred yards wide, and cruisers are deepwater ships,