The President Is Missing(21)

“They don’t know, sir. We don’t know. The human rights NGOs are claiming there was no assassination plot, that it’s just an excuse to round up more of the king’s political rivals. We do know that some of the wealthy but less influential members of the royal family have been swept up, too. It’s going to be a rough few days there.”

“We’re assisting?”

“We’ve offered. So far, they haven’t taken us up on it. It’s a…tense situation.”

Unrest in the most stable part of the Middle East. While I’m dealing with this problem at home. It’s the absolute last thing I need right now.



At 2:30, back in the Oval Office, I say into the phone, “Mrs. Kopecky, your son was a hero. We honor his service to this country. I’m praying for you and your family.”

“He loved…he loved his country, President Duncan,” she says, her voice trembling. “He believed in his mission.”

“I’m sure he—”

“I did not,” she says. “I don’t know why we still have to be in that country. Can’t they figure out how to run their own stupid country?”

Overhead, the lights flicker, a quick blink-blink. What’s with the lights?

“I understand, Mrs. Kopecky,” I say.

“Call me Margaret—everyone else does,” she says. “Can I call you Jon?”

“Margaret,” I say to a woman who’s just lost her nineteen-year-old son, “you can call me anything you want.”

“I know you’re trying to get out of Iraq, Jon,” she says. “But do more than try. Get the hell out.”



Ten after three in the Oval Office, with Danny Akers and Jenny Brickman, my political adviser.

Carolyn walks in and makes eye contact with me and gives a curt, preemptive shake of her head—still no news, no change.

It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. But I have no choice. The world isn’t going to stop for this threat.

Carolyn joins us, taking a seat.

“This is from HHS,” says Danny. I wasn’t in the mood for the Heath and Human Services secretary’s presentation today, wanting to minimize time spent on nonessential matters, so I had Danny get into the issue and break it down for me.

“It’s a Medicaid issue,” says Danny, “involving Alabama. You recall that Alabama was one of the states that refused to accept the Medicaid expansion under the Affordable Care Act?”

“Sure.”

Carolyn pops up from her seat and rushes to the door, which opens just as she reaches it. My secretary, JoAnn, hands her a note.

Danny stops talking, probably seeing the expression on my face.

Carolyn reads the note and looks at me. “You’re needed in the Situation Room, sir,” she says.

If it’s what we’re afraid it is—if this is it—we’re hearing about it together for the first time.





Chapter

11



Seven minutes later, Carolyn and I enter the Situation Room.

We know immediately: it isn’t what we feared. The attack hasn’t commenced. My pulse slows. We’re not here for fun and games, but it’s not the nightmare. Not yet.

In the room as we enter: Vice President Kathy Brandt. My national security adviser, Brendan Mohan. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Rodrigo Sanchez. The defense secretary, Dominick Dayton. Sam Haber, the secretary of homeland security. And the CIA director, Erica Beatty.

“They’re in a town called al-Bayda,” says Admiral Sanchez. “Central Yemen. Not a center of military activity. The Saudi-led coalition is within a hundred kilometers.”

“Why are these two meeting?” I ask.

Erica Beatty, CIA, answers. “We don’t know, Mr. President. But Abu-Dheeq is al-Shabaab’s head of military operations, and al-Fadhli is the military commander of AQAP.” She raises her eyebrows.

The top generals for the Somali terrorists and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, coming together for a meeting.

“Who else is there?”

“Looks like Abu-Dheeq came with just a small entourage,” she says. “But al-Fadhli brought his family. He always does.”

Right. He brings his family along to make himself a harder target. “How many?”

“Seven children,” she says. “Five boys, two girls. Ages two to sixteen. And his wife.”

“Tell me where they are, exactly. Not geographically but in terms of civilians.”

“They’re meeting in an elementary school,” she says. Then she quickly adds, “But there aren’t any kids there right now. Remember, they’re eight hours ahead of us. It’s nighttime.”

“You mean there aren’t any kids,” I say, “besides al-Fadhli’s five boys and two girls.”

“Of course, sir.”

That bastard, using his children as a shield, daring us to kill his entire family to get to him. What kind of coward does that?

“There’s no chance that al-Fadhli will be separated from his children?”

“He appears to be in a different part of the school, for what that’s worth,” says Sanchez. “The meeting is taking place in some interior office. The children are sleeping in a large space that is probably a gymnasium or assembly room.”