The President's Daughter Read online

  “Sir,” says Admiral McCoy.

  “Go,” I say.

  “Asim Al-Asheed wasn’t there,” he says, and I hear a few people in the room sigh with disappointment. “Seven terrorists were killed, they were closely examined, and none matched his description.”

  The room is quiet, all eyes on me.

  This crowded facility is now a very lonely place.

  “Were they able to retrieve anything of value?”

  “No, sir,” he says. “A few jihadi pamphlets, identification cards from the dead terrorists. That’s it. No computer drives, no thumb drives, no cell phones.”

  I see the helicopters lift off from the compound. Soon the screen is clear except for the smoke and the death.

  “Will the helicopters have enough fuel to get back to the Wasp?” I ask.

  “Not sure,” Admiral McCoy says. “But they’ll get there safely. The Wasp can maneuver in closer to shore, or we can set up air refueling once they get their feet wet.”

  I stare at the screen, where a few minutes ago there were hard determined men fighting for a goal, for our country, for me…and now there’s nothing.

  “Admiral,” I say.

  “Sir.”

  I glance at him, at the somber faces of my team. I’m sure they were all looking forward to seeing me announce on television that Asim Al-Asheed was killed or captured, and I’ve no doubt that some would later have told friends and family what it was “really like” to be next to the president of the United States on such a momentous occasion.

  “Civilians,” I say. “Were there any civilians killed?”

  To his credit, McCoy doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. A woman and three young girls. It seems from what documentation the SEALs recovered that they were the wife and three daughters of Asim Al-Asheed.”

  Oh, damn, I think.

  “Killed by us,” I say.

  “Killed when the building exploded,” McCoy says.

  “And it exploded because we were there,” I say. “From cross fire striking an IED, somebody dropping an RPG round and cooking off a pile of munitions—something like that.”

  The room is briefly silent.

  To no one in particular I say, “Can someone kill that goddamn video feed?”

  In about a second, the screen goes black.

  At least something has gone right tonight.

  I catch the attention of my chief of staff, Jack Lyon. He’s heavyset, with round horn-rimmed glasses, brown hair slicked back. He’s been a party pro for years and was my predecessor’s first appointment, and I’ve kept him on because he knows how to open doors and make the right phone calls to the right people, which is worth more than gold in this city.

  “Jack,” I say.

  “Sir,” he says.

  I check the clocks. We’re closing in on 8 p.m. Too soon.

  “Contact the networks and cable news stations,” I say. “I’m going to make a public announcement at 9 p.m. The SEALs should be safely back at the Wasp by then.”

  With a murmur of voices and heads turning to me, my chief of staff says, “The major networks might be reluctant to cut into their programming unless I can give them information on what you plan to say, Mr. President.”

  “And have them leak it within sixty seconds of you calling?”

  He says, “At least a five-minute warning. Give them that, Mr. President.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. Tell them that at 9 p.m., I plan to inform the world of tonight’s military action against Asim Al-Asheed and explain that it did not meet its objectives.”

  Don’t say fail, I think. Americans don’t like the word failure.

  National Security Advisor Sandra Powell says, “Mr. President, I think you should pause, wait until all the facts come in and—”

  I lift my hand.

  “No,” I say. “Not tonight. We screwed up. We killed civilians. That’s not who we are. It was by accident and in the fog of war, but I’m not going to have this administration duck and weave and issue weasel-worded statements on how we’re not going to say anything until all the facts are in. To hell with that. We all saw what happened. The SEALs went in—under my orders and authority—and performed their mission. It didn’t go well. And in the process, innocents died. That’s our responsibility.”

  The room stays quiet.

  Secretary of Defense Pridham Collum clears his throat. “If I may, Mr. President, the troops in the field might not appreciate your remarks.”

  At that moment I snap. “Pridham, who do you think knows more about how the troops feel: a veteran, or a graduate of the Sloan School at MIT?”

  I instantly regret the words.

  The secretary of defense’s face reddens, and he looks down at his notepad and papers.

  I look around at my advisors.

  Keep it together.

  “Tonight I’ll explain the goals of the mission, and repeat the intelligence reports of the crimes Asim Al-Asheed has committed over the years,” I say. “I’ll say that I ordered in the SEALs based on the best information and intelligence we had, and I’ll express my personal regrets as to what happened in that compound.”

  Chief of Staff Lyon quietly asks, “An apology, Mr. President?”

  “With the responsibility comes the apology,” I say. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  National Security Advisor Powell presses me. “Mr. President, if I may, this will be a grave mistake. You’ll be undermining our standing and authority in that part of the world. Our allies—while publicly praising us—will secretly wonder if we’re going weak.”

  I gather up pen, papers, and legal pad and stand up. One of the perks of being president is that when you stand up, the meeting is over.

  “If being weak is taking responsibility for your mistakes,” I say, “then I’m all right with that.”

  A few more of my people try to say something as I go out the door, but Vice President Pamela Barnes, sitting in the corner and just looking at me, is not one of them.

  Chapter

  12

  Nine oh six p.m. local time

  Vice president’s residence, US Naval Observatory

  After a long, steaming-hot shower in her private quarters at the US Naval Observatory installation, Vice President Pamela Barnes is wearing a plain blue terry cloth bathrobe that has accompanied her from the governor’s mansion in Tallahassee to here in Washington. As she tries to do most nights after wading through the swamp of DC politics, she’s relaxing in a comfortable chair, a tumbler of Glenlivet and ice in hand, her husband, Richard, at her feet.

  He’s leaning against a footstool, rubbing moisturizing lotion into her cracked and sore feet, which have been a constant irritant ever since she stood up for herself and others and entered politics years back.

  The luxurious living room—stuffed full of antique furniture and oil paintings—is dimly lit, and on the large-screen television before them, the president of the United States seems to be wrapping up his announcement.

  “…through the offices of the International Red Cross in Geneva, I’ve directed the State Department to begin the process of offering financial compensation to the families of those accidentally killed tonight by our military…”

  The vice president’s husband snorts, his strong hands working in the lotion. “Fool. Might as well just hand that terrorist fella a blank check. Hasn’t he figured out that whatever money goes to that man’s relatives will slip through and go right to Asim Al-Asheed?”

  Barnes takes a satisfying sip of the harsh whiskey, the one little vice she allows herself each night. One drink, and one drink only. She spent enough time in Tallahassee to see how many promising careers were wrecked over too much booze and too little judgment.

  She says, “Treasury says they can work around that. Set up some sort of fund that can only be accessed by certain people, traceable so it can’t be used to buy plastic explosives or ammunition.”

  Richard reapplies some of the moisturizer into his strong weathered hands. He w
as a cattleman in Osceola County and made his living through that and by selling a chunk of his land for a casino years back. She met him when she was a Florida state senator and he was a representative, and she was initially attracted to his beefy frame—he was no pretty boy state rep in a nice suit—and sharp political mind.

  It was due to his strategizing that she had gotten to the governor’s mansion in Tallahassee and just a handful of goddamn delegates away from becoming president, a goal that had been so tantalizingly close to being realized.

  Damn that man, she thinks, taking another sip, recalling that unctuous and oily senator from Washington State who hadn’t had the goddamn decency to croak before the convention was over and chose Matt Keating as his veep, leading her to take the nomination by acclamation. Now there were talks already about naming schools and highways after the dead damn fool who hadn’t given her the job that was rightfully hers.

  “…the actions tonight of the Naval and Army forces of the United States were done under my orders, and they carried out my orders with their typical excellence and bravery,” Keating says. “If there is any blame associated with tonight’s military action, and the resulting civilian deaths, it is mine, and mine alone. The Army and Navy performed admirably and did all that was asked of them.”

  Richard goes back to work on her feet, and damn it, she does so enjoy his strong hands at work down there. “Bullshit,” he says. “They screwed the pooch, and you wrapping yourself in a flag ain’t gonna help you, Navy boy. The voters don’t like fuckups, and they sure as hell don’t like the United States apologizing…not to mention handing out money while they do.”

  “Richard, please…”

  He stops and looks up at her with his hard gray eyes, his thick brown hair trimmed and styled. “Pamela, you listen, now, and listen good. And please don’t interrupt me.”

  Another sip of her drink. “All right, go on.”

  “It’s like this,” he says. “You and I both know that while Keating is doing okay in the polls right now, his support is soft, especially in the party. There’s a lot of good people out there, people with long memories and deep pockets, who think you got screwed over at the convention in Denver. If Lovering had the balls to do the right thing and had picked you as veep, then you’d be in the Oval Office, not that Texas cowboy. And you and I both know that you sure as hell wouldn’t be on national television apologizing for anything.”

  The warmth of the whiskey is seeping through her, and her feet are feeling fine, and she says, “Ancient history, Richard. All done and past.”

  He wipes his hand on a small white towel, stands up. “History is what we make of it, Pamela. You know what’s going to happen. He’ll get a little bump in the polls by pretending to be a strong man, but in a while, the stories and the gossip will come out. About how weak he is, how he went on national TV tonight with two of our brave Navy SEALs dead, and how he pissed on their memory and bravery by apologizing like a little schoolboy. And you combine that with how he can’t control his bitch wife, Samantha, that snooty college professor—well, in six months, his support will be cratering.”

  Over the years, Richard’s homeboy style and rough way of talking have fooled many a slick and supposedly smart political opponent, and Pamela has learned to trust his instincts.

  “And that’ll be less than a year until the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primary,” she says.

  A pleased nod. “You got it, Pamela. Look, let me start poking around, talking to people, see what resources are out there. There are plenty in the party who are ready to drop Keating and back you up when the right time comes. It’s our job to make sure there is a right time.”

  Pamela sees the man on the television screen say, “Thank you, and good night.”

  The vice president picks up the remote, switches off the television, finishes off her drink.

  “Then do your job, Richard,” she says.

  Chapter

  13

  Four oh five a.m. local time

  Embassy of the People’s Republic of China, Tripoli

  In a small dining room off the main kitchen at the Chinese Embassy, Jiang Lijun of the Ministry of State Security and a handful of other night staff are watching the China Central Television news channel service on a set suspended from a corner of the ceiling.

  On the screen, the American president is making a somber speech, explanatory subtitles scrolling. Sitting next to Jiang at a round dinner table, smoking a cigarette and sipping a cup of tea, is Liu Xiaobo, the night-duty officer who alerted him to the American attack. He’s taking a morning break.

  “Unbelievable, is it not?” Liu asks.

  Jiang nods, sipping his own cup of Da Hong Pao tea. “I certainly agree.”

  Liu shakes his head in wonderment. “Amazing! The fool is actually apologizing for what his soldiers did tonight. Apologize! Can you imagine our president apologizing for anything like that? He wouldn’t dare! If he even attempted to do such a thing, the presidium would bring him up short in a moment…perhaps even demote him.”

  Jiang smiles, takes another satisfying swallow of the hot tea. “In two years, the American voters will have their chance to demote Keating, if they choose to.”

  The night officer says, “True. And what a gift that would be, eh?”

  “Agreed,” Jiang says, reflecting on all that’s gone on since the former president suddenly died. “Ever since he assumed the office, Keating has been pushing us, pressing us, humiliating us…complaints in the World Trade Organization, lawsuits over patents and copyrights…even running ships and planes over and near our bases in the South China Sea. Like those waters belonged to them, and not us.”

  Up on the television screen, Jiang watches the humble yet arrogant American president mouth his words of apology. Jiang’s tablemate, Liu, is entirely correct. To see their own president on television, groveling and nearly weeping like this American leader…it would never happen.

  Never.

  Which is why, Jiang thinks, we will eventually win.

  No apologies.

  Just the actions of a world power gaining its rightful place.

  Liu taps cigarette ash in his teacup’s saucer. “Wouldn’t it be something, Comrade Jiang, if, when the time comes for those Americans to vote, this failed raid tonight and his speech full of regrets would cause Keating’s defeat? What a happy outcome that would be.”

  Jiang nods with satisfaction, recalling that single phone call he made less than two hours ago from his secure office in the basement. A call made for his nation, of course, but for his unborn child as well.

  “A very happy outcome indeed,” he says.

  Chapter

  14

  Eight a.m. local time

  Nafusa Mountains, Libya

  In a remote cave in these historic mountains in Libya, Asim Al-Asheed sits cross-legged on a wool blanket, waiting. His morning cup of chai is nearly finished. The cold air makes the peaks look sharp and hard. Around him he has a special blanket that his Chinese ally gave him years back, one designed to hide his thermal images from the cursed drones that continually fly, snoop, and try to track him down. The color of the blanket is nearly identical to the rocks, meaning that even to a drone flying near the cave’s entrance with a strong camera, he’s barely detectable.

  Next to him is a small rucksack containing his Koran, a change of clothes, food, water. Against the rock wall is a loaded AK-47 semiautomatic rifle, and at his side is a 7.62mm Russian-made Tokarev pistol.

  A few meters behind him, deeper into the cave, is the courier who brought him the news of his family’s death. Last night in this cave, Asim had dreams of demons and jinis tearing apart his wife and little girls, and with the courier’s arrival a few hours ago, the dream had indeed come true.

  Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un, he prays again. Indeed, to God we belong and to God we shall return.

  The courier doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He is wrapped in a swath of blue plastic, sitting up agai
nst the rock wall, keeping quiet.

  Asim doesn’t mind the solitude, the hard rock, the harshness of the plain environment around him. He knows the fine restaurants, hotels, and universities of New York, London, Paris, and Berlin. He has visited these places many times, spreading money to quiet supporters, receiving assurances of future assistance when the time comes. But the life of the West, with all its seductions, tempted him and his brothers and sisters to a life of fat, godless leisure.

  He looks to his hands, rough, worn, and scarred. Years ago, when he was just a student, these hands were soft and smooth, and he dreamed then of becoming a surgeon. Through the generosity of a rich aunt who lived in neighboring Tunisia, he was able to spend nearly a year at the Université de Tunis El Manar, studying medicine. There he had gotten drunk, had whored, but he also studied hard, and a life in the West beckoned to him…until the call of jihad became too strong to ignore.

  Asim rubs at his rough hands.

  A long time ago.

  It’s been only a little while since the sun has risen, and he sits and tries to stay at peace, remembering how more than a century ago Omar Mukhtar, peace be upon him, fought the Italians for years in this nation, Asim’s home country. That blessed man lived and fought in mountains such as these, against the colonialists and Europeans and the West, which tried for millennia to conquer these lands and people.

  Asim has always taken inspiration from him.

  His lands, his people, his family.

  Movement down below.

  Asim picks up a set of German-made Zeiss binoculars, focuses on what’s coming up the barely visible mountain trail.

  There.

  A male and female, walking carefully up the narrow and stone-strewn path even as they laugh and talk with each other. The bright red knapsacks they carry stand out against the harsh land they are casually strolling through. The man looks strong, young, his long blond hair a similar shade to the woman’s. A score of meters below Asim, they pause, still talking.

  The man helps the woman take off her knapsack. Her fleece jacket is tight against her chest. The man takes off his knapsack, laughs again, and starts coming up the trail, closer to Asim and the cave.