Ryan paused for a moment, eyes fixed on the Remington bronze beyond his desk. The others in the room knew when he was thinking, and they gave him the space to do so by looking down at the folios in their laps and keeping quiet. Mary Pat was right. He’d never been much of a yielder when it came to games of chicken. Now, though, he played the game with other people’s kids. It didn’t necessarily mean he was more likely to flinch. It did, however, make him careful never to start such a game himself.
“Scott,” he said, “get on the horn with your counterparts in and around Southeast Asia over the next few days. You can start with Australia and Japan. They certainly have big dogs in this fight over the SCS. Let them know we appreciate what they are doing, but it wouldn’t hurt our feelings if they ramped up their own movements in these waters. They don’t have to go out of their way to piss off the Chinese, but they shouldn’t be tippytoeing around to avoid them, either.”
“A unified front,” Secretary Burgess said. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yes, it would,” the President said. “And I’ll do my part by bringing up the issue during bilateral meetings while we’re in Tokyo.” He eyed van Damm over his glasses. “I do have meetings with both the Japanese and Australian PMs, right?”
“You do,” the CoS said.
Ryan looked forward to the G20 Summit. It was supposed to be about the economy. What wasn’t, after all? But world leaders, being who they were, discussed whatever they damn well pleased when they got together. Ryan enjoyed the face-to-face meetings. Statesmanship between leaders with competing agendas was often sorely lacking, even in his own country—hell, especially in his own country.
Van Damm flipped through several pages in his folder. “The final advance team is in Tokyo now. Last-minute changes will be doable, of course, especially if you and State need any follow-on talks with Australia and Japan—but the Secret Service won’t be too keen on it. I’m pretty sure they’d just as soon drive you around Tokyo in an Abrams tank.”
The White House Advance Office went out at least three times before any presidential travel such as to the G20. The first trip, five months prior to the event, was called the survey. The second, known as a pre-advance, occurred a month or so before the actual event. A final advance took place three weeks later, a week prior to the President’s arrival. By pre-advance time, the big hurdles such as where they would park the nineteen aircraft and hundreds of vehicles had all been roughed out, allowing the advance team to drill down on the inevitable crisis issues that always came up.
“And don’t forget the PRC,” Ryan said, nodding. “I want to sit down face-to-face with President Zhao at least once. Maybe keep this game of chicken from progressing any further. It would be nice if I could point out our unified front with—”
Betty’s voice came over the intercom, cutting him off.
“Mr. President,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but Commander Forrestal is here. He says it’s urgent.”
Interruptions like this were not uncommon. When not in the Oval Office, every person in the room was tied to a government-issue BlackBerry or iPhone—the “intelligence umbilicus,” Mary Pat called it. But each of them left their smartphone in a basket at the secretary’s desk just outside before entering the Oval. There were secure phones in compartments inside the Oval Office furniture if anyone needed to make a call pursuant to a meeting.
Betty had a copy of the President’s calendar. She knew how long his appointments were scheduled to last—and her ability to ascertain if some issue just absolutely could not wait bordered on a superpower.
6
Commander Robby Forrestal stepped into the Oval a moment later, standing by the door until the President motioned him the rest of the way in. Bald as an egg, he had an angular jaw and runner’s build that suited his Navy service dress whites—the summer uniform he’d wear through September. The placard of ribbons on his chest said he’d served in conflicts involving Afghanistan, Iran, and China. It never ceased to move Ryan how much time in action these young servicemen now faced before they were thirty-five. It was a sobering thought, since for too many years it had been a nod from him that sent them there.
Three minutes later Commander Forrestal finished his initial Bottom Line Up Front briefing regarding the explosion and eventual sinking of China Global Shipping Lines’ Orion. He took a step back, waiting for discussion and questions. As a former national security adviser himself, Ryan knew how to conduct a briefing, and Forrestal was one of the best.
“Casualties?” Ryan asked.
“Preliminary information reports four dead,” Forrestal said. “But the ship’s manifest says there were thirty-two souls on board—and only twenty-two of those are accounted for.”
Ryan took a long breath and gave a pensive shake of his head. “Six more . . .”
“Still missing, Mr. President,” Forrestal said. “Coast Guard has a Mandarin speaker from Seattle on scene at the command post now. I’ll have more information for you in short order.”
Ryan read the one-page executive summary Commander Forrestal had provided. “Forty-knot winds and sixteen-foot seas . . .”
“Yes, sir,” Forrestal said. “We’re fortunate they were able to save the twenty-two, considering the conditions. The search for the six missing crewmen is still ongoing. I have to admit, the Coasties are doing an incredible job here.”
“High praise from a Navy man.” Ryan smiled. “So they’re diverting traffic up through Canada?”
“Yes, sir,” Forrestal said. “The strait is twenty miles wide at some points, but given the weather, it’s impossible to tell how many containers are floating around beneath the surface. One of the Coast Guard 45s out of Port Angeles has already hit one. The crew is okay, but their vessel is in-op.”
Ryan checked his watch. “It’ll be getting light out there by now at this time of year. That’ll help, but I’d imagine it’s a circus. A ship that large, there’s bound to be a lot of oil and diesel floating around.”
“True enough, Mr. President,” Forrestal said. “The district captain has raised the MARSEC level and instituted a standoff zone. If there’s anything good about the weather, it’s that most of the looky-loos are staying off the water. EPA officials out of Seattle are on scene. We should have the preliminary environmental assessment anytime.”
“As bad as the weather is, it would be nothing for a modern container ship to negotiate.” Ryan tapped the paper with his forefinger to underscore his point. “What caused this ship to sink?”
“According to the Mandarin speaker, the crewmen are claiming a series of explosions.”
Burgess couldn’t contain himself. “In the engine room?”
“That’s unknown,” Forrestal said, before turning back to Ryan. “Nothing but WAGs so far, Mr. President.” Commander Forrestal had been around long enough to know that Ryan had enough information flying across his desk; he didn’t have time for Wild-Ass Guesses.
“Very well,” Ryan said. “Keep us informed.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Forrestal turned to go, but Ryan stopped him, calling him by his first name, to take the tone of the meeting down a notch.
“Thank you, Robby,” the president said. “Didn’t your son have a football game last weekend?”