“Last but not least, we bomb Bashar al-Assad’s presidential palace in Damascus, and other compounds he has throughout Syria. Bomb them to dust. We can do the same to Qaddafi in Libya, if we want.”

The room became quiet. Lawrence Keller considered that, far from eliminating problems that had been bedeviling the United States for some time, what General Stark was describing was the beginning of World War Three.

Keller had bum-rushed David Barrett out the door. He was beginning to have an odd feeling about that decision. Stark never talked like this in front of Barrett.

“What about the Russians?” Mark Baylor said.

Stark shook his head. “The Russians are a shadow of their former selves. They’re weak. They’re focused on rebuilding their economy and their military. Yes, they are allies with the Iranians, with the Syrians, and with Hezbollah. But our intelligence indicates they won’t risk a shooting war to protect those allies. Not now. Not yet. Ten years from now, they might. All the more reason to take these steps now.”

To Keller, it was clear that the general was not speaking off the cuff. He had come to the meeting with these ideas in his pocket. And he wasn’t speaking for himself. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had probably cooked up this plan years ago. Keller had to admit it had a certain grim logic. Except…

“The Russians have nuclear weapons,” Keller almost said. But didn’t.

Mark Baylor, the new President, was nodding. All eyes were on him. The ghost of a smile appeared on his face. He didn’t hesitate.

“I like it,” he said. “Let’s do it. Start putting everything into place. Begin to lock on targets, and make it obvious that we’re doing so.”

Baylor glanced around the room. His eyes fell on Lawrence Keller.

“Let’s get a video team in here, and alert the media that we’re going to want airtime. We’ve got an announcement to make.”

“What about allies and strategic partners?” Lawrence Keller said. “England, France, NATO, Japan, Australia… these people might want a little bit of a…”

Mark Baylor waved that away.

“I don’t want to hear a lot of debate about this, no matter how well intentioned. Let them all watch it on television.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

4:30 p.m. Arabian Standard Time (8:30 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

Hajin

Eastern Syrian

Near the Iraqi Border

“My kind of place,” Ed Newsam said.

The village was dusty and remote, a cluster of shacks and cinderblock one-story houses built along a narrow tributary of the Euphrates River. The water flowed dark brown here, and green reeds and scrub brush grew along the stream’s edge. The ground was a deep, dull orange fading to brown and tan. Chickens chased each other across the dirt paths. Tidy vegetable gardens were planted in rows behind people’s homes.