Third World War Read Online Free PDF Page A

and a sum of money, had sent in the helicopter to save Memed's life.
    ****
    Washington, DC, USA*
    The US President's limousine drew up outside Peter Brock's Georgetown house. Casually dressed in a pair of jeans, his hair wet from the shower and with a towel slung around his neck, the National Security Advisor greeted Jim West.
    'Glad you managed to get away, Jim,' said Brock.
    'If I couldn't have, I doubt you could,' joked West lightly, taking off his overcoat and scarf and hanging them over the banister of the staircase. 'Khan's funeral is a private affair. Mary says even our ambassador has not been invited.'
    'Not a happy situation at all,' mused Brock thoughtfully. 'Riots in Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines.'
    It was early evening, and a smell of spice and seafood came from the kitchen. Brock took the President through to where Caroline, wearing a bright, floral apron, was whipping up supper, with a salad fork in one hand and a glass of Californian Merlot in the other. West knew and appreciated Caroline's skilful acts at distancing herself from the political issues of the day.
    She kissed West on both cheeks and poured a glass for him. 'Here, Jim. Taste the work in progress and tell me what you think.' She held out a spoon, sauce dripping over the edges on to a small plate. West blew to cool it and as soon as he had some in his mouth, Caroline said: 'More rumours in the papers about you and Mary, Jim. All of it true, I hope?'
    West fanned his mouth with the back of his hand. 'It's unfair to ask a man such a question with hot sauce in his mouth,' he managed, swallowing it and washing it down with the Merlot. 'Your sauce is delicious, Caro, and Mary and I are just good friends - at least when we're not fighting it out in meetings.'
    Brock grinned. 'I'll put on a shirt and be back in a couple of minutes.'
    Since losing his wife to cancer, West had treated the Brocks' rambling Georgetown house as a second home. The death of a First Lady in the White House was almost unheard of. The last had been Caroline Harrison in 1892, and modern America, when it was told that Valerie West had passed away after her sudden diagnosis, had not known how to react.
    For some weeks, the media had asked if West would remain up to the job. His background was forensically re-examined, with questions raised about the psychological strength of a man who had married his childhood sweetheart and now had to live without her. West's eldest child, Chuck, was married with two boys and a girl. But his work kept him in Oakland where he had started an interstate trucking company. His daughter, Lizzie, was an international economist specializing in the developing world. She accompanied her father to public functions when she could. But often it was tense because, politically, they did not see eye to eye.
    Peter Brock was Jim West's best friend and most trusted political sounding board. In public, Brock's view would be the view of the President, and if ever there was a disagreement only he and Jim West would know about it.
    They had trained and served as navy pilots together, dated their wives together, married within a month of each other and now pretty much ran the country together. West measured six foot two, with a lean frame, a mane of sandy hair and an ability to match his face to any political occasion. Brock was short and stocky, with the prominent chin of a man not to be messed with. His nose was slightly skewed after being broken in a mess-room brawl. But his eyes revealed both vulnerability and curiosity. A generation earlier, West had told Brock his expressions were so transparent that he would never make it as a front-line politician.
    It was unspoken, but the Brocks had taken it upon themselves to make sure their friend would pull through. West was a man with dark mood swings, chased by fear of failure. There were demons, which, by his own admission, chased him and had motivated him all the way to the White House.
    Caroline rinsed a baking tray