Across the ocean. The office of the nation's highest authority.
The air conditioning had been turned down to its lowest setting, sixteen degrees, yet on the broad leather sofas...
The three men at the very pinnacle of this planet's power pyramid looked as though they had just been dragged out of the water.
Drenched in sweat.
Truly drenched in sweat.
With trembling hands, the president slowly pushed a freshly printed, top-secret document to the center of the heavy mahogany desk.
"Sign... just sign it."
The president's voice was as hoarse as if he had swallowed a handful of broken glass.
The defense secretary stared fixedly at the document, as though it were not paper, but a death warrant.
He shrank deeper into the sofa, his hands jammed firmly into his pockets, not daring to pull them out.
The foreign secretary kept his head down, pretending he was deaf.
"Have you all gone fucking mute?!"
The president finally snapped and slammed his hand onto the desk.
But even the hand he slammed down was shaking uncontrollably.
"Those three carrier strike groups are still floating around in that gulf!
They're burning through enough military funding every day to build ten Ivy League universities in this country!
And now? All three senior frontline commanders collapsed in their command rooms at the same fucking time, clutching their hearts!
Before they died, they even posted all our dirty-money deals in the Middle East on Twitter!"
The president tugged open his expensive silk tie, gasping for breath. "Now, from four-star generals down to ordinary grunts, nobody in the entire military dares take on this mess!
They've given us a way out. We take it, and this is over!
Or do you want us to be the next ones whose hearts stop?!"
"Mr. President, this isn't about