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IN THE WHITE HOUSE Situation Room, the president and his advisors are joined by Lieutenant General Arthur Hefty, a pragmatic and some would say troglodytically gung-ho Marine who retains the crew-cut he had upon graduation near the bottom of his class at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. Much decorated for his early service as a lieutenant in Marine Reconnaissance during the Vietnam War, and for his frontline abilities as he rose in the ranks in every American military engagement since, General Hefty is a Marine’s Marine. But not necessarily a diplomat’s.

“Arthur,” the president tells him with neither greeting nor preface, “we have a hot request from IDF. What’s available and how fast?”

“Mr. President, the time frame?”

“Seems to be yesterday,” the president says. “Israel has got itself in a kosher pickle.” He pauses for applause, a familiar tic on the stump, and one the American public will see a lot of: this is an election year. Here there is only silence. “Seems we never bothered to share certain intelligence.”

Felix St. George will not let this pass, president or no president. “Sir, this is classic Pearl Harbor. How could we know? All we picked up was increased communication.”

“About which you neglected to inform Jerusalem,” Flo Spier says. She is thinking about the Jewish vote, the Jewish lobby, the Jewish wallet, which no presidential candidate can afford to ignore. And now of course there are the damn-fool Christian fundamentalists, pro-Israel to the core. The bible-thumpers can easily throw the electoral college votes in six Midwestern states and most of the South. Just when the Jews had spread themselves out across the country and thus adulterated their vote, the born-agains came along. All they think of is abortion and Israel.

The president has no time for this, not now. But it is fair to say it remains in the back of his mind; the leader of the free world knows how quickly he can be out of the job. “What can we accomplish, Arthur?”

“The Sixth Fleet is off Izmir, sir,” General Hefty says with zero hesitation and a good deal of enthusiasm. “That’s Turkey, Mr. President. Figure eight hours. But we’ve got three hundred carrier-based aircraft within two. I can punch in twelve hundred Marines in four. En route we can coordinate with IDF. They’re good like that.”

Felix St. George already has a laser pointer moving across the eastern Mediterranean on the illuminated world map on the wall. “Russian naval units off Syria, sir.”

General Hefty turns to his commander in chief. “Mr. President?”

There is a mechanical buzz. St. George puts a phone to his ear.

“I’m not afraid of the Russkies,” the president says. “They’ll fight to the last A-rab.”

St. George puts down his phone. “Mr. President, Riyadh just announced they’re terminating oil production in support of their Muslim brothers.”

“What?”

“The oil weapon, sir,” Flo Spier says. “Tomorrow’s price at the pump will double all over the world—Europe, Asia, every gas station in America, to say nothing of heating oil when winter hits. Mr. President, this is worse than a major war. It’s a political catastrophe.”

The president decides to be presidential. “No damned A-rab is going to tell the United States of America how to conduct its foreign policy.”

General Hefty stands. “Is that a go, Mr. President?”

But not too presidential. “Arthur, order your leathernecks on stand by. And tell your Israeli opposite number over there that the American people are fully committed to the security of the State of Israel and to its eternal capital, Jerusalem.”

Admiral Staley offers a dry cough. “Jerusalem seems to have fallen, sir.”

A long moment of silence ensues, the kind of silence that greets the sudden death of a rich relative who has not left a will. All eyes are on the president. “That’s...unfortunate,” the president says.

General Hefty does not hesitate. “Mr. President, with respect, the US and Israel have treaty commitments—”

“We’ll reconvene at breakfast,” the president says, standing. “I’m sure the Jews will figure something out by then. They always do.” He turns with one hand on the doorknob. “Let’s just hope it’s not nuclear.”