by David Poyer
General Steven P. Leache was due at 2000. At 2015 McCall pointed out a window at the helipad atop the sail. Someone called “Attention” in the hallway.
Americas’s viceroy from the Red Sea to Asia Minor wore BDUs and subdued stars. His hair was silver and his lean face ascetic as an aging pastor’s. Two troopers with hip holsters preceded him. With Leache was a man Dan recognized with a shock as Brent Gelzinis. The deputy national security adviser was in sport coat and open-necked shirt. He wore rimless spectacles, and his jet-black hair was slicked back like Robert McNamara’s, but his smile was more photogenic. If you considered hammerhead sharks photogenic. Dan had worked for Gelzinis, or more accurately, several layers below him, at the National Security Council.
Their relationship hadn’t been friendly. Gelzinis stopped in front of him, not offering to shake hands. “Lenson. There you are.”
“Mr. Gelzinis. How’s Mrs. Clayton doing?” The national security adviser.
Gelzinis smiled but didn’t answer. Leache nodded to the rest of the room and took his seat at the head of the table, pulling another chair over for the deputy.
“Cheerful faces. I like cheerful faces,” Leache began, in sudden near darkness. His aide had dimmed the overheads at his end, leaving him in gloom, the rest in brightness. “I pulled in the deputy national security adviser to get his read on realities on the ground. I have only one question, Corny. Can you feed these people? That’s the end state, from the highest level. Get them fed, hold an election, then extract. No lingering presence. No continuing mission. We’re spending four million a day in Ashaara, but there’s nothing we need there, and to be painfully frank, I have more strategically vital sore points. So tell me you have a road out, and how many weeks we are from it.”
Dan couldn’t help agreeing the long-term goal had to be to leave. The trouble was, once you started to help, in this part of the world, you became part of the problem.
“We can feed ’em,” Ahearn said. “But only so long as we can maintain security.”
“Local forces?”
“No army. No cops. When the president left, every man took his gun and went home, after he stole everything he could pull out of the wall. What’s left’s clan militias. At best.”
Leache apologized if he hadn’t given JTF Red Sea enough attention. “Things have been getting stickier with Iran. That hijacked sub”—he glanced at Dan—“triggered unpleasant consequences. Though it has kept my carriers safe. The Nimitz strike group carried the new anti-Shkval countermeasures when she transited Hormuz last month.
“Right now I’m pushing collective defense. Both the U.S.-GCC Cooperative Defense Initiative and NATO-GCC Istanbul Cooperation frameworks made clear their commitment to a WMD-free zone in the Gulf. I’d like to use this conference to explore extending that to the Red Sea area. Comments?”
“It’s worth pursuing,” Ahearn said. “But my feeling is none of the states in the area are in the running, either technologically or in terms of budget, to present that level of threat.”
“Maybe, but we keep hearing about al Qaeda coopting local Islamicists. Trying to knit them into a cohesive framework, addressing the command-control challenge in an asymmetrical environment.”
Like most very senior officers, Dan noticed, Ahearn spoke in a pabulumized shorthand that might make sense to people at his level but didn’t convey much to those below. Which was probably exactly why they talked that way, but it seemed to have a very low sense-to-words ratio.
“We have a very good NCIS team keeping tabs on them.”
“The locals need to do that. They can plant informers, take them down when the time’s right. Also, I’m going to have to pull your agents back to the Gulf. Too many emergent needs here.”
“That wouldn’t help. If we didn’t have—”
Leache didn’t pause. “When will you have local security stood up? We need to depend on them, not our own counterintel assets. And I’m getting reports of pirate activity. So far they haven’t taken down anything important, but they might. Anything like marine police, a coast guard?”
Ahearn explained what had happened in the aftermath of the collapse. The CINC seemed to listen, but Dan found his shaded, unblinking gaze unsettling, as if he was thinking about more important issues than the fate of one small, poverty-stricken country.
When he tuned back in Leache was talking for the benefit of the deputy adviser. “The difficulty’s in integrating, aligning, and prioritizing our initiatives with the right bureaus at State. The lateral relationship’s inefficient. We have to liase through two choke points: me to the ambassador, and the JIACG and my political adviser to the country teams. Both are problematic—especially since State and I have different geographic AORs.”
“Is your JIACG effective?” Ahearn asked.
“Oh, I have a very effective Joint Interagency Coordination Group. I’ll send you a team. Make sure you’re not overlooking anything, or doing things we shouldn’t be doing. If that’s all right—you’re the commander on the ground.”
“I don’t have staff to nursemaid visiting firemen,” Ahearn said, and Dan sat up. This wasn’t how a one-star talked to the commander of a unified command, who was Almighty God Incarnate to anyone in uniform.
Leache must have thought so too, because he leaned forward a millimeter, and the darkness at his end of the table got blacker. “I’d appreciate it. Let’s get to the meat. Is this Dobleh a contender?”
Ahearn looked at Dan, who cleared his throat. “The situation’s tricky, General. He has no official status yet, no forces, and no budget. The ADA’s not clan-aligned. That’s good, but it also means they don’t control a traditional militia as a force core.
“Essentially, they’re depending on us and on the private contractors State’s providing through an emergency security assistance grant. For some reason, it’s easier to get thirty million to hire GrayWolf than it is to get three million for an Ashaaran police force.”
No one responded, so he went on. “We do have the so-called Governing Council offering their militia for security in the capital and port area.”
“Any security’s better than none,” Gelzinis said breezily. “And weren’t they part of the national police—”
“They were an oppressive operation,” Dan said. “Actually not so long ago they had KGB advisers. Outside of the clans that backed the old regime, everyone in the country hates them.”
“Still, they could serve as a nucleus. Do they have heavy weapons?” Leache asked.
“No sir, General. We seized their artillery, and destroyed the armored regiment at Darew.”
“Aircraft? Battle helos?”
“MiGs and MI-8s. Inoperable junk.”
“With no heavy weapons and no air force, they can’t be much of a threat,” Gelzinis said. “Let’s at least try this Governing Council. Assir, right?”
“Assad, sir,” Ahearn said.
“We can’t wait around for some ideal solution. A country without security—that’s like mayonnaise left out of the refrigerator, in this corner of the world.”
Chuckles around the table. Dan said, “Yessir, but I don’t think this General Assad—”
“Let’s give him a chance,” Leache said. Dan started to speak again, but caught Ahearn’s glance. He closed his mouth, then winced. What was he doing? He lifted his hand.
“Dan,” Gelzinis said. “I see you still just have to speak up.”
“Yes sir, I do. The general needs to be told he’s making a bad decision.”
“According to some, the only kind I make,” Leache said. “What’s this one? Commander?”
Gelzinis said, “Let’s move on. We don’t really need to—”
“Take it easy, Brent. We’ve got a Medal of Honor winner here. And I was on Schwarzkopf’s staff; I remember how he got it.” Leache nodded at Dan. “To us military types, he’s a warrior god come down out of the sky, okay? Go ahead, Commander.”
“Sir, um, thanks for the—but I didn’t—well, never
mind.” He wondered if his face was as flaming as it felt. “Warrior god out of the sky.” But it had been nice watching Gelzinis’s face as Leache shoved Dan’s pointy star up his behind. “Uh, I strongly recommend not supporting Abdullahi Assad. He’s a warlord, plain and simple.”
“Corny?”
“I agree.”
“Okay, I withdraw the suggestion. Deal with it as you see fit. But get ’em armed. Don’t leave it till our boy’s elected, that’ll be too late.” Leache pushed his chair back, paused, looking at Gelzinis. “Brent?”
“Dobleh’s speaking tomorrow. Is he presentable?”
Ahearn said, “He’ll make a good impression. Guy speaks six languages.”
“One’ll be enough. How about the subcommittee? Who’s your briefer?”
“Lenson will present. He’s been doing a lot of my planning. I’ll take questions. And I have one for the deputy.”
“Shoot, General.”
“Can we get any security help from the international community? Outside my purview, but it might lie in yours. NATO allies. The New Europe.”
“I’ll take it for action,” Gelzinis said. Ahearn nodded, but Dan knew that was NSC-speak for “Forget it, asshole.” Or at least, Gelzinis-speak.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Leache rose, shook hands with Ahearn, then with Dan as well.
Then he stepped back a pace and saluted. Dan was startled—it was in the regulations, that all ranks saluted the ribbon he wore—but you didn’t often see generals doing it. His estimate of Leache went up another notch. Not for knowing the reg, but for not considering himself above it.
As they filed for the door his heart suddenly lifted as he remembered: Blair. She might even now be in their room.
Even now, in the bed, looking up at that enormous mirror. . . .
BUT when he got there, a light blinked on the phone in the study. The message was her from butchy Marine aide. “Margaret here. Blair’s been delayed. She should be there tomorrow, around noon. Call if you have questions.” Then the rattle of the phone going down, a dial tone.
There were two bidets, side by side, in the bathroom. The Jacuzzi, with hand-set glass tile and a wraparound painting on the wall, was big enough for two. He stripped, took a thirty-second Navy shower, and climbed into the bed. He stared down at himself from the mirror.
Was this what it felt like, looking down on your body when you were dead?
NEXT morning, 0830, in the Burj al Arab’s palatial conference center. After the welcome coffee Shinichi Kazuma spoke for an hour, outlining the Hundred Day Program and its requirements in donor commitments. Hundreds of attendees in white thobes and dark business suits applauded when he finished.
He introduced Dr. Dobleh. Dan leaned back, registering only the first few sentences before drifting off to daydream about Blair.
He jerked back, flinching. Dobleh’s face looked less round and foolish than it had at the port, when they’d paraded through the streets in trucks of rice. Rumor said he’d put himself on the same ration as those in the refugee camps. If so, it showed: his cheeks were thinner, and his jacket hung on him.
Dobleh spoke slowly, first in Italian, then Arabic, so Dan couldn’t really follow the whole speech, except for some of the Italian. He caught the word “America” but couldn’t tell what the ADA leader was saying. Something good, he hoped. His peroration had the tone of Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream,” followed by a storm of applause. Dan stood with the rest, clapping, smiling. It looked like Ashaara would get its aid.
LUNCHTIME. The Burj’s prizewinning staff was lined up abreast in chef’s hats, serving with theatrical flourishes as attendees inched along with plates. Dan browsed the descriptions of dishes posted in French, English, and Arabic at each station. The baked hallwayo fish was marinated in a masala of local spices, crusted with sambal oelek, and served with coriander and tomato sesame. Aromatic yellow rice with pickled lemon, spicy red sauce, and a baby cos herb salad. Australian strip loin with blue cheese crust and braised Mulwarra lamb parcels. Dessert was a chocolate shell filled with milk chocolate mousse and a baked crumble of macadamia nuts and cherries, topped with a dollop of smoking-hot butterscotch sauce. Waiters served coffees, teas, juices, and sparkling waters from carts.
He caught sight of Dobleh across the room. The pediatrician-turned-savior fingered his lips as he watched diners at the damask-linened tables. The Ashaarans with him looked hungry too. A few steps away stood the NGO reps Dan had met at the embassy. Quarles, from Save the Children. O’Shea, the hydrogeologist. The ag expert who’d criticized food aid, arguing they’d be better off helping local farmers. He wondered if they’d joined the ADA leadership on its self-enforced diet.
He looked at his plate. One piece of fish, a little rice, some broccoli. Parsimonious, but he took it to his table anyway.
TWO P.M.: the working group sessions. He was on a panel with three other invitees to discuss Operational Considerations and Physical Security, with four subheads that made only slightly more sense than sambal oelek, whatever that was. He was the opening presenter. He got his notes out and adjusted the microphone, fighting deja vu that this time he recognized: the counterproliferation conference in St. Petersburg, the last time he’d faked it on a panel. The other panelists were from USAID, Action Contre la Faim, and Oxfam. A waiter set a tumbler beside him, condensation beading on the chilled glass.
“Good afternoon,” he began. To his astonishment, the mike worked.
He started with the facts of operating in Ashaara: famine, bad roads, desert, lack of water. Deaths had dropped due to food deliveries, but tensions were rising. “Targeted executions have occurred as clans struggle for resources and territory. The primary source of conflict is food aid resources in transit to distribution points,” he read aloud, trying to keep his tone passionless, as if he weren’t speaking about murders, beatings, the theft of food from helpless refugees.
“It’s hard to tell which militia responds to whom, but General Assad’s seems to be supported by a significant portion of those who were aligned with the former president and presumably were his most uh, affluent associates. In plain words, those who profited from his regime. Another troublesome group, the so-called Waleeli—or Brotherhood—has ties to Wahhabist Islam. It may have received arms from Iran and China.
“Currently JTF Red Sea’s working to arrange the earliest possible elections. What’s urgently needed is for the competing factions to back off, for their sponsors to withhold arms, and for others to make concrete commitments in food, money, and troops. I hope those attending this conference will help Ashaara rebuild itself as a functioning state.”
He figured that was enough and sat back as the Oxfam woman took over.
SEVEN P.M., after a sumptuous dinner: the evening pledge session. The special representative spoke for another hour. As a result of increased transport costs, the World Food Organization was unable to respond as generously as it would like. He thanked those countries which had made a special effort to increase their cash pledge. Such funds now represented 24 percent of all pledges for the biennium to date.
That biennium still had another year to run, however, and he appealed for a special response to the situation in Ashaara. The Hundred Day Program could ship a round million tons of emergency and development aid through the end of the year. The UN was acting as overall coordinator, but Kazuma thanked various entities managing demanding logistic arrangements on behalf of bilateral donors.
Dan, sitting in back, noticed he never mentioned the U.S. At first it irritated him. Then he decided it made sense. If the Americans were handling things, why should anyone else give?
Dr. Dobleh spoke next. Again, his appeal was noisily applauded. Then the pledging began. One after another, men in thobes and headdresses stood to deliver flowery declamations. Most spoke in Arabic, but beside Dan, the ag guy was totting up sums on a calculator.
This was the guy who’d spoken up back at the embassy. Who’d seemed like a pain in the ass, a non–tea
m player. But Dan Lenson had that rep himself in certain circles. He’d always wondered what he was being paid for, if he agreed with whatever his seniors proposed. Fortunately, there was still room for an attitude like that in the United States Navy.
Finally he leaned over. “How’s it going? The pledging?”
“Biggest was the Saudis. A million dollars.”
Dan thought he’d misheard. “Doesn’t sound like much.”
“It isn’t, and that lets the rest of the Gulf off the hook. Who’s going to pledge more than the House of Saud?”
“Who else is in?”
“Oh, everybody’s in. Nobody actually says no, even if they have no intention of following through. So far we’ve got Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates. The British, of course, and the Italians. The Japanese and the Dutch haven’t stepped up yet, but they usually do.”
“The Iranians?”
“Not invited.”
“Chinese?”
“Couldn’t make it. Heartfelt regrets.”
“Meanwhile, they’re buying oil leases in Khartoum,” Dan muttered, remembering that dismal city, the thugs struggling over that blasted land. Sometimes he thought the greatest curse that could come to Ashaara would be to discover something valuable there, diamonds, gold, oil. Her very poverty protected her from the worst scavengers. “How about security? Anybody volunteer troops or police?”
The tech eyed him as if he’d said something peculiarly fatuous. “No.”
No question, this was a poisonous guy. “You know, I heard what you said to Ahearn at the conference. You really think we shouldn’t be feeding starving people?”
“You heard that? ’Cause I never said don’t feed them if they’re starving. But one reason, maybe even the main reason they’re starving now, is because we fed them before.”
Dan couldn’t believe the guy’s cynicism. “Because they’re still alive?”
“No. No! Because every time we ship in millions of tons of aid, their agricultural sector crashes. Nobody buys local, and the farmer has to go to the camp with everybody else. Pretty soon he figures, why bother. Ashaara fed itself once. The south was covered with orchards, truck farms, vineyards.”
