Enemies c-15

by Keith Douglass

  “The only way, I believe, that the United States can demonstrate her complete commitment to this force is to place operational command of USS Jefferson in the hands of the UN commander. That, and that alone will prove her sincerity.” He said the words carefully, throwing down the challenge in dulcet tones.

  I had not expected you to be so blunt. What do you know that I do not, what makes you so sure of yourself that you’d make this move in public? There’s something we’re missing — something that will get too many of our men and women killed if I don’t find out what it is.

  Now speaking out loud, she said, “Of course, this is outside my range of expertise.” No one missed the sardonic expression on the Chinese ambassador’s face. “But I can consult with the president and determine his wishes. It is unlikely that we would be willing to do that unless every other nation committed to this effort did so as well.”

  “Then I suggest an immediate poll of the other ambassadors,” he said. “Perhaps hearing how the rest of this world views the notion might have some impact on your president.”

  Is that what it is? You already have your supporters lined up?

  “It is certainly something to be discussed,” she said calmly. She turned to the current secretary general, the ambassador from Iceland. “In fact, it is so important a question that I suggest a special subcommittee be appointed to investigate.”

  The secretary general, who’d been watching the entire play-by-play with no expression on his broad impassive face, said immediately, “Of course. An excellent idea. If the following members will agree to serve, they may consider the matter and advise us of their recommendations. Britain, Yemen, Ethiopia, and Singapore. Do the members consent?”

  And what drives you? You’re usually on our side for one reason or another. I see the point to Britain and Yemen and Ethiopia as well — they’re all probably on our side. But Singapore? What is it that you know about them that I do not? Is that what the Chinese ambassador is worried about, something to do with Singapore? She glanced over at T’ing. His face was a carefully orchestrated mask of outrage. But the secretary general’s order required no vote from the membership.

  “Do the members agree to serve?” the secretary general asked.

  The British Ambassador rose. “Of course. We are honored to be a part of such an undertaking with such possible broad implications for both this august body and others in the world. This question of sovereignty, of cooperation between peoples to achieve world peace — it is a difficult matter. And this one central question often arises.”

  And what did he mean by that, other bodies such as this? She stared at the British Ambassador for a moment, hoping to pick up some clue from his expression. He turned in her direction, offered a bland smile that revealed nothing, then turned back to his notes. Yemen and Ethiopia accepted in short order, as did Singapore, although apparently with some hesitation and confusion on the part of its ambassador.

  “Well, then.” The secretary general had the expression of a man who should be rubbing his hands together vigorously, please with a difficult task well done. “Shall we table this matter until our subcommittee reports in?”

  And there’s no telling how long that could take. Is that what he’s doing, simply kicking it over to the subcommittee to buy me some time? But then Singapore… what is it about Singapore?

  No matter. This would bear investigating later, but for now she had achieved what she’d hoped for. Murmuring her thanks, she returned to her seat. At least for the moment, this particular crisis had been averted.

  Tavista Air Base

  Joint Forces maintenance facility

  1200 local (GMT –3)

  “What’s this?” Airman Smith asked. He stared at the shoulder patch and the oddly faded blue beret the chief had just handed him. “I brought my own gear. What color is this, anyway?”

  The chief sighed. “Just take them, Smith. Sew the patch on your right shoulder, about where your crow would go if you put it on that side.” He stabbed a finger at a spot on Smith’s shoulder and dug into the muscle still sore from carrying tie down chains.

  “I’m not wearing any stupid beret,” Trudeau announced.

  “You guys would bitch if we assigned you to duty in a whorehouse,” the chief snapped. “You’re on a UN peacekeeping force, so you wear what they wear. Got it?” He turned away from them to the line of sailors queued up to receive their UN-issued gear.

  Smith and Trudeau walked off slowly. Smith stared down at the blue felt beret in his hand. It wasn’t a color for a sailor accustomed to dreary khakis and whites, too bright for a real military uniform. He tried to imagine himself wearing it, glanced around at the rest of his troops to see what they looked like in it, and decided he didn’t like what he saw. No, he didn’t like it all — not one little bit.

  “How are we supposed to sew these things on, anyway?” Trudeau grumbled. “Like I brought a sewing kit with me?”

  “We go find the parariggers,” Smith said. “Just like always.” The division in charge of maintaining all the flight gear, including parachutes and ejection harnesses and cranials, was particularly adept at getting things sewed on. More than one junior sailor too broke to afford the prices the cleaners charged relied on their expertise.

  “Okay, but where does the patch go?” Trudeau persisted. “Dungarees? Coveralls? Man, I hope it’s not the dress uniform. This will screw up the sleeve. I’ll have to buy a new set after we leave.”

  Smith spotted a bunch of people walking by sporting the blue beret. A babble of foreign languages reached his ears, some vaguely familiar from high school classes and others completely beyond his understanding. Russian, maybe? That sounded like Chinese or something?

  “So we wear the same uniform as the rest of those guys?” Smith said slowly. He shook his head, bothered in a way that he could not completely define. “I don’t know, Steve… doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. We’re here to take care of our birds, fly some missions. But we’re supposed to be on one unit?”

  Trudeau shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “I don’t know,” Smith repeated. He shoved the beret and patch into a pocket in his coveralls. “I don’t have time to do it now anyway. It’ll have to wait.”

  Four hours before, the chief had come to them while they were hiding in the chain locker and told them they were on the team going ashore. “And it’s not like we have much time,” he had snapped. “So get your asses in gear and get turning. The COD leaves in two hours.”

  “What do we take, chief?” Smith asked.

  “Hell if I know,” the chief muttered, more to himself than in answer to the question. “You start sending birds ashore, and who the hell knows where we’ll wind up? Spare parts, lubricants, hydraulic fluid — and the one thing we’re going to need the most is whatever we forget to take.” He glanced over the two young airmen. “You don’t have to worry about that — the lieutenant says they got a spare parts depot ashore for their own Tomcats. Supposed to be interchangeable with everything on our birds.”

  Smith and Trudeau exchanged a telling glance. They had heard that particular line before from the more senior sailors in the squadron, and knew that it never worked out the way it was supposed to. Now, staring at the throng of foreign military men, he was even less convinced that his bird would get the proper care while ashore.

  “So what do you think all this is about?” Trudeau asked.

  “I mean, it’s great be off the ship for a while, not to mention the liberty. But sort of weird to be flying here, you know?”

  Smith nodded. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about the missions. Not specifically.”

  Trudeau shrugged. “Yeah, well, our job is to keep the birds flying, isn’t it?” As Smith walked back to the flight line, one question kept bothering him. Was that all his job was? To keep the birds flying? That was why he was in a uniform?

  “I joined the Navy, dammit,” he said, as they started across the tarmac to locate their birds. “
The Navy, and not the United Nations.”

  “Life in a blue suit, shipmate,” Trudeau answered.

  “Is it?” Smith asked.

  For once, Trudeau had no ready answer. And neither did Smith.

  “These damned things don’t fit,” Trudeau complained as he stuffed the O-rings into a pocket of his coveralls. “Interchangeable, they said. Right.” For all the good the consumables were doing, he might as well have tossed them on the ground, but no good airmen ever intentionally fouled his own deck.

  “None of this is any good,” Smith said. “And I’m going to do something about it.” The indignation over the blue patch on his shoulder had been building throughout the day, and now, faced with another unworkable aspect of this peacekeeping mission, it was too much. He stormed into the line shack and pulled his beret out of his coverall pocket. “Not going to wear it, Chief,” he said. “I’m not in the United Nations. I’m in the United States Navy. I’m just an airman, but I know that much.”

  Much to his surprise, the chief had no immediate reaction. Smith had been prepared for an ass chewing, coupled with some new profanities Chief had not yet used on them. But this silence, that was something new.

  “Sit down, Smith,” the chief said finally. He pointed to the battered wooden chair in front of his desk. “You and I need to talk.”

  Smith sat, feeling definitely uncomfortable. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like it all. Nothing took the impetus out of righteous indignation like reason.

  Outside he could hear the noise of four different types of aircraft engines turning. The flight schedule this afternoon was an unholy mess, and the tower crew had finally settled for simply spacing fighters and attack aircraft at thirty-second intervals within a twenty-minute window allotted to each aircraft type. The end result was that no one knew exactly who was airborne and who wasn’t until the entire twenty-minute window had expired.

  The problem was further complicated by the fact that many of the flight line workers didn’t speak much English. So far, they’d been able to resort to the universal hand signals all international airports used. But that didn’t do much for getting the right O-rings for a bird. Not with half the wrenches measured in centimeters and the other half in inches. “The sleeve patch, is that it?” the chief asked. There was something oddly reserved in his voice that worried Smith.

  He shook his head. “It’s not the uniform, Chief. I guess I sound out of line, but it’s the whole idea. I mean what we’re doing here. This isn’t our fight.”

  “Don’t you think a lot of people all up the chain of command, including the president, have thought about that?” the chief shot back.

  Smith nodded. “Yes, Chief, I do. But I think they came up with the wrong answer.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  The chief studied him in silence for a few moments, then let out a heavy sigh. “You follow orders, son. That’s all there is to it. This isn’t your call.”

  “I think it is.” Smith’s earlier uneasiness was fading.

  The chief exploded then. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with, Smith. These Greeks, they’re in command around here. You think everything works out here like it does back home? Do you realize what could happen to you in a foreign country?” He leaned closer, and Smith could smell the stale rankness of beer on his breath. “These people don’t kid around about orders, son. Not for their own people, and not for airmen under their command. People disappear when they disobey orders around here, you got that?” The chief stopped suddenly, as though he’d said too much.

  “I’m not your son,” Smith said. Gramps would never talk to me this way. Dad wouldn’t either, if he’d lived. They wouldn’t be shitfaced in the middle of the day, either.

  “No, you’re not. You’re a stupid kid who doesn’t have a clue. Let me tell you what happens to people who screw up out here.” The chief was shouting and the stink of the alcohol was overpowering. “I went to the little welcome aboard lunch they had for us over at the Chief’s Club. I heard what happens here. One of their pilots, he screwed up a mission last week? Shot down that helo, they said. Well, as soon as he came back to the flight line, the general had him in his office. He hasn’t been seen since. His wife, neither. And you want to piss them off over a crappy hat and patch? You willing to bet your life on them being understanding?”

  Dad, Gramps… what would they do? By rote, Smith felt the outlines of his Gramps’s last letter in his pocket. Comfort and conviction radiated out from it, suffusing his whole body.

  “There’s right and there’s wrong, Chief. And this is just plain wrong.” Smith stood and walked out of the line shack, leaving the chief shouting after him.

  United Nations

  1600 local (GMT +5)

  Jack Tarkington had been Sarah Wexler’s aide for the last ten years. In that time, he’d come to know her moods so well that the rest of her United Nations staff accused him of reading her mind. So when he heard her footsteps padding over the heavily carpeted passageway outside the reception area, he knew that something was wrong. Based on her telephone calls over the last two days, along with the Chinese ambassador’s angry appearance in her office just yesterday, it was probably Greece.

  Greece. As if there were any easy answer to that one. Not that there ever was with any form of ethnic warfare. During their days in the state department, he’d seen the futility of that.

  The junior rank-and-file at the State Department was filled with young, idealistic political science majors bent on changing the world through deep and culturally appropriate understanding. Then there were several layers of increasingly cynical career State Department personnel, who differed only in their degree of disillusionment. At the very top, the ambassadors. Political appointees, the power to represent a mighty nation in international relations conferred upon them based on campaign contributions.

  As a rule, the State Department tried to do a good job — and failed miserably. So often at odds with the military over how and when to use force to resolve a situation, the State Department started howling for troops the moment it appeared that opposing parties simply would not, beyond all reason or rational understanding, listen to United States orders on how to conduct their affairs. They took themselves and her families to remote locations, were surrounded by cultures they might understand intellectually but could never be a part of emotionally, and were surprised when some local hothead took a pot shot them. Let one of them die, and every last one of them turned into a hawk.

  Almost every last one, he amended. There was the standard fare of the State Department — and then there was Sarah Wexler. The current administration had appointed her to the position of Ambassador to the United Nations from the State Department based on the strength of tough career decisions and her personal relationship with the president. It was a decision neither party had had reason to regret. Ambassador Wexler often took heat off the present president, and her own forceful and well thought-out positions were often floated as possibilities to assess public and international reaction before the president took a stand. So far, the relationship had worked for both of them.

  Ambassador Wexler strode into the room, the picture of complete confidence and dignity. Two assistants trailed behind her, carrying boxes of documents as well as her own prepared speech.

  “Tea?” Jack asked.

  She looked at him, and he saw the true story in her eyes, but her words were calm and professional. “How thoughtful. Yes, tea would be quite nice. Thank you.”

  And that, he thought, summed up Sarah Wexler. Grace under pressure, and instinct for human kindness coupled with an understanding of the necessity for force when needed.

  After so many years working by her side, he knew exactly how she liked her tea. He left his desk and went to the small kitchenette area, and busied himself for a few minutes bringing the water to the correct temperature before carefully pouring it over the tea leaves. He heard movement behind him, and was not surprised whe
n he turned and saw her there.

  He handed her a cup, knowing that he should have steeped the leaves a little longer but guessing that the restorative effect was more important than gourmet considerations. “Bad?”

  She nodded. Here, away from the rest of her staff, she let her true emotions show on her face. Hopelessness, and anguish that he saw all too often these days. “They won’t listen to reason.”

  “Do they ever?”

  Instead of answering, she slumped down into one of the plastic chairs pushed around the edge of the room. “Not often enough. I’ve tried everything I can think of, called in every favor. But I think they’re going to win the cote on the strikes.”

  He poured her a refill of the tea, now at the correct strength. “You expected that, didn’t you?”

  “It doesn’t make it easier.” She drained the rest of the second cup, although he knew it was too hot to drink that quickly. “There’s one last thing I can try, I suppose,” she said, almost herself. “It won’t work, but at least I’ll know I’ve tried.”

  “What?” Jack asked, a cold shiver running down his spine. Not since the Spratley Islands conflict had he seen that look on her face: deep regret coupled with iron determination.

  “I’ll have to talk it over with the president first,” she said. “It’s risky, but it might work.”

  Jack felt a deep sense of foreboding. “What might work?”

  “China,” she said softly. “T’ing holds the keys to this, and I don’t know what locks they fit.”