Tavista Air Base
Command Center
0800 local (GMT –2)
Tombstone stood to one side as the command elements of the investigation filtered back into the center. Most of the men were still in shock, but a somber, angry undertone was starting to surface in the snippets of conversation he understood. You didn’t have to understand Greek to know that every one of them took it personally, just like any military officer would. Somehow falling victim to sabotage made the deaths seem pointless, devoid of the honor of dying in combat.
But this was the way of modern combat, with attacks on civilians and guerilla tactics substituting for conventional warfare. You didn’t have to approve of it to realize that it was the wave of the future.
He felt a vague sense of guilt as well, and saw the accusation in the survivors’ faces. It was an American helicopter that had killed them. Civilian, perhaps, but American nonetheless. Coming on top of American objections to the UN command of their forces, the tragedy of the ACN helicopter simply added fuel to the argument that the United States was not really a part of any peacekeeping force that didn’t serve their own agenda. He supposed it was reasonable from a Greek point of view, if one ignored the countless contributions Americans had made in other parts of the world, most particularly in virtually single-handedly shouldering the burden of keeping the explosive Middle East under control.
He waited until General Arkady retreated to his inner office, then quietly approached and rapped on the door. “Come in,” a voice said in English. Tombstone paused, trying to fit the fact that they were expecting him into his intelligence picture. He shoved the door open.
“My deepest condolences, General,” Tombstone said. “Is there any way in which I can be of assistance?”
Seated behind his desk, General Arkady simply stared at him. Finally, he shook his head. “No. America has done so much for us already.”
Tombstone started to answer, then stopped himself. The aircraft involved might have been civilian, operating with its credentials approved by General Arkady himself, but now was not the time to point that out. Not when Arkady had just lost ten men at last count. There might be time later to discuss it, but for now Tombstone let it be.
“I’ll leave you, then,” Tombstone said.
“Wait.” Arkady held up one hand. “There is something that you might be able to resolve for me. Until the transfer of command power to my task force”—the UN task force, but I’ll let that pass, Tombstone thought—“I am in a difficult position in a particular matter. Since it involves a U.S. serviceman, I would like to appoint you as investigating officer.”
“Investigating officer? For a court-martial or a JAG investigation?”
“Perhaps either one,” Arkady said. He picked up a file folder from his desk and held it out. “Review the facts. Interview the witnesses and the man in question. I shall require your assessment of the situation.”
“I’m not certain—”
“Read the file. Keep in mind that regardless of the status of your military forces, you are still assigned to me as an advisor. So do that. Advise.”
“Of course.” Tombstone took the folder and eased out of the office, aware that he’d been summarily dismissed. Once out in the corridor, he started leafing through the sheaf of papers, skimming the acts. He let out a low groan when he saw the squadron — VF-95.
He knows — he’s got to know — that I’m married to the skipper. That it’s my old squadron. Conflict of interest written all over it. Tombstone started to head back to Arkady and explain why it was simply unworkable.
He stopped two paces from the door. Conflict of interest was an American concept — would it apply to the Greek way of looking at things? And would Arkady care one way or the other?
You’re not thinking about this the right way. Of course he knows about the conflict of interest — he has to. He’s making a point, assigning me to investigate this case. Making the point that America’s got too many conflicts of interests to remain a distinct and separate force.
Well, he’d do the investigation. Find out what was behind it all, see if he could nip it in the bud. He skipped back to the first page and read the sailor’s name again, fixing it in his mind.
Tomorrow, Airman Greg Smith, I’m going to find out exactly what was on your mind when you started this. You’re a pawn in this power struggle, and you’ve just given Arkady another piece to play on the board.
TEN
Monday, 8 May
Tavista Air Base
Tavista, Greece
0800 local (GMT –2)
Tombstone stared at the young sailor popped tall in front of his desk. The youngster’s uniform was immaculate, freshly pressed and starched. The rank insignia and rating were meticulously positioned, the Dixie cup hat placed squarely on his head, and the haircut high and tight. Airman Smith stared at a point somewhere over Tombstone’s head, unblinking and seemingly frozen at attention.
“At ease,” Tombstone ordered. Smith snapped immediately into the correct position, no more relaxed that he had been at attention.
“You’re aware of why I asked to see you,” Tombstone said.
“Sir, yes, sir. The admiral is assigned as the investigating officer in this case and will make a recommendation to the convening authority as to whether court-martial charges should be preferred against me.” The voice shook slightly but was clear and level.
“That’s correct. They’ve explained your rights to you?” Tombstone asked, glancing through the file to make sure that the correct form, signed and dated by Smith, was in it.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“And you know you don’t have to talk to me unless you want to?”
“Sir, yes—”
“One sir per sentence will do, Airman Smith.”
“Sir — yes. I understand my rights.”
“And having those right in mind, do you wish to speak to me now?”
At this, Airman Smith seemed to relax infinitesimally. “Yes, sir, I do.”
Tombstone leaned back in his chair. From what he could tell, the case was relatively open and shut. Airman Smith had been given a direct order to wit: wear the UN beret and sew the patch on his uniform. Said Airman Smith had refused to do so, violating Article 92 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, or UCMJ. There was a lot more verbiage accompanying the charges, phrases having to do with the lawfulness of the order, the fact that a commissioned officer was involved — all sorts of legalese.
Disobeying direct orders was an offense that didn’t allow much leeway. Unless Smith could prove that the order was unlawful, that he didn’t understand it, or that he had no way to obey it, it looked like he was screwed.
And over what? A hat and a piece of cloth. There was no doubt that Smith understood the order and he was physically capable of placing it on his head. Maybe an argument about how you get a patch sewed on when you’re ashore in a detachment, but Tombstone suspected Smith could have worked that out, too.
That left only the legality of the order in question, and Tombstone didn’t have much doubt about that issue either. If the order to participate in a UN peacekeeping force was illegal or unlawful, then a hell of a lot more people than Smith were in deep shit.
“So explain this to me, son. Tell me why you won’t wear the beret.”
Smith took a deep breath. “Sir, my lawyer told me not to talk to you, but I figured if anyone would understand it would be you. I know who you are, Admiral, and what you’ve done. Everybody does.” Smith laughed nervously, his words tumbling over each other. “I’d probably ask you for an autograph if it weren’t for… for all this.”
“Go on,” Tombstone said.
Smith began outlining his initial excitement about being part of the team, then the reality of working side by side with the other nations on the flight line. Some of his complaints were simply the disgruntled opinions of a very junior sailor who didn’t have the big picture. But when he got to the details of maintenance on his Tomca
t, Tombstone paid close attention.
“It wasn’t safe, sir. Not what they wanted me to do. Chief, he would never have let me do it that way.”
“And you told the chief?”
Smith nodded. “But the Greek lieutenant said we had to do it anyway. That’s when I knew it wasn’t right, what they wanted us to do. Being under his command. Because what he wanted us to do could have gotten a couple of guys killed in my bird, and that’s not going to happen.”
“Maybe he knew something you didn’t know about it,” Tombstone suggested.
Smith shook his head, now more animated than he’d been since he first entered the room. “No disrespect, sir, but no. You wrap the cotter pin like that and don’t safety wire it, it’s too dangerous. What if it comes loose in flight?”
“What if this lieutenant had been an American officer?” Tombstone asked. “Don’t tell me that you’ve never had one of our officers tell you to do something that was stupid?”
“Sure, that happens,” Smith said. “But then you’ve got a chain of command. I tell the chief, we go to the division officer, the maintenance officer, all the way up if we have to.”
“And what if your skipper still told you to do it?”
Smith was silent for a moment. “It would depend, sir. I’d probably do it because the skipper knows more about the Tomcat than I do. So does the maintenance officer. But this guy, he didn’t. And there was no one else to ask.” He dropped his gaze from the distant spot on the wall he’d been staring at. “We shouldn’t be trusting them with safety of flight, sir. Not unless the guy making the decisions knows what he’s talking about. And they don’t.”
“Why do you say that?” Tombstone asked. From what he’d seen of the Greek forces, they operated pretty much like the American ones did, albeit with a few cultural differences.
Silence again, then Smith said, “They shot one of their pilots when he screwed — excuse me, Admiral — when he messed something up. We don’t do things like that. So what would they do to me if something happened to my bird?”
“They shot a pilot?”
Smith nodded. “Everybody knows about it.”
Everyone but the person who ought to. Tombstone took a deep breath, trying to calm down before he blew up. “Tell me what you know about this pilot getting shot. Tell me everything.”
“He flew a mission a few days ago, the same day that helo went down. When he got back, he had to go see the general. Nobody’s seen him since then. His wife, they said, she showed up at the squadron looking for him, all crying and everything. They took her to see the general too. She hasn’t been back.”
“And you think they shot him… and maybe his wife as well?”
Smith nodded. “The Greek guys that speak English, they say it’s not the first time, either.”
After Tombstone had heard Smith’s entire collection of rumors, he called the Judge Advocate General officer in and sent Smith out to the reception area. Tombstone briefed the lawyer, asking him to take a complete statement from Smith. “And do it yourself,” Tombstone said. “I want this close held until I can find out what’s going on. Don’t grill the kid, just ask him enough questions to keep him talking and to get it all. Then come see me.” He dismissed the lawyer and picked up the telephone. After accessing a satellite telephone line, he punched in the telephone number for Jefferson’s flag spaces.
Batman’s chief of staff answered the phone, then put Tombstone on hold for a few minutes while he tracked down his boss. Finally, Batman picked up the line. Tombstone said, “How far along are you on the turnover of our squadron to the UN command? Officially, I mean.”
“It’s going well,” Batman said, although his tone of voice indicated that he was far from pleased with it. “We’ve got a ton of inventory lists to work through, but we’re getting there. I expect to be done late tomorrow.”
“Find a way to stall. We need to drag this whole thing out for a few days — weeks, if we can.”
“Why? What’s up?”
Tombstone glanced at the telephone to make sure that the crypto light was on, indicating that the circuit was encrypted. “You’re not going to believe this. Hell, I’m not even sure that I do. But until we get to the bottom of it, don’t submit the final documents, okay?” Tombstone filled him in on Smith’s story, concluding with, “And not a word to anyone. Red circuits only, no message traffic on it. Got it?”
“I got it. Let me know when you have something solid and I’ll take care of things on this end.”
Tombstone hung up the telephone, satisfied that he’d done what he could to buy the United States some time.
Four buildings away, General Arkady hung up his telephone as well, scowling.
The United Nations
1130 local (GMT +5)
Ambassador T’ing regarded Wexler gravely. “You ask too much.”
Wexler glared back at him. “I don’t think so. A simple explanation isn’t all that egregious a request, is it?”
“China simply acts on behalf of the struggling people of Macedonia. Their cause is just, and China has a long history of supporting those who fight for the right to determine their own futures.”
“Ah. Like Vietnam? Like Taiwan? Or like Tienaman Square?”
T’ing drew himself up to his full height. “There are many parts of the world that the United States has never really understood. For all your talk about democracy and Wilsonian ethics, you’ve never understood the question of nationalities. In fact, you make it a national ethic to ignore the very question with this melting pot myth of yours. Ha. You end up with a nation of mongrels.”
Wexler sighed, suddenly sick of the all too predictable path the argument was taking. It had been a long day — hell, it had been a long week — and it showed no signs of being over any time soon. “Give it a rest, why don’t you? All I’m really interested in is Greece and Macedonia and this blasted insistence of yours that we turn over command of an aircraft carrier to the UN commander. Just once — just this once — would it be too much to ask for a straight answer?”
“I am answering you,” T’ing said stiffly.
“No, you’re not. Not really. What’s really behind this? Teaching the U.S. a lesson after Hong Kong and the Spratleys? That’s it, isn’t it? Or do you have some sort of trade concession you’ll wring out of me eventually when I simply have to know what’s going on?”
T’ing fell silent for a moment, clearly put off by her approach. She understood why — this was not the way diplomacy worked. Her conversations with the Chinese ambassador should be mere formalities to cement agreements worked out by their underlings who could speak frankly without making national policy or committing her to anything definite. By the time it reached their level, all the shouting should be over, reduced to sterile phrases on international accords.
She knew this — knew it too well not to know how uncomfortable she was making T’ing.
Knew it, and was tired of it. Frank talk, like the kind that she’d grown up with in the Midwest, where people worked out their differences out in the open. She understood that that approach was antithetical for the Asian nations, but why did it always have to be the United States that had to try to understand other cultures? How about a little understanding from the other side as well?
“So what is it?” she said, feeling a sense of release of the strictures she’d practiced and perfected over the years. “Talk to me.”
T’ing drew back, a look of deep offense in his eyes. She took a step forward, physically backing him into a corner. “Come on, just this once. I won’t tell anyone that you broke the code. Play ball with me and let’s see if we can come to an understanding instead of dicking around with words for a few years. You want fighter aircraft? The Spratleys? I’m not saying yes to either of those, but I’m willing to discuss it.”
“We do not need your aircraft,” T’ing replied. “And as for the Spratleys, they are not yours to give or to take away.”
Wexler sighed. She’d had a moment
of hope, of crazy enthusiasm, that this blunt approach might work. She should have known better. In all the time she’d known T’ing, since their paths crossed during their younger years, she’d never seen a crack in his inscrutable reserve. “Let our staffs talk, then. I had just hoped…” She let her voice trail off, knowing that T’ing would get the point even as he refused to concede an inch.
Then inspiration hit. Right idea, wrong approach. She was asking T’ing to go first.
“You know, the U.S. really doesn’t have that much interest in what happens in Greece,” she said, and watched a shadow of shock race across T’ing’s face. “Not like the Middle East. What we really hope is that there’ll be some way to make Europe solve her own problems for a change.”
“Then why the task force and your public support?” T’ing said.
She shrugged. “What else could we do? The only point is to make sure our historic allies understand that we’ll be there if there’s ever another Hitler on the march. Somehow, that whole idea’s gotten out of hand, made us the nine one one force of the world. You have to know that we’re not happy about that.”
“I see.” She watched T’ing’s face, seeing the subtle changes in his expression that told her he was thinking furiously. “If I might make a suggestion, then,” he said. He stopped and waited.
“It would be welcome,” she said, and for once she meant it. “China’s been at this business of government quite a lot longer than we have. You’ve got a civilization that stretches back centuries. Maybe your solutions aren’t ours, but they’re worth listening to.”
T’ing glanced around to see whether anyone else was watching them. They were, of course, but they were standing back at a polite distance. Both coteries of aides were holding back the rest.
“I think,” he began slowly, “that none of us wish to be the world’s nine one one force. China has had her own problems with the rest of the world in recent times.”
Enemies c-15 Page 10
