“You actually think he’d recall Admiral Magruder?”
She nodded. “There are too many secrets being kept around here, Jack. T’ing knows something and the president knows something that they’re not telling me. I’m not sure how the president thinks I can do my job without knowing, but he does. We’ve got to find out what’s going on. And do it on our own… at least until they decide to be on the up and up with us. I’m counting on you to pull this one off.”
Jack thought about it for a moment, about the explosive combination of Tombstone Magruder and General Arkady, the equally uneasy relationship between T’ing and Sarah Wexler. The dinner Jack wrote off with a cynical check mark. T’ing was after something big, and if he thought a few dinners might make Wexler more receptive, then Jack was certain that T’ing would be the most entertaining dinner partner around. No matter how Sarah perceived the overtures, Jack would never believe them. The Chinese had allies, not friends.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said slowly, wondering as he did whether his mouth was writing a check that his butt couldn’t cash. “Might be nothing,” he added, trying to prepare her for that possibility.
“No.” There was not a trace of doubt in Sarah Wexler’s voice. “T’ing’s up to something. The president doesn’t know exactly what it is, or he would have told me. Not that he tells me everything”—an understatement, Jack thought—“but he would about this.”
Maybe, Jack thought. And maybe not. He’s got his own problems these days.
“Besides,” Wexler continued, “If it’s important enough to T’ing to try to make friends with me with all these nice little dinners, then it’s important enough for us to go digging for.” Jack was gratified to see a hard smile creep across her face. “My new best friend, the one with so much advice for our country. Just giving us the benefit of his centuries of experience, you understand.”
So she’s not fooled. Jack experienced a mild rush of relief then looked at his boss with new respect in his eyes. “But that was your line, the one about a more experienced culture.”
Wexler’s smile broadened. “Yeah. And he bought it hook, line and sinker.”
Jack stared at her for a moment in amazement, and then started laughing. If T’ing thought he was winning this war, he was in for a rude awakening.
A rude awakening. Now what does that… oh. Yes, that would do. Jack felt a slow smile spread across his face.
Wexler noticed it immediately. She leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“It’s not much,” Jack said slowly, “but it might be enough to tip the balance with T’ing. And it’s a long shot. But here’s how it’d work.” He outlined the idea, filling in the details as he went. After the first few moments, Wexler started nodding. It would have been unkind, Jack thought, to call her smile slightly evil.
“Oh, yes,” she said finally. “Yes, that would do quite nicely. I’ll set it up later today.”
For a moment, Jack almost pitied the ambassador from China. He had no idea what he’d started.
Northeastern Greece
1800 local (GMT –2)
The Macedonian commander decreed that it was too dangerous to return to base. Oddly enough, he commented sardonically, they’d managed to prepare for that contingency. “We’re a small force,” he said. “We can’t afford to risk them all in one location.”
The secondary camp was proving to be farther away than Xerxes had let on. They’d tramped through open hills and forest for most of the day, stopping only for two skimpy meals.
Pamela led the way, with Xerxes bringing up the rear as they headed back toward the camp. Murphy had started off berating her, accusing her of everything from treason to aggravated cruelty and had finally settled into a frigid silence broken only occasionally by quiet groans of pain. Though he curtly denied being injured in the ejection, it was clear from the way that he moved that that was at least partially untrue. He brusquely rejected her attempts to at least ascertain the extent of his injuries, and had settled into what Pamela privately characterized as traditional male bullheadedness.
So let him sulk. It’s not like I could do anything about it. Xerxes wasn’t going to let him go — he’d have shot him first. I’m a reporter, dammit, not a player in all this.
Or was she? Hadn’t she intervened, pleading with Xerxes not to shoot down the American aircraft? For all the good it had done. And what had it gotten her?
Nothing. The only thing it had done was shatter her credibility with the Macedonians. So much for getting this particular story out.
She glanced back over her shoulder and saw two faces that mirrored each other. Cold, grim determination in the eyes belied the granite expressions carved into the two faces. One dark, Mediterranean, with the classic features and curly black hair of this region; the other corn-fed blond hair and blue eyes that would have looked more natural wearing the open, easy-going expression of a farm boy. But not now — boiling oil wouldn’t have tortured out a single expression of emotion from either face.
“Turn left at the fork,” Xerxes ordered.
She obliged, following the narrow trail that broke off the main path. After years of reporting on conflicts all over the world, she’d come to recognize the normal signs that one was at the outskirts of a military camp. Guards, maybe scouts, well-concealed yet inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. The smell of cooking, wood smoke or gasoline camp stove, the necessary sanitary arrangements, and the odor of men under pressure living in close quarters without regular baths. She glanced around the woods, pristine and quiet. If the base camp were located anywhere near here, they’d done an excellent job of disguising it.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Silence from behind her, then Xerxes said, “We’re not there yet. We’re stopping here for the night.”
“Why?” A longer silence this time, as though he were debating exactly how much to tell her.
That tears it, then. Whatever little trust we had is gone. I should have known it would come to this — these people are all alike. They can’t understand what it is to be impartial, to have a responsibility to the rest of the world. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tie me up for the night, much less tell me what’s going on.
“It’s too far to the camp tonight,” Xerxes said finally. “We’ll make it in the morning.”
“If it’s still there, you mean.” Pamela shocked herself with the small note of vindictive glee in her voice.
“It’s still there.”
“How do you know? I mean, if it’s not nearby, then you can’t possibly know whether or not it survived the bombing runs, can you?” she asked, her voice louder now and strident. Behind her, she heard what she thought was a grunt of approval from Murphy.
“I saw where the aircraft went,” Xerxes said.
“Where this strike went, you mean. How do you know there weren’t others?” This is insane. Stop taunting him, you idiot! What about the story?
“I will know shortly,” Xerxes said, a sad note of triumph in his voice. She heard a noise and turned in time to catch Murphy as he stumbled and fell forward against her, his hands still tied behind him. She caught him and controlled his descent to the ground. The Macedonian was holding his weapon by the barrel, pulling back from jabbing Murphy in the back with it. “Because he’s going to tell me. One way or the other.”
FOURTEEN
Wednesday, 10 May
The White House
1115 local (GMT +5)
Wexler had always thought that the Oval Office was not conducive to frank discussion. It had seen too many ceremonies and was drenched in the polite compromises signed with smiles on faces that represented final victories after dirty knife fights. Everyone had seen it too many times on television, it was too much a part of their national heritage for words such as she must speak to be palatable here.
Yet she must speak frankly, brutally even. The president had to understand that the consequences of his decision affected mo
re than just the next election, more than his perception of the impression that they were creating with their allies. Lives were at stake here, not just in this conflict, but in the potential for bloodshed in every conflict yet to come. By ceding command of his troops — America’s troops — to a foreign commander, he was setting a precedent that would echo down through history.
History — perhaps that was the way to approach him, for President Williams had a clear and overriding concern about carving out his own spot in it. If she could just put it in the right words, he’d know how very dangerous this game was.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. President,” she began quietly.
He chuckled and patted her hand. “There’s a Girl Scout troop from Boise cooling their collective heels in the waiting room, Sarah, so don’t flatter yourself that I’ve cleared my calendar.”
“Maybe you should.”
He paused, taken aback by the serious note in her voice, as she’d intended. Their relationship had been for so many years one of mutual respect and friendship that she wondered if they occasionally let it distract them from the very real trust imposed on them by the American people.
How easy it is to forget that, she mused, watching her friend and her president switch gears. But if we ever truly forget it, then we’re no better than the people we fought so hard to defeat.
“Serious talk, I take it,” he said finally just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable. “Okay, shoot.”
“Mr. President, you’re aware of the pilots that were shot down over Macedonia yesterday, I assume?” she began.
He nodded. “I’ve got other advisors besides you, Sarah,” he said, gently but with sufficient force to make his point. Other advisors who would have other points of view on whatever she was proposing to discuss. Other advisors he’d consult, so she’d best not count on a quick and easy concession on anything.
Alright, if that’s how we need to play it. And we do, I suppose. Because this isn’t about either one of us personally — although I’m hoping to make it seem that way to you. It’s about the country. And you’re right to seek other opinions, my friend. Because I’m not the one who’s going to be judging you — history will be.
“I’d like to give you the perspective on how this chain of command question is playing itself out on the international side of things,” she said, making it clear that she understood the message he’d sent.
“That’s your job. Go ahead.”
She began with a discussion of T’ing, quickly sketched in the background, and then brought up T’ing’s veiled warnings. “I’m not sure what it means, Mr. President. But it means something. I thought you might know.”
Bingo. She saw a fleeting trace of guilty knowledge on his face, and was aware that she probably could not completely mask her own expression from him.
“Not that I’m asking what you might know,” she clarified, careful to back away from a confrontation. “There are probably some considerations I’m not aware of.”
And again. Whatever it was, she could see in his eyes that he’d debated telling her about it, maybe sought counsel from his other advisors, and decided against it. Now he was second-guessing himself, wondering if it had been a mistake.
It had been. Of that she was completely certain. And why would he not tell her? They had enough history together that there should be no question of her trustworthiness, of her loyalty to his administration.
Bad advice from somebody. But who? And why?
No matter. She wouldn’t get any answers by pressing the point now, even though the urgency beat inside her like a drum. No, all she had to do right now was make the point, put the idea of history into motion in his head, and let time do its work.
If they had any time at all.
The president stood, indicating the meeting was over. He held out his hand and said, “Thank you for your advice. I’d like you to talk to Defense and make sure they know about the Chinese ambassador’s warning…if that’s what it was.”
Her heart sank at that. She had never been more certain of anything than she was of this — T’ing had warned her. And that the president was not taking it seriously.
“Using aircraft alone was a mistake,” he said finally, his face now completely controlled. “Next time, we go in the way we were trained to fight, with an all-platform attack. Ships, bombers, satellite intelligence, the whole nine yards.” He gazed at her levelly. “The problem this time was that we weren’t committed. To correct that, I’m placing additional resources at the UN force’s disposal. They’ll constitute the heart of UNFORGREECE.”
“Under UN command,” she said.
He nodded. “This is the way of the future, Sarah. And you and I are going to forge the way.”
Or bury the dead. She gazed at him hopelessly.
FIFTEEN
Thursday, 11 May
Tavista Air Base
Tavista, Greece
0900 local (GMT –2)
Tombstone skimmed quickly through the preliminaries in the message, running his finger down the margin as he read the standard words of most OPORDS. Timing, targets… important, but not his major concern.
There it was. His finger paused over the offending paragraph. Command relationships—damn.
He looked up into Arkady’s genial face and scowled. “Just what is this second strike supposed to accomplish?” he said quietly.
“What the first did not. To cut the throat of the Macedonian command and control forces. Had your pilots done as they were ordered, this second strike would not be necessary,” Arkady said in the same tone of voice, his words intended for Tombstone alone.
Arkady turned away to face the rest of the assembled forces. In addition to the pilot commanders from previous briefings, the commanding officers and their weapons officers from the two cruisers were there. “My staff — the UNFORGREECE staff — will discuss with you the details of your particular roles in the next twenty-four hours. As you can see from your packages, this will be the single decisive blow against the rebel forces. I am pleased to welcome you to UNFORGREECE and look forward to working with you.”
Arkady nodded in the direction of Admiral Magruder. Looking at him, Tombstone could never have guessed that just days earlier Arkady had been agitating to have Tombstone removed from the theater of operations.
Why did he change his mind? Tombstone thought that if he could find the answer to that one question, he’d know the answers to the rest of them.
Arkady was speaking now, his voice warm and congenial. “As you can see, we have a wealth of talent here to advise us on the best use of UN forces. However, I also direct your attention to paragraph four. All mission decision will be made by UNFORGREECE in order to deconflict disposition of forces. Any questions regarding that provision should be addressed to my staff immediately.”
And not to Admiral Magruder. The unvoiced caveat was clear.
No one moved. All eyes were fixed on Tombstone. While the habit of obedience was deeply ingrained, so was the loyalty they felt to this one man, the one who’d brought them safely home from so many other battles.
Tombstone sat immobile and considered his options. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Right now, right here, Arkady was challenging him. And in front of his own people.
Yet not his people, not this time. He felt the cheap paper of the message slide between his fingers, negating anything he could possibly say about the procedures Arkady had outlined. As wrong as it felt, and terribly wrong — Arkady was right.
Tombstone gave a small nod, an almost imperceptible inclination of his head. He felt the tension in the room break as each officer realized that while they might some day be called to choose sides, to make hard decisions, it wouldn’t be just now. That moment was postponed — not finally settled, but at least held in abeyance while they occupied themselves with matters that they knew better.
Arkady beamed in triumph. “Well, then.” He turned to Colonel Zentos, who was standing off to one s
ide. “My chief of staff will conduct the remainder of the briefing. I will see you in battle, my comrades.” He turned and left the room, leaving a deeply worried Tombstone behind him.
Tavista Air Base
Flight Line
1010 local (GMT –2)
The noise of forty aircraft in various stages of startup flooded across the tarmac, warm and welcome to Thor’s ears. There was nothing like it, not even on the flight deck of a carrier. This was a real strike.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” The Marine Corps lieutenant colonel assigned to the detachment was blunt. “They blow the SAR effort last mission and expect us to roger up on following them in again.” He pulled his shoulders back and stuck his chest out. “At least there’s some serious SAR planning this time. And better intelligence on the SAM sites.”
“We asked for that last time,” Thor said. Maybe the bird colonel could extract more information from Arkady’s staff than Thor had been able to, but he doubted it. Their orders were clear — regardless of how they personally felt about the mission that had been laid out for them, the president had made his wishes clear.
Not that there was much to complain about in the mission planning. On the face of it, it seemed competently done. A wave of Tomahawk missiles to soften up the area, specially targeted to seek out suspected command and control points. Then electronics birds with HARM missiles leading the charge, taking out any remaining radar sites to avoid a repetition of the disaster of the first strike. Two waves of fighters again, the first composed of Greek aircraft, the second a mixed bag of U.S. and other forces. A final sweep through by a couple of Tomcats, one loaded with TARPS, the other with dumb bombs and orders to pick up any targets that the more structured waves had missed. A couple of drones for BDA, some of the high-tech ones that had been flooding the fleet since Hong Kong. He wondered a little at that, exposing that much advanced technology to possible compromise.
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