The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  Wexler sat back, surprised. Was this what this was about? Concerns about her safety? And just exactly what had he heard about her encounter with the Iranian ambassador? She took a deep breath before replying, aware that there were always circles within circles to any offer from T’ing. “Is there a reason for me to be concerned?” She waited.

  “Yes. Without a doubt. And if you value our friendship, I would ask that you take this warning seriously.” He leaned forward, reaching out and covering her hand with his. “Please, Sarah. The friendship cannot continue in this life if one of the parties to it is dead.”

  “And you have specific reasons for believing there may be a threat?” she pressed. “Not just vague concerns?”

  He nodded. “Very specific. From sources I trust.”

  Was this another one of T’ing’s games? No, the look of concern on his face was real. Although she was quite certain he wouldn’t tell her exactly what or how he learned of the threat, she thought she had better take it seriously. She gave his hand a squeeze, then withdrew it. “I shall. Starting right now.” She withdrew the cell phone from her pocket and flipped it opened. She speeded dialed Brad’s number, and quickly filled him in.

  “They will be there in fifteen minutes,” Brad promised. “Are you in immediate danger?”

  She glanced across at T’ing. “I doubt it. The ambassador’s men are here.”

  “Very well. Do not leave the restaurant until my men have identified themselves to you, understand?” There was a hard note in Brad’s voice now, one she had not heard before. Gone was the pleasant, smiling aide she had always known, and her questions about his background surfaced again.

  “Agreed.” She snapped her phone shut and asked, “Will that do it?”

  He nodded. “Your Brad, he is a very competent man, isn’t he? In more ways than one.”

  And just what the hell did that mean? Did he know more about Brad than she did? She wouldn’t be surprised. Of course, everyone on her staff had passed a rigorous security investigation, but there was always a chance they’d missed something.

  T’ing leaned back in his seat. “And now let us enjoy our dinner. The fish for you?”

  For a moment, she thought about the offer she had received from the Red Cross. To take over as its executive director sounded particularly tempting at this moment. Oh, sure, there would be political intrigues, competitions for money, all the sort of stuff you would expect in any large organization. But a threat to her life — she doubted it.

  She raised her glass. “To friendship.” They clinked, then she said, “And yes, the grouper sounds particularly good.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Pentagon

  Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, May 6

  0800 local (GMT –5)

  Tombstone pulled up to the parking lot surrounding the Pentagon and felt the familiar sensation of dread and distaste. He understood the need for the Pentagon, and admired men such as Batman who could easily shift between the operational world and the world of politics but it wasn’t for him. Never had been, never would be. He had dodged assignments to the Pentagon from his very earliest days.

  And look what that’s got you. Maybe not the best choice, you think?

  But what part of his career would he have given up for a tour in the Pentagon? So many conflicts in so many parts of the world — each one the same, in that deadly force met deadly force, but each one different. And he’d been there in every one of them, right on the front lines. If not flying himself, then commanding those who were.

  No, he wouldn’t trade a single moment of combat for a tour in the Pentagon, not even if it would save his career now.

  Tombstone parked in the visiting flag officer’s spot near the east entrance. It was a typical, sticky August day in the city. The humidity was around 90 percent, the temperature even higher. He broke into a sweat before he reached the entrance. There, he showed his identification card to the guards, and made his way through the world’s largest office building to his uncle’s office.

  The flag corridor was a marked contrast to the rest of the Pentagon, which had taken on a peculiarly tacky institutional look over the decades. Here, thick carpet and paneled walls were the norm.

  A Navy captain, his uncle’s chief of staff, greeted him. “Go right in, Admiral. He’s waiting for you.”

  His uncle came around from his desk as Tombstone entered. A broad smile split his face, coupled with a look of relief. “I knew I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you here,” his uncle said, slapping him on the back. “Believe me, I halfway thought you might go UA rather than retire.”

  Tombstone and his uncle exchange pleasantries for a few moments before they got down to business. Their relationship was closer than that of most uncles and nephews. The CNO’s brother, Tombstone’s father, had been shot down over Vietnam. Tombstone had been very young at the time, and his uncle had naturally stepped into the role as a father figure. Although he had not been in the home full-time, he had made a concerted effort to stay up on what was going on in the life of his only nephew. Tombstone had been included in his uncle’s family outings, along with his uncle’s two boys and one girl, and began increasingly to count on his uncle for advice and guidance.

  When Tombstone had announced his decision to apply for admission to Annapolis, his uncle, then a relatively junior lieutenant commander in Navy, had been deeply gratified.

  Over the years, as they’d each grown older, the nature of the relationship changed. His uncle had accepted Tombstone as a man, as a naval officer, and as a valued colleague. He dispensed invaluable advice when he could, and sometimes said the hard words that no one else would say to Tombstone as he grew more senior.

  Events had taken a serious turn on Tombstone’s mission into Russia to find his father’s final resting place. Tombstone had managed to step on a number of sensitive political toes. That had spelled the end of his aspirations to higher rank. It had been his uncle who had laid the consequences out for him — Tombstone was simply not political enough to survive and be promoted to chief of naval operations. Initially, however, Tombstone was not nearly as disappointed as he had expected to be. He had come to know what was involved in very senior flag positions, and he’d found himself increasingly impatient with the amount of protocol, political, and general ennui associated with higher rank.

  Sure, he might be named as one of the fleet commanders, and that of course involved enormous control over fighting forces. But it also brought with it insidious new dangers, in that the slightest politically incorrect statement could immediately torpedo a career. And Tombstone, if he had been anything, had never been politically correct.

  So it was with a sense of relief that he heard his uncle toll the death knell on further advancement. Not in a peacetime Navy, he decided. Not for me.

  The forced retirement was simply the next logical step after that, although the idea had taken some getting used to. But now, as he felt the years of his naval service start to peel away, Tombstone found that he was eagerly anticipating whatever this new assignment was his uncle couldn’t talk about. He felt the thrill of excitement that he rarely experienced outside of flying, and that perhaps had been due to his uncle’s emphasis that he would be back in the cockpit.

  Tombstone waited for his uncle to bring it up first. And finally, when they had run out of chitchat, he did.

  “I know I haven’t told you too much,” his uncle began. “But there were reasons for that.” Tombstone heard a raw edge of excitement in his uncle’s voice, something he hadn’t heard there in a while. For a moment it bemused him — two men at this age thrilled over the first assignment? How lucky could one man get?

  “You know how it is when we need to get something done and can’t do it because of political concerns?” his uncle began.

  Tombstone nodded. “It’s one of the most frustrating things about being in the military.”

  “Exactly. Well, two weeks, ago the president asked if I’d be interested in head
ing up a small outfit designed to get around exactly that problem. I said yes, with a couple of conditions. First, that he let me pick my own teams. And second, that he simply tell me what needed to be done, and leave it up to me to figure out how.” Tombstone’s uncle shot him a glance from under his bushy eyebrows. “I won’t be second-guessed by politicians, Tombstone. Not like we were in Vietnam. Mind you, this president is okay, and probably will be reelected. But in case that changes, I wanted it laid out from the very start what the working relationships were.”

  “But doesn’t the CIA have a number of units doing this for work?” Tombstone asked. “Don Stroh’s SEAL team, for instance. I know they get involved in all sorts of high deniability operations.”

  “You’re not supposed know about them, no one is — and no, I’m not going to ask how you do. Suffice it to say that although SEAL Team Six takes care of a lot of the nation’s business under very risky circumstances, there are some things they just can’t handle. Things that call for more firepower, maybe joint service stuff. That’s where we come in.”

  Tombstone sat forward on the edge of the couch, feeling his excitement build. “You mentioned I’d be flying again.”

  His uncle nodded. “Yes. In a Tomcat, of course. You can pick your own backseater. Not Tomboy — at least not while she’s on active duty. But anyone else you want.”

  “What sort of flying?” Tombstone asked.

  His uncle grinned. “Everything. Some fighter work, some bombing runs. Maybe an occasional covert surveillance mission. I can’t tell you specifically, because I don’t really know. All I know is that we’ll have complete independence, answerable only to the president, and all the operating funds we need. It will be a small group, Stony — none of the bullshit that goes with military service. So, are you in?”

  “Did you have any doubts.”

  His uncle smiled, and Tombstone thought he detected a note of relief. “No, not really. Okay, then.” His uncle stood, walked back to his desk, and picked up a folder. “Study this. It’s a range of options, all at a very generalized and low classification level. But you get the drift, and you’ll have a number more to contribute as well, I suspect. The first thing I will want you to do is start putting together the rest of your staff — decide how many we’ll need, and who you want. If they’re available, I’ll get them for you. They’ll have to be dry-cleaned, released from active duty, and hired here as civilians, but each one of them will have the president’s personal guarantee that if he or she wants to leave and go back on active duty, they will do so with no prejudice and no loss of career. You have anybody in mind off hand for your number two?”

  Tombstone thought back immediately to his last mission in Hawaii, how he’d managed to put together a pickup team to constitute one of the most exciting battle staffs he’d ever worked with. He wondered if any of them were available.

  There’d been Major General Bill Haynes, a two-star Army infantry officer on his way to assume duties as Deputy Commander in Korea. Marine Colonel Darryl Armstrong, deputy commander I Corps, with two tours in special operations, including Rangers, who’d assumed duties as the landing force commander under Tombstone. Armstrong had been a powerfully built man a couple of inches taller than Tombstone himself. Maybe 6'4", 230 pounds, and with an intense, driven air about him that attracted Tombstone’s attention immediately. His hair was cut so short as to be almost invisible, and his ice blue eyes seemed to absorb everything without actually looking at anything.

  Then Lieutenant Commander Hannah Green, who’d spent most of her time supporting landing operations and special forces teams. She was a tall, willowy blond, with a slim, athletic build. Short blond hair framed a classically beautiful face with blue eyes a couple of shades darker than Armstrong’s. She had a photographic memory.

  The team had also included other services as well. An Air Force major, Carlton Early, coordinated the tanking and out of theater logistics support. Captain Ed Henry, a Coast Guard ship driver who’d taught them all the Coast Guard way of doing more with less. And finally, Fred Carter, the Air Force master sergeant, who’d supposedly spent a good deal of time managing senior officer matters but who’d also proved to be a handy helo mech as well as a real trooper.

  “I have some people in mind,” Tombstone said slowly. “I’ll have to find out if they’re interested.”

  “Give me the names.”

  “No, sir. If it’s just the same to you, I’ll ask them myself. If they’re going to be part of my new team, then it’s only right that they know what they’re getting in to.”

  His uncle grunted. “Ask my chief of staff for any assistance that you need in locating them. But I’m warning you — I better not hear that any of them just happen to be located on Jefferson and you want to go see them in person.”

  “No, sir. You’ve made your orders clear. Give me credit for that much, at least.”

  “I do, Stony. I do.” His uncle stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now get out of here. Getting fired means I have a lot of loose ends to tie up. And I’m sure you’ve got some of those as well. Check back in with me tomorrow; let me know how you’re getting on with it.”

  I will, Uncle. I will. The Navy may be shortsighted enough to let both of us go, but I’m going to do my best to make sure I take the best and the brightest with me. We’ll fight wars the way they’re supposed to be fought — and we’ll win. That I’ll guarantee. With my own life, if I have to.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The United Nations

  New York

  Thursday, May 6

  0900 local (GMT-5)

  Ambassador Wexler stared across the vast hall of the delegates. As with any other major political body, most of the work was done behind the scenes. By the time a matter came up for a vote, you pretty well knew where you stood. You might make the motion anyway, just to make your point to the international community, but generally if it wasn’t cemented down beforehand, and you hadn’t corraled shifting alliances in that region, nothing was going to happen. Every ambassador wanted to consult with his home government before making a decision.

  But time was short now, events moving at such an accelerated pace that unless something was done soon, there was a good chance that the Middle East would erupt into bloody war while the delegates sat around indifferent. There had not been time, although she had tried. With T’ing’s help, there was at least a chance.

  Her gaze shifted to the ambassador from Iran. He was staring at her, a look of sheer malice on his face. And why, she wondered, did he not feel it necessary to mask his feelings in public? It was an axiom of diplomatic art that you never let anyone know exactly what you really thought.

  The ambassador made a slight gesture, one that could have been interpreted as downright obscene. She held her temper in check and smile pleasantly. He turned away from her. She could almost feel T’ing’s gaze on her from the other side of the room. They had argued long into the night about the merits of trying this now. T’ing’s position had been that it was better to wait and succeed than to make the motion now and go down in public defeat.

  But what should her real objective be? Putting on a good show show or winning the war?

  From her perspective, and that of the president, there was more to this motion than simply making a gesture. They were voicing the nation’s outrage over the unprovoked and unwarranted attack on a ship of war. If they let it slide, the UN would interpret it as a sign of weakness. In the end, they had agreed that they had to do something now, because that what was in the American character.

  She took a deep breath. The Secretary General looked at her over his reading glasses and said simply, “The ambassador from the United States.”

  Wexler rose. She paused for a moment, letting her outrage flood conviction into her voice. “As the delegates know, two days ago Iran executed an attack upon an American cruiser. Although the damages were minimal, this is completely unacceptable. Our ship was operating in international waters under the authority of
a resolution passed by this very assembly. This attack not only is an attack upon my nation, but on the authority of the United Nations as well. If we are to be able to maintain peace in the world, work out grievances and disputes without the widespread bloodshed of the last century, then we must insist that the delegate nations abide by their agreements and our rulings.”

  Then she stopped and surveyed the room to see how it was going down. A few nods here and there, other looks of consternation. The ambassador from the United Kingdom murmured a quiet, “Here, here,” that carried easily in the silent room.

  “Therefore,” she continued, “I move that pending further measures, the United Nations immediately issue a condemnation of this unprovoked attack by Iran. Furthermore, we will require reparations.”

  The Secretary General turned to the ambassador from Iran. “And your response?”

  Wexler remain standing as the Iranian ambassador stood, as though she could by the sheer force of her presence force him to admit the truth. He glared across the room at her, and when he spoke, his voice was low and ugly. “We do not consent to any action by the United Nations. The attack was not unprovoked. The United States violated our security in a very real way, as these photos I’m passing out will show.” He motioned to an aide, who began distributing photographs along with accompanying text to the rest of the delegates. “When you examine the evidence, Mister Secretary General, you’ll see that it is not Iran who should be sanctioned — but the United States.” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

  “However, since that is not a possibility, given that the United States has bought the goodwill of most of you, you will not take action. Therefore, in concert with her brothers in the area, Iran will settle its own scores.”

  He dropped his microphone to the floor and stormed out. One by one, the delegates from the other Middle East countries followed him.