But the Britisher, Sir Arnold, held his ground, asking lightly, “Could we all really get along in a unified European army? Could we actually plan operations together, allow multinational communications? Face it, my friends, it isn’t only the Americans who have interests different from ours. We, too, disagree, especially politically. And that’s where the approval of such an independent military force would have to come from.”
General Inzaghi sat up straighter, annoyed. “About getting along, Sir Arnold,” he retorted, “our politicians may have difficulty, but I assure you that our soldiers don’t. The Rapid Reaction Force is already stationed outside Mostar in Bosnia—the Salamander Division, seven thousand men strong, in Italian, French, German, and Spanish battle groups. General La Porte’s own countryman—General Robert Meille—is in charge.”
“And the Eurocorp,” the Spaniard González pointed out. “Don’t forget them. Fifty thousand Spanish, German, Belgian, and French troops.”
“At the moment, under Bundeswehr command,” General Bittrich added with satisfaction.
“Yes,” Inzaghi said, nodding. “The multinational Italian, Spanish, French, and Portuguese troops under a single command to protect our Mediterranean coastline.”
The missing nation in all these multi-European military organizations became glaringly clear as each was enumerated. There was a heavy silence, in which no one mentioned that when Britain took part in a joint operation, it was invariably only with the Americans, where they were the second-largest contingent and therefore at least second in command.
Sir Arnold only smiled. A political as well as a military man, he continued to speak lightly: “And are those combined units how all of you envision the structure of this Pan-European army? Bits and pieces stuck together with schoolboy’s paste? I’d hardly call them unified.”
La Porte hesitated, then said carefully, “The exact structure of any European combined military would have to be worked out, of course. I envision more than one possibility, Arnold. Naturally, we’d want Britain’s full input and—”
Otto Bittrich broke in. “For myself, I see a centrally organized and highly integrated force where the influence of individual states is blurred if not nonexistent. In short, a truly independent European army under a rotating joint command, answerable to no individual nation, but to the EU Parliament alone. That way, political control is assured, where all nations have members, and majority rules. Anything less would be a eunuch.”
But General González looked troubled. He complained in a Spanish accent, “You’re talking of more than an army, General Bittrich. You’re imagining a United Europe, which to some of us is very, very different from a European Union.”
“A United Europe will almost certainly result from a true European military, I should say,” the British general remarked pointedly.
Bittrich and La Porte both brushed that aside, and Bittrich said angrily, “That’s not at all what I said, General Moore. I speak militarily, not politically. As a trading bloc and a geographical entity, Europe has common interests that are of little importance to the United States. In fact, many times our interests are opposed to the United States. The EU shares everything from a currency to regulations on hunting migratory birds. Surely it’s time to spread that umbrella. We should not depend on the bloody American military any longer!”
“For myself,” La Porte put in with a gruff laugh, “and I believe you will all admit that no one is more protective of his national identity and importance than is a Frenchman, especially one like myself…I believe a true United Europe must come. Perhaps a thousand years from now, but it’s inevitable. Still, I doubt a united military will force it to happen any sooner.”
“Well,” the Briton snapped, all lightness abruptly gone, “my own nation’s views on the matter are clear. No totally integrated European army. No European cap badges. No European flag. None. Any British contribution to the Rapid Reaction Force, or a self-contained army, must remain firmly under British control, deployed at the bidding of the British prime minister.” Sir Arnold took an angry breath and asked, “And exactly where would the money come from for the transport planes such a ‘no U.S. involvement’ military would need? Also for the cargo ships and aircraft, the communications systems, the laser-guided munitions, the electronic jamming units, the military planning system, the fully modernized command structure? Certainly not from Britain!”
La Porte said confidently, “The money will be there, Sir Arnold, when the need becomes so clear that even the politicians can evade the future no longer. When they understand that the fate of Europe is at stake.”
Sir Arnold was watching the French general intently. “Do you perhaps envision a time when we’d want to go to war with the United States?”
A hush spread around the room, while La Porte paced, his face in a sudden scowl, his ponderous body impressive for its agility. “We already are at war with the Americans, in every aspect of life and business except militarily. But militarily, we cannot be. We are too weak, too dependent on all their systems, hardware, and even the most modern weapons. We have soldiers and arms that we can’t properly equip, move, or control, without Washington.” He stopped pacing to face them, allowing his stern, unblinking eyes to examine each face. “For example, what would happen if there was some extreme crisis with Russia or China, and the American systems upon which we depend were all rendered useless or worse? What if Washington lost control of its own command and control systems? Where would we be then? If, for any reason, the Americans became defenseless, if only for a short time, then we would, too. In fact, we’d be even more defenseless.”
Sir Arnold’s eyes suddenly narrowed in his leathery face. “Do you know something the rest of us don’t, Roland?”
Roland la Porte met his gaze. “I know nothing more than you, Sir Arnold, and I’m insulted you’d even raise the question. If anyone would know more, it’d be you. We French do not have a ‘special relationship’ with the Americans, unlike you English. But yesterday’s invasion of the American energy networks could have easily been far worse, which certainly underlines my point.”
General Moore stared at La Porte a full thirty seconds more. Then he seemed to think of something else. He relaxed, smiled, and stood up. “I believe our business here is over. As for the fate and future of Europe, we in Britain consider it tied permanently to that of the United States, whether we like it or not.”
“Ah, yes.” La Porte smiled a humorless smile. “The concept of your George Orwell, I believe.”
General Moore, the Englishman, flushed a livid red, locked eyes again with La Porte, then turned on his heel and marched out of the conference room.
“What was that all about?” General Inzaghi wanted to know, his black marble eyes suspicious.
Otto Bittrich said grimly, “The English novel 1984. In it, England was Air Strip One for a Pan-American and British Commonwealth entity called Oceania, united happily forever. At the same time, Europe and Russia were joined together and formed Eurasia. What was left over was called Eastasia—China, India, Central Asia, and all the Oriental countries. Personally, I’d say Britain already is America’s Air Strip One, and we must proceed without them.”
“Exactly how do we proceed?” González asked.
La Porte had the answer: “We must each convince our nations and EU delegates that a future European military is the only way to protect Europe’s identity. And our greatness. In fact, that is our destiny.”
“You are speaking about the principle of such an army, General La Porte, yes?” General González said.
“Of course, Valentin.” General La Porte’s eyes were dreamy. “I’m an idealist, it’s true. But it’s a principle we must start to work toward now. If the Americans can’t protect their own utility systems, how can they continue to protect ours? We must grow up, be on our own.”
Captain Darius Bonnard stood out of the night wind as the last of the five generals’ helicopters—General Inzaghi’s—rose up against the night sky
. The salty Mediterranean air was crisp, invigorating, and he breathed deeply as he listened to the loud chop of the blades.
The big bird flew north, in the direction of the Italian coast. Once it was safely out of range, the Charles de Gaulle altered course, sliding quietly through the sea in a long arc as it headed back to the French coast and Toulon. Still, the Frenchman continued to watch the Italian helicopter as its lights faded, the roar of its rotors dimmed.
But he was not so much watching as mulling over the meeting of the generals, which had been instructive. He had sat at the back of the room, quiet and unobtrusive, where he had missed nothing. General La Porte’s compelling arguments for a European military had pleased him, as had discovering that most of the other generals were already thinking along the same lines. But the general’s implication that he knew more about the recent breakdowns in American electronic systems than was common knowledge had worried him.
Bonnard sensed trouble on the horizon. He pulled meditatively on his lower lip as he thought about the British general, Sir Arnold Moore. The English bulldog was stubborn, obviously an American pawn, and altogether too paranoid. What La Porte had said had alarmed his English sensibilities, and he would soon be reporting possible plots to his prime minister, the War Office, and MI6. Measures would have to be taken, and quickly.
Again the captain looked out to sea, where the retreating helicopters formed four tiny dots. Sir Arnold Moore would be handled. He smiled. There were only three more days. Just three days to control all aspects. Not long at all, but in other ways, perhaps, an eternity.
Chapter Fifteen
Toledo, Spain
As Smith watched through the barred window, Émile Chambord tenderly pressed his wrinkled cheek down onto the top of his daughter’s head, closed his eyes, and murmured something, a prayer perhaps. Thérèse clung to him as if he had come back from the dead, and in a way he had. He kissed her hair and turned furious eyes onto the short, stout man who had entered the room first.
Smith could hear Chambord clearly through the window glass as he snarled, “You damned monster!”
“I’m truly hurt, Dr. Chambord,” the other man said, his round face pleasant. “I thought you’d welcome your daughter’s company, since you’ll be with us for some time. You seemed so lonely that I feared your emotions were causing you to take your mind off your work. That’d be unfortunate for all of us.”
“Get out of here, Mauritania! Have the decency at least to leave me alone with my daughter!”
So that was what Mauritania meant. It was the name of this soft-looking man, who smiled but did not mean it, who was fueled by some kind of iridescent vision.
Mauritania shrugged. “As you wish. I’m sure the lady is hungry. She’s forgotten to eat tonight again.” He glanced at the untouched meal on the wooden tray. “We’ll have a quick dinner soon, now that our business here is finished, and you can both join us.” He bowed in polite farewell and left, closing the door behind him. Smith heard it lock.
Émile Chambord threw one more angry look over his shoulder and then stepped back from Thérèse, his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Let me look at you, daughter. Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you? If they did, I’ll—”
He stopped as a burst of gunshots sounded. A violent fusillade by small arms somewhere outdoors, near the front of the house. Inside, running feet hammered, and doors crashed open. In the barred room, Dr. Chambord and Thérèse stared first at the door and then at each other. Thérèse’s face was frightened, while Dr. Chambord appeared more concerned than scared. He frowned at the door. A tough old man.
Smith had no idea what was happening, but this was a distraction he could not lose. Now that he had found them both alive, he must get them out. They had been through enough, and without Émile Chambord, the DNA machine might be useless to the terrorists. He did not know whether Chambord had been forced to operate his molecular computer for them, or perhaps they had another expert and had kidnapped Chambord to keep him from duplicating his triumph.
Whatever the truth, Smith needed to get the Chambords out of their hands. As he pulled on the window’s iron bars to see whether any were loose, Thérèse caught sight of him.
“Jon! What are you doing here?” She ran to the window and tried to raise the glass. As she struggled, she turned back to her father. “It’s Dr. Jon Smith, an American. He’s a friend of your new collaborator, Dr. Zellerbach.” She studied the window, and her eyes grew large and appalled. “The wood part of it’s nailed shut, Jon. I can’t open it.”
Bursts of gunfire continued to crackle in the distance as Smith gave up on the bars. They were set firmly in an iron frame. “I’ll explain everything later, Thérèse. Where’s the DNA computer?”
“I don’t know!”
Chambord growled, “It’s not here. What are you—”
There was no more time for talk. “Stand back!” He held up his Sig Sauer. “I’ve got to shoot the frame loose.”
Thérèse stared at the weapon. She looked from it to Jon’s face and then back at the gun. She nodded and ran back out of the way.
But before Jon could fire, the door to the room flung open, and the short, heavy man known as Mauritania stood there. “What’s all this shouting?” His gaze froze at the window. On Smith. They looked into each other’s eyes. Mauritania drew a pistol, fell flat onto his belly, fired, and bellowed, “Abu Auda! I need you!”
Smith peeled away just in time. The bullet smashed through the glass. He burned to return fire, but if he shot blindly into the room, he might hit one of the Chambords. Clenching his jaw, he waited until another bullet blasted through the window, and then he quickly raised up, Sig Sauer first, one eye peering into the room, ready to shoot.
But it was empty, and the door was wide open, showing an equally empty hall. Émile and Thérèse Chambord were gone. As quickly as he had found them, they had disappeared.
Smith ran toward the third window. Perhaps they had been moved to this room. But just as he reached the window and discovered an empty office inside, the tall Fulani in the long white robes, who had patrolled earlier, appeared from around the back of the farm house, gun up and ready. Right behind him came three more armed men, and all had that alert look of soldiers at war.
Smith went into an instant shoulder roll as bullets thudded into the ground, following him. He returned fire through the dark night, thankful for the thickening spring cloud layer that blocked the moon. His bullet hit one of the men in the midsection. The man doubled over and fell, and in those few seconds Smith’s other pursuers shifted their attention to their wounded comrade. That was when Smith leaped up and sprinted.
More bullets chased him, whining past and hitting the ground, tufts of weeds shattering up into the air. He ran a zigzag pattern, faster than he had ever run in his life. Marksmanship was more than being able to shoot straight and hit the target. It was psychology, reflexes, and being experienced enough to predict what the target was going to do next. An erratic pattern was good defense. As Smith’s weary body complained, he saw he was approaching the windbreak.
With a final burst of speed, he threw himself into the growth of trees. The musky odors of decaying leaves and wet soil filled his head. Again he shoulder-rolled, came up in a tight ball on his haunches, whirled around, and pointed his Sig Sauer back at his assailants. He squeezed off a series of rounds, a hailstorm of bullets, and he did not care where they landed. His barrage was enough that the tall leader and the others fell to the ground for cover, and maybe he had hit two of them. But then, they had run straight at him, perfect marks.
Smith tore away through the woods, heading around toward the front of the house, where the initial gunfire had started. He listened. The shots were sometimes sporadic, sometimes intense. Behind him in the trees, there was no sign of pursuit.
Then he saw it: In the front of the farmyard, pandemonium had broken out. Figures lay stretched out on the ground, weapons up and pointed at the windbreak. At least twenty of them. As Smith
watched, rapid muzzle flashes burst from the other side of a thick oak, while out in the yard, someone screamed in agony.
In his white burnoose, the lead extremist came running around through the open area, shouting orders. He crouched next to the corral and bawled an instruction in violent Arabic back at the house. Moments later all the house’s lights went out, its windows suddenly inky black pits, and a spotlight mounted at the left corner just beneath the roof blazed to life, illuminating the yard and rotating mechanically from some remote control until it focused on the windbreak, where it homed in on the oak tree.
Now that his men were no longer back-lighted, the white-robed leader waved them forward.
In response, a furious burst of automatic fire erupted from the woods. Two attackers fell, grunting, cursing, one clutching an arm and the other a shoulder. The rest plummeted to the earth again and raised up on their elbows to return fire. Only the bedouin leader remained a target, kneeling in plain sight as he coolly shot his old British assault rifle and cursed the others in vivid Arabic. With the gunman’s total attention directed at the oak bathed in merciless light, Smith dropped lower and scrambled closer to see who was firing from behind it.
He parted a cluster of Spanish broom and peered through at a single figure, who knelt behind the tree, reloading a Heckler & Koch MP5K compact submachine gun with a fresh banana clip. The spotlight illuminated the front and sides of the tree, leaving the back in shadow. Still, he could see enough to be shocked a third time that night: It was the unattractive, dark-haired woman he had spotted yesterday outside the Pasteur Institute, the same woman who later walked right past where he sat in the café but had shown no interest in him.
The Paris Option Page 16
