8
October 16th.
Mike Ram:
“The media itself has always been the most devastating weapon of the true terrorist. With this tool, the violence done to a relative few impacts the entire world. What would otherwise be a random and fanatic act of mass-murder paralyzes entire societies, cripples international economies. This is because the media, by its very nature, readily and repeatedly brings the images of such violence to everyone, making everyone victim to it. They do it because it’s news, but more so because it brings ratings.”
No one is really listening to you—they’re tolerating you. You aren’t saying anything they haven’t heard from countless others for a good fifty years—no one listened to those guys either.
“For almost half-a-century now, the ‘terrorists’ have publicly and repeatedly proven that there is no completely effective defense. So if we are really going to fight the terrorist, then we must be sure to do it in their own arena, using their own most effective weapon. We must fully invite the media to document our victories, to share intimately in our actions. Then those actions will become the tangible justice of the terrorized world. Through us, the vulnerable public will feel that they can really fight back. Through us, they will no longer be terrorized. And through us, terrorist and innocent victim alike will come to know what the New World Order is really going to be.”
Pause. It’s triggering you—you can feel it rise in your blood. All you have to do is start thinking about atrocity and the programming kicks in. You were nearly raving. In front of the Security Council, no less.
Breathe. Walk—you know it’s annoying but it helps, pacing while you talk (one of your students once told you it reminded them of watching a tiger in a cage). It gets their attention: they’re used to suits who sit behind podiums. You take the floor. You put on a show.
“Imagine: For every bombing or shooting or contamination or infection they attempt, we perform our own sensational act. And it won’t be the sterile, impersonal air strikes that have proven so disappointing and politically costly. And it won’t be the sloppy, expensive occupations that destroy countries, leave tens of thousands dead, and leave hundreds of thousands more standing as easy targets to an opportunistic few. Instead, we will confront the terrorist face-to-face, cameras rolling, and give the viewing public the personal justice they so desperately crave, without the risk of tragic collateral damage. No dead innocents and destroyed neighborhoods. No painfully long lists of casualties. Nothing to feed the naysayer. Only surgical justice…”
Above you on the big theater-screen they are running video samples from some of your more colorful operations. You notice that they do not delineate between the games and the live missions (the ones that really kill people).
You look up into the auditorium beyond the semicircle that seats the Security Council proper. Henderson is up there, trying not to look too pleased with himself (he wrote your script, after all). And Collins and Miller, looking as cozy as usual. Scattered throughout the audience are other familiar faces—members of the Council’s Military Staff Committee, representing their home nations: Kudziyev, Chen, Hussein, Sakata, Frasier, Sharavi… Meanwhile, Secretary of State Franks is in his usual seat on the Council, three seats left of the chair, trying to look like this is not exclusively his nation’s proposal.
Off to your right, at the presenters’ table, are Becker and Richards, sweating under the lights dead-center of the raised ring of council members. Becker, up next to explain the wonders of Datascan and AI-driven interface combat, looks pale. They put him in a suit instead of a uniform, preferring to present his PhD identity over his newer and less well-fitting soldier one. You were expecting Dr. Mann to present separately for SENTAR, but he seems to have gotten out of it at the last minute, deferring to a much more attractive associate: the young, girl-next-door-looking Dr. Parry. (The absence of any actual corporate types at the table is likely calculated to distract from the trillions they’re likely to reap in profits should we sell this for them.)
Richards just sits politely in his dress blacks and endures. He gave his speech already. It really wasn’t all that much different than yours—it’s just that with yours, they get the exciting action-packed video montage to distract them.
And next to Richards: Lisa… Lieutenant Ava. You keep catching her eyes on you when you look, and she has to remind herself to stay professional, especially in the middle of the Security Council. You smile at her anyway.
The montage ends. The screen melts to blue, and the proposed UNACT emblem takes form. There’s a rumbling in the crescent of Council seats. It must be the whole “sword stuck through the world” image, the glaring contrast to their signature peace laurel. You have one more line to deliver. It’s just that it’s not quite time yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Council,” you go off script. Richards—out of the corner of your eye—goes tense. “I came here to read a script, to sell you something: a potential future. Or: a potential for the future.”
Looking up, you see Henderson grin.
“The fact is, this war has been an embarrassment since it was given a name after 9-11. That, frankly, is how those you call ‘terrorist’ beat you. You can’t fight them without risking either looking helplessly ineffective or tyrannically imperial. They know that. They exploit that every day. I am just a soldier in this war. But that means I am the instrument of either your impotence or your atrocity. But what the UNACT Proposal is offering you—offering all of you—is the opportunity to fight this war with a measure of success that you have only been able to imagine. All we are asking for is your agreement—and it is yours to give—to show you what is now possible. And what is possible? Imagine if you could have made Al Qaeda disappear—to the last man—almost overnight. To cull your enemy as fast as they can recruit, no matter how well they can hide among us. I believe we can do that now.”
Richards is almost as pale as Becker. But the Delegates are listening. They don’t give you any sense of agreement, but they are listening.
“But I can’t and won’t tell you that this is the right thing to do. I am just a soldier in this war. I am offering you my service. I will not tell you that you are wrong or evil to refuse it. This will be an act of violence on an unparalleled scale. Not genocide, but ideocide, because it will target those who would violently oppose the ideals that you universally espouse. It will be brutal, but we will do our best to ensure that it is clean. That only combatants are targeted. That no other lives are put on the line except those of my fellows—volunteers and professionals all—and that they will be extraordinarily well protected and supported. I hand you a weapon, nothing more, and tell you that it may give you the upper hand in this war that you fight. It is your choice to use it or decline.”
The chamber is absolutely silent. Richards looks numb. Becker is almost dumbstruck—either overwhelmed by your performance or in terror of having to follow it. Miller is trying not to show anything at all. Henderson is still grinning. Lisa is… well…
You gather yourself, breathe, and deliver your last line:
“This is a new kind of war we are in, ladies and gentlemen of the Council: It is a war for public approval, a war of image more than tactical victories, a war to win—and hold—the popular media, to command the headlines. To borrow a term from that media: It is a Ratings War.
“Thank you for your time and consideration.”
The chairman thanks you and you sit back down at the presenter’s table with minimal fanfare. The chamber is silent except for the whispers and throat-clearing in the delegate seats. They digest for a few minutes, organize themselves, and then call upon Doc to stand and do his bit. He looks at you and lets his eyes go big to let you know how nervous he is, then he gets himself together. It seems to take him awhile to remember how to talk.
You reach for the water pitcher. Lisa beats you to it and pours you a glass. She can see the tremor in your hand. Shaking. You are shaking. You hate this part: The come-down.
On
cue, Matthew (who had to watch from Langley since he was pointedly not invited) chimes in on your link:
“Congratulations: Captain Kirk couldn’t have done a better job.”
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 55
