The chief exploded then. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with, Smith. These Greeks, they’re in command around here. You think everything works out here like it does back home? Do you realize what could happen to you in a foreign country?” He leaned closer, and Smith could smell the stale rankness of beer on his breath. “These people don’t kid around about orders, son. Not for their own people, and not for airmen under their command. People disappear when they disobey orders around here, you got that?” The chief stopped suddenly, as though he’d said too much.
“I’m not your son,” Smith said. Gramps would never talk to me this way. Dad wouldn’t either, if he’d lived. They wouldn’t be shitfaced in the middle of the day, either.
“No, you’re not. You’re a stupid kid who doesn’t have a clue. Let me tell you what happens to people who screw up out here.” The chief was shouting and the stink of the alcohol was overpowering. “I went to the little welcome aboard lunch they had for us over at the Chief’s Club. I heard what happens here. One of their pilots, he screwed up a mission last week? Shot down that helo, they said. Well, as soon as he came back to the flight line, the general had him in his office. He hasn’t been seen since. His wife, neither. And you want to piss them off over a crappy hat and patch? You willing to bet your life on them being understanding?”
Dad, Gramps… what would they do? By rote, Smith felt the outlines of his Gramps’s last letter in his pocket. Comfort and conviction radiated out from it, suffusing his whole body.
“There’s right and there’s wrong, Chief. And this is just plain wrong.” Smith stood and walked out of the line shack, leaving the chief shouting after him.
Jack Tarkington had been Sarah Wexler’s aide for the last ten years. In that time, he’d come to know her moods so well that the rest of her United Nations staff accused him of reading her mind. So when he heard her footsteps padding over the heavily carpeted passageway outside the reception area, he knew that something was wrong. Based on her telephone calls over the last two days, along with the Chinese ambassador’s angry appearance in her office just yesterday, it was probably Greece.
Greece. As if there were any easy answer to that one. Not that there ever was with any form of ethnic warfare. During their days in the state department, he’d seen the futility of that.
The junior rank-and-file at the State Department was filled with young, idealistic political science majors bent on changing the world through deep and culturally appropriate understanding. Then there were several layers of increasingly cynical career State Department personnel, who differed only in their degree of disillusionment. At the very top, the ambassadors. Political appointees, the power to represent a mighty nation in international relations conferred upon them based on campaign contributions.
As a rule, the State Department tried to do a good job — and failed miserably. So often at odds with the military over how and when to use force to resolve a situation, the State Department started howling for troops the moment it appeared that opposing parties simply would not, beyond all reason or rational understanding, listen to United States orders on how to conduct their affairs. They took themselves and her families to remote locations, were surrounded by cultures they might understand intellectually but could never be a part of emotionally, and were surprised when some local hothead took a pot shot them. Let one of them die, and every last one of them turned into a hawk.
Almost every last one, he amended. There was the standard fare of the State Department — and then there was Sarah Wexler. The current administration had appointed her to the position of Ambassador to the United Nations from the State Department based on the strength of tough career decisions and her personal relationship with the president. It was a decision neither party had had reason to regret. Ambassador Wexler often took heat off the present president, and her own forceful and well thought-out positions were often floated as possibilities to assess public and international reaction before the president took a stand. So far, the relationship had worked for both of them.
Ambassador Wexler strode into the room, the picture of complete confidence and dignity. Two assistants trailed behind her, carrying boxes of documents as well as her own prepared speech.
“Tea?” Jack asked.
She looked at him, and he saw the true story in her eyes, but her words were calm and professional. “How thoughtful. Yes, tea would be quite nice. Thank you.”
And that, he thought, summed up Sarah Wexler. Grace under pressure, and instinct for human kindness coupled with an understanding of the necessity for force when needed.
After so many years working by her side, he knew exactly how she liked her tea. He left his desk and went to the small kitchenette area, and busied himself for a few minutes bringing the water to the correct temperature before carefully pouring it over the tea leaves. He heard movement behind him, and was not surprised when he turned and saw her there.
He handed her a cup, knowing that he should have steeped the leaves a little longer but guessing that the restorative effect was more important than gourmet considerations. “Bad?”
She nodded. Here, away from the rest of her staff, she let her true emotions show on her face. Hopelessness, and anguish that he saw all too often these days. “They won’t listen to reason.”
“Do they ever?”
Instead of answering, she slumped down into one of the plastic chairs pushed around the edge of the room. “Not often enough. I’ve tried everything I can think of, called in every favor. But I think they’re going to win the cote on the strikes.”
He poured her a refill of the tea, now at the correct strength. “You expected that, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t make it easier.” She drained the rest of the second cup, although he knew it was too hot to drink that quickly. “There’s one last thing I can try, I suppose,” she said, almost herself. “It won’t work, but at least I’ll know I’ve tried.”
“What?” Jack asked, a cold shiver running down his spine. Not since the Spratley Islands conflict had he seen that look on her face: deep regret coupled with iron determination.
“I’ll have to talk it over with the president first,” she said. “It’s risky, but it might work.”
Jack felt a deep sense of foreboding. “What might work?”
“China,” she said softly. “T’ing holds the keys to this, and I don’t know what locks they fit.”
The president listened carefully as Ambassador Wexler briefed him on the previous day’s maneuverings. He nodded appreciatively at her description of the secretary general’s action. “Good teamwork. You bought me some time, anyway.”
“There’s too much that troubles me about this entire situation,” Wexler said after a moment. “The problem is, they are raising some good points. If the United Nations is truly supposed to be a force for peace in the world, then it makes sense to have all forces under one command. As it stands now, you can withdraw from participation at any time.”
The president nodded. “And that’s exactly the way I want it. Sure, I could give operational command of our forces to a UN commander. And most of the time, it would be no problem. If things started going wrong, I would simply revoke that chain of command. The other side of it is that I’ve got good men and women on the front lines out there. I suspect that if the NATO commander gave an order that was truly inconsistent with our national security policy, they’d find a way to stall until I had a chance to act. At least that’s the theory. But out there on the edge of a conflict, there’s never enough time. I won’t put them in the damning situation of having to evade a lawful order that’s damning to our national interests. That has to remain my decision. I can’t have them making national policy by proxy.”