“So it would really be just a sham,” Wexler said. “If we agreed, that is. I suppose it’s naïve to believe that the UN could be what it’s supposed to be.” She felt a sense of disappointment. They had talked so often about the potential for good in the United Nations, but sometimes she’d wondered just how much of it the president believed.
He shook his head. “Not at all. The UN is a powerful force. If every member nation were as concerned about world peace as we are, then you can bet that I’d probably support allied command of U.S. forces… in some situations. But they’re not. Each one has his own rice bowl and their interests don’t always coincide with ours.”
“The other thing is this entire Macedonia/Greece issue. I’m fairly certain that the UN counsel will authorize military sanctions against Macedonia. But the truth is that Macedonia has some very real, valid complaints about Greece’s conduct. The whole idea of self-determination for nations is a central part of our national philosophy. But is that just for us and not for other nations around the world?” she asked.
“I haven’t really decided what role I want the U.S. to take in any action against Macedonia,” he said finally. “For the same reasons I’ve just mentioned. There are no easy answers, and I don’t want us to be part of a bad one.”
“So what do we need to accomplish in the UN?” she asked. “It’s coming to a head soon.”
The president stood, indicating the discussion was concluded. “If I knew, I would tell you. I’m intrigued by China’s connection with Singapore as it relates to Greece. I trust your instincts on this — it’s important, or the secretary general and Ambassador T’ing wouldn’t see it as an issue. See if you can find out what that’s about.”
She stood as well. “I’ll try, Mr. President. I’ll try.”
She left his office with no real answers, but in some way unaccountably cheered that the president was grappling with the same issues that bothered her. She would try to untangle the threads of self-interest that ran through her brethren and sistern in the United Nations and get the answers they both needed.
He’s a good man. He’ll do the right thing if he can. But until we know more about what’s happening, none of us know what the right thing is. The only thing I know for certain is that it normally doesn’t involve bombing civilians.
Colonel Zentos twisted uneasily in the left seat of the helicopter. It had been years since he’d spent much time airborne, and he found he disliked it now just as much as he had before. The terrain looked alien, unfriendly, particularly now with daylight finally fading.
They’d almost finished combing their assigned search area. So far there had been no trace of the downed helo, but there were still over one hundred and fifty square miles of ground to cover. From this altitude, it should have been easy to spot a twisted mass of metal wreckage on the ground.
Then why haven’t we found it? Why haven’t the previous patrols found it? Colonel Zentos kept circling around the question, worrying at it from different angles, gnawing at it while another part of his mind automatically translated what he was seeing from the air into what he’d be facing if he were on the ground. It was an old habit, one he’d developed as a major when he’d realized that airborne spotters and ground pounders like himself spoke entirely different languages. He’d forced himself to volunteer for spotter missions, concentrated on learning to extrapolate what his troops would see from what he saw from the air until he felt certain that he’d be able to direct air assets on target every time, no matter where he was.
The shuddering noise inside the helo changed pitch slightly, ratcheting higher. A few extra knots of speed, eked out from the fuel reserves, so that they could cover the entire area before darkness fell.
It hit him all at once as their speed over ground increased noticeably. Their minds were attuned to the wrong mental picture — the helo wasn’t in sight, it couldn’t be. The earlier patrols, no matter how screwed up the pilots were, would not have missed the wreckage.
Therefore, the wreckage wasn’t in sight. So what they should be looking for was signs of where a helo had been—and no longer was. An entirely different frame of mind altogether.
Seven minutes later, scanning the landscape with his new perspective, he saw it. At the edge of a field, a dark swath of raw land amid the green. Not a farming track, not a cattle path. No.
“There,” he shouted, waving the pilot over toward the edge of the field. “Near the trees.”
The pilot shot him a puzzled look, but cut sharply away from his course toward the spot.
Hovering over it, Zentos felt relief surge through his body. “Can you set it down?”
The pilot nodded. He eased back on the power and drifted down. As soon as they touched the ground, Zentos popped his hatch open, ducked under the rotor blades, and jogged to the edge of the field. The first stars were visible overhead.
As soon as he reached the area, he knew he was right. The helicopter’s downdraft had kept the smell from reaching him at first. Aviation fuel — burnt aviation fuel. And the ground, not gashed — burned.
Then where was the helo? He walked around the perimeter of the burned spot, looking for signs that the helo had been moved. At the edge closest to the woods, the sod had been hastily replaced over part of the burned area. Beyond that, under the canopy of trees, he saw moonlight glinting off metal. He walked over to it and checked quickly to see if there were any bodies. None, but parts of it were so twisted by both the fire and the impact that he couldn’t be certain.
No matter. At that moment, he was simply relieved to have found it at all.
Zentos trotted back to the helo. “Call the Command Center. Get a full team out here.” He waited to make sure the pilot was complying then walked slowly back to the wreckage.
EIGHT
Although he couldn’t pinpoint why, Tombstone’s first impression of General Arkady was not favorable. There was no reason in the man’s physical appearance for the trace of revulsion Tombstone felt upon meeting him. Arkady fit the stereotype of a classically handsome Greek: black curly hair, olive skin, the elegant angles and planes of his facial bones had been memorialized for centuries in classical sculpture. Arkady was a bit taller than most of the Greek men Tombstone had met so far, but still a few inches short of Tombstone’s own height.
Nor was there anything in Arkady’s manners that Tombstone could fault. His welcoming speech sounded genuine, if slightly rehearsed. He spoke of the historic friendship between Greece and the United States, of their long history together. He touched briefly on Tombstone’s prior experiences and noted that he was honored to be advised by such a man of experience.
Advised. Perhaps that was the word that rankled slightly with him, Tombstone thought. Advice was something you could take or leave, sort of like Tomboy’s opinions on what tie ought to go with which suit in his civilian dress.
Is it my own resentment at being sent here as an advisor rather than being in command myself? Tombstone considered the matter for a moment, then decided it was not. Sure, it stung his ego a bit, but he was a big boy. He could live with it.