Ambassador Sarah Wexler had been United States’ ambassador to the United Nations for the last three years. During that time, she and the president had come to know each other fairly well, to the point at which they could anticipate each other’s reactions and plan accordingly. It had led both of them into some cunning schemes using reverse psychology, and had deepened the respect they had for each other.
Yet, as Wexler tried to analyze the sense of foreboding stirring in her, she knew she would get absolutely nowhere with the president unless she could present facts to back up intuition. He was three years into his first term as president, and he understood diplomacy in a way that many did not. Nevertheless, he tended to discount her gut feelings.
But this time, she had to convince him. She called in Brad, her aide, to rehearse her arguments with him.
“Sit behind my desk,” she ordered, vacating her chair and coming around to the visitor side. “Just a second — there,” she said, as she adjusted the American flag to his right. “Gives it a little bit more atmosphere, I think. And keep your jacket on. Lean forward, put your elbows on the desk, and stare at me.” She surveyed him critically as he complied, then nodded. “Yes, that will do.”
“I can have one of the secretaries hunt down a greyhound if you like,” he offered. The president’s passion for rescued greyhounds and his efforts to ban greyhound racing within the United States were well-known. Two retired racers lived at the White House, and they got more press coverage than any other presidential pet she could remember. When the press could catch up with them, that was. The greyhounds seemed to delight in racing past waiting cameras at their still-respectable speeds of around forty miles an hour.
“Not necessary,” she said. “He’s usually got one of them in the office with him, and it pisses him off when people ignore them.”
“Okay, shoot,” Brad said, adopting a Texas drawl. “Ah’m all ears, darlin’.”
Wexler marshaled her thoughts and began. “Mr. President, we have discussed the possibility of a reunified Soviet Union several times. And, in the past, we have both agreed that it might indeed be a possibility. I’ve come today to tell you that I think it may now be happening.”
Brad stared at her, unblinking. “Pretty strong accusation, Madam Ambassador. What kind of evidence do you have? Anything like a signed declaration of war? A sunken passenger liner, or such?”
And that’s exactly the sort of thing he would say. And would be looking for. But the intentions of nations are more often measured in the small things, not in the atrocities.
“Not yet, Mr. President,” she said firmly, and let the silence lengthen.
“What do you mean, not yet? Your saying it’s that serious?” Brad said, his Texas twang slipping slightly as he caught her mood.
She nodded. “Perhaps. If it starts, it will start like this.”
“I’m all ears,” the substitute president said.
“To begin with, the international treaty on the conduct of operations at sea is currently under review by several committees. I briefed you on that last month, and told you that the Russians had promised us a speedy response. I thought we’d hammered out all the essential terms and that it would be signed quickly.”
“It hasn’t happened?” he asked.
“No. It has not. There’s been no response. In fact, the Russian delegation has refused to return phone calls from our people. They’ve been avoiding them in the hallways, snubbing them in the dining facilities, and generally avoiding us.”
“Rudeness doesn’t hardly mean World War Three,” Pratt observed dryly.
“It’s more than that,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly inadequate to this task. How to possibly convey the nuances of interpersonal contact, the subtle signals used in the diplomatic corps to express problems or issues. It was almost impossible, but she had to try. The president must understand what was coming — must understand, so he could be prepared, even if he didn’t believe her right now.
She tried again. “Last week, the Russian delegation hosted a huge reception for the touring Bolshoi Ballet Company. They’ve been here touring the country, as you know.”
“Saw them myself when they were in D.C.,” the president agreed. “So what?”
“The Bolshoi tour has been cut short by three weeks. The Russians say it’s due to the illness of the male principal, but nobody believes that. Even if that were true, they always have understudies ready to go on.”
Brad let his expression of mild amusement express his disbelief.
“And there’s more,” she pressed. “As I said, the Russians hosted a huge reception. We were not invited, Mr. President. In our own country, we were not invited to a reception honoring dancers touring our country.”
“And you find that significant? Couldn’t it have just been a screwup of some sort, either in their office or ours?”
She shook her head firmly. “Mr. President, this is a textbook example of the diplomatic corps sending a message. Believe me, the oversight was intentional, and carefully coordinated with the Russian president. Just as with their recalling the Bolshoi Ballet.”
“Usually they recall the ambassador, not their dancers.”
“That will be next. Within a week or so. That gives us a window of opportunity, Mr. President, to defuse this. We have to find out what’s going on over there before we’re surprised by it. Things are moving too quickly.”
Brad held up a hand to forestall comment. “Now hold on, Sarah. You’re moving awfully fast on not much evidence. Can you imagine the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s reaction if I tried to convince them that we ought to base foreign policy on what Russian stars in which ballet? I’d be laughed out of the office.”
“I’m not suggesting you consult Congress. I am suggesting that you let the military know, and let them prepare for what might happen.”
“Sarah, Sarah. Really — you know that if I pass this on to the military, it’ll be all over D.C. in a few hours. They’ll be calling me a warmonger again. Listen, if you turn up any hard intelligence or other evidence that we’re about to face problems with Russia, I’ll act on it immediately. But until then…” Brad laid his palms flat on the desk and shoved himself up to a standing position. “Thanks for coming by, Madam Ambassador. I’ll see you to the door.”
Wexler stared at him. Brad stared back. “That’s how it’d go, and you know it.”
After a long silence, Wexler said, “Call Captain Hemingway. Ask her if she’s got time for a cup of tea.”
The C-2 Greyhound banked hard to left, virtually standing on its wingtip as it made its turn onto final. In the back, the passengers were thrown against their restraining harnesses, and more than one let out an involuntary yelp. Among those who silently gritted their teeth and bore it was Lieutenant (junior grade) Clarissa Shaughnessy.
Shaughnessy barely met the height requirements for a pilot. At five feet three inches, she had a slender frame and delicate features. White-blonde hair formed an unruly halo around her face, framing angular cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her appearance had earned her a nickname in the Tomcat training pipeline — Elf. Whether or not it would stick with her throughout the rest of her naval career would be up to the squadron.
Like most pilots, Shaughnessy hated flying as passenger. After eighteen months in Flight Basic and the Tomcat trading pipeline and two years of enlisted service before that as a plane captain on board the USS Jefferson, she knew all too well how many things could do wrong with an aircraft, particularly one that was attempting the always tricky task of landing on the deck of aircraft carrier.