Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it. See how many of your playmates are willing to give up their aid packages from the United States to support your agenda.
She glanced over at India, and caught the hard glare from her ambassador. So Britain was right — India is behind it. And Liberia—
Brad leaned forward to tap her on the shoulder. “Foreign-flagged vessels,” he murmured, and then leaned back, apparently confident she would understand.
She did. A large portion of the world’s merchant navies flew the flag of Liberia as a flag of convenience. Liberian safety inspections, license fees, and other requirements were much less onerous than those of other maritime nations, particularly the United States. Somewhere in the subterranean political maneuverings, someone had pointed out to Liberia that it was entirely possible that U.S.-flagged merchant ships might be perceived as being at risk. This might afford Liberia the opportunity to grab even more of the market share. For a nation such as Liberia, those revenues might be sufficiently tempting to risk losing foreign aid from the United States.
“A motion has been made. Second?” the secretary-general asked.
India leaped to her feet. “Second,” the ambassador snapped, and subsided with an angry glare.
The secretary-general regarded the assembly for a moment then said, “The motion has been made, and seconded. Given the nature of the question, I suggest that thoughtful and significant debate is required prior to a vote. Therefore,” he continued, picking up his gavel, “we will continue this matter until tomorrow morning, allowing each of you to consult with your principals. This meeting is adjourned.”
Nice move. I’ll remember that. She shot a warm glance at the ambassador from the Bahamas. He was not looking in her direction, but she thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face.
On the way out, Brad asked, “So what now?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” she answered. The only thing that was certain at this point was that her chances of getting a decent night’s sleep were gone.
A good night’s sleep and a hot meal had improved the Montego Bay captain’s appearance considerably. But his eyes still had a drawn, haunted look to them, and it would take more than twenty-four hours to restore color to his face and diminish the harsh lines drawn into his cheeks and forehead. Looking at him, Coyote suspected that even after the external signs of trauma were long gone, the scars on his soul would remain.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Coyote asked, his voice gentle. “Anything?”
Gaspert shook his head. “No. Thank you. Your people have been more than gracious. The only thing I need now is information. I’m sure my company representatives will be out tomorrow to assist with the… the….” Gaspert ran out of words, and his face twisted.
“The investigation and the arrangements,” Coyote said, swearing silently as he did so. Hard, so hard — it was one thing for a member of the military to pay the ultimate price. It was something they volunteered for, knowing that even if the danger seemed slight, there was always the chance that they would be called on to risk their lives — and perhaps lose them.
That civilians — no, more than civilians, vacationers, who had paid for luxury, comfort, and a complete escape from all cares, innocent men and women — and, dear god, children… Coyote could barely keep the pain off of his face. If what had happened to Montego Bay was overwhelming to him, then he could not imagine what the man sitting before him felt.
“Can you tell me, Admiral — I know much of it must be classified, but anything you can tell me would help — what happened? Why were we attacked?” Gaspert’s eyes were haunted, seeing again the flames, the men and women running and screaming, the complete destruction of his ship. “I was in the Navy, sir — I know, I’ve already told you that — listen to me, I’m rambling — but anything you can tell me, Admiral, anything at all…” Gaspert seemed to deflate like a balloon losing its air.
Dear god, how am I suppose to bear this? I could invoke security classifications, keep him in the dark for twenty or thirty years. Leave him to pass the years wondering what he did wrong, wondering how he aroused the Russian’s anger or what he stepped into the middle of. Can I do that?
With a sudden, crushing certainty, Coyote knew that Gaspert’s chance of surviving the next year hung in the balance. Without irrefutable proof that he was not to blame, that there was nothing he could have done, Gaspert would not allow himself to live when so many others had died.
“You were a surface sailor in the Navy,” Coyote said, uncertain how to begin but knowing that he must.
“Yes, Admiral. Destroyers.”
“There are some things I can tell you. As you remember, there are certain routines associated with discussing classified material. The first is this — a disclosure form, and acknowledgment.” Coyote slid a form across the desk to him. “Read it, and if you agree to all the provisions, sign and date it at the bottom.”
Coyote watched as Gaspert read through it, his finger moving down the lines. The form had not changed in twenty years at least, so he was relatively sure that Gaspert understood what he was getting into. Basically, it said that Gaspert was about to receive certain classified information, the minimum classification with the top secret. By signing, Gaspert acknowledged that, agreed to debriefing before he left the ship, and acknowledged that disclosing this material to anyone not authorized could result in a prison term of thirty years, a fine of twenty thousand dollars, or both.
Will that hold him? It wouldn’t me. Not if I knew I had the passengers’ relatives to explain the deaths to. For a moment, Coyote considered soft-pedaling it and feeding Gaspert the cover story.
“As you’ve been told, we are out here conducting battle group operations,” Coyote said, reaching the decision as he spoke. He would pay for this later, perhaps, but he was going to do it. “The classified part of this is that we are also testing various defensive systems.” Briefly, Coyote outlined the capabilities of the missile defense system, concluding with “And of course, the Russians were keeping an eye on us as well. In fact…” For the first time, Coyote hesitated, aware that he was stepping over a line he could never withdraw from. “In fact, they were testing their own capabilities as well. Probably a laser defense system, perhaps targeting just missiles. Perhaps not.”
Gaspert appeared to absorb the information impassively. “That was no laser that hit us.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a missile. The question at this point is whether it was ours or theirs. Just prior to the attack on Montego Bay, approximately twelve hours earlier, certain agencies lost contact with a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over this part of the world. This satellite was in the process of downloading information, and later analysis revealed that prior to going off line, it detected a blue flash from this part of the ocean. Then, as it went off line, it transmitted another blue flash. We believe the Russians may have executed a soft kill on the satellite using their new laser-based system. That seems to correlate with what our lookouts and surveillance aircraft observed as well.”
“And so what does this have to do with Montego Bay?” Gaspert asked, and Coyote saw a trace of suspicion in his eyes.
“At some point, the Russians were apparently convinced that a fire control radar had locked onto them. Under the circumstances, they believed that we were targeting them.”