“Yeah. Yeah, I am, sir.” A look of frustration passed over the chief’s face. “But it doesn’t make sense. Those aircraft have been parked there since the first days of Desert Storm and Desert Shield. They haven’t flown since Iraq flew them into Iran for safekeeping. Everybody knows that.”
Lab Rat felt something jell in his stomach, a deep conviction accompanied by a flood of relief. Exactly how and why he was so certain, he couldn’t have said. But Armstrong agreed with him, and between the two of them, they could manage to convince the admiral and his staff.
“Avionics aren’t that hard to come by,” Lab Rat said quietly. “And the desert’s an ideal place to store aircraft.”
“Except for the damage the sand has done,” the chief supplied. “You know how it is out there. That damned stuff gets in every nook and cranny. The abrasion is something awful.”
“Right. But that’s not a showstopper. Our own graveyard is located in the desert in the U.S.”
“Yes, sir. But those aircraft are usually properly mothballed. Plastic wrapping and nitrogen packing, and there’s no way they leave the avionics on them. But these babies — god knows what a decade in the desert has done to them.”
The two men were silent for a moment, each caught up in his own thoughts. Every fact they had argued against the former Iraqi aircraft flying again. There was no indication of new trouble brewing in the Middle East. And apart from the two-thousand-foot deviation in the normal flight pattern on this morning’s patrol, there were no other indications of trouble.
“They’re going to fly again,” Lab Rat said softly, utterly aware that it sounded crazy. He glanced over at Armstrong and saw the chief nodding.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know how or why, but I’d bet on it. And sooner rather than later, sir. Sooner rather than later.”
FOUR
The new ambassador from the United Kingdom caught up with the United States ambassador, Sarah Wexler, just as she was leaving her office complex. Wexler felt herself frown slightly as he approached, and schooled her face into careful neutrality. The man had only been here for three weeks, dammit. The least she could do was give him a chance to settle in before she started making judgments about him.
At least that’s what she tried to tell herself. But Wexler knew that she had always had an uncanny ability to form accurate first impressions of people. When she ignored her first judgments, she often found cause to regret it later. Only once had she proved to be wrong, and even in that instance, the jury was still out on whether the long-time ambassador from China was truly trustworthy.
Perhaps it was just the difference in British and American cultures that made her uneasy around Sir Forsyth Wells. Certainly she would never be so shallow as to judge the man merely on his minor annoying personal characteristics. Like the careful attention he paid to his hair, often smoothing it carefully back into place. Like his habit of echoing the last part of her sentences, as though repeating her words for confirmation. Like his too jolly, too eager way of insinuating himself into her personal life.
The United Kingdom and America were long-standing allies, and often stood alone against the rest of the world’s opinion in trying to do what was right. And Wells’s predecessor had been a true joy to work with. Although some found him condescending, she had found that he possessed a wealth of insight into the workings of nations and international politics, and embodied all that was very good about the British Empire. He had been a wise, older cousin to whom she had turned on occasion for advice, and during her first days at the United Nations, had done his best to make her feel welcome. In subsequent conflicts, she often relied on his suggestions, although she sometimes thought that his long experience with internal European politics had made him cynical rather than wise.
Still, she had counted him as a friend, and hoped that she would be able to do the same with Wells. That relationship had not yet materialized.
“Good afternoon, Ambassador Wells,” she said gravely. He was, she noted, flanked as always by an aide and a security man trying to look like an aide. She wasn’t sure exactly what was annoying about it — the implication that he didn’t feel safe inside the United Nations, or the possibility that he was simply a coward. Certainly she herself did not take elaborate precautions.
It’s not his country. Perhaps you’d feel the same way if you were permanently assigned to the Court of St. James for the first time. He doesn’t know the city, the people, doesn’t see the clues you pick up in people’s behaviors.
“I am glad to have caught you before you left,” he said, a broad smile on his face. He looked rather silly, with a permanent curl that always centered itself precisely on his forehead, the too-eager expression on his face. “The arms negotiations package.” He splayed his hands open in a gesture pleading. “I’m afraid I don’t entirely grasp the significance of the issues. Perhaps if you have a moment…?”
Wexler sighed. And this was precisely the sort of thing she meant. Yet perhaps the prior British ambassador had felt the same degree of impatience with her naivete on such issues as he’d tutored her on the finer points of international statesmanship.
“Of course,” she said. “What can I clarify for you?”
“This question of America’s new aircraft carrier — the USS United States. It comes up repeatedly in discussions, yet I suspect I am not grasping its full importance. Why are Russia and China quite so concerned about it?”
“My office, perhaps?” she suggested, glancing at the throngs of people hurrying up and down the corridors. Certainly she would not be discussing classified information, at least none that wasn’t already releasable to the United Kingdom, but it was always wiser to talk about such things in private. There was no telling who might find useful some insight into America’s position from overhearing her, or detect some weakness.
“I thought perhaps lunch — that is, if you have not yet eaten,” he said eagerly. “Perhaps a quiet corner in the executive dining room.”
Wexler suppressed a sigh of annoyance. She had been looking forward to a good, hot pastrami sandwich, but she suspected that would not go down well with the British ambassador. Wells seemed particularly fond of all the accoutrements and trappings that went with his new position, and never failed to take advantage of the UN’s facilities. While the food served in the executive dining area was superb, it sure wasn’t the hot pastrami with biting mustard she’d had her heart set on.
“That would be fine,” she said instead, and led the way down the corridor to the dining room. Once they were seated in a quiet corner, apparently out of earshot of everyone else, and she had ordered, she turned to him. “You know, to understand this entire discussion, you must understand that it is not only the weapons that are in question. It is the delivery systems as well. Without those, weaponry is useless. And with a move to reduce long-range missiles, there’s increasing concern about the use that we can make of shorter-range missiles from closer delivery points.”
He nodded. “The same issue that arose during the Germany talks, of course. The U.S. agreed to eliminate shorter-range missiles, but they were replaced with intermediate-range missiles in other parts of Europe. To the Russians, it was all the shell game.”