“That sounds like just what we need to make this a coalition operation,” interjected the President with interest. “We need our two closest allies in there with us and it’s worth slowing down a bit to achieve that. The question is: will the British political leadership will have the stomach for this… ? And the French?”
“Ma’am, no question that the French military will be up for this. The worry is that their army is totally fixed on internal security. They’ve got ten thousand soldiers deployed guarding schools and supermarkets against the jihadi terrorist threat, so readiness will be an issue. And, of course, we can’t be sure of the politicians. It’s much the same for the Brits, although thankfully they’re not committed to internal security in the same way. You can be sure that their military will be more than keen to get involved and their soldiers are still pretty good. The challenge will be the political leadership.”
“Leave the British PM to me.” Dillon was firm.
“Madam President, if I may.” SACEUR spoke. “I’ve just spoken to my Brit deputy who briefed me on today’s North Atlantic Council meeting. He told me that Number Ten is pretty well in meltdown at the prospect of declaring Article Five and having to deploy British soldiers to defend Latvia. The military may be up for it, but the Prime Minister seems determined to go to Parliament and there’s no certainty that he’ll get a majority. In fact, and on past form, even a small majority may not be enough to persuade him.”
“Sounds like I need a personal call with the Prime Minister… Remind me, Marty, how quickly can you get the 82nd Airborne into Latvia?” quizzed Dillon.
“If you give me the green light now, we’ll get the Global Response Force into Riga in eighteen hours. And if the airport is still closed as a result of the cyber-attack, we’ll drop them in. Straight out of Fort Bragg, non-stop across the Atlantic, like they did last year on Exercise Anakonda in Poland. It’s the airborne way.”
“And if the Brits were able to join you?”
“No problem, but it would slow things down. We’d arrange a link-up on the ground in the UK with their lead airborne company. We’ve checked with the Brits and it’s 3 Para. As I told you, they’ve trained alongside our lead battalion. That means they know each other well, have all the comms and other details squared away, and they’ve practiced precisely this sort of operation. But to get all of that organized would mean it would take about thirty-six hours before they were all on the ground in Riga.”
“Marty, you’ve got that green light. Please get them all moving. Now, I’ve got some calls to make. The President, the PM and then the French. I’ll do them from the Oval Office.”
Thirty minutes later, Bear was in the Oval Office. President Dillon was at her desk, made from the timbers of HMS Resolute, which Bear knew had been a gift to the US president from Queen Victoria in 1880, a memorial of “the courtesy and loving kindness” shown to the UK by the American people. That desk, and the fact that she still sat at it when she and her many distinguished predecessors could have sat at almost any other desk, epitomized the Special Relationship that had long existed between the two countries. But now, sitting opposite MacWhite on one of the two olive-green sofas that faced each other on the cream carpet, Bear wondered just what Queen Victoria would think of this present British prime minister. Not much, was his opinion. By contrast, it was fortunate that Dillon was already showing the inner steel needed for the brutal nature of geopolitics; not unlike that long-dead Queen.
Then a Presidential aide entered, looking flustered. Rather than use the hotline—not the red telephone of popular mythology, but a data link known formally as the Washington–Moscow Direct Communications Link and located in the Pentagon, at the National Military Command Center—Dillon had wanted to talk to the President direct, albeit through an interpreter. The initial contact had already been made to the Kremlin and the White House had been assured that the President was in his office and waiting.
“How are we getting on fixing that call?” questioned Dillon.
“I’m sorry, Madam President. We’ve spoken to the President’s office in Moscow. We had it all set up, but he’s decided he won’t take your call after all. You won’t believe this but, since they gave us the green light, the President has apparently just left the office. He’s pre-booked to do a free fall jump with the Russian airborne forces parachute display team, at an air show early tomorrow morning. Apparently he regrets not being able to talk to you, but it’s midnight in Moscow now and apparently he needs his sleep so that he can demonstrate his strength and courage to the Russian people tomorrow morning. He hopes you will understand.”
Dillon breathed out slowly. This was not a time to show that she was furious at being so obviously snubbed. MacWhite looked at Bear and both men looked away; this was also not the moment to comment on the humiliation of the President of the United States at the hands of the President of Russia. But Bear noted, staring hard at his notebook, of one thing there was now no doubt: the President had no interest in trying to resolve this crisis.
“Bear, why don’t you go and check personally that the Brit prime minister can take the President’s call?”
Bear went into the outer office and took the phone the President’s aide handed to him. “It’s ringing in the Prime Minister’s office at Chequers. You’re secure.”
“Chequers… Where the hell’s that?” demanded Bear, himself furious at what he had just witnessed in the Oval Office. To him checkers was a board game.
“The country residence of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom,” came the response. “The Prime Minister likes to start his weekends early as he enjoys his family time. He can be very chilled.”
Then the phone was picked up. Bear heard an English voice speaking, in what he later discovered was a south London accent.
“Hello. Trev Walker, the PM’s Director of Communications.”
Bear was courteous. “I’m sorry, Sir. I guess there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m calling from the White House. I’d hoped to talk to the PM’s aide to set up a call with President Dillon. This is not a media issue.”
“Don’t worry, mate,” came the retort. “I’m on the inside track with the PM. And anyway, he likes to keep the staff to a minimum while he’s at Chequers. I’ll handle it. What’s the call about?”
“Russia, NATO, Latvia and the way ahead.” Bear was surprised to find himself talking to the Brit PM’s media guy and not his Military Assistant, but guessed that was the way they did things over there. Nevertheless, Bear felt his irritation rising at the Brit’s obviously false friendliness and doubtless feigned ignorance. After all, what else would the President of the United States of America be ringing the British Prime Minister about at this exact moment in time, other than the crisis in Latvia. But, as was his custom, he took people as he found them. He knew no other way.
“Hi, Trev. Bear here,” he replied, trying to keep his voice friendly. “Can you get the Prime Minister on the line, please.”
“No, mate. You put the President on first, then I’ll get the PM.” Walker was quick to try and take advantage of the American’s courtesy.
There was a strict protocol for arranging such phone calls and Bear knew it full welclass="underline" the junior waits for the senior. And there was no question who was the senior leader here. Which meant that Bear was having none of this. What was more, he hadn’t grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Atlanta without developing a sixth sense for a chancer. “Thank you, Sir. But no. I’ll wait for the Prime Minister.”