‘Yes, sir.’
Ritchie took himself off into a small alcove attached to the main communications office, shutting a soundproof door behind him. The space was cramped, not much bigger than a closet, which indeed it had once been. He tore open the brown envelope and read the few lines of text, cursing under his breath as the import of the message became clear. ‘That’s all we fucking need.’
He crumpled the communiquй before regaining control of his temper, smoothing out the paper, and placing it back in the envelope. Then he hurried out of the alcove and over to the bank of monitors where he could see video images of Musso and Franks.
‘Commander, safe-hand this back to my office, would you, and wait for me there. I’ll reply when I’m done with the conference.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ritchie settled himself into a chair in front of the big flat screen, nodding at Musso and Franks. There were only four sysops in the small room, all of them cleared to the level of Top Secret Absolute. One of them handed him a headset, which he fitted himself before speaking.
‘Please excuse the delay, gentlemen. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.’
On screen, both men nodded. They were all dealing with the unavoidable on a daily basis.
Ritchie continued. ‘First point. This secure channel may not be secure. I’ll explain by encrypted path later, but assume it’s been compromised for now.’
He noted the immediate reaction of the two officers. They didn’t go into a flap, but there was a noticeable stiffening of the sinews.
‘Okay. We still have business to do. I’ve just come from a meeting with some of our regional allies and partners, and we now have firmed-up commitments from them to absorb any refugee flows. Some firmer than others, of course, but we can proceed with Operation Uplift.’
Musso’s relief was palpable. He appeared to exhale a long, pent-up breath.
‘General Musso, I’ll send you a schedule of receiving ports in an hour. If you could get back to me soonest with a concept for getting any US nationals who want to go, out of the SOUTHCOM area, I’ll start organising transport assets for you.’
Musso thanked him and appeared to scratch out a note to himself.
‘General Franks, Uplift doesn’t concern you as much in the immediate future, but it will when you’ve disengaged from the current operation. With a mind to my precaution about communications security, you want to update me with your latest?’
The commander of the Coalition forces in the Gulf looked as though he was chewing on nettleweed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, obviously choosing what he could say over a possibly compromised channel. ‘I have multiple situations evolving and deteriorating, Jim. Operation Katie is reaching the limits of its effectiveness. I have the Kuwaiti Government screaming at my liaison not to pull out of the theatre and citing line and verse of our treaty obligations. The Saudis and our other allies are doing the same.’
Marvellous, Ritchie thought. Just marvellous.
‘The Kuwaiti armed forces are presently engaged along their front in the Wadi al Batin region, to the west of our lines. The British and the Marines are heavily engaged against an Iranian armoured sweep through al Basra towards their lines.’ Franks ticked those items off a sheaf of paper. ‘We are heavily attriting any force sent against us, regardless of their origin or nationality.’
Tommy Franks hadn’t said anything that wasn’t being reported by various surviving news networks. He was sticking to the public and the knowable. Ritchie wasn’t surprised.
The general continued. ‘The Iranians have contested our air supremacy over the theatre. At present, I’ve limited myself to asset defence.’
Ritchie pursed his lips and grunted an acknowledgement of Franks’s vague allusions to the fact that the Iranian air force and navy were probably doing their best to try to sink every Coalition ship in the Persian Gulf.
Those Kilo subs of theirs will be a nightmare to find in the Gulf Ritchie thought. He had half a mind to hammer America’s so-called regional allies into sending their air and naval assets out to help hunt down the Iranians, citing the same treaties they were currently being hammered with.
‘General, execute Oplan Damocles,’ Ritchie said. No one listening should know what that was. If they watched their news feeds, they’d know soon enough. But had he stepped over the line? he wondered. Hell, where was the line now?
Franks paused for a mere second before saying, ‘Copy that, Admiral.’
See how the Iranians like that, Ritchie thought before he continued.
‘We’re in dangerous, unchartered waters here, gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me the maritime analogy. This isn’t just a military problem, it’s political. But we have no political authority to lead us, and frankly I don’t see that changing any time soon. The civilian leadership here is barely coping with local responsibilities. Just feeding the islands and maintaining order is keeping Governor Lingle busy twenty-five hours a day. She makes the point, quite reasonably, that she can do infinitely more in her current office. After all, her state government instrumentalities remain completely intact and functional, whereas almost everything at the federal level has disappeared. I get the same line from Alaska and Washington State. They might be bucketing out a sinking boat, but we’re asking them to give up the bucket and the boat just to help us out. I don’t think we should plan for a new executive to emerge any time soon. Certainly not soon enough to deal with your immediate concerns, General Franks.’
A brusque nod from Franks signalled his agreement. ‘So, what do I do, Jim?’ he asked.
The words seemed to come from outside Ritchie. ‘If there is no political solution, we will have to find a military one. And fast.’
21
17TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
Sleep finally claimed her, but only after hours of pain, dulled in the end by a dangerously large dose of Advil. The argument with Monique had been titanic and galvanising, and she feared that it had cost her more than just a few hours’ rest. Caitlin felt as though something vital had torn inside her head. She had lost her temper, and lashed out physically at one point, pushing Monique away from her, which only served to reinforce the French girl’s certainty that she held the moral high ground. After Monique’s initial shock at being pushed into the wall, Caitlin was sure she’d seen a smile and a small measure of triumph on her face.
‘So, in the end it is always the same, Caitlin, yes?’ she’d teased. ‘If you cannot win by reason you will do so with violence.’
Caitlin had been unable to reply. She’d staggered backwards, suddenly losing her balance to a strong surge of nausea and a blinding stab of pain behind one eye. She’d collapsed and vomited up all of her dinner. Monique was beside her immediately.
She had to hand it to the chick, she didn’t hold grudges. From a crazed harpy, screeching at Caitlin that she knew nothing about her boyfriend, she had switched without hesitation – propping her up, wiping the sick from Caitlin’s face with the sleeve of her shirt and helping her over to the tatty, uncomfortable couch, where she lay, shivering, for the next hour, sipping a glass of cloudy, brackish tap-water. Monique had even apologised repeatedly for upsetting her when she was so sick.