The United Nations
New York, New York
1300 local (GMT -5)
Wexler’s voice, amplified by the microphone, rang out confident and sure. “I must ask this body to renew its long-standing resolution providing for a United Nations peacekeeping force in the Middle East. As to the justification, I think recent events provide more than enough. As you all know, our aircraft carrier, the USS United States, was attacked while in international waters outside the Persian Gulf. Fortunately, due to the efforts of her crew, the damage was minimal. Additionally, we have credible evidence of stockpiles of biochemical weapons being maintained just across the Kuwaiti border. Both of those facts reflect the continuing instability in the region and the need for coordinated supervision to maintain law and order.”
“Any response?” the Secretary General was from the Bahamas, and his musical accent provided a sharp contrast to her strident tones.
The delegate from Pakistan rose, pointedly turning away from Wexler and the American contingent. “Uh-oh,” Brad whispered to her. “I think we’re about to see some payback.”
“No kidding,” she murmured, keeping a neutral expression plastered on her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the British ambassador stir uneasily.
Any opposition to the motion to extend the peacekeeping forces would be absolutely ludicrous. Pakistan was far closer to the region than the United States was, and if open warfare broke out, it would surely suffer just as much as anyone in the region. It was in Pakistan’s interest to keep peace in the area, and she thought it was something that at least Pakistan and India could agree on.
“The ambassador from Pakistan,” the Secretary General acknowledged.
“Pakistan wishes to add the following amendment to the bill as presented. As a matter of background, all the delegates are aware that the Middle East is not the only powerful region of the world currently in turmoil.”
“Uh-oh,” Brad murmured again. “I didn’t believe he had the balls to do it, but he sure looks like he’s going to try.”
“Foremost among the troubled regions of the world today is the United States. As we are all aware, her own law-enforcement and civilian authorities have been overwhelmed by the recent acts of terrorism. Military troops are now deployed across the nation, suppressing the very constitutional rights that they purport to uphold. The rights of freedom of assembly and freedom of speech are no more than words to the current American regime, and all dissenters are being repressed just as vigorously as those in Afghanistan were.”
Wexler responded, her voice amused. “Surely you’re not suggesting that our women are now clad in burkas.”
“I am merely pointing out that America suppresses dissidents more vigorously than almost any nation on earth. Under the circumstances, if we are to continue peacekeeping efforts in the Middle East, I would like to make a motion that a task force be deployed to the United States as well.”
“No,” Wexler said flatly. “Enough of this charade. We all know what is behind it. This didn’t work last time and it will not work now. There will be no United Nations peacekeeping force inside United States.”
The United Nations
2100 local (GMT +3)
After the ugly incident in the executive dining room, Wexler had no illusions about solidarity in support of the United States. True, Great Britain was standing by her side, and France and Italy were at least making nominal motions of support. Russia was being her usual unpredictable self, but Wexler suspected that it was more the result of being distracted by problems at home that any attempts to manipulate the situation. Most worrisome, China was silent.
China. No one knew better than she did that her personal relationship with its ambassador did not entitle her to an inside look at their foreign affairs policy. Regardless of their friendship, they were both professional diplomats, each serving the interests of their respective nations before allowing any personal considerations to intrude. Despite her understanding and resolve, at some level she was hurt.
There had been no need to discuss the matter with T’ing And indeed, they’d worked out a way of dealing with these matters between themselves, one that allowed each one to save face and avoid raising mutually disturbing issues. At times, when the issues simply became overwhelming, they avoided each other’s company until the latest crisis had passed.
In their current unspoken protocol, T’ing himself should have raised the issue. He undoubtedly knew that the United States wanted to know his country’s position on the outrageous Pakistani motion, and had he been able to comment, he would have done so. But his failure to even mention the matter led Wexler to suspect that there was more of an agenda than anyone knew. Perhaps it was another grab for the Spratley Islands. Perhaps it was the Korean issue, always a sore point in that part of the world. Or perhaps it was something entirely unrelated, an alliance that no Western mind could easily understand.
Whatever the reason, T’ing had not brought up China’s position on Pakistan’s motion. And, since he hadn’t, Wexler wouldn’t.
At any rate, she thought, surveying the assembled delegates, the matter was moot now. The matter had wended its way into subcommittee and out at record speed, and was scheduled for a vote this morning.
The President had called earlier that day to ask her how she thought it would go. It was one of the few times she had no ready answer for it, and she felt a personal sense of failure at that. There was too much ambiguity, too many problems in the world that might be bargaining chips for her to predict that outcome.
The British ambassador had clapped her reassuringly on the shoulder before proceeding to his seat. “Stiff upper lip and all that,” he had murmured. The representative from Australia had also stopped by to offer a word of encouragement, saying, “No worries, mate,” and grinning that broad smile that always amused her.
Still, it was easy to be nonchalant about it when you weren’t the one forced into using veto power. It was easy to be charitable when you weren’t the one who would have to exercise a veto.
The vote began. With every passing moment, Wexler’s concern deepened. Even a short way into the roll call, it was clear that many of the smaller nations were going to be voting in favor of the Pakistani motion.
We’re still fools in that way, aren’t we? Just because we charge in and help their governments maintain order, provide them with extensive economic aid, back their IMF loans, and generally pretend that they are respected powers in their own rights, we expect some form of loyalty. But that’s not the way the world works — it never happens. Nations respect power. Not friendship.
What bothered her most were the expressions of glee on some of the faces. It was clear that they were looking forward to turning the tables, to having the mightiest nation in the world dealing with foreign troops on her own soil. They’d tried this before, and it hadn’t worked, but never had the United States experienced such internal turmoil as it was experiencing right now.
Not that it would happen. With the problem over delinquent dues resolved, the United States was now a full voting member of the Assembly and still possessed a veto power.
Finally, the Pakistani ambassador rose and turned to face Wexler as he cast his vote. “Pakistan votes in favor of the motion, joining with our brothers and sisters across the world who have suffered at the hands of American imperialism. Let this be a lesson to all powerful nations that those standards they apply to us must apply to them equally.”
And that was the problem with the United Nations, she thought. It was the reason we set up a bicameral form of government in our own country, with the Senate having the same number of representatives from each state while the Congress reflects the population balance among states. Here, however, every pipsqueak nation in the world has one vote. No matter if they’ve lived off international welfare for their entire short-lived existences, they still get the same vote we do.
Finally, when the votes were tallied, the results clearly against the United Stat
es, Wexler rose. “The United States exercises its veto.” She paused, considering whether she’d elaborate, and then decided against it. Everyone knew what she had just done and why she’d done it.
“The motion is defeated,” the Secretary General announced. He gazed at Wexler, concern on his face. “This means the United Nations resolutions supporting coordinated action in the Middle East is also defeated. Does the United States understand that?”
“We do.”
There was a longer silence. Then the Bahamian ambassador said, “Under the circumstances, I believe United Nations intervention in the Middle East is absolutely critical. Without our presence there, including the overwhelming support of the United States, we face a world in chaos. Accordingly, as a representative of more thoughtful voices, I call on the ambassador from the United States to reconsider her veto. I am willing to hold this vote opened for a period of time, allowing the ambassador to confer with your president. Additionally, the time during which the United States may exercise its veto is hereby extended. These departures from normal procedure will, I believe, allow this body to continue its work in the Middle East while granting disagreeing parties time to work out a more acceptable compromise.” A storm of angry voices arose from the floor, needing no amplification to be heard. The Secretary General gazed out calmly at the protests. “So be it. This session is adjourned.” He banged his gavel, stood, and swept out of the rear exit.
The chamber exploded into the chaos. At least a few of the delegates appeared prepared to attack Wexler personally, each one convinced that she herself was the force behind the Secretary General’s action.
Wexler tried to tell them that she was as puzzled as they were, that she had had no warning herself. Surely that should have been evident from her reaction. However, the delegates were accustomed to her normal impassive expression, and simply thought her surprise was feigned.
The ambassador from Great Britain elbowed up next to her, adding his security forces to hers. “I suggest we leave now,” he murmured, gently urging her toward the door. His own security force and hers quickly melted into one team and herded their charges out.
“What the heck was that?” Wexler asked as they exited the chamber and headed for an elevator. “How the hell did the SecGen come up with that little maneuver?”
The British ambassador regarded her fondly. “It wasn’t so long ago that they were our colony,” he said quietly. “And, contrary to most expectations, the current government is often inclined to take our advice. As you know, we still provide considerable assistance to them and, unlike Pakistan and other nations, they have not forgotten that.” He fixed her with a stern look. “That skill is one that the United States needs to learn.”
“Thanks.” An elevator door opened, and her people broke away from the Brits and herded her into it. As the door closed, she saw the British ambassador smile.
SIXTEEN
Montana Reserve Center
Sunday, September 16
0300 local (GMT -7)
Abraham Carter parked five miles down the road from the reserve center, pulling off on a road barely more than an animal track and following it until he was out of sight. Two trucks containing six other men followed him.
Abraham’s truck had a radio dialed to the frequency of his strike force, and he carried a shotgun in addition to the side arm. None of that was unusual, not in Montana. In fact, it would have been out of the ordinary if a vehicle didn’t have some firepower.
Jackson and two other men piled out of the truck and grabbed their gear from the back. Abraham watched them uneasily. This had to be done, and Jackson had insisted on taking the lead.
Jackson and his men took their time making their way from his father’s truck to the reserve center. He and his companions, Bill Thornburg and Jack Mertz, had known each other since their teenage days. The other two men were completely trustworthy and eager to participate in the mission.
The reserve center was maintained by the National Guard and the U.S. Army Reserve, with troops from both forces sharing the facility. The Army provided uniforms, equipment, and some operating funds. In exchange, the Montana National Guard was subject to mobilization and federalization, a process during which it would cease to become a state law-enforcement agency and become part of the federal military forces. A small Naval Reserve unit was temporarily attached as well, its prior reserve center a victim of the latest round of base closures.
The three-acre tract was nestled between two mountain ranges on a relatively flat bit of terrain. It was surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence that had been there since shortly after the Korean War. In the last few years, the support posts had been extended and razor wire curled around the top rail. There had been some talk of installing motion sensors and pressure sensors along with remote-surveillance TV, but Montana was exceptionally low on the reserve funding list.
At each quarter of the reserve compound, a large streetlamp illuminated an area both inside and outside the compound. Large stretches of the area surrounding the building itself were still in darkness, and clumps of trees partially shielded the building from view. There were two gates, one in front of the reserve center and intended primarily for passenger vehicles and smaller trucks, the other reached via a side road to the north of the compound and used by heavy equipment such as flatbed trucks, Marine assault vehicles, and two Army Corps of Engineers bulldozers.
Jackson stopped in a swath of bushes just outside the fence and surveyed the parking lot. “Just like they said — but two cars there, not one.” Jackson said. Prior to 9/11, the building had been unattended after normal working hours. In case of an emergency or mobilization order, the caller was advised by the answering machine to contact the duty officer via his pager. Now, most reserve centers were manned 24-7 by at least one body. This late at night, Jackson had been expecting to see just one car, that of the duty officer.
“They didn’t say anything about two people,” Thornburg said. “But that’s not a problem.”
Jackson grunted. No, it wasn’t a problem, but he didn’t like it. Faulty intelligence was the major downfall of most operations, and he was particularly determined that this would go exactly as planned.
“Could be somebody’s car just broke down over the weekend,” Jack suggested. “We can check if there’s dust on the windshield, see if it’s broken.”
“Good idea. But it’s under the lights.” The parking lot had a separate set of streetlights and every inch of it was illuminated. “What if somebody decides he needs something out of his car? No, we go in like we planned. If somebody else turns up, we deal with it.” Jackson’s voice was grim.
They went in the way that they had briefed, circling the compound through the brush and trees to approach the heavy equipment yard. There, the large trucks and vehicles were parked near the fence close to each other and provided additional shadows. Jackson took the wire cutters and unhesitatingly made the first cut in the chain link. They retreated to a safe distance and waited for twenty minutes, but nothing happened. Their source had been accurate. There were no ground pressure sensors or sensors on the fence to alarm whoever was inside the reserve center. They returned, cut enough strands to open a hole, and slid into the heavy vehicle yard.
Like the parking lot, the concrete lot that housed large equipment for several units was well illuminated, but badly planned. Several vehicles were parked in such a manner as to provide a continuous trail of shadows to cover their approach. It was not entirely accidental. The same source that had provided the details on the compound security was also part of the motor pool.
He had also provided a key, both to the back door and the administrative section, where the duty personnel usually stayed. Jackson and his men moved quietly, three large, camouflaged figures out of place in the white passageway with well-waxed floors. The double doors that separated the administrative section from the drill hall were steel-paneled with two windows, one on each side. Jackson and his men crouched down so as not to be seen
as they used their key. The door opened easily.
Yeoman Second Class Anthony Hillman looked up as the door opened. He froze for just a moment, then slammed away from his desk and started running. Probably for the duty room, Jackson thought. There’ll be a telephone there.
Hillman was fast, but the three men caught him easily. Jackson slammed him against the wall and put a knife to his throat. “The keys to the armory — now.”
“I don’t have them,” Hillman said, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked.
“Sure you do.” Jackson pressed the tip of the knife into Hillman’s throat. Hillman moaned as the blade penetrated the skin. Rough hands moved over him, plunging into the pockets of his uniform. Thornburg pulled out a ring of keys.
“Well, well. Let’s go see if these fit the armory. I hope not. I would hate to think you’d lied to me.” Jackson twisted Hillman’s arm behind his back and marched him to the armory. After fumbling through half the keys, Thornburg found one that fit. The door swung open. They were confronted by a steel cage secured with another lock. Thornburg tried all the keys, then shrugged. Hillman had been partially accurate, anyway. “Only the gunner’s mates have that one” Hillman said, his voice a little stronger. Sure, he was still scared, real scared, but he was pissed, too.
“I have a key,” Mertz announced. He pulled out his.45 and shot the lock. The bullet destroyed the lock, ricocheted once, then buried itself in the cement wall.
“Go get the truck,” Jackson ordered. “I’ll keep our new friend company.” He shoved Hillman down the floor and stood over him, a faint smile on his face as he aimed his own.45 at the petty officer’s face.
Tombstone’s command post
Terror At Dawn c-21 Page 14