The CNO wheeled on him. “That’s not the point and you know it. If it were your forces on the line, you’d be going ballistic. But you let this start now, with this ship, and you’ll be fighting the same battle next time there’s a ground war.”
“The Navy’s always been too damned independent,” the Army shot back.
“Gentlemen!” The chairman’s voice was the cold crack of a whip. “We stand united on this. Is that clear?” All of the other chiefs bristled. No one spoke to them like that, at least within their respective organizations. No one.
“The next thing you’ll be telling me is that the President will be pushing the buttons himself,” the CNO said at last, to break the deadly silence. “Is that about it?” He looked appalled as the chairman nodded in agreement.
“The President will be here for all the major portions of the attack.
It’s the low-risk option.” Every one of his audience could translate that. It meant that with the ship shooting the missiles, there was no chance of an aircraft being downed, no possibility of an American airman being paraded through the streets of Cuba as a prisoner. During this election year, that would be completely unacceptable.
“I’ve got a two-star out there,” the CNO said. “Magruder good man.
Lots of combat experience.”
“Let’s hope we won’t need that, but it’s good to have him on-scene if we do,” the chairman said. “For now, though, you can plan on most of the major decisions being made here.”
As the meeting broke up and the men wandered back toward their respective evening offices, the CNO was grim.
Why was it that his country felt compelled to repeat major operational art lessons they’d learned in previous wars?
Couldn’t they learn? And the chairman’s easy capitulation when he knew damn it, knew better. He felt a sick anger welling up again.
Politics, the chairman’s loyalty to the man who’d approved his appointment where did you draw the line between honor and one’s career?
And as for Magruder well, he knew how he would have felt if he’d been the two-star on scene. This would have looked like a vote of no-confidence, not a political opportunity. He’d better call Magruder right away to make sure he got the news first. No telling how much damage one pissed off two-star could do during an election year.
0845 +5 GMT) The Senate Floor “It’s all set.”
Dailey looked up to see Senator Williams leaning across his desk, resting one hip casually on the corner. Behind them, a junior senator was lecturing the scattered crowd on the merits of easing restrictions on the processing of bee pollen. The only people paying attention were two bee pollen lobbyists seated in the upper tiers.
“I don’t know about this,” Senator Dailey said uneasily.
“I remember it …”
“You remember which side your bread is buttered on,” Williams said sharply. “Nothing else matters right now. You blow this, and every shipbuilder in your district is going to be screaming for your ass.
You got that?” His voice was pitched low, and did not reach to bee pollen advocate who continued to drone on. “It’s the Arsenal-ship show. JCS has already bought off on it, so get with the program.”
Dailey nodded uneasily. He got it. And he hoped the only result would be the tarnishing of his own opinion of himself, that one more small compromise to political inevitability that he’d sworn he wouldn’t make.
0900 Local (+5 GMT)
United Nations
Ambassador Wexler surveyed the faces arrayed at the round table. A wide range of colors were represented, ranging from the deep, purple-black of the Bahamian ambassador through the light, coffee-colored ambassador from Antigua to the barely diluted coffee color of the Cuban. So many cultures, so many nations and all gathered with one purpose in mind. Or, she amended silently, at least the majority of them were. None of the small nations that dotted the Caribbean wanted conflict between their northern patron, the United States, and their cultural kin, the Cubans. If pushed, they would come down on her side, she decided.
But the cost would be high. Too high, perhaps.
“We have two points to make. First, we must be allowed to inspect the wreckage of the fishing boat,” she said firmly.
Behind her, her aides rustled nervously, passing back and forth the reams of paper, documents, and incomprehensible multinational studies that were the lifeblood of the organization. “Our deep-diving rescue resources have the capability to recover parts of the wreckage if we move quickly, before the currents carry it too far away from the original site. Given the events of the last weeks, we are not prepared to accept Cuba’s unilateral assertion that our forces were responsible for the loss of the fishing vessels, particularly not when we show that no weapons have been extended by any of our aircraft. Without independent verification, it is difficult to arrive at a final analysis of the situation. Second, we will not recognize Cuba’s illegal and provocative no-fly zone and we require the return of the American pilot being held there.” She paused and waited for the storm to break over her.
“Independent? You claim that role for the United States?
You are the ones responsible. No one else.” The Cuban ambassador paused to suck in a deep breath and glare at her.
“The very audacity is” “Entirely within our rights,” she interrupted calmly.
“Under circumstances such as this, we have opened our records at all times to United Nations scrutiny. It is more than reasonable to expect you to do the same.”
“As though you need to inspect it,” he shot back bitterly.
“How many years of study has the United Nations devoted to determining the best way to decimate our poor nation?
We, who only want to be left alone to reach our own glorious future.
. ”
And who desperately need new trading partners, she noted.
“… to pursue our own great destiny and historic traditions of.
.
.”
Tyranny and oppression, building a nation of poverty by stripping out its national resources for the exploitation of the already rich.
“… our role in the Caribbean is one of …”
Fomenting hatred and dissension among your neighbors.
“… peaceful coexistence with the other island nations.
We would extend that same offer of friendship to the United States, but your politics have …”
Prevented you from growing rich on the backs of your wretched workers while simultaneously providing sanctuary to the dregs of your society.
Thugs, criminals, the diseased and insane. All dumped on our shores.
There were, she decided, studying him carefully, advantages to having the United States as a close neighbor, no matter the posturing of Cuba’s ambassador.
“… a truly independent commission, one not tainted by American influences and interests. Composed, perhaps, of nations strong in the rest of the world, areas in which the United States does not bully and strut, thrusting herself into every affair as though anointed of God.”
“And you would propose …?” She let the sentence trail off delicately, knowing that the words were a mistake as soon as they left her mouth.
“Algeria, Libya, Iran, perhaps the Saudis. And, of course, our friends in South Africa.”
“To summarize, any nation with whom we have had a conflict in the last twenty years,” she said sharply. “No, I think there are better choices. The Swiss, perhaps.”
The Cuban ambassador sneered. “The ones who hide so much of your money illegally?”
The debate, she knew, would continue for hours. Neither side would get what it wanted, and in the end, the truth would be hidden even deeper within layers of administrative demands, reckless proclamations, and finger-pointing. Cuba would continue to maintain that America had destroyed the aircraft, intervening in Cuba’s sovereign airspace. The U.S however, knew that it had been a strictly internal affair.
Furthermore, there wa
s no way she could use the one trump card she’d already privately played with the Cuban ambassador. The presence of nuclear weapons on Cuban soil she shivered slightly, then regained control of herself.
To give details and provide proof would simply reveal too much about America’s intelligence capabilities. Like many bits of intelligence, this one was simply too dangerous to use.
Was there any hope for this process? There were days when she wondered. But still, all in all, the United Nations beat hands-down other forms developed for resolving conflict. Answers were slow, cumbersome, and often unworkable, but they represented the best intentions of the nations brought to bear on difficult and insoluble problems. And for that reason, she stayed.
She turned to the Bahamian chairman of the committee and lifted one hand in a gesture of resignation. “We are open to any reasonable proposal, but none has been tendered yet.
I ask you, Mr. Ambassador, as well as the other nations represented here” she glanced around the table, catching each set of eyes in turn” what you think we can achieve.
I beg you to reason with your neighbor to the west.”
Antigua and the Bahamas looked away, the blush barely visible on the Antiguan ambassador.
“You couldn’t have been serious about it?” the British ambassador queried. “I mean, really,” he finished, drawing the last word out in a patrician accent. “We know those people, of course. Colonies for years. Never should have let them declare independence weren’t ready for it, won’t be for centuries.” He shook his head. “You recall, the United States supported that.”
“Cut the crap, Geoffrey,” she said wearily. She reached across the table and fished another of the small, soft rolls out of the woven basket between them. “It won’t help things now. What I need is answers, not more problems.”
“Sometimes I see this relationship as strangely familial,” he said. He pushed the small china dish containing the freshly churned butter toward her. “We’re your older brother, of course, always there with advice and a bit of guidance when you chaps need it.”
“Would you like me to beg?”
He shook his head, a smile twitching at the corners of his normally impassive mouth. “Not this time. But I reserve the right to remind you of this conversation later.”
She nodded. “You know we didn’t do it.”
“Of course not. Play bloody hell with the rest of the world, though, convincing them.” The British ambassador glanced around the room, as though looking for their waiter.
“They’re all watching now, you know. Every last bloody one of them.”
“Tell me about Europe.” She saw him stiffen slightly at her bluntness, and was amused. Surely he was used to it by now, after all his years in the United States. Still, Geoffrey never passed up a chance to be thoroughly and totally British in front of her.
“It won’t be good,” he said, matching her bluntness. “You may have embargoed trade, but many of us still enjoy the best cigar the world has to offer. Among other things sugar, of course.”
“It’s in our backyard,” she pointed out.
“And our backyard economically,” he countered. “Naturally, you’ll have our support, publicly and privately. I suspect Her Majesty wishes that you would just bloody well invade, solve the whole matter once and for all. Tiresome, this nattering back and forth. Ah, our food.” His face brightened as he saw the waiter approach. “Famished, absolutely famished.”
“What if we started giving you guidelines on how to resolve the Irish question?” she said quickly before the waiter arrived. She was silent while the waiter arranged her salmon salad in front of her, carefully setting a small flask of vinaigrette at the left-hand side of her plate. She waited until he’d left before continuing. “I suspect that we’d suggest that you simply quit forcing the issue, withdraw your troops, and let the status quo remain. Or even yield to Ireland.”
“Never. To both your solution and your intervention.” He looked up from the neatly boiled stuffed flounder to shoot her a piercing gaze.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“But the Cuba question is much easier than that, isn’t it?”
Finally, she saw him give up. “You asked me for my advice, and I’ll give you what I know. Europe will be most distraught. Do not count on automatic support from all the Allies. Cuba is an important trading partner to some, and there’s a large reservoir of anti-American sentiment still fomenting about the Continent. The Cuban Missile Crisis, all that sort of stuff. he dismissed it with an airy wave of his hand. “mere recent history. Nothing to compare with many nations’ conflicts. You won’t find much sympathy there, not with U.S. weapons still on European soil.”
“So what do we do?”
“Proceed very carefully. Very, very carefully, and play this very close to the vest.” His expression suddenly turned somber. “It’s not all that difficult to damage a warship, you know. Learned that in the Falklands. Primitive mines and rusting diesel submarines are deuced cheap solutions to a pesky little aircraft carrier or two. The last thing the United States needs right now is international embarrassment over a successful attack on one of her warships. Bear that in mind, Sarah.”
The unexpected use of her first name jarred her for a moment, then she assessed it for what it was a diplomatic exclamation point, a way of insuring he had her total and complete attention, as well as conveying the close and personal support the United States would always enjoy from Great Britain. It was a familiarity that encompassed a compliment, as well as an expression of trust. “Have you heard anything?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.
He shook his head. “I don’t need to.”
0955 Local (+5 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“Welcome aboard. Admiral,” Batman said, taking two quick strides toward his old lead. “Good to see you again, sir.”
Tombstone grasped the other man’s hand in a hard, warm grip. Life on board the USS Jefferson looked like it was taking its toll on his old wingman. A touch of gray, some lines around the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there a year earlier.
Still, the changes were more than physical; he could see it in Batman’s eyes. There was a new air of security and determination, the kind of command presence that only comes from single-handedly wielding the most powerful assets in the United States military inventory.
Commanding the squadron now, that had been sheer pleasure. A chance to finally shape a group of disparate people from an array of backgrounds into a single fighting force. But command of a carrier group was different, both in purpose and in its span of responsibility. Batman would have had to make the same shift he had, from a tactical perspective concentrating on fighter furballs and enemy weapons’ envelopes to a broader viewpoint. An operational viewpoint, one step above and encompassing tactics. It was a tricky transition, and some never made it. He’d known admirals who’d never gotten past that tactical focus, never been able to successfully integrate tactics to execute strategy, the heart of operational art.
And it was an art, not a science. It never would be, not as long as wars were started by people and ended by them.
“We’ve set aside the V.I.P quarters for you,” Batman said carefully.
Tombstone felt Batman’s eyes searching his face for any sign of disapproval. “Of course, my own quarters are always at your disposal.”
Tombstone waved aside Batman’s concerns. “No, you stay just where you are. You’re still in command of this carrier battle group. Admiral Wayne. You remind me if I forget that.” The corner of his mouth twitched. On any other man’s face, the movement would have been meaningless, but it was as close to a smile as Batman had ever seen Tombstone sport in public.
Some tension melted out of Batman’s face. “Maybe we’ll have a chance later to discuss exactly how you would like this task force organized.
Admiral. My people have a couple of ideas.”
“I’d welcome their help,” Tombstone said quietly. He let his eyes drift back to su
rvey the faces arrayed behind Batman. “Bird Dog,” he said. “You’re still on board?”
The young lieutenant commander shifted uneasily. “I’m back, sir. I spent a year at the War College. Just reported back on board two months ago.” He hesitated as though about to add something, then fell silent.
“This is right up your alley, then. You make sure you share that expensive education with the rest of the staff, understand?”
Two years earlier, when Tombstone had had command of this very carrier battle group. Bird Dog had been a nugget pilot. Events had thrust him into the thick of the combat in the Spratly Islands, and later he’d played point man in a careful game of cat and mouse over the Aleutian Islands.
Yes, Tombstone thought, studying Bird Dog’s face, still young, still feeling his way through this mess. His first staff tour, of course, and he’s anxious to make a good impression.
And, remembering his own tour of staff, not getting enough flight time.
Tombstone let his eyes move on, careful to keep any trace of his thoughts from showing in his face. He greeted other staffers by name, reestablishing the bonds that had once drawn them together.
Finally, he turned back to Batman. “You got some time to talk?”
“At your disposal, of course. Admiral.”
Tombstone took a quick step closer to him and spoke in a low voice pitched for his ears only. “Don’t be polite, Batman, I know this job almost as well as you do. If you’ve got stuff that needs doing, let me know. We owe each other that much courtesy, don’t we? After all we’ve been through together?”
The final traces of nervousness melted away from Batman’s face. “Now would be very convenient. Admiral.”
1130 Local (+5 GMT)
Five Miles North of Cuba
The small tugboat churned through the gentle waves like a thrashing, injured fish. She was bow on to the swells now, making steady headway but heeling from port to starboard in a rapid motion designed to discomfort all but the strongest stomachs. Waves battered her gunwales and the deck was slippery and damp from condensing spray and early morning mist.
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