The White House
1800 local (GMT +5)
The president listened carefully as Ambassador Wexler briefed him on the previous day’s maneuverings. He nodded appreciatively at her description of the secretary general’s action. “Good teamwork. You bought me some time, anyway.”
“There’s too much that troubles me about this entire situation,” Wexler said after a moment. “The problem is, they are raising some good points. If the United Nations is truly supposed to be a force for peace in the world, then it makes sense to have all forces under one command. As it stands now, you can withdraw from participation at any time.”
The president nodded. “And that’s exactly the way I want it. Sure, I could give operational command of our forces to a UN commander. And most of the time, it would be no problem. If things started going wrong, I would simply revoke that chain of command. The other side of it is that I’ve got good men and women on the front lines out there. I suspect that if the NATO commander gave an order that was truly inconsistent with our national security policy, they’d find a way to stall until I had a chance to act. At least that’s the theory. But out there on the edge of a conflict, there’s never enough time. I won’t put them in the damning situation of having to evade a lawful order that’s damning to our national interests. That has to remain my decision. I can’t have them making national policy by proxy.”
“So it would really be just a sham,” Wexler said. “If we agreed, that is. I suppose it’s naïve to believe that the UN could be what it’s supposed to be.” She felt a sense of disappointment. They had talked so often about the potential for good in the United Nations, but sometimes she’d wondered just how much of it the president believed.
He shook his head. “Not at all. The UN is a powerful force. If every member nation were as concerned about world peace as we are, then you can bet that I’d probably support allied command of U.S. forces… in some situations. But they’re not. Each one has his own rice bowl and their interests don’t always coincide with ours.”
“The other thing is this entire Macedonia/Greece issue. I’m fairly certain that the UN counsel will authorize military sanctions against Macedonia. But the truth is that Macedonia has some very real, valid complaints about Greece’s conduct. The whole idea of self-determination for nations is a central part of our national philosophy. But is that just for us and not for other nations around the world?” she asked.
“I haven’t really decided what role I want the U.S. to take in any action against Macedonia,” he said finally. “For the same reasons I’ve just mentioned. There are no easy answers, and I don’t want us to be part of a bad one.”
“So what do we need to accomplish in the UN?” she asked. “It’s coming to a head soon.”
The president stood, indicating the discussion was concluded. “If I knew, I would tell you. I’m intrigued by China’s connection with Singapore as it relates to Greece. I trust your instincts on this — it’s important, or the secretary general and Ambassador T’ing wouldn’t see it as an issue. See if you can find out what that’s about.”
She stood as well. “I’ll try, Mr. President. I’ll try.”
She left his office with no real answers, but in some way unaccountably cheered that the president was grappling with the same issues that bothered her. She would try to untangle the threads of self-interest that ran through her brethren and sistern in the United Nations and get the answers they both needed.
He’s a good man. He’ll do the right thing if he can. But until we know more about what’s happening, none of us know what the right thing is. The only thing I know for certain is that it normally doesn’t involve bombing civilians.
Tavista Air Base
2100 local (GMT +5)
Colonel Zentos twisted uneasily in the left seat of the helicopter. It had been years since he’d spent much time airborne, and he found he disliked it now just as much as he had before. The terrain looked alien, unfriendly, particularly now with daylight finally fading.
They’d almost finished combing their assigned search area. So far there had been no trace of the downed helo, but there were still over one hundred and fifty square miles of ground to cover. From this altitude, it should have been easy to spot a twisted mass of metal wreckage on the ground.
Then why haven’t we found it? Why haven’t the previous patrols found it? Colonel Zentos kept circling around the question, worrying at it from different angles, gnawing at it while another part of his mind automatically translated what he was seeing from the air into what he’d be facing if he were on the ground. It was an old habit, one he’d developed as a major when he’d realized that airborne spotters and ground pounders like himself spoke entirely different languages. He’d forced himself to volunteer for spotter missions, concentrated on learning to extrapolate what his troops would see from what he saw from the air until he felt certain that he’d be able to direct air assets on target every time, no matter where he was.
The shuddering noise inside the helo changed pitch slightly, ratcheting higher. A few extra knots of speed, eked out from the fuel reserves, so that they could cover the entire area before darkness fell.
It hit him all at once as their speed over ground increased noticeably. Their minds were attuned to the wrong mental picture — the helo wasn’t in sight, it couldn’t be. The earlier patrols, no matter how screwed up the pilots were, would not have missed the wreckage.
Therefore, the wreckage wasn’t in sight. So what they should be looking for was signs of where a helo had been—and no longer was. An entirely different frame of mind altogether.
Seven minutes later, scanning the landscape with his new perspective, he saw it. At the edge of a field, a dark swath of raw land amid the green. Not a farming track, not a cattle path. No.
“There,” he shouted, waving the pilot over toward the edge of the field. “Near the trees.”
The pilot shot him a puzzled look, but cut sharply away from his course toward the spot.
Hovering over it, Zentos felt relief surge through his body. “Can you set it down?”
The pilot nodded. He eased back on the power and drifted down. As soon as they touched the ground, Zentos popped his hatch open, ducked under the rotor blades, and jogged to the edge of the field. The first stars were visible overhead.
As soon as he reached the area, he knew he was right. The helicopter’s downdraft had kept the smell from reaching him at first. Aviation fuel — burnt aviation fuel. And the ground, not gashed — burned.
Then where was the helo? He walked around the perimeter of the burned spot, looking for signs that the helo had been moved. At the edge closest to the woods, the sod had been hastily replaced over part of the burned area. Beyond that, under the canopy of trees, he saw moonlight glinting off metal. He walked over to it and checked quickly to see if there were any bodies. None, but parts of it were so twisted by both the fire and the impact that he couldn’t be certain.
No matter. At that moment, he was simply relieved to have found it at all.
Zentos trotted back to the helo. “Call the Command Center. Get a full team out here.” He waited to make sure the pilot was complying then walked slowly back to the wreckage.
EIGHT
Sunday, 7 May
Tavista Air Base
Tavista, Greece
1000 local (GMT –2)
Although he couldn’t pinpoint why, Tombstone’s first impression of General Arkady was not favorable. There was no reason in the man’s physical appearance for the trace of revulsion Tombstone felt upon meeting him. Arkady fit the stereotype of a classically handsome Greek: black curly hair, olive skin, the elegant angles and planes of his facial bones had been memorialized for centuries in classical sculpture. Arkady was a bit taller than most of the Greek men Tombstone had met so far, but still a few inches short of Tombstone’s own height.
Nor was there anything in Arkady’s manners that Tombstone could fault. His welcoming speech sounded genuine, if
slightly rehearsed. He spoke of the historic friendship between Greece and the United States, of their long history together. He touched briefly on Tombstone’s prior experiences and noted that he was honored to be advised by such a man of experience.
Advised. Perhaps that was the word that rankled slightly with him, Tombstone thought. Advice was something you could take or leave, sort of like Tomboy’s opinions on what tie ought to go with which suit in his civilian dress.
Is it my own resentment at being sent here as an advisor rather than being in command myself? Tombstone considered the matter for a moment, then decided it was not. Sure, it stung his ego a bit, but he was a big boy. He could live with it.
Then what is it? Try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about Arkady’s bearing, the way his men looked at him, the way Arkady’s chief of staff stood slightly away from his commander. That wasn’t like most chiefs of staff that Tombstone had worked with. Your chief of staff was like a second skin, an extension of your own body, closer to you than damned near anyone, a fucking mind reader — or you got a new one.
“We should have some final word on the helicopter crew and passengers later today,” Arkady was saying as Tombstone’s attention returned to the conversation. “Frankly, I don’t hold out much hope for them. The fire destroyed most of the helicopter, and the remains are being sorted out as we speak. It may take weeks for the DNA analysis to prove who died in this tragedy.”
“Is there any possibility that anyone survived?” Tombstone asked. The possibility that Pamela was irrevocably gone seemed inconceivable.
“I don’t see how. The fire…”
“What if it didn’t catch fire immediately?”
Arkady was silent for a moment, then turned to his chief of staff. “Is it possible?”
To Tombstone’s surprise, the man seemed to go pale. “I don’t think so,” he said finally, but his voice lacked conviction.
Arkady let his gaze linger on the chief of staff for a few moments, then returned his attention to Tombstone. “If there were survivors, we would have heard from them by now.”
“How near is the crash site to the Macedonian forces?” Tombstone glanced at the chief of staff as he asked the question and was surprised to see that he was even paler than before.
“Ten kilometers, a little more,” Arkady answered. “Determining exactly where their forces are at any one time is one of the diff—”
“So it’s at least possible that there were survivors who could have been captured by the Macedonians?” Tombstone interrupted.
Silence, chillier than before. “I suppose so. But we would have heard something by now. A demand for ransom, perhaps some propaganda about the cause of the accident. These people think nothing of using tragedy for their own purposes.”
“There won’t be a ransom demand,” Tombstone said, suddenly certain that he knew exactly what was happening. “No, that won’t be the first thing we see from them at all.”
“The first thing? Admiral, I realized that you are intended to be my advisor, but you do not know these people. I do. What else could there possibly be?”
Tombstone smiled. “A story.”
Line Shack Tavista Air Base
1020 local (GMT –2)
The commanding officer of VF-95 was perturbed. More than that — clearly pissed off. She glared at Airman Smith, bringing the full force of nineteen years in the Navy and three full stripes on her sleeve to bear against Smith’s eighteen months in the Navy and three small slanted stripes.
“You put it on. No more of this bullshit, Smith. Get that damned patch on your uniform by tonight and you’ll get off with some extra duty. You understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said.
The captain appeared relieved. “Good. Then this matter is settled.” Commander Joyce “Tomboy” Flynn-Magruder snapped the manila folder shut.
“Not exactly, ma’am,” the maintenance chief said. “We ran across this little problem earlier. I said the same thing to him.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?” Tomboy said, menace plain in her voice.
“Skipper, you asked him if he understood. You didn’t ask him if he’d do it.”
Tomboy swore silently. The chief was right. She turned to look at Smith. “Well?”
Smith was shaking his head before he even started to answer. “I can’t do it, Skipper. It’s just wrong to put someone else in charge of American forces. I can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean,” she said.
“Can’t. The oath said I’d protect and defend the United States. I put this on, I’m going back on my word.”
Tomboy sat back down at her desk. “What if I told you that in my opinion, this is entirely legal?”
“No disrespect intended, ma’am. But I’d have to disagree.”
Tomboy looked at the circle of men and women formed up behind Smith. His LPO, Chief, Division Officer, Department Head, and the XO looked back. In each face, she saw the emotions that were churning her own guts up.
The easy way out would simply be to ship him back to the boat. Get him out of the way, wait for this all to blow over.
Yesterday that would have worked. But today… Tomboy sighed and reluctantly opened the folder again. “You realize what’s going to happen, then?”
“I get court-martialed, I guess.”
Tomboy checked off one box on the disposition section of the report chit. “Right.” She closed the folder and handed it to her XO. “Make sure he gets to see a lawyer immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And XO?”
“Ma’am?”
“Make sure they give him the best one they’ve got. He’s going to need it. We might all need it.”
NINE
Sunday, 7 May
ACN crash site
Ten kilometers south of the Macedonian border
0600 local (GMT –2)
General Arkady stood just outside the line of trees as the mishap investigation team combed through the wreckage. A support team was erecting a command tent and running field cabling for the generator. Darkness had cut short the inquiry the night before, but wouldn’t slow them down now. By that afternoon, giant floodlights would bathe the area in high wattage night.
“We need proof,” Arkady said as he watched the team clad in white jumpers approach the twisted masses of metal. “You and I, we know who is responsible. But proving it to the world is a different matter altogether.”
“No one has any doubts,” Colonel Zentos observed.
“From a lack of doubts to military action is a large leap,” Arkady said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
And when has he ever asked my opinion in that way? Zentos had spent all night setting up the investigation at Arkady’s orders, and the general’s oddly congenial and mild mood was somehow all the more ominous. He would never understand this man, never, and the assignment which had seemed so much of an honor was becoming an increasingly difficult minefield to traverse.
“We will find it, if it is there,” Zentos said finally.
“Of course it’s there,” Arkady snapped, his mood changing abruptly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It is hard to tell with aircraft mishaps, General,” Zentos said carefully.
Just then one of the technicians broke away from the crash site and trotted back to them. He sketched off a hasty salute and said, “I think we’ve found some of the equipment, General. Would you care to inspect it?”
“What is it?” Arkady asked.
“We can’t tell yet. It’s buried under some debris. But it appears to be an overnight bag of some sort, perhaps belonging to one of the reporters. They’re going to try to move—”
The area under the trees exploded in the light and noise. The shock wave from the explosion hit them like a cannon, knocking Arkady and Zentos onto the technicians. Zentos shouted, and rolled over to cover Arkady with his own body. Debris rained down on them, one hard shard of metal piercing the colonel’s l
eft shoulder, lancing through soft tissue and muscle like a bullet.
Zentos felt Arkady trembling underneath him and felt a moment of disgust. In danger, one acted. There was time to be afraid afterward.
“Get off me,” Arkady snarled. Zentos waited a few seconds longer to make sure there were no secondaries, then rolled off of his commander. “You presumptuous ass,” Arkady continued, then stopped when he saw the blood coursing down Zentos’s shoulder. Arkady stared for a moment, then turned away indifferently. “What happened?”
The technician was just pulling himself to his feet, his face drained of all color. “An explosion,” he said stupidly. “It exploded.”
“It was a trap,” Arkady said. He turned hard, cold eyes back to Zentos. “Did you not warn them that it might be booby-trapped?”
“General, I… no, sir. I did not specifically warn them of that possibility.” Zentos noted that Arkady’s hands were trembling.
“You are a fool.” Arkady walked over to the tree line, picking his way through smoldering debris. The technician shook off his shock and trotted after him, shouting for the medic to come with him.
I didn’t warn them because they know to check. They are… were… the experts. Zentos stared after Arkady for a moment, watching him move among the wounded, closer to the downed helo than he’d been all morning.
“Sir?” a voice asked behind him. “Sir, shall we radio back to the command center for additional teams? A medical helo at least, sir. Colonel?”
Things look different from the ground and from the air. From inside and outside. I wonder…
“Yes, immediately,” Zentos said, consciously steering his mind away from that train of thought. “And alert the base hospital to stand by to receive casualties.”
As the rest of the men began the careful process of extracting the survivors and the casualties, Zentos tried very hard to ignore the suspicions crowding his mind. Everything had gone wrong, so wrong. There was only one consolation. Zentos might be a fool, as Arkady claimed — but Arkady was a coward. If not worse.
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