The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  “I am glad to have caught you before you left,” he said, a broad smile on his face. He looked rather silly, with a permanent curl that always centered itself precisely on his forehead, the too-eager expression on his face. “The arms negotiations package.” He splayed his hands open in a gesture pleading. “I’m afraid I don’t entirely grasp the significance of the issues. Perhaps if you have a moment…?”

  Wexler sighed. And this was precisely the sort of thing she meant. Yet perhaps the prior British ambassador had felt the same degree of impatience with her naivete on such issues as he’d tutored her on the finer points of international statesmanship.

  “Of course,” she said. “What can I clarify for you?”

  “This question of America’s new aircraft carrier — the USS United States. It comes up repeatedly in discussions, yet I suspect I am not grasping its full importance. Why are Russia and China quite so concerned about it?”

  “My office, perhaps?” she suggested, glancing at the throngs of people hurrying up and down the corridors. Certainly she would not be discussing classified information, at least none that wasn’t already releasable to the United Kingdom, but it was always wiser to talk about such things in private. There was no telling who might find useful some insight into America’s position from overhearing her, or detect some weakness.

  “I thought perhaps lunch — that is, if you have not yet eaten,” he said eagerly. “Perhaps a quiet corner in the executive dining room.”

  Wexler suppressed a sigh of annoyance. She had been looking forward to a good, hot pastrami sandwich, but she suspected that would not go down well with the British ambassador. Wells seemed particularly fond of all the accoutrements and trappings that went with his new position, and never failed to take advantage of the UN’s facilities. While the food served in the executive dining area was superb, it sure wasn’t the hot pastrami with biting mustard she’d had her heart set on.

  “That would be fine,” she said instead, and led the way down the corridor to the dining room. Once they were seated in a quiet corner, apparently out of earshot of everyone else, and she had ordered, she turned to him. “You know, to understand this entire discussion, you must understand that it is not only the weapons that are in question. It is the delivery systems as well. Without those, weaponry is useless. And with a move to reduce long-range missiles, there’s increasing concern about the use that we can make of shorter-range missiles from closer delivery points.”

  He nodded. “The same issue that arose during the Germany talks, of course. The U.S. agreed to eliminate shorter-range missiles, but they were replaced with intermediate-range missiles in other parts of Europe. To the Russians, it was all the shell game.”

  She nodded. “Yes, exactly. And this is what concerns everyone about the new carrier. With our current low levels of aircraft carriers in the inventory, it represents a major addition to our long-range power projection capabilities.”

  And that, she reflected, was a sad state of affairs. There was a time when the American military was at full strength, when the addition of another aircraft carrier would have been welcome, but hardly a dramatic increase in America’s capabilities. Not so these days — especially in an age of increasing commitments, with current forces overworked, underequipped and worn out, the new carrier would be a much-needed addition to the force.

  And hence the reason for Russia and China’s concern. And, quite frankly, she for one took their objections as evidenced that building the carrier had been exactly the right move.

  “Yes, you understand. So where’s the confusion?” she asked.

  Wells’s face shifted subtly, and for just a moment she caught a trace of the capabilities behind the mask of a bumbling fool he presented to the rest of the world. She felt a shock as she realized how much she might have underestimated the man.

  “What confuses me — and, I must admit, the prime minister, — is why your country is so insistent on completing the project at all, given the world opposition to it. Surely your country has better uses for its funds, especially during these times of energy crisis? After all, the president has dipped into your strategic reserves simply to hold prices down within your country.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “Not that we would ever presume to question the judgment of our American cousins. Still, having been down that road ourselves, it would seem that America might be wise to concentrate on their internal affairs rather than on building up the military force.” He paused, and an ingratiating smile tugged at his lips. “Particular when the world is relatively peaceful.”

  Wexler almost dropped her fork at the surprise. “This is… I wonder that…,” she stopped, aware of the danger of speaking even to an ally with her thoughts tumbling over each other in such turmoil. “You raise an interesting point,” she said finally, and let her silence speak more than words could ever have done.

  And what was this unpleasant turning of affairs, she wondered. That Britain, America’s oldest and staunchest ally, would question building additional aircraft carriers? This was an argument one heard from Russia, from China, even from India, that aircraft carriers would destabilize the current balance of power.

  Yes, and those countries had reason to worry — although each had made some forays into the field of carrier aviation, not one could match the capabilities of the United States. Britain was even only a distant second.

  And Britain had always been a strong supporter of American military building programs, ever since the days of Lend-Lease. They had had reason to be profoundly grateful for America’s industrial capabilities then, had they not?

  “Aircraft carriers are not built overnight,” she pointed out. “This construction has been in the works for almost ten years now. If Britain had concerns, this is certainly the first that we’re hearing of them. And I wonder at this late hour — surely it would be completely unreasonable to suggest that we cancel construction now. The keel is laid, the hull completed and most of the systems equipment in place. To fail to complete it would represent more of an economic waste in terms of cancelled contracts, guaranteed performances, and liquidated damages.”

  He leaned back, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. “But there are costs other than monetary,” he pointed out. “A peaceful world is economically desirable, is it not?”

  “Are you telling me that Britain objects to this project?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “Not in those terms.”

  “But you’re under orders to convey to me the prime minister’s displeasure, is that it?”

  He smiled again, that enigmatic expression she’d seen for the first time just moments before. “And now I have evidently irritated you. My apologies, madam.” The genial buffoon was back, replacing the harder, more manipulative man she’d seen before. “Please, I hope you will attribute my rudeness to inexperience on my part rather than any agenda by my government. After all, this current conversation began with my plea for your assistance. I hope you do not believe I would abuse the privilege of your friendship.”

  They finished the meal with polite chitchat, Wells actively resisting any attempts to delve into deeper meaning of his comments. Afterwards, Wexler was not entirely certain what they discussed during the rest of the brief meal. She had cut it short just after the main course, pleading a full schedule as well as a full stomach. Wells had graciously been understanding.

  Had this simply been naive chitchat between long-standing allies? Or had there been a message in his question, one she was intended to relate to the president himself?

  She had, she realized, been foolish to suspect that the British ambassador was any less capable than his predecessor. Certainly, he had a different style of approaching matters, and she suspected they would never developed the warm friendship and personal respect for one another that she had had with his predecessor.

  But that was not the main point in international relationships, though diplomacy turned on personal friendships and passions more often than anyone would li
ke to admit. No, if she could establish a good working relationship with the new ambassador and count on him to support her country’s policies, that would have to be enough. That he might be personally distasteful did not matter.

  Still, she wondered whether this represented a major change in the British government’s policy. Certainly, Britain had been long occupied with the Irish problem, and had had to devote more of its resources and attention to their internal problems than before. And, although it looked like there might be a resolution, or at least the semblance of peace, sometime in the near future, she had no doubt that the conflict drained it’s resources.

  Additionally, she had seen reports that the Socialist party was gaining increasing influence in both the House of Lords and House of Commons, particularly in the latter. Despite the staunch core of royalists inside the United Kingdom, would that signal a major change in Britain’s alignment? And if so, how would American cope with the defection of her most trusted ally?

  As she made her way back to her office pondering the implications, she resolved to call the president immediately. It might be nothing — but then again, it might already be too late.

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  1400 local (GMT –5)

  The president had just finished a short meeting with representatives of the American Wheat Society when the ambassador’s call was put through to him. His chief of staff had put her on hold for a moment, and the president had been sorry to terminate his meeting with the farmers, although the farmers were quite understanding, and not a little awed at being ringside observers to the highest level of politics.

  As the farmers filed out of the office, the President reflected that whoever had selected the delegation had been particularly astute. The men and women he met with were not corporate managers of agribusiness, the ones who never felt sweet dirt between their toes, had no understanding of the rhythms of nature, and depended on salaries rather than the vagaries of nature for their income. No, whoever had selected the delegation had sent him real farmers, and he had enjoyed talking to them and letting himself slip back into his childhood.

  The president’s roots ran deep in the heartland of the country. Although he was a political creature, one shaped by the expediencies and deals necessary to maneuver in Washington, there were times, more often than he would like, that he realized how alienated he was from real people. These were the people he needed to see more of, the ones that he really represented. The ones who had voted, given him their electoral delegates, and who, in countless small houses around the United States, were depending on him to oversee the good of the nation.

  At his most cynical, he sometimes wondered what he had become, why he was here, and whether he really had a chance to make any difference in anything at all. But talking to these men, these farmers who knew the reality of everyday life, who wrested their living from the soil by supplying the rest of the nation with food, he knew why he had been put in this office by whatever higher power oversaw the affairs of nations. It was to remember them, to guard their interests — against people just like himself.

  So it was with some reluctance that he picked up the phone, gave up the moment he savored with them, and turned his attention back to the realities of being the leader of the most powerful country in the world.

  He listened to the ambassador’s observations of her meeting with the British ambassador, and understood immediately why she’d called. It was no secret that commitment to build up American military forces was a bedrock cornerstone of the president’s platform. He had kept those promises, he thought, at least as well as he was able to do in the rarefied air of Washington. The carrier United States was particularly important to him, and he’d fought hard and long to insure that the project remain funded at optimum levels.

  When she finished, the president asked, “Okay, so you told me what happened. Now give me your take on it.”

  There was a pause, and he could almost see Ambassador Wexler collecting her thoughts. One of the things he appreciated most about her was her ability to cut through the bullshit, her keen insight into the personalities that made up the international community. She didn’t shoot from the hip — he had a feeling that Sarah Wexler knew much more than she said about most things — but when she did voice an opinion that was based on intuition rather than objective facts, he listened.

  “I need to know more about Wells,” she said finally. “He’s a funny creature — almost a clown in a way, a caricature of British royalty. But there something about him — he doesn’t let it show often — that bothers me. Perhaps it’s because he tries so hard to appear harmless. I was,” she admitted ruefully, “taken in at first. After dealing with his predecessor for so long, I had certain expectations. Wells comes nowhere near those.”

  “I think we can both rule out the possibility that Britain has made a mistake in appointing him,” the president said. “We know what is public record about him, of course. Let me check with some sources and see if I can get you more background information. Perhaps somebody knows something that can give some context to his words.”

  “That would certainly be helpful,” she acknowledged. The president knew that, while she admitted the necessity of it, Sarah Wexler always thought the connection between the nation’s intelligence services and its diplomatic corps to be slightly distasteful. It was something they shared, an almost reflexive belief that men and women of good will could solve national and international problems and issues in an aboveboard, straightforward sort of way. A pipe dream, as they both knew all too well from their time in D.C. and in the U.N., but a basic guiding principle that they clung to nonetheless. For that reason, although Wexler knew exactly where he would get the information, he made it a point not to mention the CIA. He would make sure the information got to her, but the source of it would be disguised to allow them both to maintain the illusion.

  “I do feel that there is something to this,” Wexler said. “He made such a point of mentioning it to me — and if we operate on the assumption that he’s not a fool, then there was a reason for it. In their way, the British are just as devious as the Chinese.”

  “So what do we do?” the president asked.

  “Nothing. We file information away, and look for some later relevance. But I would never recommend slowing down or even canceling the project based on Britain’s position, either official or unofficial.”

  “Of course not,” the president said. “Are they after something else, though? A quid pro quo for not making an issue of the carrier?”

  “If they are, we’ll hear about it soon enough,” Wexler said. “I’ll keep you posted, sir.”

  “Do that.” And with that, the ambassador rang off.

  The president glanced down at his schedule, and saw that he had an unexpected free fifteen minutes. And just how had that happened?

  No matter — he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He shut his eyes for moment, and thought about the wheat farmers.

  In her office, Ambassador Wexler was doing much the same, but in her case it involved kicking off her high heels, putting her feet up on a small, embroidered stool, and having a freshly brewed cup of orange oolong tea. Just as she was thinking how nice a cup might be, it had materialized at her elbow, brought in by Brad, her aide, so quietly that she had almost missed his entrance. She murmured her thanks, and cradled the hot cup in her hands, letting the warmth sink into her bones. Outside, it might be a sultry, humid day, but in here the air-conditioning was working overtime.

  “Anything I can help with?” Brad asked.

  She shook her head. “This is enough,” she said, raising the cup in salute. “There are those days…” She let her voice trail off.

  “There are, indeed.” Brad stood in the doorway for moment, and she had the feeling there was something on his mind. It wasn’t like him to wait to be asked, though; things that he thought she needed to know, he brought to her attention — even if she didn’t know at the m
oment she would need the information.

  “What is it?” she asked, smiling a bit as he had the good grace to look abashed. “You don’t hang on my doorjamb like that unless something is on your mind.”

  “Every day, there are new security notices coming out,” he began. He paused, waiting for her protest. They had had this conversation many times before.

  Wexler sighed. “What this time?”

  “Just a feeling,” he said, surprising her. Normally during these discussions of her personal security, Brad would brandish a specific memo warning U.N. personnel to be careful. This time, however, he looked more serious than ever. “I want your permission to put together some contingency plans, Ambassador,” he said, a note of formality in his voice. “You’ve made clear your personal preferences, and I respect that. God knows we could do with more people with your personal courage. But, if you would allow me, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t ask for this. Nothing that will affect you on a day-to-day basis, you understand. But in case we ever needed certain arrangements, it would be too late to put them in place when we needed them.”

  Wexler leaned back in her chair and tried to will the tension out of her shoulders. “Seriously, now… do you really think the threat has changed any over the last several years?”

  “Yes, I do,” he answered immediately. “Look at what we’re seeing now — terrorist acts inside the United States, including acts of violence by domestic terrorist groups. We can’t ignore the fact that this is no longer the Bastion America, that no one would dare to act on our soil for fear of bringing down the full force of our military might on them. I know what you would like to believe,” he said, his voice gentler now, “but it simply isn’t true. The fact that you refuse all personal security has operated in your favor until now, as your colleagues have taken it as a mark of personal courage. But it’s time to start being realistic.”