by Oliver North
Newman nodded. “I originally had them at Bragg after New Year's, but we can push it up and finish there a little early. We should be ready to ship out for Muscat by mid- to late-February—providing everything else stays on schedule and we don't have any other problems.”
“Good,” Harrod said. “Then I'll see you when you get back from New York.”
UN World Headquarters
________________________________________
Manhattan, N.Y.
Monday, 5 December 1994
1054 Hours, Local
Newman could see the UN headquarters building looming thirty-nine stories into the sky a block east of them as soon as the driver turned left to accommodate the one-way street that the UN building faced. When the vehicle pulled up to the main entrance at First Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, Newman hopped out and headed up to the entry doors.
Although he was early for his appointment, Newman still walked briskly up the expansive area leading to the doors to the building instead of taking in the sights—he had seen the huge building pictured in so many books, newspapers, magazines, and on TV that it had almost become a visual cliché. The cold wind set up a racket with every gust, making the flags of nearly two hundred nations ripple and snap in the breeze and causing their halyards to rattle against their respective metal flagpoles.
Inside the building, scores of visitors and others with business in the building moved about the vast entrance hall, some resolutely, others at a more leisurely pace. An elementary school group was queuing up with a tour guide as several teachers tried in vain to maintain order. Newman's heels clicked against the beautiful imported marble floors, and the sound echoed across the lobby. He had already noted the contemporary sculpture of a handgun twisted into a knot on the way into the building. Now he was confronted by a large glass case full of similarly destroyed guns of all makes and calibers. Well, I can see that their politics aren't all that subtle, Newman thought.
He walked up to the uniformed security guard at the desk and presented himself.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the guard asked.
“Yes,” Newman answered. “I want to go to Operations, thirty-eighth floor.”
“Identification, please.” The security guard took Newman's Marine ID, punched a number on the telephone console in front of him, and waited for an answer. Then he said, “There's a Major Newman here. It says in the appointment book that he has an appointment to see General Komulakov Uh-huh.” Then he covered the mouthpiece and asked Newman for his rank again. Newman realized what the problem was. He hadn't yet been officially promoted and wouldn't be until the Senate confirmed the promotion list, but Harrod had likely identified him as a lieutenant colonel when he set up the appointment. Newman said, “The ID card says I'm a major, so I'm a major.” The security guard shrugged, and he repeated it into the phone and hung up.
“Someone will be right down to escort you upstairs. You can wait right here.”
Newman nodded and looked around at the architectural beauty of the place and the extravagant artwork. He picked up a brochure from the security desk. As he thumbed through it, he saw pictures of the art displayed throughout the building—original works in such wide-ranging styles as Chagall, Picasso, and Norman Rockwell.
“Major Newman?”
“Yes …”he said as he turned toward the man who was asking.
“I am Major Suva. I will escort you to your appointment.” Major Suva identified himself as an officer in the Fiji Army and an aide to the man Newman had come to see. He turned and walked briskly toward the bank of elevators. Newman followed. But Major Suva walked past them and continued around the corner to where a single elevator was located. On the door was the lettering, UN STAFF ONLY. The officer took out a plastic, coded key card and swiped it through the magnetic stripe reader. The elevator opened immediately. The two of them got on and the door closed. The first thing that Newman noticed was that there were no buttons in this elevator for stopping on other floors. It was an express elevator that went only to the thirty-eighth floor. But it wouldn't move until Major Suva used his key card again to activate it.
The Fijian officer was friendly and almost made a ceremony of welcoming Newman as they got off the elevator. Newman could see that they were in an interior hallway, facing a double set of doors that led into an office area. Major Suva bypassed the receptionist's desk and walked straight to the double doors. Once again he used his key card. As they walked through, Newman considered the expansive, wide hallways with plush carpeting, the mammoth offices with breathtaking views, the original artwork—not just on the walls of the posh offices, but even in the hallways—and he tried to imagine the millions of dollars that had gone into building and furnishing this place. No wonder the interior decorators who did this place ran out of money before they got to HQMC, Newman thought, contrasting this opulence with the Marines' cramped, spartan offices with their drab walls and linoleum.
Newman and Major Suva turned left again and went through an arch with a sign above the entrance: Offices of the First Deputy Secretary General of the United Nations and Director for International Peacekeeping Operations and Military Observers. Newman had to break stride and stop in order to read the entire sign. He smiled and muttered to himself, “Now that's a mouthful!” He chuckled, remembering his briefing on the UN, when he discovered that most of the officers had exceptionally long titles. It must be that the bigger the big shot, the more words he has in his title, he thought. Major Suva escorted Newman into a huge anteroom outside the first deputy's inner office. Again Newman was struck by the extravagance.
At the Fijian officer's request, Newman sat on the leather couch that made a soft whoosh when he sat down. The coffee table in front of him must have been six feet square, an artistic piece of furniture that was part marble and part wood and glass. The one-piece, glass slab for the table was more than an inch thick and was balanced on five round marble balls almost twenty inches in diameter, which acted as legs and a center support. It was truly a work of art. On the walls he saw huge oil and acrylic paintings, wall hangings and tapestries of exotic fabric, and a huge portrait of the UN Secretary General.
On top of the wall-to-wall carpeting was an enormous Persian rug, probably twelve-by-twenty feet. Good grief, Newman thought, Rachel and I couldn't afford carpeting that cost thirty dollars per yard, and these characters are covering stuff that's even more expensive with another carpet.
On the office door, Newman saw a smaller-sized version of the wordy sign he'd seen on the way through the arch, this time inscribed in gold letters on black marble. And below the sign was the name of the first deputy, DIMITRI KOMULAKOV, in raised black letters an inch high on a gold plaque.
Newman was kept waiting for nearly an hour before the door opened and a tall man stepped briskly toward him, his arm extended for a handshake. Newman stood and extended his own hand. The handshake was firm and friendly. “Major Newman, or is it Lieutenant Colonel? I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, my friend,” he said in fluent American English. “I'm General Dimitri Komulakov.”
The man did not look like a typical general—he was wearing what appeared to be a one-thousand-dollar-plus dark-blue suit. Nor did he sound like a Russian. Instead of answering the man's question, Newman asked one of his own: “You're an American?”
Komulakov laughed. “No, I am originally from Minsk and served in my government for the past thirty-one years. I was based in your country for most of that time. I wasn't much more than a kid when I started, and I guess by now I've all but lost my accent. It's gotten to the point that I even think in English now.”
Newman nodded. “Were you in the diplomatic service?”
“Yes, something like that,” Komulakov answered. “A decade ago, we were adversaries in the Cold War. Now here we are.”
Newman understood the subtext. Komulakov had worked for the KGB as a spy in America. The Marine lieutenant colonel had trouble thinking of the Russians as good guys yet, and wasn't qui
te as willing as his commander in chief to let bygones be bygones. Newman was ushered into the man's office; its opulence made even Harrod's posh office look frugal. Komulakov looked like he belonged here. He was tall and trim, his hair was dark blond and styled, and his skin was tanned to a deep bronze. Komulakov sat in a morocco-leather chair and reached for a Limoges cup and saucer sitting by a silver carafe on his desk.
“Please, sit. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thank you, General. I had plenty on the plane on the way up from Washington.”
“Then let's get down to business,” Komulakov said, gently placing the expensive china back on the corner of his massive desk.
“I'm told that you've had a rather broad base of experience in military matters,” the general said.
“Yes, I guess you could say that. I'm a United States Marine,” Newman said confidently.
“I see,” Komulakov said without inflection. “And you have been briefed thoroughly on your assignment?”
“Yes. And for the past three days I've been briefing my men. But as I'm sure you understand, there is much work that they have to do before they will be ready to be committed. But, if you don't mind, General, I would like some confirmation that all that we're being prepared to do really does have the backing of international law, as Dr. Harrod has said.”
“You don't trust your own National Security Advisor?” Komulakov asked incredulously.
“It's not about me trusting anybody. I'm responsible for the lives and safety of thirty-eight very good men. I've met them all. I just want to be sure that what we're engaged in is all ‘legit,’ if you know what I mean. Can you reassure me along that line?”
“Reassure you?” For an instant Komulakov's eyes squinted, and Newman saw in that brief microsecond an element of something he didn't like. But just as quickly the Russian composed himself and leaned forward. “Yes, of course. We all get a little suspicious, I suppose. Maybe it's because of the paranoia and suspicion of our former occupations and the innate cynicism and distrust that we previously had for each other. But it truly is a new world order, and some things will take a little getting used to.
“But to reassure you … yes, I can do that. The world is getting smaller, and all nations are beginning to want peace. War is too expensive, and in our era it's also terribly ineffective. It used to be that you simply put two mighty armies on a battlefield and let them fight it out. To the winner went the spoils, eh? Not anymore. You may be surprised at what I say, but the dominance of America and the collapse of the Soviet Union were inevitable. Right now, my country is in disarray and struggling to find itself. But thankfully, now we can do it without the Cold War pressures, and through workable United Nations political processes, we will do it.
“Now, the UN International Sanctions Enforcement Group. I'm sure that my friend, Dr. Simon Harrod, told you that you were specifically selected for this assignment—from among thousands of possible candidates. That should give you some confidence.”
Newman waved his hand and interrupted. “No, that's not the kind of reassurance that I want. I have no lack of confidence, General. In fact, I know that for whatever reasons—fate, luck, bad luck maybe, whatever—I am the best qualified on the basis of my record and where I've been. No … what I'm looking for are specific written orders—official recognition that what we're being asked to do is legal under international law and that the UN has the authority to issue these orders to me.”
“I see,” Komulakov said thoughtfully. “I'm sorry. I thought Dr. Harrod had covered all of that with you.”
“No, I'm the one who's sorry, General,” Newman said. “Dr. Harrod was very thorough, and I don't doubt for an instant that he was telling the truth. But, well, I'm a cynic—I want to make sure that this mission is on the up-and-up—there are no surprises. All I want is written confirmation from the very top. Now I'm smart enough to know that you can't put these things in circulation, but I just want to see it for myself. Is it possible to humor me so that I can go on my mission with no doubts hanging over my head?”
“You have my word, as well as Dr. Harrod's.”
Newman grinned and looked askance at the man behind the desk. Komulakov laughed. “I suppose that does sound rather silly, in light of what we were just talking about—our past occupations and the like,” he said, smiling.
He pushed a button on his desk and said, “Captain Sjogren, please come in.”
The office door opened and an attractive blonde woman, in a well-tailored Swedish Army uniform that fit her lithe body like a glove, gracefully entered the room. Newman could smell her perfume almost instantly. Komulakov motioned for her to come near to him. He whispered instructions to her; then she nodded and left the room.
Komulakov poured himself another cup of coffee and gestured toward Newman with the carafe. Newman shook his head. “No thanks.”
“You find my aide attractive, Major—or is it Lieutenant Colonel—Newman?” asked the general again, his eyebrow raised inquisitively.
“Major … the promotion isn't final yet. And, yes, she certainly is attractive—” began Newman, but the general interrupted.
“If you are staying here in New York tonight, I'm sure she would be pleased to prepare some dinner for you. She has a lovely apartment in Soho. And after that, who knows?”
“Thanks anyway, General, but I'm married. And I'm sure you know the meaning of the Marine motto, Semper Fidelis. I take it seriously in everything I do.”
Before he could reply, Komulakov's intercom buzzed. He pushed a button: “Yes?”
It was Captain Sjogren. “Sir, I have the file ready on your computer. You can call it up with file number ‘ZZ 744809.’”
“Thank you, Captain.” He turned to his computer and typed in the file number and opened it. It popped instantly onto the screen. Komulakov hit the “print” command with his cursor, and the document began to print. After a minute or so, he retrieved ten sheets of paper from the laser printer and brought them over to Newman.
Newman began to read. The first two pages were a copy of the National Security Directive that Harrod had shown him. The second document was an almost identical UK Cabinet Minutes, bearing the signature of the British prime minister. And the third item was a copy of the secret UN Security Council Resolution that sanctioned it all. Newman read all three documents, just to make certain that nothing was included or left out that conflicted with Harrod's orders. Newman saw that the UN Secretary General had signed it.
“Thank you, Mr. First Deputy,” Newman said, smiling. “I had full assurance that the action that I'm about to take on is right. But now I have reassurance that we have international law and the authority of the UN behind us. Thank you, sir.” He handed the pages back to Komulakov who put them through a shredder behind his desk.
“Now, let's go look at the equipment and meet the people with whom you will be in contact in our UN command center,” Komulakov said. Then he led Newman to a door in the right-hand corner of the office. It led into the command center itself.
“And all the while I thought this was a door to your private john,” Newman said with a grin.
The huge room was without windows and darkened. Video and computer terminals glowed in rows on top of other rows. High-intensity flood lamps that focused only on the desk area and kept the light away from the terminals and monitors illumined individual workspaces.
“I'm impressed, General,” Newman said with a soft whistle. “Man, this room must have at least three thousand square feet.”
“I suppose you're right,” Komulakov said with a shrug. “I've never thought of it. But we use every square inch of space and could use more. This room primarily houses just the brains of the command center. It's where we gather all of the intelligence.”
Newman looked around the room housing the command center operations—he looked slowly to take it all in. He had a strange feeling of déjà vu after seeing what was there. The computers were state of the art, and Newman was sure their ser
vers must have had a “zillion” gigabytes each. Newman could see how fast the various computations were happening on the computer monitors and knew this was highly sophisticated stuff—like the equipment he'd seen at the NMCC at the Pentagon. Then he remembered. No wonder this all seemed familiar—it was. This command center could have been a clone of the one he had seen in the Pentagon, and it was a much larger and more sophisticated version of the one in the White House Sit Room.
Komulakov permitted Newman to stroll through the room at will. He took his time, making mental notes of everything he saw. From the banks of video screens he could see by their various labels that they were live video feeds coming from East Timor, the Golan Heights, Bosnia, Kosovo, Haiti, the Congo, Rwanda, Sinai, Angola, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Afghanistan, Bogota, Iraq—everywhere the UN had a peacekeeping mission, an inspection team, or a monitoring post. And then he noticed that there must have been at least a hundred “live” video cameras trained on potential trouble spots around the world, being watched by people on banks of twelve-inch video monitors.
On the opposite side of the room were computer monitors, which contained such things as temporary downloads of after-action reports, status reports, daily action reports, and all kinds of lists—including the dispositions of military and naval forces all over the globe. Remarkably, Newman saw his own name on one of the monitors. Unlike the other monitors, which had printed labels describing the content on-screen, this one, handwritten with a felt-tip pen, bore the same “ZZ 74409” code that Komulakov had used to open the file that Newman had read a few moments earlier. Below his name on the screen were the names, ranks, military branch, and home country for his three deputies at the White House and each of the thirty-eight members of the ISEG. Newman suddenly had conflicting feelings—excitement, recognition, uneasiness; he wondered how many other screens were lit up in other parts of the world showing these names—and who was watching them.