Arsenal

SEVENTEEN

Ambassador Sarah Wexler smiled as she walked into the crowded subcommittee meeting room.

In the last twenty-four hours, there had been more than adequate proof that Cuba was in possession of nuclear weapons and intended to use them against the United States. While all of the island nations might not feel completely supportive of everything the United States had done in this scenario, neither were they willing to have that capability so easily retargetable and so deadly to the flora and fauna of the Caribbean basin unleashed against them. They would side with her, of that she was certain. The behind-the-scenes discussions with each of them had confirmed what she’d already known.

The tiny island nations that crowded the Caribbean basin would insure that the United Nations sanctioned every action the United States had taken. War on this scale, involving weapons of mass destruction, was far outside of anything they ever saw their nations playing a role in.

She surveyed the ambassadors and assembled staffs, favoring all of them with a calm, confident smile. There were times during the last two days when that smile would have been a lie, and victory was all the sweeter for having been uncertain. In the delicate balance of international politics, sometimes appearances mattered more than reality.

Reality: The United States could have smashed Cuba into a glowing ember, had it wished. Illusion: The United States was a force for stability in the region. Result: Smaller nations would flock to America’s side, providing training opportunities and much-needed votes on the main floor and, she had to admit, a bigger drain on the State Department as they demanded money and technical assistance as their just due.

No matter. In the long run, it was better for those nations to be allied with the United States than to be open to foreign influences such as Libya. She sighed, and wondered if this entire scenario could have been averted had the first Cuban Missile Crisis been handled appropriately. What would it have taken to tempt Castro away from the Soviet yoke?

Money? Would that alone have been enough? She doubted it, and there was no point in second-guessing President Kennedy at this point. What mattered was that Cuba was once again a nuclear-free part of the United States’ backyard.

She took a deep breath and began her address. “My fellow ambassadors, I know you will join with me in expressing deep remorse over the industrial accident that occurred in western Cuba just this morning.”

She turned a sympathetic gaze on the Cuban ambassador. “Sir, my staff tells me that you have recently discovered a large coal deposit on the westernmost dp of your island.” She noted with pleasure the puzzled expression on his face. “What a tragedy, to have such a massive cave-in so soon after you began exploiting those resources. Perhaps, if the offer would not be taken amiss, I could suggest that we render some technical assistance and support to your nation? If it would be acceptable or desired, of course.” Ball in your court, she thought, watching the range of emotions flit across his face. Will you reject the offer here, in front of so many others who have taken advantage of our generosity? I suspect that you have the authority to do absolutely nothing, and will initiate the appropriate stalling measures until you can confer with your grand supreme leader. For just a moment, she wished that the Cuban president had been visiting the naval base when the American firepower had rained down on it. How much easier it would have been for everyone had he simply ceased to be alive.

But no, those consequences would have been unacceptable as well.

Assassination was not a part of American foreign policy, as evidenced by the Coalition restraint during Desert Storm and Desert Shield. In earlier centuries, nations such as Cuba and, of course, those of the Middle East had found assassination to be the quickest way to clarify difficult questions of sovereignty and succession.

But in the modern world, even the collateral damage of killing a nation’s leader while pursuing a valid military objective would have been looked at askance by the world community.

“Of course, I will have to ascertain the status of the rescue operations before replying,” the Cuban ambassador managed finally.

“Your gracious offer will not be forgotten.”

She glared back. “See that it’s not. It remains available, since you have need of it.” She turned back to the chairman.

“And now, on to other business. I understand that the representative of the Bahamas is having a birthday today.

May I be the first to extend my congratulations?”

And so the business of international diplomacy churned on, a tangled web of personal relations, illusions, and political power. As she watched the nations struggle through the morass of conflicting loyalties and orders, she marveled that the august body, conceived with such good intentions, could ever accomplish anything.

Pamela Drake stormed past the secretary and barged into Admiral Loggins’s office. She was pale, still drained looking, although a quick shower and change of clothes at her hotel in Crystal City had washed away most of the dirt and grime from her Cuban adventure.

“What the hell were you doing? What were you thinking?” she raged, pounding her fist on his desk. “How dare you criticize Senator Williams after all he’s done for the military!”

Keith Loggins leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and realized that he’d just arrived at another point of no return. For the past day, he’d been daydreaming about his next meeting with Pamela, fantasizing about how masterfully he would ask her to marry him, imagining her ecstatic and eager response. It would have been, he was certain, a marriage made in heaven. With the right planning and dreaming, they could have metamorphosed into the most powerful couple in Washington outside the White House. Her connections, her inside knowledge of the political process, and his background in the military would have well, no matter. He studied her carefully, seeing the anger boiling close to the surface.

“I see you’ve heard about Senator Williams’s indictment,” he said neutrally. He pointed to a chair. “I think you’ll have to talk to Senator Dailey if you want any details.”

“I did.” Her rage seemed to seep away, and she collapsed into the chair he’d offered. “His staff said that you were responsible for providing most of the information leading to the indictment, and that you were present when he was taken into custody. Oh, Keith, how could you? Do you know what that man has meant to my career?”

He shook his head. “Do you know what he almost did to mine?”

She leaned forward. “Tell me. Let’s see if we can salvage anything out of this situation.”

He took a deep breath. He started to explain about duty, about a higher cause, and about the service that a man or a woman offers to the nation while in the military. He saw her eyes glaze over and a sour expression cross her face.

“I’ve heard this speech before, Keith,” she interrupted.

“You’re starting to sound like Tombstone, you know. He was always on about that sort of stuff as well. I thought you had more sense.”

“I do. Enough sense to know that what Williams wanted for this country was bad. Political power is one thing, Pamela. That belongs to the politicians, the men and women who are elected to represent the people of this country, not to a military officer. We exist to serve, not to rule. What Williams wanted was to transform the Pentagon into a uniformed version of the Senate.” He shook his head ruefully. “And I almost fell for it, too. Luckily, at the last minute, I came to my senses.” He looked up, pinned her to the chair with a stern glance.

“I have no regrets about what I did, Pamela. Quite the contrary. If there’s any way I can make up for what seems to me now to have been bad judgment, I will. And, if the Navy thinks that includes retiring, that’s what I’ll do.” For a moment, his voice took on a more hopeful note. “Pamela, I thought that if I was no longer in the service, that we might be able to” It was her turn to look grim and shake her head.

“Keith, I thought you understood how the world worked. I’ve already been in one relationship with an idealistic Navy officer. I don’t need another.” She stood, offered him a hand.

“Call me if you come back to your senses.” He took her hand, feeling the smooth skin, noticing the broken nails and grime still embedded beneath her fingertips. What a woman that she would dare the trip to Cuba, stand in the middle of bombs to get her story. In so many ways, they were so much alike.

But there was one critical difference between them.

Regretfully, he realized that that quality was honor. He shook her hand, resisting the impulse to pull her close, then showed her to the door.

He sat down at his desk again and glared at the seemingly endless pile of paperwork crowding his in basket, reflecting that virtue was sometimes its own reward. And no more than that.

“So there we were, at five thousand feet,” Bird Dog continued, maneuvering his hands to indicate the relative positions of the aircraft. “He was on my six, see? I was trying to shake him, but ” “Bird Dog, give it a rest,” Gator said wearily. He glanced at the young lady standing between them. “I think she’s heard enough about your air battles.”

The young woman shook her blond head vigorously. “Oh, no, I think it’s fascinating! In fact, it reminds me a lot of my dad’s stories. He was in Vietnam, and he was a pilot.” She paused doubtfully, and studied Bird Dog carefully. “You look like him, too. How old did you say you were?”

Gator almost choked. He took a sip of his beer to disguise his amusement, then started laughing again as he saw Bird Dog’s expression.

“Face it. Bird Dog you’re getting older, buddy.”

“I’m just thirty,” Bird Dog protested. “Hardly an old man.

Not like you.”

Gator studied him for a moment. “Come on, let me introduce you to someone,” he said abruptly. He set his beer down on the bar and led Bird Dog off toward a table at the back of the room. Three women were sitting there, sharing nachos and mixed drinks. “Mind if we join you?”

Gator asked politely.

“Hey, Gator,” a striking brunette said. “What you been up to?”

“Not much,” he said, taking the proper chair and gesturing Bird Dog into the other vacant seat. “Like you to meet a friend of mine Bird Dog, a pilot.”

The brunette shot him an appraising look. “Tomcat?”

Bird Dog was slightly taken aback by her knowing smile.

He nodded, at a loss for words.

She stuck out a hand. “Me too. Name’s Chris Hansen.”

“Lobo.” Bird Dog stared at her, awe dampening the first tricklings of lust tickling him in the normal places. “Weren’t you the one who was” Lieutenant Chris “Lobo” Hansen Lieutenant Commander Hansen by now, he figured. On a previous cruise, Jefferson had confronted the Russians on the Kola Peninsula. Lobo had been shot down during a mission over the Polyamyy submarine base and been taken prisoner by the militia in control. She’d been tortured, gang-raped, and finally rescued by the Marines. Rumor had it she’d finally made a successful recovery from the mental and physical havoc the experience had wreaked on her and been declared fit for duty.

She cut him off. “Yeah, that was me.” She grimaced.

“Being a POW isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’d advise against it as a career path. But that was then. I’m back in the cockpit now.”

Gator studied the two of them with amusement. During the last two tours, he’d watched Bird Dog chase more women across the landscape than any other pilot he’d ever seen. Following Bird Dog’s engagement to Callie, Gator had seen the first traces of maturity begin to show in the young pilot’s character. Now, he figured, it was time Bird Dog met a real woman, one who could probably out fly him.

Lobo and Bird Dog. Gator sat back to watch the fireworks.

So what do we do about Cuba? And how are newer, smarter, and more deadly weapons going to influence our choices?

Will we repeat our mistakes of the last century or make new ones?