Enemies

ELEVEN

Tombstone stared down at the paper map laid out in front of the assembled staff of American, Greek and other nation’s pilots comprising the UN task force. The plan seemed simple enough, with the ingress and egress routes characterized by easily recognizable landmarks. The weaponeering on the entire mission seemed to be sound, and there had obviously been some thought given to allowing each nation to participate to the best of its capabilities.

Why, then, were alarm bells going off in his head?

He tapped one site marked in red. “This radar installation — how did you determine it was inoperable?” It was critical to using limited resources effectively to know whether a target had been suppressed, neutralized, or destroyed so that weapons could be allocated where needed.

“It is already destroyed, Admiral,” Arkady replied without looking up. “Our intelligence sources are quite capable.”

“How was it destroyed? And how exactly did you make that determination?” Tombstone persisted. “Satellite? Recon? Or reports from civilians on the ground?”

“I’m afraid that information is sensitive,” Arkady said, finally looking up from the map. “There are certain sources that we choose not to disclose at this time. Naturally, I have reviewed the assessments personally, and I’m quite satisfied that the installation is inoperable.”

“Inoperable — or destroyed?” In Tombstone’s mind, the words were hardly synonymous. The need for precision in describing BDA was one of the first lessons the U.S. Marines had taught him. A suppressed target was simply incapable of intervening in the conflict. A neutralized target was damaged — a tank, for instance, that was knocked off its treads was neutralized because it was no longer mobile. It was not, however, destroyed. That term was reserved to describe smoking holes in the ground formerly occupied by a target. One didn’t ask the Marines to destroy something unless smoking holes were what you wanted.

“It will not be a factor,” Arkady said. “The matter is closed.”

Dead silence in the room at that. Tombstone tried to control his temper and think of a way to make his point. It was obvious to him that the BDA from the previous day’s strikes was sorely inadequate, particularly since restrikes were not planned on some of the more critical installations. Like this radar site, which prior to the first strike had provided an excellent picture of the area surrounding the location of the suspected rebel headquarters. If they managed to repair and rearm it before the next day’s mission took off, the cost in lives and equipment could be devastating.

“I think the admiral has a point,” one of the Israeli pilots said.

I can count on them. They know what combat is about.

“I don’t,” Arkady said, compounding his earlier discourtesy. The American pilots in the room bristled. Every last one of them knew Tombstone; had either served with him in combat or knew his reputation as a top fighter pilot. They trusted his judgment a good deal more than that of the UN commander.

“I’d like to know more about the BDA as well,” Tomboy Magruder said. “Before we put our people in harms way, we need to know what risks they’re taking.”

Arkady drew himself up to his full height and glared at the assembled officers. “Timid pilots don’t win battles. If you have doubts about your ability to cope, then you may request to be removed from tomorrow’s schedule. If necessary, my pilots alone will fly the mission. I’m confident enough of this information to risk their lives. That should be all the confirmation you need.”

Right. And then you’ll explain to the rest of the world that the Americans were chicken. Besides, I’m not so sure that risking your own pilots’ lives says all that much — not if you’re willing to shoot them if they screw up.

If that was in fact what had happened. Tombstone experienced a moment of doubt as the eyes of the rest of the pilots were fixed on him. How reliable was Smith’s report? Was it anything more than mere disgruntled gossip from the troops? If only he had a name, a few details other than the date of the alleged incident, he might have felt more confident in interrogating Arkady about his commitment to his own pilots’ safety.

But with nothing but Smith’s word to go on, it wasn’t enough. Too few details… and then there was Smith himself, facing court-martial charges for disobeying orders. A reliable witness? Tombstone suspected he was, but there was no way he’d be able to convince a Board of Inquiry that he was right.

Not that that would stop him if he could convince himself. So far, all he had were grave doubts.

Arkady snatched the flight plan from the table and threw it to the ground. “My men will go first.” He gazed at the rest of them, disgust in his eyes. “We will prove to you that the site has been destroyed. And any others that you are feeling less than confident about. I would not want you to take unnecessary risks, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the skipper of VF-95 spoke up immediately, her eyes hard and angry. Tombstone felt a surge of pride coupled with his concern. Nobody accused an American of cowardice and got away with it — nobody.

“No, I insist,” Arkady said. His voice left no doubt of his opinion of the rest of the UN forces. “You will fly in a supporting role.” He turned and walked from the room, tossing the flight schedule at his chief of staff as he left. “Arrange it.”

Tomboy walked over to Tombstone and said quietly, “You know I didn’t have a choice. Not after that.”

Tombstone nodded. “I believe you didn’t think you had a choice.” He left it at that.

Over dinner, T’ing proved to be a surprisingly congenial companion. While he could hardly be called charming, Wexler discovered that he had a dry sense of humor coupled with keen observations on the various personal quirks of the other ambassadors. He also seemed to take a quiet pleasure in the consternation their dinner caused the other diners. By the next morning, Wexler was certain that rumors would have circulated through the building.

Only once did they touch on the question of Macedonia. When she made an innocent remark about Greek food, T’ing apparently took it as a request for information. He stared down at the vegetarian meal on his plate — another surprise, that was — and said, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It is something you should keep in mind.” All attempts to get him to elaborate failed.

As her driver took her home later that evening, she kept trying to tease meaning out of the statement. She had a feeling that T’ing was trying to warn her, was actually making a good faith effort to reciprocate her earlier candor. But coming right out and saying something was too foreign to his culture and to the way of doing business in the UN that had enabled him to survive for so long. It might not be much, but she suspected that it was the best he could do.

The enemy of my enemy — well, who would the enemy be? Macedonia? China? Probably the former, she decided, since she could see no immediate reason for China to be an open enemy at this time. Or maybe he was explaining China’s position? Then who was China’s enemy? Greece? But why?

The first strike was due to launch in two hours or so, given the time difference between Greece and D.C. Maybe she should let JCS know, tell them to… to what? To be careful? To expect treachery? They would be taking all necessary precautions anyway, and she had nothing definite to be factored in to their decision-making process. The cryptic words of a man who’d stood too often on the opposite side — what would they make of that?

Yet there was a kernel of meaning in T’ing’s words, she was certain. The only question now was whether she was smart enough to figure it out. And if he’d had the guts to give her a warning of some sort, then she would have to find a way to decipher it.

Pamela Drake put her hands on her hips and glared at Colonel Xerxes. “I’m not going anywhere,” she announced. She pointed at the all-terrain vehicle waiting for her. “You can forget it.”

“You don’t understand the danger,” he began.

Her temper erupted. “I’ve been in more wars in the last two years than you’ve seen in your entire lifetime,” she snapped. “I didn’t run when the Cubans took me hostage, and I’m not running now.”

“If you were a hostage, then by definition you couldn’t run,” he pointed out. “This is a different situation entirely.”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.” She took a step closer and laid one hand on his biceps. “This is what I do for a living. Don’t you understand that?”

“Crash in helicopters?”

“When required. Listen, if I’m not here, someone else is going to get the story. Someone who may not be as open-minded as I am. You need me here if your side of this thing is going to get a fair airing in the international news.”

Xerxes was silent for a moment, seemingly fascinated by a small patch of dirt next to his shoe. Finally he looked up, and she was shocked by the anger she saw in his eyes. “Do you think that this is what this is about? Sides, stories, photo opportunities? Have you learned nothing about war in this oh-so-glorious career of yours?”

“I’ve learned plenty about it.”

“But not the most important thing.” He pulled away from her and headed for the vehicle. “And until you do, you’re a danger to me and my men.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve seen dead bodies before, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He turned to face her, sadness crowding out the anger. “I’m sure you have. But the one thing you haven’t seen yet is dead friends. And until you understand that, until you’re capable of leaving your precious objectivity aside long enough to understand the human cost of this, you don’t understand anything other than the facts.”

“I have to be objective. That’s what makes it reporting.”

He shook his head, and turned away again. “That’s what makes it sad. You know, you’ve never even asked me what happened to the bodies of the other people on the helicopter.”

Pamela watched him go, confusion raging in her mind. How dare he — did he have any idea who he was talking to?

Of course he did. He knew from the moment she was brought to his camp who she was. Other than not being permitted to leave — not that she’d have gone if offered the opportunity — she’d been treated well, in accordance with her standing in the international community. So he understood who she was, what she did. Why then these comments about dead friends, about the other people on the helicopter? They all knew the risks when they’d gotten on board.

What was his name? The cameraman. Something inside her cringed a bit at that, and not for the first time. Hadn’t it been one of the first things she’d thought of when she’d regained consciousness? What would it be like, to die in a foreign land where no one knew your name?

He probably had a family somewhere, maybe a wife and kids. Did they know what had happened to him? The news had reported the helicopter as lost, but there’d been no discussion on the disposition of the bodies. Surely his family had been notified privately and they knew the awful truth — that he wasn’t coming back in one piece.

Tombstone. His face flashed into her mind as she thought about the cameraman’s family. She knew what Tombstone had suffered over the years, not knowing the fate of his own father, and that had lasted for decades. It had finally driven him into Vietnam and Russia in search of answers.

Would it bring the cameraman’s family to Macedonia? And if they came, would she see them? How would she answer their questions about his final moments?

I can’t tell them I didn’t even know his name. Even for her, that act would be too cruel.

Xerxes vaulted into the vehicle and tapped the driver on the shoulder. He pulled away, did a U-turn, and headed back toward the camp.

She watched him go, a tall, passionate man, one who asked questions that disturbed her certain world immeasurably. Another chilling question crossed her mind, one that bothered her more than she would have liked.

What if he’s next?