Hellfire

SEVEN

Ambassador Wexler was having a hard time concentrating on the debate raging across the floor of the general assembly of the United Nations. The gist of it was a conflict that seemed to involve most of the eastern part of Africa. The differences that divided the factions went deeper than religion or race, although in public those were the most hotly contended issues. But the real problem lay far deeper.

For more centuries than most nations could count, the continent had been primarily tribal in nature. Ancient societies had grown and flourished around leaders who could unify factions, and a sense of identity that came with a strong tribal system provided a real source of stability. But the transition from a strongly decentralized government to the form of unified nation government that was necessary to conduct business in the modern age had proved troublesome for the continent. As a result, other nations had imposed their wills on her, along with their governments and their cultures, without looking beneath the surface of the “heathen” culture.

Other nations’ answers were not the right answers for Africa, no more then America’s answers were right for Russia. The peoples of each region had to find their own way, their own expression of community line that reflected the culture from which they had grown.

The ambassador had a sense, watching the debate raging around her, that points were being made by either side in ways that she only vaguely understood. Water rights, land, yes — those she understood. But she could tell from the reaction of other African nations that she was missing many of the subtleties.

Well, no doubt the State Department analysts would be over in the morning to fill her in on their interpretation. There were some good people there, people who had lived and worked in the countries they studied, and she valued them for their ability to provide some context to the arguments, insight into what was really going on.

But the problem with State was that sometimes they identified a little too strongly with their areas of expertise. They were ready to send in the troops — American troops — as a universal solution. And military force wasn’t, not really. Peace came from within, not imposed from outside.

If there ever really were such a thing as peace. There were days when she suspected that war was simply an innate part of human nature, one that could never be successfully repressed for long. She shook her head, marveling at the reasons people found to kill each other. But then again, an outsider looking into the United States would probably find some of her hot spots equally baffling.

There would be no votes called on the arguments presented today. She shifted in her chair, careful to keep her expression neutral. She had no clear sense of what the United States stand should be on any of the issues addressed, and she didn’t want to inadvertently signal a position that didn’t exist.

Her aide, Brad, appeared by her side. He crouched down next to her and passed her a hastily written note. “President wants you in DC ASAP,” it said. She lifted one eyebrow while her mind ran across the various possibilities. Nothing immediately sprang to mind. The world seemed oddly quiet at the moment, at least as far as America’s concerns went.

Brad shook his head. He was only the messenger boy on this one. “No details. He just wants you there.”

ASAP. And just what does that mean? Leave the floor during the debate, giving the impression that America isn’t concerned?

She glanced up at the clock, and saw that only five more minutes remained in this session. She flashed five fingers at Brad, who nodded. He would get back to the office and let the White House know, and five minutes seemed a small delay under the circumstances.

As the debate built to a climax, with all parties realizing that time was limited, and trying to get in the last word, she knew it had been the right decision.

The president was alone in the Oval Office. As alone as a president ever is, of course. Secret Service agents were stationed outside his door, not entirely comfortable with being excluded, but reassured because they were on home ground. The senior agent had worked for three presidents, and understood well that at times the constant surveillance and company, even though quiet and unobtrusive, could drive a man crazy. Every president that he had served with had moments when he simply insisted that he’d be alone, even if just for a few minutes. So the president was granted his privacy and, behind the closed doors, was luxuriating in it.

The White House was never entirely silent. The rumble of the air-conditioning, small noises from the kitchens below, the soft steps of Secret Service in the passageway — you could sense the movement all around. But just for these few moments, the president could at least pretend that he was alone.

And he was in more ways than one, wasn’t he? The general’s briefing and the general’s concern over his reelection were clashing in his head. He was self-aware enough to realize it was the ultimate in egotism to believe that he was the only one who could run the country during these times. The United States had managed to survive under even the most incompetent presidents, and he had no doubt that even if the idiot who was running for the other party won, America would survive him, too.

Still, the presidency was a different order of magnitude in the nuclear age, wasn’t it? The world was a much more dangerous place than any of his predecessors had ever dreamed. His detractors could call it egotism if they wanted, but he truly believed that at this moment in history he was the one best equipped to lead the country.

And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? He had to deal with this crisis, and deal forcefully with it. That was what was best for the country. But it was also best for the country if he survived it, and possibilities for this going very wrong were too great.

So how to balance it? Wexler would have one answer, the general another. He reflected on the contradictory advice that would shortly be coming his way, staring out through the bulletproof glass at the night sky. An earlier summer thunderstorm had cleared, leaving clean, fresh air in its wake. The stars seem particularly bright tonight, although his view of them was somewhat obscured by the lights that were constantly on around the exterior of the White House. Another trade-off for security, like his privacy.

Was there a way around this? Maybe. His mind lined up the options, ranging from a full-out confrontation (quickly dismissed) to a more covert special operation intervention. That was a possibility, certainly.

But no. Although he had used special operations with great success on occasion, there was too much risk of the details leaking to the public. The last thing he needed right now was the congressional oversight committee questioning his motives. No, this had to be handled very quietly.

The answer came to him, stunning in its simplicity. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He picked up the telephone, and a familiar voice in the White House communications office answered immediately. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“Track down Admiral Magruder — the older one, the one that was chief of naval operations. Tell him I want to see him at his very earliest convenience — like tonight, if he’s free.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The president hung up, chuckling slightly at the disingenuous request. Tonight, if he’s free. Right. As if a retired admiral — or, really, anybody for that matter — would ever tell the president of the United States that a meeting time was not convenient.

Maybe someday somebody would. Sarah Wexler’s face flashed through his mind. He grinned at the thought. Maybe Wexler would be the one to do it.

As Wexler stepped outside the assembly room, Brad appeared at her side carrying a briefcase and a small bag. “The car is waiting.” Carrying her emergency traveling gear, Brad led her out and down to the waiting town car. She slipped into it and was whisked away to the airport, and twenty minutes later was boarding a waiting jet. When they touched down in DC, a helo waited to take her to the White House.

By the time she reached the Oval Office, she had heard the same news reports that the president had and had an idea why she’d been summoned. Things big enough to get her summoned to the White House just didn’t stay quiet that long.

Just as the helo touched down, the details became available on the radio. “We have just learned from the Coast Guard station in San Diego, California, that there has been a major disaster at sea involving the SS Montego Bay. A luxury cruise liner, the Montego Bay was making her normal run between San Pedro and Hawaii. According to preliminary reports, the cruise liner has suffered some sort of casualty. The situation remains unclear, and there is no word on deaths or injuries.”

A cruise liner. So what had happened — hostages? A collision? Please, not one involving our Navy.

Montego Bay—she hadn’t been aboard her but had been on a sister ship years ago. How many years ago — twenty, perhaps? She remembered the ship had seemed so very glamorous at the time.

“Come right in, Madam Ambassador,” the president’s chief of staff said as he met her outside the Oval Office. “He’s waiting for you.”

He was behind his desk, scribbling through some papers, but looked up as she walked in. Relief flashed across his face and then the worried lines reappeared. “It’s breaking now,” he said, pointing at the TV in the corner. A newscaster was flashing up what appeared to be file photos of the SS Montego Bay, a chart with her current location on it, and then brief bios of the captain and crew. All this background information meant only one thing — they were stalling, killing time until they could figure out what the Coast Guard reports meant. Or, better yet, until they could get their people on scene. As a last resort, if any ship in the area were in cell phone range, they would settle for a very informative and highly unauthorized cell phone call from some sailor to the mainland.

“Three hours ago,” the president began, “the Russian aircraft carrier opened fire on Montego Bay. Or, to be more precise, the Admiral Kurashov launched a surface attack missile at Montego Bay. It struck near the stern, causing massive damage. The captain wisely elected to execute an immediate abandon ship, and probably saved a lot of lives that way.”

“The Russians fired on a cruise liner?” Wexler repeated, stunned. “That doesn’t make sense. What possible reason could they have for doing that?”

The president shook his head. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Not a clue, Mr. President. Not a clue. Casualties?” she asked.

“All the passengers have been taken aboard the USS Jefferson. A complete tally is still pending, but it looks like there are a number of people missing, presumed dead. Primarily crew members that were belowdecks, either off shift or working near the engineering spaces. There are probably more.”

“How many passengers?”

“Four hundred and twenty seven. Two hundred crewmen. As of the last report, five hundred and forty-three people are accounted for.”

“Dear God.” Wexler said a silent prayer, stunned. “And what do the Russians have to say about it?”

“I haven’t talked to them yet.” The president’s voice was impassive.

“You haven’t — why in the world not? You’ve got to, don’t you? That’s the whole point of the hotline and of all the arrangements made for immediate communication between the two of you.”

“The Cold War is over, Sarah.”

“But — Mr. President, surely you can see this makes no sense. You’ve got to talk to them. Something like this can get out of hand so fast that there’s no controlling it.”

Wexler stopped, aware that she was starting to babble. It wasn’t that she wasn’t making sense. She was, and she had worked with the president too long to believe he didn’t understand her point. So why hadn’t he called the Russians? What possible reason could he have?

As she studied him and saw him look away from her, saw a faint line of red creep across his jaw, she knew. With a heartsick lurch in her gut, she knew. He had proved himself beyond this before, but evidently he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

“There’s a problem,” he said finally. “Evidently one of our cruisers fired anti-air missiles at the missile launched by the Russians, intending to intercept and destroy it before it could hit anything. It may—may—have intercepted the other missile in the vicinity of the Montego Bay.”

So that’s it. You are pretty sure the Russians are at fault, but you can’t prove that our missile didn’t hit the cruise liner. And right now, that’s got you more worried than the people that died.

“What do you think the public perception of this is going to be?” she asked, careful to keep all traces of horror and disgust out of her voice. “How is the best way to approach this?”

“It’s hard to say,” he said neutrally, but it was too late. She had already seen a flicker of relief on his face as he decided she understood what his concern was. “On the face of it, it appears completely outrageous. But it’s dangerous to work off first assumptions without a complete report. For now, see what you can find out from their side. I’ll talk to their president soon, but I’d like to be a step ahead of him when I do.”

“I understand, of course,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

The president stood and the ambassador followed suit. He came around the desk and laid one hand on her shoulder as he escorted her to the door. “Thank you, Sarah. Let me know as soon as you can.”

As she stood in the hallway outside the Oval Office, Wexler wondered just what was going on.

After she left, the president stared down at the papers in front of him, trying to concentrate. There would be nothing critically important in the pile — officer appointments, routine matters, a few personal letters his chief of staff had decided he should sign. Anything of substance, such as legislation, would have been hand-carried in to his office by the appropriate action officer, and he would have been rebriefed on the importance of it before he signed it.

Not that everything of importance got signed in front of his staff. Much as they might not like it, the president did have some matters pending that his staff knew nothing about. Oh, they’d caught hints that something was afoot, but he’d managed to deflect their suspicions, and for the most part, his staff believed that Betty Lou was entirely more human than she was.

“Mr. President?” his chief of staff asked. “Admiral Magruder is here.”

“Send him in. And keep everyone else out,” the president said, holding up his hand to forestall protest from his chief of staff and from the Secret Service. “Just do it.”

“Admiral,” the president said warmly as the senior Magruder entered the room. “Thank you for coming.”

“I am always at your disposal. You know that.”

“Sit.” The president waited until Magruder was seated, then said with a sigh, “That satellite business. It’s not going to stop there, is it? The Russians have really screwed the pooch on this one.”

“It was a risk,” Magruder conceded. “We knew that from the start.”

“I know, I know. Still, now that things are hosed up, what do you recommend?”

“We do nothing,” Magruder said promptly. “After all, we haven’t yet evaluated the Russians’ information, have we? And until we do, there’s no point in second-guessing ourselves on allowing them to take out the satellite.”

“That’s true. So when will we know something about their quid pro quo?”

The senior Magruder smiled, a wintry expression settling in around his eyes. “In a few days Mr. President. In a few days. We’ll also know more about what happened with our missiles and theirs and the Montego Bay. But even if we had final answers to those questions, I wouldn’t want to move until we knew the rest of the answers.”

The president sighed. “I know you’re right. But I’m going to be getting a lot of pressure here real soon.”

“I know. Let them think you’re just worried about the election. Or that you’re having some sort of illicit relationship with this Betty Lou.” Magruder stopped, seeing the look of distaste on the president’s face. “Just stall, Mr. President. Just for a few days.”

“Okay. I can do that. But get back to me as soon as you can on the other stuff. If they’re feeding us disinformation, I’m going to haul their asses into international court over that satellite.”

After Magruder left, the president forced himself to concentrate on the innocuous papers still needing his signature. The important matters, like the decision to let the Russians test their laser system on an obsolete American satellite, were never committed to paper.