“I mean, it’s great be off the ship for a while, not to mention the liberty. But sort of weird to be flying here, you know?”
Smith nodded. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about the missions. Not specifically.”
Trudeau shrugged. “Yeah, well, our job is to keep the birds flying, isn’t it?” As Smith walked back to the flight line, one question kept bothering him. Was that all his job was? To keep the birds flying? That was why he was in a uniform?
“I joined the Navy, dammit,” he said, as they started across the tarmac to locate their birds. “The Navy, and not the United Nations.”
“Life in a blue suit, shipmate,” Trudeau answered.
“Is it?” Smith asked.
For once, Trudeau had no ready answer. And neither did Smith.
“These damned things don’t fit,” Trudeau complained as he stuffed the O-rings into a pocket of his coveralls. “Interchangeable, they said. Right.” For all the good the consumables were doing, he might as well have tossed them on the ground, but no good airmen ever intentionally fouled his own deck.
“None of this is any good,” Smith said. “And I’m going to do something about it.” The indignation over the blue patch on his shoulder had been building throughout the day, and now, faced with another unworkable aspect of this peacekeeping mission, it was too much. He stormed into the line shack and pulled his beret out of his coverall pocket. “Not going to wear it, Chief,” he said. “I’m not in the United Nations. I’m in the United States Navy. I’m just an airman, but I know that much.”
Much to his surprise, the chief had no immediate reaction. Smith had been prepared for an ass chewing, coupled with some new profanities Chief had not yet used on them. But this silence, that was something new.
“Sit down, Smith,” the chief said finally. He pointed to the battered wooden chair in front of his desk. “You and I need to talk.”
Smith sat, feeling definitely uncomfortable. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like it all. Nothing took the impetus out of righteous indignation like reason.
Outside he could hear the noise of four different types of aircraft engines turning. The flight schedule this afternoon was an unholy mess, and the tower crew had finally settled for simply spacing fighters and attack aircraft at thirty-second intervals within a twenty-minute window allotted to each aircraft type. The end result was that no one knew exactly who was airborne and who wasn’t until the entire twenty-minute window had expired.
The problem was further complicated by the fact that many of the flight line workers didn’t speak much English. So far, they’d been able to resort to the universal hand signals all international airports used. But that didn’t do much for getting the right O-rings for a bird. Not with half the wrenches measured in centimeters and the other half in inches. “The sleeve patch, is that it?” the chief asked. There was something oddly reserved in his voice that worried Smith.
He shook his head. “It’s not the uniform, Chief. I guess I sound out of line, but it’s the whole idea. I mean what we’re doing here. This isn’t our fight.”
“Don’t you think a lot of people all up the chain of command, including the president, have thought about that?” the chief shot back.
Smith nodded. “Yes, Chief, I do. But I think they came up with the wrong answer.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Chief.”
The chief studied him in silence for a few moments, then let out a heavy sigh. “You follow orders, son. That’s all there is to it. This isn’t your call.”
“I think it is.” Smith’s earlier uneasiness was fading.
The chief exploded then. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with, Smith. These Greeks, they’re in command around here. You think everything works out here like it does back home? Do you realize what could happen to you in a foreign country?” He leaned closer, and Smith could smell the stale rankness of beer on his breath. “These people don’t kid around about orders, son. Not for their own people, and not for airmen under their command. People disappear when they disobey orders around here, you got that?” The chief stopped suddenly, as though he’d said too much.
“I’m not your son,” Smith said.
“No, you’re not. You’re a stupid kid who doesn’t have a clue. Let me tell you what happens to people who screw up out here.” The chief was shouting and the stink of the alcohol was overpowering. “I went to the little welcome aboard lunch they had for us over at the Chief’s Club. I
Dad, Gramps… what would they do? By rote, Smith felt the outlines of his Gramps’s last letter in his pocket. Comfort and conviction radiated out from it, suffusing his whole body.
“There’s right and there’s wrong, Chief. And this is just plain wrong.” Smith stood and walked out of the line shack, leaving the chief shouting after him.
Jack Tarkington had been Sarah Wexler’s aide for the last ten years. In that time, he’d come to know her moods so well that the rest of her United Nations staff accused him of reading her mind. So when he heard her footsteps padding over the heavily carpeted passageway outside the reception area, he knew that something was wrong. Based on her telephone calls over the last two days, along with the Chinese ambassador’s angry appearance in her office just yesterday, it was probably Greece.
Greece. As if there were any easy answer to that one. Not that there ever was with any form of ethnic warfare. During their days in the state department, he’d seen the futility of that.
The junior rank-and-file at the State Department was filled with young, idealistic political science majors bent on changing the world through deep and culturally appropriate understanding. Then there were several layers of increasingly cynical career State Department personnel, who differed only in their degree of disillusionment. At the very top, the ambassadors. Political appointees, the power to represent a mighty nation in international relations conferred upon them based on campaign contributions.
As a rule, the State Department tried to do a good job — and failed miserably. So often at odds with the military over how and when to use force to resolve a situation, the State Department started howling for troops the moment it appeared that opposing parties simply would not, beyond all reason or rational understanding, listen to United States orders on how to conduct their affairs. They took themselves and her families to remote locations, were surrounded by cultures they might understand intellectually but could never be a part of emotionally, and were surprised when some local hothead took a pot shot them. Let one of them die, and every last one of them turned into a hawk.
Almost every last one, he amended. There was the standard fare of the State Department — and then there was Sarah Wexler. The current administration had appointed her to the position of Ambassador to the United Nations from the State Department based on the strength of tough career decisions and her personal relationship with the president. It was a decision neither party had had reason to regret. Ambassador Wexler often took heat off the present president, and her own forceful and well thought-out positions were often floated as possibilities to assess public and international reaction before the president took a stand. So far, the relationship had worked for both of them.
Ambassador Wexler strode into the room, the picture of complete confidence and dignity. Two assistants trailed behind her, carrying boxes of documents as well as her own prepared speech.
“Tea?” Jack asked.
She looked at him, and he saw the true story in her eyes, but her words were calm and professional. “How thoughtful. Yes, tea would be quite nice. Thank you.”
And that, he thought, summed up Sarah Wexler. Grace under pressure, and instinct for human kindness coupled with an understanding of the necessity for force when needed.
After so many years working by her side, he knew exactly how she liked her tea. He left his desk and went to the small kitchenette area, and busied himself for a few minutes bringing the water to the correct temperature
