“Oh, yes,” she said finally. “Yes, that would do quite nicely. I’ll set it up later today.”
For a moment, Jack almost pitied the ambassador from China. He had no idea what he’d started.
The Macedonian commander decreed that it was too dangerous to return to base. Oddly enough, he commented sardonically, they’d managed to prepare for that contingency. “We’re a small force,” he said. “We can’t afford to risk them all in one location.”
The secondary camp was proving to be farther away than Xerxes had let on. They’d tramped through open hills and forest for most of the day, stopping only for two skimpy meals.
Pamela led the way, with Xerxes bringing up the rear as they headed back toward the camp. Murphy had started off berating her, accusing her of everything from treason to aggravated cruelty and had finally settled into a frigid silence broken only occasionally by quiet groans of pain. Though he curtly denied being injured in the ejection, it was clear from the way that he moved that that was at least partially untrue. He brusquely rejected her attempts to at least ascertain the extent of his injuries, and had settled into what Pamela privately characterized as traditional male bullheadedness.
Or was she? Hadn’t she intervened, pleading with Xerxes not to shoot down the American aircraft? For all the good it had done. And what had it gotten her?
Nothing. The only thing it had done was shatter her credibility with the Macedonians. So much for getting this particular story out.
She glanced back over her shoulder and saw two faces that mirrored each other. Cold, grim determination in the eyes belied the granite expressions carved into the two faces. One dark, Mediterranean, with the classic features and curly black hair of this region; the other corn-fed blond hair and blue eyes that would have looked more natural wearing the open, easy-going expression of a farm boy. But not now — boiling oil wouldn’t have tortured out a single expression of emotion from either face.
“Turn left at the fork,” Xerxes ordered.
She obliged, following the narrow trail that broke off the main path. After years of reporting on conflicts all over the world, she’d come to recognize the normal signs that one was at the outskirts of a military camp. Guards, maybe scouts, well-concealed yet inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. The smell of cooking, wood smoke or gasoline camp stove, the necessary sanitary arrangements, and the odor of men under pressure living in close quarters without regular baths. She glanced around the woods, pristine and quiet. If the base camp were located anywhere near here, they’d done an excellent job of disguising it.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Silence from behind her, then Xerxes said, “We’re not there yet. We’re stopping here for the night.”
“Why?” A longer silence this time, as though he were debating exactly how much to tell her.
“It’s too far to the camp tonight,” Xerxes said finally. “We’ll make it in the morning.”
“If it’s still there, you mean.” Pamela shocked herself with the small note of vindictive glee in her voice.
“It’s still there.”
“How do you know? I mean, if it’s not nearby, then you can’t possibly know whether or not it survived the bombing runs, can you?” she asked, her voice louder now and strident. Behind her, she heard what she thought was a grunt of approval from Murphy.
“I saw where the aircraft went,” Xerxes said.
“Where
“I will know shortly,” Xerxes said, a sad note of triumph in his voice. She heard a noise and turned in time to catch Murphy as he stumbled and fell forward against her, his hands still tied behind him. She caught him and controlled his descent to the ground. The Macedonian was holding his weapon by the barrel, pulling back from jabbing Murphy in the back with it. “Because he’s going to tell me. One way or the other.”
FOURTEEN
Wexler had always thought that the Oval Office was not conducive to frank discussion. It had seen too many ceremonies and was drenched in the polite compromises signed with smiles on faces that represented final victories after dirty knife fights. Everyone had seen it too many times on television, it was too much a part of their national heritage for words such as she must speak to be palatable here.
Yet she must speak frankly, brutally even. The president had to understand that the consequences of his decision affected more than just the next election, more than his perception of the impression that they were creating with their allies. Lives were at stake here, not just in this conflict, but in the potential for bloodshed in every conflict yet to come. By ceding command of his troops — America’s troops — to a foreign commander, he was setting a precedent that would echo down through history.
History — perhaps that was the way to approach him, for President Williams had a clear and overriding concern about carving out his own spot in it. If she could just put it in the right words, he’d know how very dangerous this game was.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. President,” she began quietly.
He chuckled and patted her hand. “There’s a Girl Scout troop from Boise cooling their collective heels in the waiting room, Sarah, so don’t flatter yourself that I’ve cleared my calendar.”
“Maybe you should.”
He paused, taken aback by the serious note in her voice, as she’d intended. Their relationship had been for so many years one of mutual respect and friendship that she wondered if they occasionally let it distract them from the very real trust imposed on them by the American people.
“Serious talk, I take it,” he said finally just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable. “Okay, shoot.”
“Mr. President, you’re aware of the pilots that were shot down over Macedonia yesterday, I assume?” she began.
He nodded. “I’ve got other advisors besides you, Sarah,” he said, gently but with sufficient force to make his point. Other advisors who would have other points of view on whatever she was proposing to discuss. Other advisors he’d consult, so she’d best not count on a quick and easy concession on anything.
“I’d like to give you the perspective on how this chain of command question is playing itself out on the international side of things,” she said, making it clear that she understood the message he’d sent.
“That’s your job. Go ahead.”
She began with a discussion of T’ing, quickly sketched in the background, and then brought up T’ing’s veiled warnings. “I’m not sure what it means, Mr. President. But it means something. I thought you might know.”
