Tombstone waited for his uncle to bring it up first. And finally, when they had run out of chitchat, he did.
“I know I haven’t told you too much,” his uncle began. “But there were reasons for that.” Tombstone heard a raw edge of excitement in his uncle’s voice, something he hadn’t heard there in a while. For a moment it bemused him — two men at this age thrilled over the first assignment? How lucky could one man get?
“You know how it is when we need to get something done and can’t do it because of political concerns?” his uncle began.
Tombstone nodded. “It’s one of the most frustrating things about being in the military.”
“Exactly. Well, two weeks, ago the president asked if I’d be interested in heading up a small outfit designed to get around exactly that problem. I said yes, with a couple of conditions. First, that he let me pick my own teams. And second, that he simply tell me what needed to be done, and leave it up to me to figure out how.” Tombstone’s uncle shot him a glance from under his bushy eyebrows. “I won’t be second-guessed by politicians, Tombstone. Not like we were in Vietnam. Mind you, this president is okay, and probably will be reelected. But in case that changes, I wanted it laid out from the very start what the working relationships were.”
“But doesn’t the CIA have a number of units doing this for work?” Tombstone asked. “Don Stroh’s SEAL team, for instance. I know they get involved in all sorts of high deniability operations.”
“You’re not supposed know about them, no one is — and no, I’m not going to ask how you do. Suffice it to say that although SEAL Team Six takes care of a lot of the nation’s business under very risky circumstances, there are some things they just can’t handle. Things that call for more firepower, maybe joint service stuff. That’s where we come in.”
Tombstone sat forward on the edge of the couch, feeling his excitement build. “You mentioned I’d be flying again.”
His uncle nodded. “Yes. In a Tomcat, of course. You can pick your own backseater. Not Tomboy — at least not while she’s on active duty. But anyone else you want.”
“What sort of flying?” Tombstone asked.
His uncle grinned. “Everything. Some fighter work, some bombing runs. Maybe an occasional covert surveillance mission. I can’t tell you specifically, because I don’t really know. All I know is that we’ll have complete independence, answerable only to the president, and all the operating funds we need. It will be a small group, Stony — none of the bullshit that goes with military service. So, are you in?”
“Did you have any doubts.”
His uncle smiled, and Tombstone thought he detected a note of relief. “No, not really. Okay, then.” His uncle stood, walked back to his desk, and picked up a folder. “Study this. It’s a range of options, all at a very generalized and low classification level. But you get the drift, and you’ll have a number more to contribute as well, I suspect. The first thing I will want you to do is start putting together the rest of your staff — decide how many we’ll need, and who you want. If they’re available, I’ll get them for you. They’ll have to be dry-cleaned, released from active duty, and hired here as civilians, but each one of them will have the president’s personal guarantee that if he or she wants to leave and go back on active duty, they will do so with no prejudice and no loss of career. You have anybody in mind off hand for your number two?”
Tombstone thought back immediately to his last mission in Hawaii, how he’d managed to put together a pickup team to constitute one of the most exciting battle staffs he’d ever worked with. He wondered if any of them were available.
There’d been Major General Bill Haynes, a two-star Army infantry officer on his way to assume duties as Deputy Commander in Korea. Marine Colonel Darryl Armstrong, deputy commander I Corps, with two tours in special operations, including Rangers, who’d assumed duties as the landing force commander under Tombstone. Armstrong had been a powerfully built man a couple of inches taller than Tombstone himself. Maybe 6'4', 230 pounds, and with an intense, driven air about him that attracted Tombstone’s attention immediately. His hair was cut so short as to be almost invisible, and his ice blue eyes seemed to absorb everything without actually looking at anything.
Then Lieutenant Commander Hannah Green, who’d spent most of her time supporting landing operations and special forces teams. She was a tall, willowy blond, with a slim, athletic build. Short blond hair framed a classically beautiful face with blue eyes a couple of shades darker than Armstrong’s. She had a photographic memory.
The team had also included other services as well. An Air Force major, Carlton Early, coordinated the tanking and out of theater logistics support. Captain Ed Henry, a Coast Guard ship driver who’d taught them all the Coast Guard way of doing more with less. And finally, Fred Carter, the Air Force master sergeant, who’d supposedly spent a good deal of time managing senior officer matters but who’d also proved to be a handy helo mech as well as a real trooper.
“I have some people in mind,” Tombstone said slowly. “I’ll have to find out if they’re interested.”
“Give me the names.”
“No, sir. If it’s just the same to you, I’ll ask them myself. If they’re going to be part of my new team, then it’s only right that they know what they’re getting in to.”
His uncle grunted. “Ask my chief of staff for any assistance that you need in locating them. But I’m warning you — I better not hear that any of them just happen to be located on
“No, sir. You’ve made your orders clear. Give me credit for that much, at least.”
“I do, Stony. I do.” His uncle stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now get out of here. Getting fired means I have a lot of loose ends to tie up. And I’m sure you’ve got some of those as well. Check back in with me tomorrow; let me know how you’re getting on with it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Ambassador Wexler stared across the vast hall of the delegates. As with any other major political body, most of the work was done behind the scenes. By the time a matter came up for a vote, you pretty well knew where you stood. You might make the motion anyway, just to make your point to the international community, but generally if it wasn’t cemented down beforehand, and you hadn’t corraled shifting alliances in that region, nothing was going to happen. Every ambassador wanted to consult with his home government before making a decision.
But time was short now, events moving at such an accelerated pace that unless something was done soon, there was a good chance that the Middle East would erupt into bloody war while the delegates sat around indifferent. There had not been time, although she had tried. With T’ing’s help, there was at least a chance.
Her gaze shifted to the ambassador from Iran. He was staring at her, a look of sheer malice on his face. And why, she wondered, did he not feel it necessary to mask his feelings in public? It was an axiom of diplomatic art that you never let anyone know exactly what you really thought.
The ambassador made a slight gesture, one that could have been interpreted as downright obscene. She held her temper in check and smile pleasantly. He turned away from her. She could almost feel T’ing’s gaze on her from the other side of the room. They had argued long into the night about the merits of trying this now. T’ing’s position had been that it was better to wait and succeed than to make the motion now and go down in public defeat.
But what should her real objective be? Putting on a good show show or winning the war?
From her perspective, and that of the president, there was more to this motion than simply making a gesture. They were voicing the nation’s outrage over the unprovoked and unwarranted attack on a ship of war. If they let it slide, the UN would interpret it as a sign of weakness. In the end, they had agreed that they had to do something now, because that what was in the American character.
She took a deep breath. The Secretary General looked at her over his reading glasses and said simply, “The
