office.
Coyote waited until she was gone. “Okay, what have you got?”
“The initial analysis of the electromagnetic spectrum during the attack on
“Are you certain?” Coyote asked, his voice cold.
Lab Rat took the reports from the lieutenant. “No, Admiral.” He shot the lieutenant a stern look. “We are
“Conclusions may not matter,” Drake said, with a perceptible trace of despair in her voice. “Not with Winston. As soon as she gets back to ACN, she’ll be broadcasting an update based on what she heard. Oh, sure, there will be some disclaimers. But the damage will be done. Admiral, it might be advisable for you to have your own update ready to go. Beat her back to the ground, if you will.”
“Or we could just have her arrested when she lands,” Coyote said. “Not a bad idea.”
“A very bad idea,” Drake said, now on solid ground. “Sir, the second you have her put into custody you will have just insured that every news organization in the world will run that as their top story. Winston will be a hero. She won’t be reporting the story anymore. She will
Coyote looked like he was about to argue, but Lab Rat broke in. “You’re right, of course, Miss Drake,” he said. He turned to the admiral. “We should have our own story ready to go. Our own twist on it.” He glanced up at the clock. “And we have about ninety minutes to get it figured out and on tape before she lands.”
There was an odd silence in the room as the officers contemplated the possibility that Pamela Drake was on their side. They looked everywhere except at her, trying to figure out some way around it. Many of them, she suspected, would warmly welcome the idea of arresting Cary Winston. But if she knew anything about the First Amendment and about the news media, it was that arresting Winston would be like pouring gasoline on fire. The results would be immediate, and deadly.
“Work it out,” Coyote said. “Twenty minutes — then brief me. Get moving, people. This is a different sort of war, but it is war nonetheless. Now move.”
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There was another moment of silence, and then Drake said briskly, “Well, you heard the man. Let’s get to work.”
The ambassador for Great Britain had not been wrong in his estimation. By the time Wexler finally finished briefing the president and obtaining his guidance, it was common knowledge within the corridors and foyers that the United States would be on the firing line that afternoon.
The president’s guidance had been less than helpful. Do what you can, he had said. She’d try to extract promises or commitments to pay the dues, but he was having none of it. Never had she known him to be so evasive and noncommittal.
As the delegates and ambassadors and their staff meandered into the assembly room, she watched carefully, assessing their positions based on which aisles each chose to walk down, whom they greeted along the way, and whether or not they looked over to meet her eyes. Her heart sank as she counted up the votes. Even those smaller nations she thought might remember benefiting from American intervention were questionable. Bangladesh, of course — she would not expect them to stand up against India. But Israel? And Turkey? American assistance in cash, trade, and military commitments played a large role in their economies. Could they forget that so easily? Certainly the present administration had been a supporter, if not always a strong one, of Israel. And Turkey had been the largest recipient of American foreign aid for decades. The American bases there were valuable additions to their economy.
But neither Israel nor Turkey glanced her way as they came in. Great Britain did, of course. But he was far too much of a pro to let her divine his intentions.
As the delegates settled down, the secretary-general called for attention. He looked out over the assembly, his expression one of grave reluctance. After the opening formalities, he said, “I am informed that the representative from Liberia wishes to be heard.”
Liberia? What the hell? She had unconsciously started to turn toward India, and caught herself just in time. She twisted the other way to see the ambassador from Liberia rising to his feet.
The Liberian ambassador was relatively new. She had met him twice, and each time he’d seemed a proud, somewhat distant man. Today, he was dressed in traditional garb. The lines were long and flowing, the colors vibrant in this somber, conservative setting.
Her earlier conversation with T’ing came back to her, and the different interpretations of her white dress. What should she divine from what the Liberian ambassador was wearing? In his culture, would he be considered conservatively dressed? Or were the colors somehow significant, intended to remind other nations of Liberia’s allegiances?
For just a moment, she felt hopelessly out of her depth. There was so much subtext that she should understand and didn’t.
But she had been the representative of the United Nations here for seven years. Seven years — long enough to understand that all nations had some basic goals on their minds. Long enough to understand that people around the world, despite their most profound cultural differences, all had certain things in common. And she had managed all right, hadn’t she? So why should she suspect now that she wasn’t — go ahead, say it — competent?
She wasn’t. No more than the other nations were competent to judge America’s resolve and intent. And, just in case there was any chance of misunderstanding, she would make certain that America’s position was eminently clear.
But what was America’s position? The president’s guidance had consisted up telling her to do her best. She decided that her duty now to her country was to use her best judgment, thinking on her feet and reacting immediately. Since America had no way of completely screening out every missile, every terrorist with a shoe bomb, and every radical arms militia with a small vial of deadly biological toxin, America’s best interest lay in a peaceful world. And, like it or not, resolutions by the United Nations provided a legal basis for America to intervene in most of the world.
Presumptuous? Quite possibly. America did not have answers for every part of the world. Indeed, if Wexler was certain of one thing, it was this: that peace had to come from inside a nation. It could not be imposed from without. The answers for the Middle East would not be the same answers for the fragmented former Soviet Union states. All America could do was stop a conflict and allow calmer heads to prevail in a region.
She took a deep breath, a feeling of calm descending. Whatever the challenge was, she would meet it to the best of her ability.
“Mr. Secretary General,” the Liberian began, speaking English with an odd overlay of French and British accents, “it is well known to us all that certain countries are not meeting their financial obligations to this body. I do not need to mention any names. There are several countries, for whatever reason, in this category.”
“It is understood, by some of us more than others, that the ravages of war, famine, and civil unrest can wreak havoc on even the most stable economies. Allowances must be made, compassion extended. And yet, do not all nations benefit if we function as we should? Is not the United Nations the source of food, relief, and assistance in maintaining civil order? Yes, of course it is. All of us recognize that. And therefore, we must come to a balance between compassion and holding nations accountable. Therefore, I call on the Security Council to appoint a special committee to examine this issue.”
“And, pending the resulting committee report,” the Liberian continued inexorably, “I suggest — no, I move — that we suspend membership in United Nations for all those members which are delinquent on dues.” As he delivered this coup de grace, the Liberian turned to face Wexler.
