Hellfire

Wexler resisted the impulse to bolt to her feet and begin protesting. Instead, she took a moment to confer with her staff, as though all this was entirely expected, and then rise to her feet in a dignified manner. “Mr. Secretary-General, I must admit that I believe my country will fall into this category.” Must admit, hell. Everyone knows we’re behind. “I will not presume to speak for the other nations that may or may not lack the capacity to meet their obligations. And in truth, I cannot stand here and assure you that promises have been made to rectify this unfortunate situation immediately.”

A murmur of surprise swept through the room, followed by a few acerbic comments. Wexler ignored them and continued. “However, I must tell you that if the United States is restrained from participation in the United Nations’ deliberations, then we would have few options in regards to continuing support on ongoing resolutions.” She paused to let that sink in and continued, “Foreign aid. Military assistance. Peacekeeping forces. Humanitarian relief operations. Rescue-at-sea patrols. International research stations, and flights to and from them. These are but a few of the activities that would be under immediate scrutiny.”

Now the comments were louder and angrier, and several delegates from strife-torn nations looked stricken. She felt a flash of pity for them. What she was threatening could bring their entire worlds crashing in on them. She tried to stay focused on what she needed to achieve.

“Is that a threat?” someone shouted. She turned to survey the crowd but could not determine who had said it.

“No threat,” she said calmly. “Just the natural consequences of withdrawing from United Nations participation. Now,” she said, spreading her hands apart, palms up, in a gesture of reconciliation, “I do acknowledge that these issues must be addressed. And immediately. I can pledge my best efforts toward resolving them. Because I agree with the ambassador from Liberia. We must find that balance. And, as one of the founding members and home country of this organization, my country must set an example for others.”

“And why haven’t you paid your dues?” the secretary-general asked.

“I don’t know.” The murmurs and comments stopped at her frank admission. “Most of you understand the bicameral nature of our political process. The budget bill necessary to bring our dues current has been passed. It has not yet been funded. I cannot tell you when that will occur. You understand, of course, that I work for the executive branch. This is in the hands of the legislative branch at the moment. I will do everything in my power to see that this is resolved at the earliest possible time, but our doctrine of separation of powers precludes direct interference.”

The silence continued for several moments, and whispers among ambassadors and their staffs began to crescendo. Wexler remained standing a moment longer, then said, “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. The United States, of course, will vote against this motion, and we urge other nations to do so as well.”

Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it. See how many of your playmates are willing to give up their aid packages from the United States to support your agenda.

She glanced over at India, and caught the hard glare from her ambassador. So Britain was right — India is behind it. And Liberia—

Brad leaned forward to tap her on the shoulder. “Foreign-flagged vessels,” he murmured, and then leaned back, apparently confident she would understand.

She did. A large portion of the world’s merchant navies flew the flag of Liberia as a flag of convenience. Liberian safety inspections, license fees, and other requirements were much less onerous than those of other maritime nations, particularly the United States. Somewhere in the subterranean political maneuverings, someone had pointed out to Liberia that it was entirely possible that U.S.-flagged merchant ships might be perceived as being at risk. This might afford Liberia the opportunity to grab even more of the market share. For a nation such as Liberia, those revenues might be sufficiently tempting to risk losing foreign aid from the United States.

“A motion has been made. Second?” the secretary-general asked.

India leaped to her feet. “Second,” the ambassador snapped, and subsided with an angry glare.

The secretary-general regarded the assembly for a moment then said, “The motion has been made, and seconded. Given the nature of the question, I suggest that thoughtful and significant debate is required prior to a vote. Therefore,” he continued, picking up his gavel, “we will continue this matter until tomorrow morning, allowing each of you to consult with your principals. This meeting is adjourned.”

Nice move. I’ll remember that. She shot a warm glance at the ambassador from the Bahamas. He was not looking in her direction, but she thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

On the way out, Brad asked, “So what now?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” she answered. The only thing that was certain at this point was that her chances of getting a decent night’s sleep were gone.

USS Jefferson

0900 local (GMT-9)

A good night’s sleep and a hot meal had improved the Montego Bay captain’s appearance considerably. But his eyes still had a drawn, haunted look to them, and it would take more than twenty-four hours to restore color to his face and diminish the harsh lines drawn into his cheeks and forehead. Looking at him, Coyote suspected that even after the external signs of trauma were long gone, the scars on his soul would remain.

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Coyote asked, his voice gentle. “Anything?”

Gaspert shook his head. “No. Thank you. Your people have been more than gracious. The only thing I need now is information. I’m sure my company representatives will be out tomorrow to assist with the… the….” Gaspert ran out of words, and his face twisted.

“The investigation and the arrangements,” Coyote said, swearing silently as he did so. Hard, so hard — it was one thing for a member of the military to pay the ultimate price. It was something they volunteered for, knowing that even if the danger seemed slight, there was always the chance that they would be called on to risk their lives — and perhaps lose them.

That civilians — no, more than civilians, vacationers, who had paid for luxury, comfort, and a complete escape from all cares, innocent men and women — and, dear god, children… Coyote could barely keep the pain off of his face. If what had happened to Montego Bay was overwhelming to him, then he could not imagine what the man sitting before him felt.

“Can you tell me, Admiral — I know much of it must be classified, but anything you can tell me would help — what happened? Why were we attacked?” Gaspert’s eyes were haunted, seeing again the flames, the men and women running and screaming, the complete destruction of his ship. “I was in the Navy, sir — I know, I’ve already told you that — listen to me, I’m rambling — but anything you can tell me, Admiral, anything at all…” Gaspert seemed to deflate like a balloon losing its air.

Dear god, how am I suppose to bear this? I could invoke security classifications, keep him in the dark for twenty or thirty years. Leave him to pass the years wondering what he did wrong, wondering how he aroused the Russian’s anger or what he stepped into the middle of. Can I do that?

With a sudden, crushing certainty, Coyote knew that Gaspert’s chance of surviving the next year hung in the balance. Without irrefutable proof that he was not to blame, that there was nothing he could have done, Gaspert would not allow himself to live when so many others had died.

“You were a surface sailor in the Navy,” Coyote said, uncertain how to begin but knowing that he must.

“Yes, Admiral. Destroyers.”

“There are some things I can tell you. As you remember, there are certain routines associated with discussing classified material. The first is this — a disclosure form, and acknowledgment.” Coyote slid a form across the desk to him. “Read it, and if you agree to all the provisions, sign and date it at the bottom.”

Coyote watched as Gaspert read through it, his finger moving down the lines. The form had not changed in twenty years at least, so he was relatively sure that Gaspert understood what he was getting into. Basically, it said that Gaspert was about to receive certain classified information, the minimum classification with the top secret. By signing, Gaspert acknowledged that, agreed to debriefing before he left the ship, and acknowledged that disclosing this material to anyone not authorized could result in a prison term of thirty years, a fine of twenty thousand dollars, or both.

Will that hold him? It wouldn’t me. Not if I knew I had the passengers’ relatives to explain the deaths to. For a moment, Coyote considered soft-pedaling it and feeding Gaspert the cover story.