“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 be the story. And every civil rights organization in the country will get behind her.”

  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 United Nations

  0900 local (GMT-5)

  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.”

  Interesting approach. I wonder what is behind it? Surely he has been pressured to denounce the United States in particular. Is he crafting a defense just in case we win? Or is there another message in this?

  “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.”

  Now, that’s not so bad. A special committee — I can live with that.

  “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 grâce, the Liberian turned to face Wexler.

  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.

  “As you’ve been told, we are out here conducting battle group operations,” Coyote said, reaching the decision as he spoke. He would pay for this later, perhaps, but he was going to do it. “The classified part of this is that we are also testing various defensive systems.” Briefly, Coyote outlined the capabilities of the missile defense system, concluding with “And of course, the Russians were keeping an eye on us as well. In fact…” For the first time, Coyote hesitated, aware that he was stepping over a line he could never withdraw from. “In fact, they were testing their own capabilities as well. Probably a laser defense system, perhaps targeting just missiles. Perhaps not.”

  Gaspert appeared to absorb the information impassively. “That was no laser that hit us.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was a missile. The question at this point is whether it was ours or theirs. Just prior to the attack on Montego Bay, approximately twelve hours earlier, certain agencies lost contact with a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over this part of the world. This satellite was in the process of downloading information, and later analysis revealed that prior to going off line, it detected a blue flash from this part of the ocean. Then, as it went off line, it transmitted another blue flash. We believe the Russians may have executed a soft kill on the satellite using their new laser-based system. That seems to correlate with what our lookouts and surveillance aircraft observed as well.”

  “And so what does this have to do with Montego Bay?” Gaspert asked, and Coyote saw a trace of suspicion in his eyes.