“Admiral DeMarco told me–”
“Sir, may I speak freely?” the J-3 asked.
“Jackson, in here that’s the only way.”
“Bruno DeMarco was made Vice Chief of Naval Operations for a reason.”
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Bretano got it at once. “Oh, to give speeches and not do anything that can hurt the Navy?” Robby’s reply was a nod. “Noted, Admiral Jackson.”
“Sir, I don’t know much about industry, but there’s something you need to learn about this building. There’s two kinds of officers in the Pentagon, operators and bureaucrats. Admiral DeMarco has been here for more than half of his career. Mancuso and Seaton are operators, and they try very hard to stay out of this building.”
“So have you,” Bretano observed.
“I guess I just like the smell of salt air, Mr. Secretary. I’m not polishing my own apple here, sir. You’ll decide if you like me or not–what the hell, I’m out of the flying business anyway, and that’s what I signed up to do. But, damn it, when Seaton and Mancuso talk, I hope you’ll listen.”
“What’s the matter with you, Robby?” the SecDef asked with sudden concern. He knew a good employee when he saw one.
Jackson shrugged. “Arthritis. Runs in the family. Could be worse, sir. It won’t hurt my golf game, and flag officers don’t get to fly very much anyway.”
“You don’t care about getting promoted, do you?” Bretano was about to recommend another star for Jackson.
“Mr. Secretary, I’m the son of a preacher man in Mississippi. I got into Annapolis, flew fighters for twenty years, and I’m still alive to talk about it.” All too many of his friends were not, a fact Robby never forgot. “I can retire whenever I want and get a good job. I figure I’m ahead of the game whatever happens. But America’s been pretty good to me, and I owe something back. What I owe, sir, is to tell the truth and do my best and screw the consequences.”
“So you’re not a bureaucrat, either.” Bretano wondered what Jackson’s degree was in. He sure talked like a competent engineer. He even smiled like one.
“I’d rather play piano in a whorehouse, sir. It’s more honest work.”
“We’re going to get along, Robby. Put a plan together. Let’s keep a close eye on the Chinese.”
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“Actually, I’m just supposed to advise and–” “Then coordinate with Seaton. I imagine he listens to you, too.”
THE UN INSPECTION teams had become so accustomed to frustration that they hardly knew how to deal with satisfaction. The various staffs at the various facilities had given over reams of paper, still photographs, and videotapes, and practically raced the inspectors through the installations, pointing out the important aspects of the workings, and often demonstrating the easiest method of deactivating the more offensive features. There was the minor problem that the difference between a chemical-weapons plant and a factory for insecticide was essentially nil. Nerve gas had been an accidental invention of research into killing bugs (most insecticides are nerve poisons), and what it came down to, really, were the chemical ingredients, called “precursors.” Besides which, any country with oil resources and a petrochemical industry routinely produced all manner of specialized products, most of them toxic to humans anyway.
But the game had rules, and one of the rules was that honest people were assumed not to produce forbidden weapons, and overnight Iraq had become an honest member of the world community.
This fact was made clear at the meeting of the United Nations Security Council. The Iraqi ambassador spoke from his seat at the annular table, using charts to show what had already been opened to the inspection teams, and lamenting the fact that he’d been unable to speak the truth before. The other diplomats in the room understood. Many of them lied so much that they scarcely knew what the truth was. And so it was now that they saw truth and didn’t recognize the lie behind it.
“In view of the full compliance of my country with all United Nations resolutions, we respectfully request that, in view of the needs of the citizens of my country, the embargo on foodstuffs be lifted as quickly as possible,” the ambassador concluded. Even his tone was reasonable now, the other diplomats noted with satisfaction.
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“The chair recognizes the ambassador of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” said the Chinese ambassador, who currently had the rotating chairmanship for the Security Council.
“No country in this body has greater reason to dislike Iraq. The chemical-weapons plants inspected today manufactured weapons of mass destruction which were then used against the people of my country. At the same time, we feel it is incumbent upon us to recognize the new day that has dawned over our neighbor. The citizens of Iraq have suffered long because of the actions of their former ruler. That ruler is gone, and the new government shows every sign of reentering the community of nations. In view of that, the Islamic Republic of Iran will support an immediate suspension of the embargo. We will, moreover, initiate an emergency transfer of foodstuffs to bring relief to the Iraqi citizens. Iran proposes that the suspension should be conditional upon Iraq’s continued good faith. To that end, we submit Draft Resolution 3659 …”
Scott Adler had flown up to New York to take the American seat at the Council. The American ambassador to the UN was an experienced diplomat, but for some situations the proximity of Washington was just too convenient, and this was one. For what little good it did, Adler thought. The Secretary of State had no cards to play at all. Often the cleverest ploy in diplomacy was to do exactly what your adversary requested. That had been the greatest fear in 1991, that Iraq could have simply withdrawn from Kuwait, leaving America and her allies with nothing to do, and preserving the Iraqi military to fight another day. It had been, fortunately, an option just a little too clever for Iraq to exercise. But someone had learned from that. When you demanded that someone should do something or else be denied something that he needed, and then that person did it- well, then you could no longer deny what he wanted, could you?
Adler had been fully briefed on the situation, for all the good it did him. It was rather like sitting at a poker game with three aces after the draw, only to learn that your opponent had a straight flush. Good information didn’t always help. The only thing that could delay the proceedings
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was the turgid pace of the United Nations, and even that had limitations when diplomats had an attack of enthusiasm. Adler could have asked for a postponement of the vote to ensure Iraqi compliance with the long-standing UN demands, but Iran had already handled that by submitting a resolution that specified the temporary and conditional nature of the embargo suspension. They’d also made it very clear that they were going to ship food anyway–in fact already had, via truck, on the theory that doing something illegal in public made it acceptable. The SecState looked over at his ambassador–they’d been friends for years–and caught the ironic wink. The British ambassador was looking down at a pad of penciled doodles. The Russian one was reading dispatches. Nobody was listening, really. They didn’t have to. In two hours, the Iranian resolution would pass. Well, it could have been worse. At least he’d have a chance to speak face-to-face with the Chinese ambassador and ask about their naval maneuvers. He knew the answer he’d get, but he wouldn’t know if it was the truth or not. Of course. I’m the Secretary of State of the world’s most powerful nation, Adler thought, but I’m just a spectator today.
26
WEEDS
THERE WERE FEW THINGS sadder than a sick child. Sohaila, her name was, Dr. Mac-Gregor remembered. A pretty name, for a pretty, elfin little girl. Her father carried her in his arms. He appeared to be a brutish man–that was MacGregor’s first impression, and he’d learned to trust them–but if so, one transformed by concern for his child. His wife was in his wake, along with another Arabic-appearing man wearing a jacket, and behind him was an official-looking Sudanese, all of which the physician noted and ignored. They weren’t sick. Sohaila was.
“Well, hello again, young lady,” he said, with a comforting smile. “You are not feeling at all well, are you? We’ll have to see about that, won’t we? Come with me,” he said to the father.
Clearly these people were important to someone, and they would be treated accordingly. MacGregor led them to an examining room. The father set the little girl down on the table and backed away, letting his wife hold Sohaila’s hand. The bodyguards–that’s what they had to be–remained outside. The physician touched his hand to the child’s forehead. She was burning up–39 at least. Okay. He washed his hands thoroughly and donned gloves, again because this was Africa, and in Africa you took every precaution. His first considered action was to take her temperature via the ear: 39.4. Pulse was rapid but not worrisome for a child. A quick check with a stethoscope confirmed normal heart sounds and no particular problem with the lungs, though her breathing was rapid as well. So far she had a fever, something hardly uncommon with young children, especially those recently arrived into a new environment. He looked up.