Peacekeepers (1988) (3 page)

His plan was simple and breathtakingly daring. East and West were at that time both deploying heavily armed satellites in space, each claiming them to be purely defensive in nature. Let a true international peacekeeping force be created, said Red Eagle, to operate both systems of satellites as one and protect every nation on Earth against attack by any nation.

Further, let this peacekeeping force be empowered to act immediately against any kind of aggression across any international frontier. Give it the weapons and authority to stop wars as soon as they are started.

Impossible! countered the delegates. But over the next several weeks they listened to Red Eagle and a growing host of technical and military experts. Yes, it would be possible to observe military buildups from surveillance satellites in orbit. Yes, defensive technologies could produce highly automated systems that are cheaper and more effective than massive offensive weaponry.

But who would control such an international force? the delegates asked. How could it be prevented from turning into a world dictatorship?

"The problem is war," Red Eagle told them. "Create a peacekeeping force that will prevent war. No nation need disarm, if it does not care to do so. Whatever goes on within a nation's borders will be of no concern to the peacekeepers. The peacekeepers will acquire no nuclear weapons, no weapons of mass destruction of any kind. Their sole function will be to prevent attacks—nuclear or conventional—across international borders."

The force of Red Eagle's personality greatly multiplied the sheer power of his ideas. Slowly, grudgingly, the conference delegates came to accept the notion that an international peacekeeping force could be created. It might even work.

They offered command of the force to Red Eagle, of course. Just as naturally, he politely refused. (The man they did give the command to, unfortunately, was a political compromise, a nonentity who ignored the warning signs and was caught desperately unprepared for the revolt that nearly shattered the IPF. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

After several months of deliberations the Athens Peace Conference concluded with the signing of the Middle East Treaty. More important, a week later the nations met on the Acropolis, before the ancient splendor of the Parthenon, to sign the document that created the International Peacekeeping Force.

The conference ended on a public note of optimism and private snickers of cynicism. Perhaps this was the way to save the world from nuclear holocaust, the delegates told each other. But none of them truly believed it. It was a gesture, at best. No one expected peace to last in the Middle East. No one expected the newly created IPF to finally end the scourge of war.

But they had tried to take a step in the proper direction.

Even the hard-boiled media reporters seemed impressed.

Hardly any of them offered a word of criticism or mentioned the fact that General Jabal Shamar, the man responsible for the Jerusalem Genocide, had not yet been apprehended.

I joined the IPF the first day of its

existence, I'm proud to say. At first, they

put me in an intelligence billet. That

experience will serve me well now that I'm

an archivist; I have had access to electronic

intercepts and other forms of snooping that

would have made J. Edgar Hoover tremble

with joy. Most of these snippets can't be

used in the official history of the IPF, where

every source must have its own footnote.

But I can use them here. Happily.

THE General Secretary eased his tired body into the gleaming stainless-steel tub. His valet made certain that the old man was safely settled in the steaming water, then touched the button that started the whirlpool action.

The General Secretary leaned back and sighed. It had been a long, difficult meeting. He saw that his valet was sweating heavily, rivers running down his face, dark stains growing on his shirtfront.

"You can remove your shirt, Yuri," he said, over the throbbing and gurgling of the agitated water. "It's all right."

"Thank you, sir," replied Yuri. But he made no move to disrobe.

Always the proprietaries, thought the General Secretary. If I asked Yuri to dash out into the snow and into the path of an oncoming tank he would do it without hesitation. But he will never willingly bare his chest in my presence.

The steaming hot water bubbled and frothed, relaxing the tensed muscles of the General Secretary's back and legs. I'm getting old, he thought. The Kremlin ages a man.

The responsibilities . . .

He leaned his head back against the soft padding and smiled up at his valet. Yuri looks ten years younger than I.

Still has his hair, and it's still as dark as it was twenty years ago. No responsibilities. No worries.

"Yuri, my old friend, what do you think of this International Peacekeeping Force?"

"You signed the treaty in Athens." The valet had to raise his voice to be heard over the whirlpool.

"Yes. It was quite a moment, wasn't it? The Parthenon is one of the most beautiful buildings in the world."

"Too delicate for me. I prefer something more solid, like St. Basil's . . ."

"I don't intend to argue architecture with you! What do you think of this Peacekeeping Force?"

"My son wants to join it."

The General Secretary felt his brows rise. "Little Gregor?"

"He is almost twenty-five, sir," said Yuri with some gentleness. "A lieutenant in the Guards."

Twenty-five, thought the General Secretary. The length of time of a generation.

"Will it be possible for him to join the international force?" asked Yuri. "It won't be a mark against him on his record, will it?"

"Of course not," the General Secretary replied almost absently. "We want loyal Russians in the IPF. It is necessary."

"And we will disband the Red Army?"

The General Secretary felt astonished. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"From what people say . . . there are so many rumors, and no two of them are the same."

"We have agreed to reduce the size of our armed forces—slowly, according to a fixed timetable. We will also dismantle our nuclear weapons; again, in keeping with a strict schedule. The Americans and Chinese and all the others will do the same. There will be teams of international inspectors."

"Spies," muttered Yuri.

"Our own people will be on the inspection teams," replied the General Secretary. "Our own people will watch the imperialists dismantle their bombs."

"Do you trust them?"

With a slow smile, "Yes, of course. As much as they trust us."

Yuri laughed.

But the General Secretary grew serious again. "My old friend, there have been many changes in the Soviet Union since I dandled your Gregor on my knee."

"Many changes," Yuri agreed.

"We have lived through turbulent times."

"You have been a great leader, sir. The Soviet Union—the Russian people—are richer and stronger because of you."

Accustomed to flattery, the General Secretary asked, "But are they happier?"

"Yes!" Yuri's answer was so swift and certain that the General Secretary knew his valet believed it to be the truth.

He slid down lower in the bubbling water until it was up to his chin. He could feel the knots in his neck and shoulders easing.

Yuri stood by the tub, silent, stoic, as enduring as the endless steppes and the birch forests. Finally he asked "Once we have taken apart all our hydrogen bombs, what will we do with the pieces?"

The General Secretary smiled lazily. "Why, put them back together again, of course. You don't think that I would leave the nation defenseless, do you?"

I admit to some embellishments in the

preceding account, although each word

attributed to the two Russians comes

straight out of the Security Agency's

transcripts. I can't use such dramatic

devices in the official history; it's got to be

dry, factual, and nonthreatening. Twenty

committees will sit in judgment before it

will ever see the light of publication. I

shudder to think that my name might be on

it.

What follows is another (slightly

embellished) transcript, this one from a

videotape. As I said, being in IPF

intelligence was a good experience for me,

although, at the time, I fought and argued

and fumed through the system until they

transferred me to an active unit. Which is

how I lost my hand, of course. Young men

want glory. They never think about the

price.

"I wouldn't trust those Commie sumbitches if Jesus Christ himself came down from heaven and pleaded their case!"

"But that's the beauty of the system: we don't have to trust them. We don't have to give up anything unless they do."

The three men sat at one end of a long polished table in a conference room in the Old Executive Building, that rambling pile of Victorian stonework that stands next to the White House. The conference room had old-fashioned luxury built into it: high cofferwork ceiling, oak parquet floor, gracious long windows, the kind of spaciousness that modern office buildings are too efficient to afford.

Senator Zachary, chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, chewed on his tongue for a moment, a habit he had acquired when his first heart attack ended his smoking.

Senator Foxworth, the committee's minority leader, silently wished Zachary would bite the damned tongue off and choke on it.

Aloysius B. Zachary was rake thin, his brittle-looking skin mottled with liver spots, his wispy white hair hanging long and dead down to the collar of his baggy suit. He had been much heavier before each of his heart attacks; lost weight after each one, only to gradually fatten up and have another attack. He was only a month out of the hospital after his latest. A waddling dewlap of grayish skin hung from his chin. For a dozen years now he had chaired the Foreign Relations Committee, wielding as much power over U.S. foreign policy as most Presidents did.

Foxworth knew that only death would remove this ignorant, arrogant, stubborn old fool from his powerful position. His Louisiana political machine would reelect him to the Senate for as long as he lived. As far as Foxworth was concerned, that had already been about one decade too long.

Jim Foxworth was known to be the best poker player on Capitol Hill. His face never betrayed him. He smiled always, especially when he was angry or fearful or making the final arrangements to drive the knife into an opponent's back.

He had the compact build of the health-food athlete: slightly bulging in the middle, but otherwise taut and fit.

Tennis and swimming. Horseback riding back home in Wyoming.

The third man in the conference room, seated between the two senators, wore the blue uniform and four stars of an Air Force general. A former fighter pilot, former astronaut, and the first black man to be appointed chief of staff, Charles Madison held degrees in engineering, management and communications. Of all the braid and decorations heaped upon him, though, he treasured most highly the two kills he had made against Nicaraguan MiGs during the Central American War.

"Lemme ask you, General," said Senator Zachary, his dewlap quivering with emotion, "d'y'all trust the Russkies to live up to this treaty they signed?"

"We signed it, too," Foxworth snapped.

"But we ain't ratified it. Senator!" Zachary leveled a forefinger at the younger man.

Foxworth turned to General Madison, smiling with his lips only.

"I don't trust the Russians, no, sir," said the general.

"And I certainly don't trust this international committee that's supposed to protect us against nuclear attack. I don't like the idea of turning our SDI satellites over to them. I don't like it one bit."

Zachary bobbed his head and sneered at Foxworth.

"Y'see?"

At that moment the corridor door opened and the ponderous figure of Harold Red Eagle filled the door frame. He wore a business suit of dark blue with a maroon tie knotted precisely.

"Forgive me, gentlemen," Red Eagle said in his deep, slow voice. It was like the rumble of distant thunder, or the suppressed growl of a restless volcano. "I was delayed at the Court. The computer was down for about an hour."

From the size of him, Foxworth thought, he may have broken the computer merely by laying his hamhock paws on it.

Red Eagle pulled a chair out and sat carefully on it, as if testing to see if it could hold his weight. Suddenly the head of the table was where he sat, and the three others turned to face him.

"I understand that you have grave doubts about the International Peacekeeping Force. I have come here to answer your questions, if I can, and relieve your fears."

"If you can," Zachary said.

Red Eagle turned his sad brown eyes to the senator from Louisiana. "If I can," he acknowledged. Zachary unconsciously edged back a little.

The gist of Red Eagle's argument was simple: The United States need give up none of its defenses. The Strategic Defense satellites were already_ under NATO control; by allowing the new International Peacekeeping Force to operate them, they lost very little and gained the entire fleet of Soviet SDI satellites, as well.

There would be no disarmament, no dismantling of nuclear weapons, no shrinkage of the armed services that was not matched by the Soviets—gun for gun, bomb for bomb, man for man.

"That still leaves the Russians with three times the conventional forces that we have," said General Madison.

"Yes, it does," admitted Red Eagle. "And three times the burden on their economy."

"If they decide to attack Western Europe . . ."

"The International Peacekeeping Force will stop them."

"That's not possible."

"General," said Red Eagle, gazing at the black man, "it is possible. It is even inevitable, if you serve the IPF with all the heart and intelligence that you now devote to the defense of the United States."