Without Warning (47 page)

“What exactly are you suggesting, Mr. Culver? Could you take us through your proposal? Step by step.”

“Of course, Admiral,” said Culver. “Basically, some laws are going to get bruised, if not broken, but even Jefferson would have been cool with that. You know his purchase of my home state, Louisiana, was, to put it bluntly, completely illegal and he
knew
it. But he also knew that the strict observance of the written law, while one of the high duties of a good citizen, is not
the
highest.”

Culver stood up straight and appeared to stare off into the middle distance, obviously quoting from the third president of the United States.

“ ‘The laws of necessity, of self-preservation, of saving our country when in danger, are of higher obligation. To lose our country by a scrupulous adherence to written law would be to lose the law itself, with life, liberty, property and all those who are enjoying them with us; thus absurdly sacrificing the end to the means.’ “

Having finished, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the conference table where they all sat.

“What that means, ladies and gentlemen, is that we are gonna crack some heads together. And fast. And by ‘we’ I mean the American people, what’s left of us.”

“I think it might be better if nobody showed up in uniform, flashing their medals and … what d’you call that stuff… fruit salad?”

Culver gestured toward the campaign ribbons on Ritchie’s uniform. He didn’t wait for the admiral to reply.

“Fact is, we already got blood spilled in Seattle. People are skittish. Yeah, you guys are the only outfit with the chops to put boot to ass and get it all done, but I promise you that anything that looks even halfway like a military takeover will mean the end
of everything.”

Ritchie clamped down on his surging frustration. Only he and Culver remained in the office, all of the other attendees having returned to their duties. He was hungry and tired, and didn’t see himself being able to do anything about either any time soon. The austerity measures he’d ordered for every military establishment in Hawaii were not merely window dressing. Food shortages would become dangerous if strict rationing was not enforced. The islands’ airfields were running around the clock, shuttling aid in and people out, but a cascading series of economic crises ripping through global money markets was beginning to bite hard in the real world. Both the Chinese and Japanese governments had quietly ordered container ships loaded with food and medical aid bound for Hawaii to turn around and head home in the last twenty-four hours. Ritchie had savored his cup of coffee at breakfast this morning with sad relish because he wasn’t sure when he might get another one.

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Culver,” he said, still refusing to give in to the lawyer’s insistence that he was just “plain ol’ Jed.” “But I am fighting an illegal war. Men and women are going to their deaths on my say-so and not much else. Why are they doing that? No reason. No good reason anyway. We’re there because we’re there and we can’t get our sorry asses out in good order. Hell, we can’t even turn to the United Nations for guidance.”

“I know you got pressures, Admiral. I know …”

“Do you? Really?” Ritchie stood up and walked over to the window. He stared out at the afternoon sunlight, took a deep breath, and turned on Culver.

“I have bagmen from every tin-pot, oil-drenched Dark Ages dictatorship in the Middle East, including the ones we’re fighting at this very minute, all banging on my door demanding to know what the U.S. government policy
toward them and their vile little country is now. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell them I’m not the president, not the government. They don’t care. They won’t listen. To them, I am the man with my finger on the trigger of what is
still
a very big gun. Big enough to blow them to hell and back. And the worst of it is, I can’t just tell them to fuck off because some of them at least I need. I cannot get our people out of there without the help of the Saudis and Kuwaitis and Turks and half a dozen others. But of course, none of them want us to go because they know the whole place will melt down three minutes later. I need clarity, Jed.”

Damn it. You’re losing it,
he thought.
Get your bearing back.

“… I need orders from a properly constituted executive. I need to get my people out of that septic mess in the Gulf. I need to know what role we’re going to play here, in CONUS, wherever we end up. I need to know what resources we’ll have. I need to get on the phone to Tommy Franks and give him and his people some
hope.”

Culver absorbed the mini-tirade with equanimity, waiting him out. When Ritchie was finished he nodded, slowly.

“Okay then. That’s what you need. Now this is what I need to get it for you.”

Dealing with Culver’s Machiavellian schemes was enough to bring his headache roaring back from the dull, middle distance where he’d banished it with a couple of Advils. Ritchie was not at all comfortable being so closely involved in political maneuvers, but the lawyer was right. The United States had been gutted, and one of the very few working and half-intact institutions it had left was the military. He was also right that it would be an intolerable violation of the country’s founding principles if the republic became a militarized autarchy in the mad rush of a catastrophe. And then, in mocking contrast to these high ideals, there was brute reality.

“The Israeli envoy is here, Admiral.”

Ritchie popped another painkiller and washed it down with a mouthful of tap water from his beloved old VF-84 coffee mug.

“Send him in.”

The man who entered the room carrying a briefcase was relatively short, and his gray, wiry hair had retreated at least halfway back over his head. Tel Aviv had dispatched him as their new ambassador, but Ritchie was adamant that he could not be addressed as such because he had not yet formally presented himself to the president. He had flat refused to stand in for the role himself. Nonetheless, Asher Warat was the chosen representative of his government
, and as such was deserving of good manners and what few diplomatic niceties Ritchie could extend him.

“Admiral.” He smiled, lighting up his wide brown eyes. “Thank you for seeing me. I understand that the demands on your time must be horrendous.”

Ritchie gestured for him to take one of the two armchairs directly in front of his desk. The Israeli did so, placing the briefcase by his feet. Through the windows behind Warat the old sailor enjoyed a sweeping view from Halawa Heights down to the harbor, which looked magnificent under a high sun. A few wisps of clouds drifted across a hard blue sky, and the waters of the base sparkled bright silver on dark blue. Stare at it long enough and you could almost believe nothing was wrong with the world. The long, drawn features of his visitor, sitting smack in the middle of that view, indicated otherwise.

“Everyone has their own troubles, Mr. Warat. I’m sure yours are as difficult as mine in their own way.”

Warat bobbed his head up and down, and his eyes seemed even more watery and forlorn, which was saying something.

“Life is trouble, Admiral. Especially these days. And I am afraid I am about to make more for you. Much more. Or less, maybe.”

Ritchie was instantly alert, the fatigue of the last week sluicing off of him. The small adrenaline surge didn’t help with his headache, however. That just grew worse.

“How so, sir?” he asked guardedly.

Warat checked his watch and seemed to hesitate. He rubbed his fingers together and shifted nervously before checking the time again.

“You will be aware, Admiral, that the strategic circumstances faced by my country have declined precipitously due to the cataclysm, the absolute cataclysm that befell your own.”

“Yes,” said Ritchie as his heart seemed to slow down and grow to about twice its normal size, pressing painfully against the confines of his chest. Warat hitched his shoulders and chewed at his lower lip. The man was a veritable Wal-Mart for nervous tics and tells.

“Your own forces in the region have come under attack from Saddam, from the mullahs, and from a whore’s parlor full of opportunists and crazy men. Hamas. Islamic Jihad. Al-Qaeda.”

Ritchie nodded but said nothing. Just that morning they’d lost the USS
Hopper
and two hundred men to a swarm of jihadi suicide attackers on Jet Skis. You don’t lose an Aegis destroyer every day, and he wasn’t certain when he’d get a replacement. Probably never. It was the sort of thing that would have made headlines all over the world before the Wave. Now it was a minor irrelevancy to most news agencies, obsessed as they were by the accelerating
collapse of their own societies. The Israeli envoy glanced quickly at his watch again.

“Your plans to withdraw coalition forces from Iraq and Kuwait, and U.S. forces from the region in general, are understandable,” he said, “if shortsighted, in the opinion of my government.”

“Well, sir,” said Ritchie. “I am afraid the withdrawal is an operational necessity, at the moment. It is not U.S. government policy, as you would be aware. I would characterize it as a tactical withdrawal, not a strategic retreat.”

“Or abandonment,” said Warat.

“No,” agreed Ritchie. “I would not call it abandonment. But right now, our presence there is making things infinitely worse, and I shouldn’t have to explain to you, sir, that we cannot sustain our forces even in the short term. Our base is gone. Every missile we fire, every ship we lose, every soldier or sailor or airman who
dies
is a true loss. They
cannot
be replaced.”

Warat shrugged and sighed. “We understand, Admiral. We have lost, too. America was our arsenal, and we find ourselves in the same position. Unlike you, however, we can stage no tactical withdrawal. We are trapped within our borders, with nowhere to go. The barbarians are at the gate. You will be aware of that. We are already fighting them. It will be a war of annihilation for one or the other.”

Ritchie ceded the point with a wave of the hand, an almost preternatural dread creeping up on him. It was a physical sensation, something he could feel crawling through his body like ice water rising from his nuts. The diplomat checked his watch one last time. He squared his shoulders and looked Ritchie in the eyes without flinching. His voice firmed up, losing the quaver and uncertainty that had haunted it until now.

“Twelve hours ago, we received a secure data package from our highest-placed source within the Republican Guard. His information was so critical that it was cross-checked independently, even though doing so revealed the identity of other sources we had cultivated within the Hussein regime and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards. I am afraid those sources have now been exposed and eliminated. Before losing them, however, we were able to confirm that a convoy of civilian vehicles crossed the border with Iran and traveled without a military escort, but still heavily guarded, to a warehouse on the outskirts of Mosul at 0300 hours local time yesterday. If you will excuse me, Admiral …”

Warat leaned over and picked up his briefcase, popping the lid and pulling out a sheaf of papers, which he handed across to Ritchie. Photographs mostly, with a few pages of printed material that appeared to be chemical analyses.
The pictures were obviously close surveillance shots, taken covertly by somebody at the warehouse.

“The vehicles you can see in these pictures are standard commercial vans. Two Scania transports, a Volvo truck, a Mack truck, and a Hino heavy diesel truck. The utility vehicles, SUVs I believe you call them, provided the escort. The Hino truck carried a shipping container in which was stored an unknown quantity of uranium hexafluoride. I am afraid we have lost track of it. The other trucks, which we were able to track from the border, to Mosul and onto an Iraqi missile battery, contained weaponized anthrax and botu-linum.”

Ritchie glanced briefly at the typewritten pages, but he was not a chemist and they meant nothing to him. He assumed that they somehow attested to the contents of the trucks.

“We have no sources within the Iraqi battery, and the exposure of our other assets will have caused Hussein to alter his plans anyway. But we must presume that we now face the mortal danger of a missile strike on Israel with biological agents. Our policy in the face of such threats has always been stated clearly. We will not just retaliate. We will strike preemptively.”

Ritchie placed the documents very carefully on his desk. His hand was shaking, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“So, my government hereby informs you, as the commander of friendly forces in the region, that as of one hour ago, the Israeli Defense Forces have commenced Operation Megiddo. I am informed by my government that Israeli air force units are currently en route to twelve centers. I have here a list of the targets.”

The ambassador passed across a single sheet of paper that Ritchie took with a trembling hand. The Israeli, he noticed, seemed abnormally calm by comparison. He’d apparently done all of his sweating and shaking when he first came in. The list was divided into two parts, labeled “Counter Force” and “Counter Value.” The former was a catalogue of military bases and suspected WMD sites such as the Iranian Revolutionary Guard training facility at Hamadan, long suspected also to be the Guards’ principal WMD depository. The latter was a short list of cities.

The American officer found it hard to breathe. Baghdad, Tehran, and Damascus were slated for destruction within hours.

“You can’t do this,” croaked Ritchie. “You’ll kill millions, tens of millions of innocent people.”

Warat’s face was ashen and drawn, but firm.

“Yes, Admiral. We will. It is either that or millions of our people will die.”

“But…”

Ritchie found it hard to speak. Blood rushed through his ears, and dark spots bloomed in front of his eyes. Warat sensed his difficulty and pressed on.

“We have drawn up the target list in such a way that it should not expose your forces to significant radiological effects, and it will not be necessary to fly through airspace controlled by the coalition. This will not be like 1991, Admiral. We will not require IFF transponder codes; however, the range of some of the longer strikes means that without midair refueling, our planes cannot return home. My government therefore requests the cooperation of the U.S. Air Force in assigning such in-flight refueling assets as we would require to successfully complete all of these missions without needlessly sacrificing our personnel. For many of them it will be a one-way trip.”