Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (25 page)

 
          
General
Curtis smiled and nodded, which ignited Marshall Brent.

 
          
“The
very thought of considering a military option against the Soviets is crazy,” he
said, his face reddening. “I’ve told you General—until current treaties and
agreements are modified, that complex is perfectly legal. We may demand
reparation for the hardware they destroyed—and I have no doubt, when confronted
with the evidence, that they will pay a reasonable amount—but we have no legal
reason to attack that site.”

 
          
“Reason?
How about the lives of twelve innocent men and women aboard that RC-135, Mr.
Brent?” General Curtis shot back. “That’s reason enough for me.”

 
          
“
Marshall
, I’ve authorized General Curtis to keep one
special military option open—period,” the President said. “The time for
discussion is rapidly running out. I want you to find a way to force the
Soviets to deactivate that laser complex.”

 
          
If
the Secretary of State felt any surprise at the enormity and sheer
impossibility of that task, he did not show it—he merely nodded resolutely. “It
will be difficult,” he said, “but it’s our best hope.” Maybe our only one, he
added to himself.

 
          
“We
can confront the Soviets with our information,” Gregory Adams said. “Present
the evidence to the United Nations, as we did during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Force world opinion to turn against them. Convince the world that the
destabilizing force of that laser system is a threat to everyone.”

 
          
“You’ve
put it well, Gregory,” Brent said. “Exactly what we must do.”

 
          
“All
right,” the President said hopefully. “I like it. Marshall, Greg, I’m counting
on you. This can’t go any further. Make sure they know we mean business.”

 
          
“I
have another option that may prod the Russians a bit faster toward a negotiated
settlement,” Curtis said. The President’s smile disappeared. Marshall Brent
glared at Curtis.

 
          
“Ice
Fortress,
” Secretary of Defense
Preston said. “Reactivate
Ice Fortress.
”

 
          
“Or
at least threaten to reactivate it,” Curtis added quickly.

 
          
“It’s
out of the question,” Brent said. “The 1986 Arms-Reduction Treaty, which took
us two long years to hammer out, strictly forbids
Ice Fortress.
If we bring it back, we are guilty of lying. Our
credibility will go down the drain.”

 
          
“Ice
Fortress
is the only thing we have
that can even begin to match up to that laser system,” Curtis argued. “Without
it, we have nothing to bargain with. Why should the Russians agree to anything
we want? Why should they shut down that site? Because we say, ‘pretty please?’
”

 
          
“The
Soviets won’t ignore us,” Brent said. “Gregory and I will confront them in the
U.N. We’ll present the data you’ve received and challenge them to deny it. I
believe that will be the last we’ll hear of any laser defense site.”

 
          
The
President looked grim. “You’re right,
Marshall
,” he said slowly. “We hold off with any
movement on
Ice Fortress.
It’s not an
option. Not now.”

 
          
Marshall
Brent looked relieved. “There will be a settlement, sir. We will end this.” And
at the moment, he had managed to convince himself.

 
          
The
President nodded, then swiveled around and stared wordlessly out the triple
windows of the Oval Office as the others quietly filed out.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Last
item on the agenda before the New Year’s recess,” Ian McCaan announced before a
regular meeting of the United Nations Security Council, “is a presentation by
the American delegation on the progress of the ongoing investigation of the
alleged loss of the American Air Force RC- 135 off the east coast of the
Soviet Union
. We are pleased to have in attendance the
distinguished Secretary of State of the
United States of America
, Mr. Marshall Brent. Mr. Brent, please—”

 
          
“Excuse
me, Mr. Secretary-General!” Karmarov interrupted, a shocked expression on his
face. He half-rose out of his seat as Marshall Brent walked down the center
aisle of the closed Security Council chamber. “Mr. Secretary-General, this . .
.’’he fought for composure, “. . . I was not aware that this matter had been
placed on the agenda. No one has consulted my office ...”

 
          
By
this time Marshall Brent had reached the floor of the chamber, Greg Adams, the
U.N. ambassador, had relinquished his scat to the Secretary of State and now
sat behind and to his right. Brent held up a hand a smiled at the Soviet chief
delegate.

 
          
“I’m
afraid I am at fault, Mr. Karmarov,” Brent began. Karmarov’s protest died in
midsentence, and he slowly lowered himself to his seat. “I have taken the
liberty of invoking a little-used and rather esoteric regulation in the
Security Council’s rules of order.

 
          
“A
1957 addendum to Article Thirty-nine of the Security Council’s Affairs of
Conduct allows either side of any dispute before the Security Council to
provide periodic progress reports of any council-ordered investigation. I have
taken the liberty of putting together a report that I’m sure your fellow
delegates will be most interested in—”

 
          
“Pardon
me, Mr. Brent,” Karmarov interrupted again, even more forcibly this time. He
bent over to Andrina Asserni, whispered a few words to her, and watched as she
rushed out to an anteroom. “That matter is still under investigation. I know
that little progress has been made, sir, but it is still fairly early—”

 
          
“That’s
right, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said. “But a status report is still allowed. I’m
sorry Miss Asserni was called away to double-check the article, but its
validity here has already been examined and approved by the Central Steering
Committee.” Karmarov looked at Ian McCaan, who nodded.

 
          
“Apparently,
Mr. Karmarov,” McCaan said, “the Soviet secretary on the Steering Committee did
not notify you. The request is in order. Of course, you will have an
opportunity to add any remarks you wish.”

 
          
Asserni
returned just then with her finger in a thick red leather-bound book. She
whispered a few words to Karmarov, who narrowed his gaze and fixed it on
Marshall Brent.

 
          
“The
article you mentioned does not deal with the matter you wish to discuss,”
Karmarov said, “and apparently gives little authority or justification for such
a presentation. It is entirely out of order—”

 
          
“The
nature of the presentation,” McCaan broke in, “and the subject matter convinced
the Steering Committee to adapt the rules. Besides, Ambassador Karmarov, it is
the last order of business for the Council and no other matters are scheduled
until the spring. I’m sure the Council will be interested in the contents of
this presentation.”

 
          
The
Russian offered no resistance—in fact, his voice became a bit more apologetic.
“The investigation has only been open less than a month ...”

 
          
“And
yet it has gone nowhere,” Brent said immediately, his tone clipped but steady.
“American requests for transcripts,
ordinary
transcripts of your military controllers on duty at the time of the loss of the
RC-135 have been ignored. Similar requests by the International Civil
Aeronautics Organization have also been ignored. According to ICAO convention,
such transcripts are usually submitted to the parties involved in less than
twenty-four hours.”

 
          
Karmarov
staged his indignation. “I will personally investigate the incompetence of—”

 
          
“My
office has already investigated the matter,” Brent said. “The Soviet Foreign
Ministry advises me that the transcripts were turned over to your United
Nations delegation.” Karmarov again was about to reply, but Brent held up a
hand.

 
          
“I
understand the situation, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said in a forgiving tone. “The
Foreign Ministry did advise me that your office has not had time to fully study
the transcripts. Turning the transcript over to us before looking at them
yourself wouldn’t make sense, I agree.”

 
          
“I
beg the Council’s indulgence,” Karmarov said. “Pressing matters in my
delegation and the last-minute flurry of activity prior to the New Year’s
recess have delayed my study of those documents.”

 
          
“Of
course, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said. “The Foreign Ministry was kind enough to
answer a few questions, though. I hope you at least have had an opportunity to
glance at the transcripts so as to enlighten the Security Council on a few
points.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, Mr. Secretary, I—”

 
          
“The
Foreign Ministry assures me that, although three MIG-29 fighter- interceptor
aircraft were launched from Ossora Airfield on the northern
Kamchatka
peninsula near Kavaznya, they never closed
with the so-called intruder aircraft. The RC-135 aircraft was allowed to fly
toward the coast without being challenged. Mr. Ambassador, why in the world
would the Soviets allow an unidentified aircraft to fly to within thirty-five
miles of the coastline, within thirty-five miles of a top secret research
installation, without being challenged by three interceptors assigned to pursue
it?” Heads turned toward Karmarov. “Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said through tight
lips. “I cannot at this time answer—”

 
          
“The
Foreign Ministry also reports that no efforts were made to reach the RC-135 on
normal, internationally recognized emergency channels. Now, Mr. Ambassador, the
Soviet Union
launched three advanced interceptors out
after an American aircraft it says was intruding into highly sensitive Russian
airspace, yet never closed on the intruder. They obviously
saw
the aircraft—yet never tried to raise the aircraft by radio,
never tried to warn it away. Why? Perhaps I can offer a reason,” Brent hurried
on. At his signal, a rear-projection screen began to descend over the mural of
“The Rise of the
Phoenix
” at the head of the Security Council chamber. Ambassador Adams pushed
an electronic pointer into his hands and Brent stepped quickly toward the head
of the circular Council table.

 
          
Flaring
to life as Brent stepped up to a small podium at the head of the table, the
screen showed several rows of words and numbers on the left and several bar
graphs on the right.

 
          
“I
will show the Council exactly what took place aboard that unarmed reconnaissance
plane,” Brent began. “This is the exact, unedited position and status data
transmitted from the RC-135 aircraft as it approached Kavaznya. It shows
summaries of the aircraft’s performance and summaries of what the aircraft’s
sensors were receiving.”

 
          
Brent
hit a button on the console. A second slide appeared beneath the first, this
one a map of eastern
Asia
centered on Kavaznya.

 
          
“To
better understand the data presented on the left,” Brent said, “we will plot
the location of the RC-135 aircraft on the map below. The bar graphs are
readouts of electromagnetic energy levels outside the RC-135 aircraft. The
graphs show levels of heat, visible light, radiation, transmitted energy, and
polarized single-frequency light. All of the presentations have been
time-synced to show exactly what was happening at each moment.”

 
          
The
screens went into motion. “The RC-135 aircraft is one hundred and forty miles
from Kavaznya when surveillance radars from Ossora Airfield north of Kavaznya
begin to track it.” A circle appeared on the chart. “The circle represents the
computer’s estimate of the range of the surveillance radar scanning the
RC-135—the plane is well within that range.” The transmitted energy bar moved
upward—all of the other graphs were motionless.