Collateral Damage (4 page)

“Can't arrange to miss that bit, huh?”

“I thought—”

“Just teasing. Come on, let's go grab some dinner.”

“Did you call your wife?”

Zen answered by pulling out his cell phone. Breanna had sent him a text earlier that he'd forgotten to return.

“Well, speak of the devil,” she said, coming on the line.

“I'm the devil now? You must have been talking to the President.”

“She doesn't think you're the devil. Just not a dependable vote.”

“I wouldn't want to be dependable.

Zen followed Jason toward the rented van. It didn't have a lift; he had to crawl and climb into the front seat. It was undignified, but much preferable to being lifted, in his opinion at least.

“Danny told me you met Turk when he landed,” said Breanna.

“I did, but Air Force security shooed me away,” said Zen. “I tried to pull rank, but they said they were under orders from the Pentagon.”

“I didn't issue any orders.”

“I wasn't insulted,” said Zen. “I imagine you're pretty busy, huh?”

“Up to my ears.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. We have some people heading out to see what happened. Ray Rubeo is going, too.”

“Ray himself?”

“He's really concerned.”

Zen's relationship with the scientist was a complicated one. While he admired his intelligence and his work, he found Ray an extremely difficult man to get to know, and an even harder one to like. He certainly wasn't the type to hang out at the bar after work and have a few beers with.

“Congressman Swall is already calling for an inquiry,” continued Breanna. “He wants to know if U.S. assets were involved.”

“Well that's pretty damn easy to answer.”

“Except that the general perception is that we're not involved in this war at all. So it'll be a firestorm one way or another.”

Breanna seemed worn-out. Zen wished he was there.

“Teri says hi,” she added, changing the subject. Her voice lifted a little. “You want to talk to her?”

“I thought you were at work.”

“I am. We're having a video call. You want to talk to her?”

“Sure.”

Breanna punched some buttons, and Zen found himself on the line talking to his daughter.

“Why aren't you in school?”

“Superintendent conference.”

“What is that?”

“Day off,” said Breanna.

“Cousin Julie is babysitting,” Teri told him. “I'm doing my homework.”

She was having a little difficulty with triangles. They talked about them for a bit, then Breanna cut back in, muting their daughter.

“I'm afraid I have to get going here,” she said. “Are you still heading for Rome?”

“In the morning. Why don't you meet me there?”

“Oh yeah, right.”

“Come on. You're not doing anything.”

“Jeff.”

Zen smiled. If he had a nickel for every time he had heard his name with that particular inflection, he would be a rich man.

“All right. See you next weekend, then,” he told his wife.

“Love you.”

“Anche Io.”

“Huh?”

“Italian for me, too. At least that's what they tell me.”

A
n hour later Zen was midway through a dish of grilled baby octopus when he was approached by Du Zongchen, the Chinese UN advisor, who happened to be staying in the same hotel.

“Pull up a chair,” said Zen. He gestured to his aide. “Jason, flag down a waiter and get General Zongchen a seat, would you?”

“Oh, no, no, thank you, Senator. Thank you very much.”

“Have a seat,” said Zen.

“I can only stay for a minute. I am on my way to an appointment. Very formal.”

Zen nodded at Jason, who pushed over his chair for Zongchen then went to get another.

“All of this business with the airplanes, I know you have heard of it,” he said to Zen. “What are your opinions?”

“No opinions.” Zen shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “I don't have all the facts.”

“Very wise.” Zongchen nodded. “I wonder, Senator—would you participate in an investigation?”

“I don't understand.”

“Members of the General Assembly want me to investigate this matter personally. There will be a resolution tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“It will require an international presence. You were the first I thought of.”

“I don't know.” Zen wasn't sure how much Zongchen knew about what had happened—the news reports did not yet identify the aircraft as an American UAV, but there were certain to be rumors.

“You would bring integrity to the process,” said Zongchen. “And expertise.”

“What if my government or its allies are involved?” Zen asked. “That might be embarrassing.”

“I would have to assume that if the event occurred, then one or more allied planes is involved.” Zongchen nodded. “And I have heard many rumors that an American plane was the one there.”

“I am fairly certain it was,” admitted Zen. He saw no reason to lie to Zongchen, or even hold back basic information that would soon be common knowledge.

Zongchen bowed his head slightly, clearly appreciating his candor.

“To have a respected American aviator who is an expert, this would help the investigation a great deal,” said the Chinese general. “We would be most enlightened. And things would be done in a cooperative manner.”

That was the Chinese way—investigations were cooperative, not antagonistic. But the world Zen operated in was much more the latter.

“Do not answer now. Think about it, please.” Zongchen rose. “It would add a great deal of integrity to the process.”

“What was that about?” asked Jason, returning with the now superfluous chair when Zongchen had left.

“He wants me to join the investigation.”

“Really? How would that work?”

“I doubt very well,” said Zen, picking at his octopus.

T
wo hours later Zen was getting ready to spend the rest of the evening in bed watching whatever Sicilian television had to offer when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and saw that the exchange was a familiar one.

He slid his thumb across the screen and said hello to the President's operator.

“Please stand by for the President, Senator Stockard.”

Zen considered a joke about his inability to stand, but decided the poor secretary had enough to do without fending off his humor. President Christine Todd came on the line a few moments later.

“How is the weather in Italy, Jeff?” the President asked.

“Weather's fine. How's Washington?”

“Stormy as ever.”

While they were members of the same political party, Zen and the President had never gotten along particularly well. Their relationship had always been a bit of a puzzle, not just to them but to those around them; philosophically, they weren't all that different, and certainly on the gravest national issues they thought very similarly. But their styles clashed—Zen was laid back and easygoing; the President was all calculation.

At least in his view.

“Let me get to the point,” said Todd. “I know you've been briefed on the accident in Libya today.”

“Somewhat.”

“The UN General Assembly is going to call for an investigation. They're going to name a former Chinese air force general to head it.”

“Zongchen,” answered Zen. “Yes, I know him quite well.”

“Good.” The president paused. “I'd like you to be on the committee.”

“Won't that be a little awkward?”

“How so?”

“For one thing, it involved airplanes that are under my wife's department.”

“Actually, no,” said the President. “They were assigned to the Air Force. In fact, your wife is not at all involved in the chain of command there.”

Zen leaned his head back in his chair. What exactly was she up to?

“I think most people would see my involvement as a conflict of interest,” he said finally. “I mean, Whiplash—”

“First of all, I'd prefer that Whiplash not be mentioned if at all possible. And secondly, I want a full investigation by someone I trust to give me all of the facts. If we did this, and it does look like we're the ones responsible, there's no sense denying it. Therefore, I want someone who knows what he's talking about giving me advice on how to fix it.”

“Still, some people might expect a cover-up,” said Zen. “People inside the government would know—”

“This isn't a cover-up. On the contrary—we'll have full disclosure. I'm going to give a press conference in a few hours. I want a thorough investigation. I want someone I can trust to do the right thing on the committee.”

“The right thing?”

“Make sure that the committee is telling the truth,” said the President, her voice even blunter than usual. “You know this is going to be a propaganda bonanza, Jeff. At least if you're there, I can trust some of the findings.”

“Or be criticized for trying to hide them,” said Zen.

“No. People have a high opinion of you. Other leaders. And the general public. As well as myself.”

“I'm sure there's someone better.”

“I'm not.”

“Let me think it over,” said Zen, fully intending on putting her off.

His voice must have made that obvious.

“Jeff, I know we've had a few personal difficulties in the past. I consider you my loyal opposition—and I mean that in a good sense. You've done our country, and this administration, a world of good. I know it's a lot to ask. But I think we need someone of your caliber on the oversight committee. You weren't involved in the operation, but you know as much about unmanned fighters as anyone in the world who's not directly involved.”

“I know a lot about the Flighthawks,” he told her. “Sabres are different beasts.”

“Think it over. Please, Senator.”

“I will.”

“Best to your family.”

Zen had no sooner hung up than there was a knock at his door.

“Come on in,” he said, thinking it was Jason.

The second knock told him that it wasn't—Jason had a key. But now he had announced that he was there, and couldn't pretend not to be there.

“Who is it?” Zen asked.

“Mina Toumi, from al Jazeera news service,” answered a woman. “I would like to ask a few questions, Senator.”

“I'm in my pajamas.”

“It will only take a minute. And I don't have a camera, only a voice recorder.”

Al Jazeera—the Islamic news service based in the Middle East—had been generally favorable to the uprising. But he knew that didn't make any difference now. He didn't know what she wanted to talk about, but he could easily guess.

Was there a way to duck out?

“Give me a second to get my robe.”

Zen fussed with his robe, pulling it tight. Then he realized that he really ought to have a witness—he sent a text to Jason and told him to come over to his room ASAP.

He rolled to the door, unlocked it, then moved back in the corridor.

“It's open,” he said.

A young woman pushed open the door shyly. She was pretty—and young.

“I am sorry to bother you, Senator Stockard. I wanted a few questions about the incident.”

“Is that a French accent?” asked Zen.

“My mother was from Lyon,” she said. She was standing in the doorway.

“Tell you what—maybe I should get dressed and we can go somewhere a little more comfortable downstairs,” said Zen, feeling very awkward in his robe.

“Oh.”

“Could you just wait in the hall a moment? It won't take too long.”

She stepped back. Zen rolled himself inside and grabbed his clothes. A few minutes later Jason knocked on the door.

“Senator?”

“Hang tight, Jay. Say hello to Ms.—”

“Toumi,” she said.

Zen dressed as quickly as he could. When he came out of the room, Jason and Mina Toumi were standing awkwardly on opposite walls, staring down at the carpet. For just a moment Zen forgot that the woman was a reporter—they looked like they would make a fine couple.

“Senator Stockard, thank you for your time,” said Toumi. She pulled out a voice recorder and held it toward him.

“Let's go downstairs where we can have a little more privacy. And you can sit down.” He started wheeling himself toward the elevator.

“I didn't know . . .”

Zen glanced at her and guessed what the problem was.

“You didn't know I was in a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yup. For a long time.” He spun himself around and hit the button for the car. “It was during a flight accident. A plane went left when it was supposed to go right. They tell me I'm lucky to be alive.”

“But, I heard you were an ace—”

“An ace?” He laughed. “Oh. Yes, I guess I am.”

“An ace pilot,” she said. “That you had been, before you were elected.”

“Senator Stockard
is
an ace,” said Jason, finally finding his voice, albeit a little awkwardly. “Certified.”

“Jason's my flack,” joked Zen, using an old term for a press agent.

She didn't understand. “You need a nurse?”

“I'm not a nurse,” blurted Jason. “I'm his assistant.”

Mina flushed. So did Jason.

Zen laughed. Clearly he was going to have to coach Jason a bit on how to deal with reporters . . . and women.

When they arrived at the lobby floor, the door opened on a small crowd. Zen felt a flicker of trepidation—were all these people waiting to talk to him? But it was a tour group, queuing to get up to their rooms after dinner. He rolled around them, heading down the corridor to a small conference room. Meanwhile, Jason went over and found a hotel employee.