John Birmingham - Without warning

‘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?’ Admiral 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 US government policy towards 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 take a leap 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 manoeuvres, 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 militarised 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 grey, 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. (The navy man had flat refused to stand in for the latter 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 to him.

‘Admiral, thank you for seeing me.’ The Israeli smiled, lighting up his wide brown eyes. ‘I understand 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. Warat did so, placing the briefcase by his feet. Through the windows behind the envoy, the old sailor enjoyed a sweeping view from Halawa Heights down to the harbour, which looked magnificent under a high sun. A few wisps of cloud 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 than normal, which was saying something. ‘Life is trouble, Admiral,’ he replied. ‘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 ten days sluicing out of him. The small adrenalin surge didn’t help with his headache, however. That just grew worse. ‘How so, sir?’ he asked guardedly.

Warat consulted his watch and seemed to hesitate. He rubbed his fingers together and shifted nervously in his place, 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 slowly, 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 parlour full of opportunists and crazy men. Hamas, Islamic Jihad, al-Qaeda…’

Ritchie nodded but said nothing. Just that morning they had lost the USS Hopper and two hundred men to a swarm of jihadi suicide attackers on jet skis. You don’t lose an Aegis cruiser 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 with 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 US forces from the region in general, are understandable,’ he continued, ‘if short-sighted 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 US Government policy, as you would be aware. I would characterise it as a tactical withdrawal, not a strategic retreat.’

‘Or abandonment,’ prompted 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.’

The Israeli 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, and the barbarians 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.