Mission Compromised (23 page)

The National Security Advisor skimmed the page and looked up at Newman. “So, you plan to send all thirty-eight of them on the mission?”

“Yes. There has to be some way of supporting the seven-man team that actually does the mission. This is the only way we can do it—unless someone is willing to dedicate more assets to us for our missions.”

“That's out of the question. But this option may work. I want you to run this by General Komulakov,” said Harrod.

“Who?”

“Dimitri Komulakov. He's in charge of the UN side of this sanctions business. He's a deputy secretary general. I've set up an appointment for you to fly to New York on Monday to meet with him. He'll brief you on their part in this.”

Newman felt a little uneasy.
Their part in this
… he thought.
How much of a part are they going to have in this operation?
Yet he said nothing to Harrod.

“Now, when will they be ready to deploy?” asked Harrod.

“You told us to be ready in thirty days. We've built a plan to do that, but it really isn't enough time. If we were doing a proper work-up for this kind of mission, we shouldn't commit them until March at the earliest. That would also create less of a problem with other units. We can't train just anywhere with this outfit. And if we start pushing other military commands around and bending their training schedules out of shape, there will be a fuss, and the ISEG will be liable to get more visibility than it should have.”

“Who's giving you a problem?” asked Harrod.

“Captain Coombs ran into some resistance when he was making plans for Fort Bragg, and he knows the people down there pretty well. They've already got the place booked with a SOCOM exercise for the next four weeks, so I thought—since we're still in the starting blocks—that we could release our guys for the Christmas holidays and pick up the schedule in January. And if we're going to go after Aidid first, we've got to get this group acclimated. Even this time of year, the temperature in Somalia is better than ninety degrees Fahrenheit every afternoon. I want to take them to the British base in Oman for at least a week, but I'd prefer a month. Unfortunately, the Brits are in a holiday stand-down through the end of the year.”

“What kind of a war is this?” Harrod bellowed. “These guys can
always do their fun and games training nonsense. Do they want us to postpone all wars so they'll fit in with their training schedules?”

“No, sir, but I—” Newman started to say, but Harrod interrupted him.

“Well, never mind. Two weeks won't make or break our schedule. I'll call the Pentagon tomorrow and give Fort Bragg two weeks to get things straightened out. You make your plans to have your men at Bragg on the eighteenth, and get things moving. I want Aidid's head on a stick. You have no idea the humiliation he has caused this President. I'm counting on your team to get him. Have you got Oman confirmed following the training at Bragg?”

Newman nodded. “I originally had them at Bragg after New Year's, but we can push it up and finish there a little early. We should be ready to ship out for Muscat by mid- to late-February—providing everything else stays on schedule and we don't have any other problems.”

“Good,” Harrod said. “Then I'll see you when you get back from New York.”

 

UN World Headquarters

________________________________________

Manhattan, N.Y.

Monday, 5 December 1994

1054 Hours, Local

 

Newman could see the UN headquarters building looming thirty-nine stories into the sky a block east of them as soon as the driver turned left to accommodate the one-way street that the UN building faced. When the vehicle pulled up to the main entrance at First Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, Newman hopped out and headed up to the entry doors.

Although he was early for his appointment, Newman still walked briskly up the expansive area leading to the doors to the building
instead of taking in the sights—he had seen the huge building pictured in so many books, newspapers, magazines, and on TV that it had almost become a visual cliché. The cold wind set up a racket with every gust, making the flags of nearly two hundred nations ripple and snap in the breeze and causing their halyards to rattle against their respective metal flagpoles.

Inside the building, scores of visitors and others with business in the building moved about the vast entrance hall, some resolutely, others at a more leisurely pace. An elementary school group was queuing up with a tour guide as several teachers tried in vain to maintain order. Newman's heels clicked against the beautiful imported marble floors, and the sound echoed across the lobby. He had already noted the contemporary sculpture of a handgun twisted into a knot on the way into the building. Now he was confronted by a large glass case full of similarly destroyed guns of all makes and calibers.
Well, I can see that their politics aren't all that subtle
, Newman thought.

He walked up to the uniformed security guard at the desk and presented himself.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the guard asked.

“Yes,” Newman answered. “I want to go to Operations, thirty-eighth floor.”

“Identification, please.” The security guard took Newman's Marine ID, punched a number on the telephone console in front of him, and waited for an answer. Then he said, “There's a Major Newman here. It says in the appointment book that he has an appointment to see General Komulakov Uh-huh.” Then he covered the mouthpiece and asked Newman for his rank again. Newman realized what the problem was. He hadn't yet been officially promoted and wouldn't be until the Senate confirmed the promotion list, but Harrod had likely identified
him as a lieutenant colonel when he set up the appointment. Newman said, “The ID card says I'm a major, so I'm a major.” The security guard shrugged, and he repeated it into the phone and hung up.

“Someone will be right down to escort you upstairs. You can wait right here.”

Newman nodded and looked around at the architectural beauty of the place and the extravagant artwork. He picked up a brochure from the security desk. As he thumbed through it, he saw pictures of the art displayed throughout the building—original works in such wide-ranging styles as Chagall, Picasso, and Norman Rockwell.

“Major Newman?”

“Yes …”he said as he turned toward the man who was asking.

“I am Major Suva. I will escort you to your appointment.” Major Suva identified himself as an officer in the Fiji Army and an aide to the man Newman had come to see. He turned and walked briskly toward the bank of elevators. Newman followed. But Major Suva walked past them and continued around the corner to where a single elevator was located. On the door was the lettering,
UN STAFF ONLY.
The officer took out a plastic, coded key card and swiped it through the magnetic stripe reader. The elevator opened immediately. The two of them got on and the door closed. The first thing that Newman noticed was that there were no buttons in this elevator for stopping on other floors. It was an express elevator that went only to the thirty-eighth floor. But it wouldn't move until Major Suva used his key card again to activate it.

The Fijian officer was friendly and almost made a ceremony of welcoming Newman as they got off the elevator. Newman could see that they were in an interior hallway, facing a double set of doors that led into an office area. Major Suva bypassed the receptionist's desk and walked straight to the double doors. Once again he used his key card.
As they walked through, Newman considered the expansive, wide hallways with plush carpeting, the mammoth offices with breathtaking views, the original artwork—not just on the walls of the posh offices, but even in the hallways—and he tried to imagine the millions of dollars that had gone into building and furnishing this place.
No wonder the interior decorators who did this place ran out of money before they got to HQMC
, Newman thought, contrasting this opulence with the Marines' cramped, spartan offices with their drab walls and linoleum.

Newman and Major Suva turned left again and went through an arch with a sign above the entrance:
Offices of the First Deputy Secretary General of the United Nations and Director for International Peacekeeping Operations and Military Observers.
Newman had to break stride and stop in order to read the entire sign. He smiled and muttered to himself, “Now that's a mouthful!” He chuckled, remembering his briefing on the UN, when he discovered that most of the officers had exceptionally long titles.
It must be that the bigger the big shot, the more words he has in his title
, he thought. Major Suva escorted Newman into a huge anteroom outside the first deputy's inner office. Again Newman was struck by the extravagance.

At the Fijian officer's request, Newman sat on the leather couch that made a soft
whoosh
when he sat down. The coffee table in front of him must have been six feet square, an artistic piece of furniture that was part marble and part wood and glass. The one-piece, glass slab for the table was more than an inch thick and was balanced on five round marble balls almost twenty inches in diameter, which acted as legs and a center support. It was truly a work of art. On the walls he saw huge oil and acrylic paintings, wall hangings and tapestries of exotic fabric, and a huge portrait of the UN Secretary General.

On top of the wall-to-wall carpeting was an enormous Persian rug, probably twelve-by-twenty feet.
Good grief
, Newman thought,
Rachel and I couldn't afford carpeting that cost thirty dollars per yard, and these characters are covering stuff that's even more expensive with another carpet.

On the office door, Newman saw a smaller-sized version of the wordy sign he'd seen on the way through the arch, this time inscribed in gold letters on black marble. And below the sign was the name of the first deputy,
DIMITRI KOMULAKOV
, in raised black letters an inch high on a gold plaque.

Newman was kept waiting for nearly an hour before the door opened and a tall man stepped briskly toward him, his arm extended for a handshake. Newman stood and extended his own hand. The handshake was firm and friendly. “Major Newman, or is it Lieutenant Colonel? I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, my friend,” he said in fluent American English. “I'm General Dimitri Komulakov.”

The man did not look like a typical general—he was wearing what appeared to be a one-thousand-dollar-plus dark-blue suit. Nor did he sound like a Russian. Instead of answering the man's question, Newman asked one of his own: “You're an American?”

Komulakov laughed. “No, I am originally from Minsk and served in my government for the past thirty-one years. I was based in your country for most of that time. I wasn't much more than a kid when I started, and I guess by now I've all but lost my accent. It's gotten to the point that I even think in English now.”

Newman nodded. “Were you in the diplomatic service?”

“Yes, something like that,” Komulakov answered. “A decade ago, we were adversaries in the Cold War. Now here we are.”

Newman understood the subtext. Komulakov had worked for the KGB as a spy in America. The Marine lieutenant colonel had trouble
thinking of the Russians as good guys yet, and wasn't quite as willing as his commander in chief to let bygones be bygones. Newman was ushered into the man's office; its opulence made even Harrod's posh office look frugal. Komulakov looked like he belonged here. He was tall and trim, his hair was dark blond and styled, and his skin was tanned to a deep bronze. Komulakov sat in a morocco-leather chair and reached for a Limoges cup and saucer sitting by a silver carafe on his desk.

“Please, sit. Would you like some coffee?”

“No thank you, General. I had plenty on the plane on the way up from Washington.”

“Then let's get down to business,” Komulakov said, gently placing the expensive china back on the corner of his massive desk.

“I'm told that you've had a rather broad base of experience in military matters,” the general said.

“Yes, I guess you could say that. I'm a United States Marine,” Newman said confidently.

“I see,” Komulakov said without inflection. “And you have been briefed thoroughly on your assignment?”

“Yes. And for the past three days I've been briefing my men. But as I'm sure you understand, there is much work that they have to do before they will be ready to be committed. But, if you don't mind, General, I would like some confirmation that all that we're being prepared to do really does have the backing of international law, as Dr. Harrod has said.”

“You don't trust your own National Security Advisor?” Komulakov asked incredulously.

“It's not about me trusting anybody. I'm responsible for the lives and safety of thirty-eight very good men. I've met them all. I just want
to be sure that what we're engaged in is all ‘legit,' if you know what I mean. Can you reassure me along that line?”

“Reassure you?” For an instant Komulakov's eyes squinted, and Newman saw in that brief microsecond an element of something he didn't like. But just as quickly the Russian composed himself and leaned forward. “Yes, of course. We all get a little suspicious, I suppose. Maybe it's because of the paranoia and suspicion of our former occupations and the innate cynicism and distrust that we previously had for each other. But it truly is a new world order, and some things will take a little getting used to.

“But to reassure you … yes, I can do that. The world is getting smaller, and all nations are beginning to want peace. War is too expensive, and in our era it's also terribly ineffective. It used to be that you simply put two mighty armies on a battlefield and let them fight it out. To the winner went the spoils, eh? Not anymore. You may be surprised at what I say, but the dominance of America and the collapse of the Soviet Union were inevitable. Right now, my country is in disarray and struggling to find itself. But thankfully, now we can do it without the Cold War pressures, and through workable United Nations political processes, we will do it.