Revolution (30 page)

Hobbs cast a glance across the table at the President, who was rubbing his temples with his fingers and vaguely shaking his head.

‘Can you tell us what you
do
know, admiral?’ Hobbs asked.

‘What we can say for sure is that the two aircraft in question made a very long and challenging flight, remaining undetected at low level for a long time, before engaging our fighters standing Combat Air Patrol two hundred miles out from the carrier group. The problem is that having reached their objective, they then allowed themselves to be destroyed almost without a fight.’

President Baker spoke without looking out from behind his hands.

‘Make your point, admiral.’

‘My point, Mister President, and the opinion of my pilots is that the aircraft involved in the engagement may not have been Mordanian fighters.’

‘Jesus,’ Hobbs said softly. ‘Thank you, admiral. We will be in touch.’

Hobbs cut off the transmission and leaned back in his chair as the president let out a long sigh of despair.

‘If these aircraft were not Mordanian then who the hell did they belong to?’

Hobbs exhaled with a dramatic sweep of his hands.

‘The Mig–23 has been sold to dozens of countries over several decades – they could belong to anyone in the region; Iran, Kazakhstan, Georgia, even Chechnya might have been able to get their hands on a couple of airframes.’

President Baker stood for a moment with his hands on his hips.

‘But why would they want us to invade Mordania? Bringing our forces there would put us on both sides of Iran, not something that would please them, and the same goes for Kazakhstan. Georgia might welcome the presence, as would Chechnya because it would counter Russian influence in the region, but neither could achieve much through dragging us into conflict there by cooercion or deception.’

Hobbs stroked his chin.

‘I can see no reason as to why they would use jets to impersonate Mordanian fighters, Matthew. Admiral Fry may be reporting these suspicions to cover himself and his pilots in case something comes to light later. We can’t afford to base a political decision on someone’s wild hunch.’

President Baker smiled wryly.

‘And how many decisions have we made based on hunches that turned out to be correct?’

Hobbs returned the rueful smile, but shook his head.

‘Not many where wars are concerned.’

‘How did this happen?’ Baker asked.

‘I don’t know, Mister President,’ Hobbs said.

‘Jesus Christ.’ The president shook his head and stood from his desk, pacing for a moment as he spoke, a habit that he had brought into the presidency from his senate days. ‘You know, Richard, I came into this with such a clear picture of what I wanted to do. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to lead, and have the people of this country realise that for the first time in decades they could have a president whose actions and motivations they understood. What the hell happened to destroy that so quickly?’

The Vice President sighed and gestured helplessly with open palms.

‘That’s politics, Matthew. You knew it before you came here.’

‘I knew what it was before I came here, and it’s that which I wanted to change.’

‘You couldn’t have predicted any of this, least of all that President Akim’s men might have conducted the genocide.’

‘They’re making a fool of me,’ Baker snapped. ‘I pledged my support for Akim’s democratic government, and then learn that they may well be responsible for genocide. I commit to a war, then find out that there may be no case for war. What the hell am I going to say to congress? How the hell do I explain this to the American people?!’

President Baker rubbed his temples. Hobbs was about to speak when the president’s desk–top speaker beeped softly. Baker pressed a button on the speaker.

‘What is it Louise?’

‘There’s a Seth Cain here to see the vice–president, sir.’

The president and Hobbs exchanged a glance.

‘Hold one moment,’ Baker said, and took his finger off the button. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, coming here?’

Hobbs stared vacantly out of the office window for a moment.

‘They wanted this war, you know that.’

‘They hoped for it,’ the president said, suddenly cautious.

‘What are you thinking?’ Hobbs frowned seriously.

‘The unthinkable. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’

The president cleared Cain to enter the Gold Room. The media tycoon arrived a couple of minutes later, sweeping into the office and extending his hand to the president.

‘Mr President, thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice, sir.’

‘At no notice,’ Baker replied, mastering his displeasure and shaking the proffered hand. ‘We have a great deal to do, so if I might ask you to be brief?’

‘Of course,’ Cain said, shaking Hobb’s reluctant hand. ‘Mr President, it would appear that your office, and as a result our country, has suffered something of a reversal of fortune. I’m speaking about the situation in Mordania of course.’

Baker and Hobbs again exchanged a glance but neither spoke, waiting instead for Cain to continue.

‘I have a way of bringing these difficulties to an end,’ the tycoon said.

‘Is that so?’ Hobbs uttered. ‘What do you intend to do? Invade Mordania yourself with a bandolier and grenades?’

Cain smiled grimly.

‘Many of our mutual issues are being caused by the media coverage distorting events on the ground in Mordania. False news, gentlemen, pre–arranged stories, fabricated interviews, falsified information. Much of what is being said about Mordania is not at all true, and I know who is causing it.’

‘Who?’ President Baker snapped.

‘A woman named Megan Mitchell.’

‘The one who’s been captured by Rameron’s troops?’ Hobbs hazarded. ‘She’s not going to be much of a threat now.’

‘You don’t think?’ Cain replied. ‘It was she who got the footage from behind enemy lines for Martin Sigby’s reports. She’s the one who’s trying to show the uprising of General Rameron in a favourable light. She knows that such explosive reports can make her fortune. Do you really think that the rebels aren’t going to take full advantage of that? Before you know it, Mikhail Rameron will be the saviour of his people, the gallant freedom fighter, the rebel with a cause. It’ll be Nelson Mandela all over again. By the time Mitchell’s finished Rameron will have been knighted by the English Queen, interviewed by Oprah and blessed by the frigging pope.’

Hobbs looked uncertainly at the president, who in turn eyed Cain suspiciously.

‘I’m not sure where you’re coming from with this, Seth.’

The tycoon stood before Baker and Hobbs and raised a clenched fist demonstratively.

‘Pull Mitchell out of Mordania, before she can do any more damage. Without her there the rebels will no longer have a means to put their twisted ideaology out to the world and President Akim’s government can maintain some dignity in the face of their crisis. Hell, it would even look good for us: American Special Forces rescue a British reporter from the clutches of the evil tyrant Mikhail Rameron.’

Hobbs frowned.

‘When you say
us,
who are you referring to?’

‘America,’ Cain replied neatly. ‘Each and every one of us. If Rameron’s men have the chance to use Mitchell as a weapon of propaganda the American position will continue to be weakened. Without her there you’ll be able to crush the rebellion, reinstate the government of President Akim and bring peace to Mordania.’

Neither Hobbs nor Baker could think of anything to say. Cain watched them for a moment before pushing his case further.

‘It’s worth it gentlemen. Extract Megan Mitchell, and these difficulties will all come to an end. There are Special Forces units attached to the nearest carrier group, correct? They could be on the ground in two hours from now.’

‘There are already SF units on the ground near Talyn,’ Hobbs said speculatively, ‘watching rebel movements to the north. They could be tasked very easily.’

The president was thinking furiously when his speaker–phone beeped again.

‘What is it Louise?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

‘The French Embassy in New York, Mr President,’
the aide said promptly.
‘They have some issues regarding the recent televised report from Mordania by the GNN crew.’

Hobbs raised an eyebrow and glanced at Cain.

‘Go ahead,’ the president said.

‘They say that the woman in the interview is a fugitive sir, and has been on the run from the French authorities for several years. Something to do with an outlawed activist movement. They’re demanding that President Akim’s government apprehend her and repatriate her to France.’

President Baker nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, Louise.’

He clicked the speaker–phone off and looked at Cain, whose face was creased with a sly grin as he reached into his pocket and retrieved an envelope. He opened it, and handed the contents to the president.

‘Sophie D’Aoust is her real name, a former member of an anarchist movement in France responsible for several deaths. She has been on the run for years.’

Hobbs stepped forward from one side, looking at the picture of Sophie held by the president.

‘Neat, Seth, I’ll give you that,’ Hobbs said.

The president nodded, also looking at Cain.

‘I want you to release a report on all of your stations within two hours, containing every single precise detail of what that French girl did and of how utterly appalling it was. That will discredit everything that’s been reported in Mikhail Rameron’s favour.’

‘Done,’ Cain said without hesitation. ‘By the time we’re finished, she won’t be able to settle into a civilised country anywhere on earth.’

Baker looked at Hobbs. ‘I want you to call Mukhari Akim and suggest that he do exactly as the French have demanded.’

‘I’m sure he will not have an issue with that,’ Hobbs agreed. ‘It’ll clear the way for our forces too. Nobody’s going to believe Martin Sigby’s reports once this gets out. He’ll be totally compromised.

The president regarded Cain for a long moment.

‘What’s in it for you, Seth?’ Baker asked.

Cain smiled at the President.

‘We get to film the war, exclusive rights to the coverage of the liberation of Thessalia. Give me that and I’ll make sure that neither Megan Mitchell or Martin Sigby ever work again.’

***

It was both dark and bitterly cold outside as Megan was led across a large parade ground toward a hospital near the centre of Rameron’s field headquarters. Her accompanying guards no longer restrained her, simply marching in step either side of her as she was led inside the hospital.

Rows of beds lined each of the walls, some with intravenous bags hanging from improvised leather hoops tacked to the ceiling. Wounded men lay everywhere, some with limbs missing, others suffering from burns or shrapnel lesions. The whole hospital was filled with the odours of burnt and decaying flesh, iodine and disinfectant.

Megan found Callum laying in a bed half way down the ward, his arm in a sling and a weary, lethargic expression on his face. He saw Megan coming and smiled weakly.

‘You look bloody awful,’ he said.

Megan had forgotten about her own battered features. She smiled broadly and pain creased her features as her lips split again.

‘They’re sending us back to Thessalia.’

Callum raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s jolly nice of them. What’s the catch?’

‘Prisoner exchange –for Martin Sigby.’

‘No way,’ Callum said as Megan helped him to his feet. ‘They’ll swallow him up and toss him to the dogs.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Megan whispered. ‘And there’s something that they want to show us.’

Megan helped Callum walk to the front door where Bolav, the translator, stood waiting for them. He looked sheepishly at Megan’s bruised and bloodied features.

‘I am sorry, I am so sorry,’ he pleaded emphatically. ‘I told them everything about the man, Sigby.’

‘Forget it,’ Megan said, waving the pathetically apologetic Mordanian aside. ‘We’ve got bigger problems right now, and Martin Sigby’s safe enough in Thessalia.’

Bolav followed them meekly out into the night air. The sky above was clear for the first time in weeks, stars twinkling in the black velvet vacuum of space, but the bitter drop in temperature was turning the snow into ice, the white earth sparkling with crystalline stars of its own under the harsh lights of the compound.

A large truck was idling nearby, its exhaust puffing clouds of smoke that glowed blue–white in the compound’s lights. Twelve rebel soldiers surrounded it, their weapons held at port arms. Megan helped Callum across to the vehicle, with Bolav miserably bringing up the rear.

As Megan climbed aboard after Callum she turned to look across the camp. At the top of the steps leading up to the command centre she could see General Mikhail Rameron watching them, his hands behind his back and his eyes piercing Megan’s even from across the hundred yard compound.

‘My cameras are here,’ Callum said in surprise as he sat on a bench in the rear of the vehicle.

‘I know,’ Megan said quietly, still watching Rameron in the distance.

Bolav clambered aboard the truck and a soldier slammed the rear panel closed, bolting it into place. Surrounded by heavily armed Mordanian rebels huddling together against the bitter night chill, Megan watched out of the back of the truck as it drove through the compound and out of the gates into the dense forest. Within minutes, the brightly lit rebel base had vanished into the impenetrable blackness.

The truck carried them through the dense, pitch–black forests for more than half an hour, rolling them from side to side as the vehicle’s broad and heavy wheels forged ahead through the pitted roads. None of the rebel troopers spoke, each alone with their thoughts, staring at their heavy, muddied boots and trying to ignore the biting cold.

Megan looked across to where Callum was propped against the canvass side of the truck, wrapped snugly in blankets and sleeping. Bolav sat next to him, hugging his knees to his chin and mumbling to himself in the darkness.