Reed nodded. “I agree. For years now Admiral Scott and others like him have been telling us that the U.S. can’t keep playing the role of world policeman. That’s true. But it’s also true that the world needs a policeman, and the only way I can see us getting one is to give the UN both the power and the prestige to do the job. This would be an ideal first step.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Magruder said quietly. “You just might get it.”
Reed raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been quiet this morning, Admiral Magruder. I suppose you share Admiral Scott’s viewpoint in this? Military tradition and national sovereignty and historical precedent and all the rest?” There was a note of contempt in her voice. Of all the services, the Navy was widely known to be Reed’s pet peeve, and she made little effort to hide how she felt.
“I’m as much concerned with practical questions as I am with tradition and precedent, Madam Secretary,” Magruder said slowly, keeping his voice flat and emotionless. “Since Desert Storm, everyone’s looked on the UN as the ideal foundation for the “New World Order.’ But for most of its history the UN has been anything but a reliable friend to the United States. How many times did we have to impose our veto to protect our national interests, or our allies’?”
“That was in the Cold War, Admiral,” Heideman said. “Now that we’re the world’s only superpower, we’re in a much better position to influence the UN agenda.”
“And when China is powerful enough to influence the agenda, are we going to feel the same way? Or Japan? Or Europe? If the twentieth century has taught us anything, it’s the fleeting nature of power blocs and alliances and national status. Before World War I, England, France, and Germany were the world’s superpowers. Less than a hundred years have passed, and look at the world today. Major powers have come and gone, alliances have changed, priorities are different. The world has changed in ways they never could have imagined a century ago. And it will keep on changing. New World Orders may be politically fashionable now, but don’t gamble our freedom on short-term fashions that could change tomorrow!”
“Your fears are groundless,” Heideman said. “The UN would never intervene against the United States.”
“That’s right,” Reed said. “We’d still have our power of veto.”
Magruder paused, his fingers drumming the tabletop. “I wonder. Does anybody here remember when the UN passed sanctions against Australia to force them to overrule one of their state governments when it passed laws against sodomy?”
“It was an archaic attitude.”
“Madam Secretary, it was an internal matter that the UN blatantly decided to get involved in. They might just as well have decided to pass sanctions against us because of the antisodomy laws still on the books in Mississippi or Alabama. And the time could come when a United Nations with all this symbolic prestige and real military power you want to give it could turn that power against us for reasons that are just as trivial.”
“Admiral, I think we all take your point,” Waring said. “Certainly the question of giving the UN control over any part of our military forces is one we shouldn’t decide on hastily. But I think you’re overreacting when it comes to this Crimean matter. Frankly, the President is concerned about the buildup of tensions in this part of the world. He wants to send a message to the warring factions that this sort of anarchy can’t be tolerated, not when the rest of the world’s population could be at risk if this thing turns nuclear. Anything, anything that will defuse this unfortunate situation should be seriously considered.” He paused, frowning, then rapped twice on the tabletop. “I will recommend to the President that our battle group in the Black Sea be placed under UN command and cooperate with them in receiving the surrender of the Crimea.”
“Sir-” Admiral Scott began.
“That is all,” Waring said. “This meeting is adjurned.”
With a rustling of papers and the scraping of chairs, the men and women in the conference room began gathering their things and getting up from the table. Scott exchanged a long, weary look with Magruder. Neither man said anything, however.
One long-standing tradition of America’s military remained firm and unshaken, and that was the tradition of political control of the armed forces. Determining policy was the job of the politicians, not of the military; admirals and generals could advise, but when the policy decisions were handed down, it was their duty to shut up and carry out their orders.
Magruder just hoped that this wouldn’t turn out to be one policy decision that the United States would end up bitterly regretting.
CHAPTER 12
Jefferson’s main briefing room was part of CVIC, the Carrier Information Center, and, like the department, was generally known as “Civic.” It was located aft of Flag Plot, where the admiral in command of the battle group maintained his command center when he was aboard. Rows of folding chairs were set up facing one end of the room, which was dominated by a podium and a rear-screen projector. The walls were hung with artwork ― a large painting of the Thomas Jefferson underway, and smaller framed prints of various scenes drawn from U.S. naval history. One painting, hung near the larger one, was a recent addition. It depicted Jefferson in the narrow confines of a rugged fjord during the desperate fight for Norway. Tombstone Magruder studied it for a moment before finding a seat, remembering the day it had been presented to Admiral Tarrant and Captain Brandt by the men and women of the Air Wing. Lieutenant Commander Frank Marinaro, call sign “Nightmare,” liked to paint in his off-duty hours and was quite an accomplished artist. It had been a gift to commemorate the end of Jefferson’s last eventful cruise.
Now it was another cruise, a different sea. Some of the men and women were the same; others were new. The ship, however, carried on.
Glancing around the large room, Tombstone thought of the other times he had been summoned here. An admiral’s CVIC briefing for senior CBG personnel usually signaled the beginning of a major new operation, often one involving combat. He caught sight of the air deployment’s senior staff near the front of CVIC and moved down the center aisle to join them. Coyote was there, along with Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee, the CAG’s department intelligence officer, and Lieutenant Commander David Owens, the OC chief of staff. Owens looked up as Magruder approached.
“Have a seat, CAG,” he said. “We’ve got the good seats, for a change.”
“Is this a briefing or a movie premiere?” Lee asked with a grin. “Maybe I should’ve brought popcorn.”
“I doubt the admiral would approve,” Tombstone replied, sitting down.
“You’re in charge of intelligence, Art. Any idea what’s going on?”
Lee shook his head. “Not a clue, CAG. I heard tell the admiral’s staff was up half the night with a long decoding job from Washington, but nobody’s leaking.”
“That’s ominous all by itself,” Coyote commented. “Either we just got some pretty hairy new orders, or Sammie Reed’s issued another set of sensitivity guidelines!”
“Please, not that,” Owens said in mock horror. “Anything but that! I’ll spill everything I know, but spare me another sensitivity class”
Some of the officers nearby chuckled. In the last few years the Pentagon’s increasing shift to political correctness had made the institution a laughingstock in the front lines. “I’ve been waiting for a directive telling us we’ve got too many ships named after men,” someone said. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them rename the Stephen Decatur after some feminist icon!”