The President greeted the working group in the Oval Office, accepted their condolences on the loss of the First Lady, and seated himself behind Rutherford B. Hayes’ desk. He turned to the Secretary of State. “What’s on the agenda?” he said.
“Firstly, Mr. President,” the Secretary said, “I’m relieved to report that Israel, Syria, the Palestinians, and Iraq have been persuaded to reduce their state of military alert.”
“Good work. Thank you, Darrell.”
The Secretary smiled in acknowledgment. “We’ve got alarming news from the Balkans, sir. We are receiving bulletins on the persecution by Macedonia of its Albanian minority.”
“Which Macedonia?” the President asked. The Greeks held onto the view that their Macedonia was the real one, with the state that called itself Macedonia being made up entirely of imposters. The Greeks were more or less alone in this view, but still the distinction created a degree of uncertainty in the terminology.
“The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” the Secretary clarified. “Though the Greek Macedonians would probably be happy to persecute their Albanians as well, come to that.”
“And what form does the Former Yugoslavs’ persecution take?”
“Attacks on villages by paramilitaries. Minor ethnic cleansing.” The Secretary sighed. “I regret to say that minor ethnic cleansing, unless checked, often turns into major ethnic cleansing.” And, he did not need to add an ethnic cleansing that would further destabilize a region that was already one of the most explosive places on earth. If Macedonia became unstable, Greece might very well intervene against the small nation that dared to usurp the name that Greece considered its own. The Serbs, friendly with the Greeks, might seize the opportunity to restore their hegemony in Bosnia and Kosovo. Turks might view any larger conflict as their chance to adjust their borders with Greece. The Serbs were loathed by the Bosnians, Croatians, Kosovars, and Albanians, and the Montenegrins didn’t think much of them either. All of these might view with favor the chance to reduce the influence, territory, or army of Serbia.
The Balkans had already graced the planet with the First World War. A certain degree of concern, the consensus considered, was definitely in order.
The President, swathed in his strangely congenial mental habit of cotton wool, had difficulty summoning any degree of concern whatever. But he was aware that the President ought to be concerned about such things, and he made the appropriate responses.
“What can we do about it?” the President asked.
“There are already NATO soldiers in Macedonia,” the National Security Advisor said. “Patrolling the borders of Kosovo and Albania at the request of the Macedonian government. But they are lightly armed, dispersed through the countryside, and vulnerable to retaliation should they attempt to intervene in any local matters.”
The National Security Agency had been created as an activist organization by President Kennedy, frustrated by the cautious diplomacy of the career diplomats at State. Traditionally the NSA was interventionist, willing to charge into any crisis with any amount of force; while the woolly minded diplomats at Foggy Bottom preferred caution, more caution, and endless talk.
The two men in the Oval Office reversed this tradition. The Secretary of State was a bouncy activist, a kind of muscular missionary for American values who was willing to take troubles by the neck and shake them till their teeth rattled. The National Security Advisor, a military man, had always been far more cautious. The President had the impression that the general did not want to commit force anywhere in the world unless he had a million armed men, bases and supplies prepositioned, a resolution from the UN Security Council, and a forecast predicting six weeks of perfect weather. The President often thought of his Security Advisor as his General in Charge of Saying No.
No, as far as the President could discern through the strange inconsequential mist that seemed to envelop him, seemed the proper response to this situation. “Let’s dump this in the Europeans’ lap,” he said.
“Sir,” said the Secretary of State. He bounced with impatience on his Federal period armchair. “The Europeans have shown themselves consistently unable to deal with ethnic conflicts on their own continent.”
“Well,” said the President, “let them learn.”
“Without us,” Darrell persevered, “they have no leadership. They’re a committee without a head—you can’t run a crisis by committee. Not with a dozen or fifteen countries all having an equal vote with Luxembourg.”
“If they need leadership, then lead them,” the President said. “Give them orders, if you like. But don’t commit American resources. They will understand the reasons.”
The American people, with their economy in ruins and a large percentage of their population living in camps or wandering for an indefinite period as refugees, would not look kindly on an administration that committed its forces to the defense of the Albanian minority of the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. If the President tried, Congress would go berserk.
Albanians would die—die horribly, tortured and raped and bludgeoned—but the President knew that most congressmen would rather see fifty thousand Albanians publicly tortured to death on CNN than to have a single serviceman from their home district come home in a box. Probably most of them, like their constituents, could not even find Albania or Macedonia on a map.
It was the Albanians’ loss that the planet’s only remaining superpower was so pig-ignorant of the world, but there you were. Those who did not know history, the President thought, were doomed to watch it being made by other people. He smiled to himself in appreciation of this little private witticism. The President became vaguely aware that the Secretary of State had shifted to another topic. “Russian paramilitaries, sir,” the Secretary of State. “Infiltrating into Georgia in large numbers—infiltrating, hell,” he added scornfully, “they’re taking buses and planes. Mercenaries, former Spetznaz men, old Gamsakhurdians, Russian Mafia, South Ossetian and Abkhazian separatists…”
“Aiming at what?” the President said, interrupting because he saw no point in the list going on. It was one of the facts of post-Cold War geopolitics that he knew who these people were, that a revolt of Gamsakhurdians and South Ossetians was something for which he was intellectually prepared. The Secretary shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’re after control of the new oil pipelines, maybe they just want to keep the Georgians running scared. Maybe they want to annex Abkhazia. Who knows if the Russians even know what they’re after? It’s a way of keeping the pot stirring in the Near Abroad. If things turn chaotic enough, they may be able to find some advantage. Or loot, that being what a lot of Russian generals are after these days.”
“And our options?”
“Our soldiers in Georgia are few and highly specialized,” said the National Security Advisor. “They are certainly not prepared to intervene in any Georgian civil conflict.”
The President blinked. He turned his gaze on the advisor. “We have military assets in the Georgian Republic?” he said.
“Certainly. Special ops people, trainers and advisors, and communications specialists listening in on communications in Russia, Ukraine, and other areas of interest.”
The President supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d probably been told this at one time or another, and forgot.
“Well,” he said, attempting something that was half a joke, “I suppose it would be unwise to start a conflict with Russia.”
“We can’t do anything for Georgia other than let the Russians know we’re paying attention,” the Secretary agreed. “The Russians would go ballistic if we interfered with their arrangements in the Near Abroad.”