Satan's Tail

Jed thought of what a nightmare it would be if he had to speak—how terrible his stutter would be.

The ambassador cited some statistics and then spoke of the “horrible outrage” involved in the stealing of the Oman missile ship.

Jed saw the Kenyan representative frowning.

How could he frown? It was an outrage.

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“Would someone dim the lights?” said the Secretary of State, moving to the final stage of the presentation, showing the evidence Jed had compiled.

There was a scramble at the side of the room as the lights were dimmed. They had given a CD-ROM with the presentation to one of the aides, who’d set up a projector and a screen. As the slide show began, Jed heard the ambassador reading the script he’d written, and cringed. He should have done a much better job, he thought, been more eloquent.

He glanced around and saw more frowns; mostly frowns.

Ford was right: He should have gotten more narrative in. He should have used that slide of the ship exploding. No one would have frowned at that.

The lights came back on. The floor moved to the representative from Oman, who deplored the “action of brazen, misguided thieves and radicals.” He called on the international community for action. Ford turned around and gave Jed a thumbs-up.

Then one by one the other permanent and rotating members of the Security Council took the floor. The Kenyan representative charged that the Americans had “wantonly attacked a peaceful air patrol from the law-abiding country of Ethiopia” and “murdered countless airmen aboard the planes.”

Secretary of State Hartman quickly countered that the aircraft had failed to answer hails and acted in support of the pirates. Even the Ethiopian government had denounced their interference with an American flight, he pointed out, claiming that the unit involved had mutinied.

Of course, Jed and the Secretary of State knew that the Ethiopian government actually authorized the mission, but the U.S. had indicated through back cha

Hartman made some points, but Jed saw that Ford had been far too optimistic. Kenya and France were clearly opposed to the measure. Egypt was on the fence. The objec-

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tions being raised seemed ludicrous to Jed; the rule of law had to be preserved, international sovereignty had to be preserved, America was injecting itself where it didn’t belong.

How about the fact that a hundred people had died since the attacks began? And a few hundred thousand dollars extorted? Money that was being used to kill i

Do nothing? And let the attacks continue? Let more i

Peace was attractive—but it wasn’t the alternative here.

When the French ambassador said he had questions about the attack on the American ship, Ambassador Ford raised his hand and then whispered something to the Secretary of State.

“We can answer those questions,” said Ford when the president of the Security Council acknowledged him. “We invite an open and frank discussion, Mr. President. We will answer any questions about that incident.”

“Where was this attack exactly?” said the French ambassador.

The Secretary of State turned to Jed.

“Like, uh, about twenty miles west of Laasgoray and just outside territorial waters,” whispered Jed.

“Tell them.”

“Me?”

“Go ahead.”

Jed’s throat constricted and he felt his fingers turn ice cold. He leaned forward to the microphone; Ford moved aside.

“The attack took place at approximately forty-seven degrees longitude and just short of thirteen miles from the coast in the Gulf of Aden. I have the GPS point.”

“Very smooth,” replied the Frenchman, smirking. He asked another question, this one about the U.S. forces, which Secretary Hartman took himself.

Ford tugged on Jed’s sleeve and Jed moved back.

“Douceur,” the Frenchman had said. The translator had SATAN’S TAIL

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rendered it as “smooth,” but Jed, who’d taken four years of French in high school and another two in college, realized that wasn’t a precise translation.

Douceur. What did that mean? Sweetness.

A sweet-tongued lie, seemed to be the sense of the remark.

He listened as the session continued. The Russian representative took the floor and began peppering the Secretary of State with questions about pirate attacks that had been made over the previous months.

This is all BS, thought Jed. The Russian knows the answers to those questions because the Secretary of State gave him a background paper with all the information when they met.

The Secretary did not seem to mind, answering the questions patiently. The tone changed with the next speaker, the representative from the United Kingdom, who gave an im-promptu speech on international law on piracy and the prec-edents for following the pirates into territorial waters when sovereignty was being abused by non-nationals.

As the tone of the remarks from the other countries gradually became more diplomatic—and harder to decipher—Jed’s attention wandered. He saw Ford get up and go over to the French delegate; he came back smiling.

A few minutes later a motion was made for a brief recess for di

“Good work, Jed,” said Ford. “Come on now, we’re on to part two.”

“Part two?” Jed turned to the Secretary of State.

“Press conference,” said the Secretary. “Replay for the Sunday papers and talk shows. Important part of the campaign.”

“Oh,” he mumbled.

“We’ll get you some di

Reporters had packed into the auditorium; TV lights were popping in the back as correspondents did brief pieces that could be used to introduce the small snippet or two they would take from the session. A large desklike 256

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wooden table sat on the stage at the front. Jed hung back, but Ford prodded him to come sit at the table, where three chairs were set up.

“Time to face the music,” the ambassador joked in a stage whisper.

Jed forced a smile. His fingers were freezing again.

The Secretary repeated the highlights of his speech—much more forcefully this time, Jed thought—then opened the floor to questions. The reporters were more skeptical than the French ambassador had been, one or two even suggesting that the pirates were “liberators” rather than thieves.

Maniacs maybe, thought Jed.

“Jed, maybe you can talk about that Oman ship,” said the Secretary when the reporters pressed for details.

“Uh, sure. It was basically a patrol boat that was being refitted; you know, like updated. That included putting in missiles. That’s where the Exocets came in. They’re ship-to-ship missiles. These were early model missiles, which limited their effectiveness and—”

“I don’t think we need the technical detail,” said Ford, good-naturedly. “Don’t want to get into classified areas.”

The specs were readily available in open source materials—not to mention company brochures—but Jed was only too glad to have a reason to stop talking.

“There’s a rumor that Dreamland was involved,” said one of the reporters, an older man with an Indian accent.

Jed opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“Cat got your tongue?” said the man.

“N-No,” he said. Feeling his tongue start to stutter, he stopped speaking. A weight pressed on his chest. He wanted to slide through the floor.

“We’d have no comment on that,” said the Secretary of State.

“What sort of Navy force was there?” asked a young Asian woman. “The American force? What is it?”