9. The War on Terror

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June 22, 2002

The White House

Washington, D.C., United States

I felt it in the air; I saw it in my face and in the faces around me. It sapped the heat from my skin and removed the taste from food. It infected me so deeply that my bones ached with it. It had brought an end to the carefree days of my life.

Fear.

Fear changes everything.

I stared through the oak conference table as the President and his cabinet discussed the war. President Bush, Vice President Cheney, State Secretary Powell, and Defense Secretary Rumsfeld formed the spearhead of the War on Terror.

NATO forces had already swept through and occupied Afghanistan, but it wasn't enough. The flow of intelligence on Osama bin Laden was beginning to slow. More military action was needed, without question and without delay.

"...NATO forces in Afghanistan..."

"...Al Qaeda..."

"...Osama bin Laden..."

"...civilian casualties..."

"...network of Islamic extremists..."

"...Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein..."

"...United Nations..."

"...weapons of mass destruction..."

"Madam...?"

I snapped out of my trance and blinked at the aide leaning over my shoulder.

She breathed out an apology. "Phone call for you."

I glared at her. "Hold it," I said irritably.

"O—Of course. Sorry, ma'am."

I finished the meeting with the same disconnected apathy with which I started. When I returned to my office, I found a Post-it note on my desk phone.

Edward Fitzpatrick—line 2

I sat and answered the call on hold. "What is it?"

A long delay indicated that he had put the call on speakerphone. I heard the click of him picking it up. "You're a very difficult woman to reach these days," he answered.

"And...?"

"Did you know that cellular phones can be recharged when the battery runs out?"

I reclined in my seat, hoping for his sake that he had an actual reason for calling me.

He cleared his throat. "Are you coming to the Hague next week?"

"No."

There was a moment of silence as he waited for me to elaborate. "As usual, your absence will be strongly felt," he said remorsefully.

"That's not my problem," I bit back.

"I didn't say it was."

More silence. I pinched the bridge of my nose, knowing that a more serious topic was about to arise. I was sick and tired of explaining myself to England, even though he was the only Nation who contacted me regularly these days. The rallying effect of 9/11 had lasted approximately two seconds.

"I miss you."

I sighed and rested my knuckles on my forehead. Just the thought of boarding a plane turned my stomach, and God forbid England take time away from his precious continent to visit. I felt myself becoming isolated again, separate from and different from the rest of the world. I told myself that I didn't care, as long as the US was safe.

"There's a war on, England."

"I know," he murmured. "I'll make time to visit soon."

"I don't care what you do," I said recklessly.

"...Alright then."

I chewed on my fingernail. The jab was like a two-edged sword, cutting me deeply.

When he spoke again, his tone completely shifted. "Allow me to personally assure you that the UK will support the vote on the Security Council to return the weapons inspectors to Iraq."

"I appreciate that," I said stiffly. "But the UN couldn't find ice in Iceland if it wanted to. And you know that."

I heard his sigh through the phone line. "Trust the process, America," he advised. "Without evidence of weapons of mass destruction, there is no chance the Security Council will pass a resolution authorizing an invasion of Iraq."

I scoffed. "Russia will veto it regardless."

"Not necessarily. If we can demonstrate that..."

As he started to monologue about the righteousness of the UN Security Council, I pulled the phone away from my ear to calm my rising temper. His propensity to argue over every little detail never failed.

"...have to try."

"Of course we have to try," I snapped. "Otherwise NATO will have an illegal invasion on the books."

"Or," he diverged gently, "NATO won't invade at all."

I leaned back in my office chair and hugged my arm around my torso. "Hm."

"What?"

"I hadn't even thought of that."

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