Martha hoped that nothing had happened. Hardaway was a cousin and protégé of CIA Director Larry Rachlin, and his appointment had been a necessary expedience. In order to keep Op-Center free of CIA influence, the President had wanted an outsider to run it. However, to appease the intelligence community, he was pressured to put in a veteran as Hood's backup. Though the Oklahoma-born Hardaway was an affable man with the intelligence skills necessary for the job, Martha found him to be uninspired and uninspiring. He also had a talent for speaking before thinking things through. Fortunately for Op-Center, the powerful Hood-Rodgers-Herbert triumvirate set very rigid policies during the day, and Hardaway had never been able to muck things up too badly.
Martha picked up the phone on the end table beside the couch. She called Hardaway. He picked up immediately.
"You'd better get on over," he said. "This mess is going to bleed into your shift."
"I'm coming," she said, and hung up. Hardaway was as tactful as ever.
The employee lounge was located near the Tank, a windowless conference room which sat within an electronic web. There wasn't a spy device on Earth that could hear what was discussed inside it. Turning left from the lounge and walking down the curving wall would have brought her past the Tank to the offices of Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers, and Paul Hood in turn. Martha turned right. Walking briskly, she passed her own office, followed by the office of FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll's computer area--"the orchestration pit," he called it--and the legal and environmental sections where Lowell Coffey and Phil Katzen worked. The psychological and medical divisions came next, followed by the radio room, the small Striker office for Brett August, and Ann Farris's two-person press department.
As hurried along, Bob Herbert came wheeling up behind her. "Did Curt tell you what's been going on?"
"No," she said. "Only that there's a mess and it's going to hemorrhage all over my desk."
"A little raw but true," Herbert said. "All hell's broken out in Damascus. I got a call from Warner. They had a suicide bomber at the Azem Palace. He killed the President's double."
"That cobbler?"
Herbert nodded.
"Then the President probably isn't even in Damascus," Martha said. "What about Ambassador Haveles?"
"He was at the palace," Herbert said. "He's shaken but unhurt. Now the palace is under siege. Unfortunately, Warner is still in the room where the bomb went off and can't tell us much. I switched him over to Curt. We're keeping that line open."
"And Paul" Martha asked.
"He left the room to look for the DSA guys who came with them."
"He should've stayed put," Martha said. "They may show up while he's gone and leave without him."
"I'm not so sure anyone's going anywhere," Herbert said "Not unless they know some shortcuts by heart. Israeli satellite recon shows fighting on all sides. Looks like about forty or fifty plainclothes attackers in the process of breaching the wall. Syrian Army regulars just showed up to defend the palace. Ten whole men."
"That's what they get for sending their troops north," Martha said. "What's it all mean?"
"Some of my people think it's a Turkish assault with Israeli support," Herbert said. "The Iranians are saying we're behind it. Larry Rachlin's wanted to take the President down for a long time because of Syria's involvement with terrorists. But he swears that CIA undercovers aren't at part of this."
"What do you think?" Martha asked as she knocked on Hardaway's door. It clicked open. She hesitated before opening it.
"I'm putting my money on the Kurds," Herbert said.
"Why?"
"Because they're the only ones who have anything to gain from all of this," he said. "Also, process of elimination. My Israeli and Turkish contacts seem as genuinely surprised by what's happening as we are."
Martha nodded as the two of them went inside.
Skinny, bearded Curtis Sean Hardaway was behind his desk looking at his computer. His eyes were circled with dark rings, and the trash can was filled with chewing-gum wrappers. Mike Rodgers's backup, natty young Lieutenant General William Abram, was seated in a wing chair. His laptop was open on his knees. His thick black eyebrows came together above his nose, and his eyes were alert beneath them. His thin-lipped mouth was relaxed between two ruddy cheeks.
Soft crackling and occasional pops came from the speaker phone on Hardaway's desk.
Hardaway snapped his gum and looked over. "Good morning, Martha. Bob, I haven't heard a word from Warner since you turned him over to me."
"Just gunfire," Abram said in a low monotone, "and static from military communications."
"So we don't know if Paul found the DSA operatives," Martha asked.
"We do not," said Hardaway. "The President wants extraction options by seven-fifteen, and frankly there aren't many. We've got the Marine guards at the embassy, but they've got no jurisdiction outside the embassy--"
"Though they can always extricate first and answer questions later," said Abram.
"True," said Hardaway. "We've also got a Delta Team at Incirlik. They can be scrambled and on the palace roof in forty minutes."
"Which creates problems if the Turks are behind this," Abram said, "because we'll be shooting at allies."
"To save our ambassador," Martha said.
"Not if he isn't a target," Abram pointed out. "So far, we have no indication that he or any of the other ambassadors are in any danger."
Hardaway glanced at his watch. "There's one other option, which is to recall Striker and get them into Damascus. We've spoken with Tel Nef. They can get the team back and choppered to the palace within thirty minutes."
"No!" Herbert said emphatically.
"Hold on, Bob," Martha said. "Aideen already cleared it with the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee to have them go to the Middle East. Of the three groups, they're the only ones with any kind of authority."
"Absolutely not," Herbert replied. "We need them to get our people out of the Bekaa."
Martha looked at him. "Don't give me 'absolutely nots,' Bob," she said. "Not with Paul and our ambassador in the line of fire-"
"We don't know if they're in immediate danger," Herbert replied.
"Immediate danger?" Martha yelled. "Robert, the palace is under attack!"
"And the ROC and its crew are in the hands of terrorists!" Herbert yelled back. "That danger is real and Striker's within shouting range of it. Let them finish the mission they were sent to accomplish. Christ, they may not even have floor plans of the palace. You can't send them in blind."
"Armed and equipped they're hardly blind," Martha said.
"But they've studied the Bekaa," Herbert said. "They prepared for this mission. Look, you've got Warner on the line. Wait till Paul gets back. Let him make the call."
"You know what he'll say," Martha replied.
"Damn right I do," Herbert snapped. "He'll tell you to keep Striker on target and your ambition on a short leash."
"My ambition?"
"Yeah," Herbert said. "You save the ambassador and you score big-time brownie points with the State Department. What do you think, I don't know what your career map looks like?"
Martha stiffened with rage as she looked down at Herbert. "You talk to me like that and you'll find some roadblocks on your map--"
"Martha, calm down," Hardaway said. "Bob, you too. You've been up all night. And I'm running out of time here. The Striker issue may be academic in any case. The President plans to decide by seven-thirty this morning whether to destroy the ROC with a Tomahawk missile fired from the USS Pittsburgh in the Mediterranean."
"Aw, Christ!" Herbert said. "He was supposed to give us time!"
"He did. Now he's afraid the Kurds will use the ROC against the Syrians and Turks."
"Of course they will," Abram said, "if they aren't using it already."
"You're assuming they've figured out how," Herbert said. "Getting the ROC up and running isn't like starting a goddamn rental car."
; "If someone shows them how, it is," Abram said.
Herbert glared at him. "Watch it, Bill--"
"Bob," Abram said, "I know you and Mike are close. But we have zero intelligence on what the terrorists might have done to persuade our people to talk."
"I'm sure your brother officer would appreciate that vote of confidence."
"This isn't about Mike," Martha said. "There are three civilian hostages as well. They aren't made of the same stuff Mike is."
"Not many people are," Herbert said., "Which is all the more reason to get him the hell out! We need him. And we owe it to the others we sent over there."
"If feasible," Martha said. "It may not be."
"Especially if we give up!" Herbert barked. "Jesus, I wish we were all on the same page here."
"So do I," Martha replied coldly. "The question is whether the hostages are lost to us and whether we should redirect our assets to Damascus."
"Martha's right," Hardaway said. "If that missile is launched we'll have no choice but to abort the Striker mission. Otherwise, the entire unit may get tagged along with the ROC and its crew."
Herbert folded his hands tightly in his lap. "We've got to give Striker time. Even if the Tomahawk flies, it'll take at least a half hour to reach its target. That may be time enough to get the ROC crew out. But if you withdraw Striker, Mike and the others are dead. Period. Is there anyone in this room who disagrees with that?"
No one spoke. Hardaway looked at his watch again. "Two minutes from now I've got to give our recommendation to the President regarding the situation at the palace. Martha?"
"I say we divert Striker," she said. "They're equipped, they're in the field, and they are the only legally defensible option we have."
"Bill?"
"I agree," said Abram. "I also think they're better trained than Delta, certainly better than the Marine guards at the embassy."
Hardaway looked at Herbert. "Bob?"
Herbert rubbed his hands on his face. "Leave Striker alone. They can still get clear of the Tomahawk with a window of five minutes to impact. That gives them at least a half hour to get the ROC crew out."
"We need them in Damascus," Martha said slowly.
Herbert pressed his fingertips to his forehead. Suddenly, he dropped his hands to his lap. "What if I can get someone else to help Paul and the ambassador?"
"Who?" she asked.
"It's a long shot," he said. "I don't know if the Iron Bar will let me have them."
"Who?" Martha repeated.
"People who can be there in about five minutes." Herbert picked up a secure phone on a small table near the wing chair. He pressed an unlit line and told his assistant to put him through to Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa.
Hardaway looked at his watch. "Bob, I've got to call the President."
"Tell him to give me five more minutes," Herbert told the hollow-eyed Assistant Deputy Director of Op-Center. "Tell him I will get Paul and the ambassador out without using Striker, or my resignation will be on Martha's desk before noon."
* * *
FORTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 12:17 p.m.,
the Mediterranean Sea
The Tomahawk is a cruise missile which can be fired from torpedo tubes or from specially constructed vertical launch tubes. There are four kinds of Tomahawk: the TASM or antiship missile; the TLAM-N or land-attack missile equipped with a nuclear warhead; the TLAM-C, a land-attack missile with a conventional warhead; and the TLAM-D, a land-attack missle equipped with low-yield bomblets.
After the twenty-five-foot-long Tomahawk has been launched via rocket booster, small wings snap from the sides and lock into place. The rocket shuts down within a few seconds of firing and the missile's turbofan engine kicks in. By then, the Tomahawk has attained its flying speed of over five hundred miles an hour. As it scoots low over the land or ocean, its guidance unit keeps it on target with input from a radar altimeter. Following a computerized flight path, the Tomahawk quickly reaches its pre-landfall waypoint. This is the site which enables the missile to spot and lock on its first navigation point--typically a hill, a building, or some other fixed structure. After that, the onboard Terrain Contour Matching system or TERCOM carries the Tomahawk from point to point, often through sharp turns, sharp ascents, or dizzying dives. Corroboration of the course is provided by the Digital Scene Matching electro-optical system, a small television camera which compares the actual visuals to those stored in the TERCOM's memory. If there is any discrepancy, such as a parked truck or new structure, the DSMAC and TERCOM will quickly determine whether the rest of the image is correct and that the missile is on-target. If not, it sends a signal home which can be answered with one of two commands: continue or abort.
The TERCOM data is prepared by the Defense Mapping Agency and then forwarded to a Theater Mission Planning Center. From there, it is transmitted via satellite uplink to the launch site. When previously unmapped regions are targeted, up-to-the-minute satellite imagery is employed by the DMA. Depending upon the accuracy of the mapping, the Tomahawk is precise enough to destroy a car-sized target thirteen hundred miles away.
Presidential Directive M-98-13 was received by the communications shack of the USS Pittsburgh at 12:17 p.m. local time. The encrypted order was sent digitally, via secure satellite uplink, and was quickly decoded and hand-carried to the submarine's Captain George Breen.
The task directive gave Captain Breen his mission, his target, and his abort code. One of the twenty-four Tomahawks his submarine was carrying was to be launched of 12:30 p.m. local time toward a target in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley. The precise coordinates were provided, backed up by the DMA TERCOM data for the missile itself. If the target were moved, the Tomahawk would switch to a fallback guidance program. The missile would search to the horizon for visual, microwave, electromagnetic, and other characteristics which in combination could only describe the target. It would then lock onto the object and destroy it. The only way to order the missile to self-destruct before reaching its target was if the captain received the abort code HARDPLACE.
Captain Breen signed the directive and passed it to Weapons Officer E.B. Ruthay. Stationed in the control room, he worked with Console Operator Danny Max to load the flight data into the Tomahawk's computer. After it was downloaded and checked, the USS Pittsburgh slowed to a speed of four knots. It rose to periscope depth. Captain Breen gave the order to launch the missile. The hydraulically operated doors of one of the submarine's twelve forward-located vertical launch system tubes was opened. The pressure cap used to protect the missile was ordered withdrawn. The Tomahawk was ready for firing.
Captain Breen was informed of the missile's status. After making sure that there were no hostile aircraft or surface ships within detection range, he ordered Ruthay to fire at will. Acknowledging the order, the weapons officer inserted his launch key into the console, turned it, and pressed the firing button. The submarine shook perceptibly as the missile took off on its 455-mile journey.
Within five seconds of ascertaining that the Tomahawk was airborne, Captain Breen gave the order for the submarine to depart the region at once. As the crew took her deeper out to sea, Console Operator Max continued to monitor the missile's progress. During the next thirty-two minutes, he would not leave his station. If the command came from the captain or weapons officer for the mission to be aborted, it would be Max's responsibility to input the code for the satellite uplink and then push the red "destruct" button.
The USS Pittsburgh had a long history of firing Tomahawks. This included, most proudly, a flurry of missiles launched during Desert Storm. During that time, all of the Tomahawks had struck their targets. In addition, the submarine had never received an abort command.
This was Max's first firing of a non-test missile. His palms were damp and his mouth was dry. It was a matter of pride that Tomahawk's ninety-five-percent accuracy rate not catch up to the submarine's one-hundred-percent success rate on his watch.
He glanced at the digital countdown clock. Th
irty-one minutes.
Max also hoped that he wouldn't have to pull the plug on his bird. If he did, it would take weeks for the rest of the crew to let up on the "firing blanks" and "unleaded pencil" jokes.
He watched the data stream in from the blazing missile as it prepared to cross two narrow time zones.
Thirty minutes.
"Fly, baby," Max said quietly, with a paternal smile. "Fly."
* * *
FORTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 3:33 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley
Phil Katzen sat at Mary Rose's station inside the ROC. An armed, English-speaking Kurd stood on either side. Each time Katzen was about to turn something on, he had to explain what it was. One man took notes while the other listened. All the while, sweat trickled down Katzen's ribs. Exhaustion burned his eyes. And guilt churned inside of him. Guilt, but not doubt.
Like most boys who'd ever played soldier or watched a war movie, Phil Katzen had asked himself the question often: How do you think you'd hold up under torture? The answer was always: Probably okay, as long as I was just being beaten or held underwater or maybe electrified. As a kid you think about yourself. You never think: How would you hold up if someone else were being tortured? The answer was very badly. And that had surprised him. But a lot had happened between the days when he'd played soldier in the backyard and now. He had gone to college at Berkeley. He'd seen the campus paralyzed by student marches for human rights in China and Afghanistan and Burma. He'd helped care for students who were weakened by hunger strikes against the death penalty. He himself had partaken in fish-free weeks to protest Japanese fishing tactics which netted dolphins along with tuna. He'd even gone shirtless for a day to call attention to the plight of sweatshop works in Indonesia.
Acts Of War (1997) Page 31
