Acts Of War (1997)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04

  Prementine's heart drummed as he looked at his watch. There were five seconds left.

  August leaned out the door. "It's ours!" he cried.

  "Do it!" Prementine said to Honda.

  "This is Striker B-Team!" Honda said into the phone. "The ROC is ours! Repeat! The ROC is ours!"

  * * *

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.,

  Washington, D. C.

  Bob Herbert actually had two lines open to the White House, just in case one of them went down. Martha Mackall's desk phone and also the cellular phone on his wheelchair were both connected to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Herbert was using the cell phone while Martha listened in on the other line. They were alone now, the night crew having left and the rest of the day team focusing on tensions which were still at a peak in the Middle East.

  "Striker has retaken the ROC," Herbert told General Ken Vanzandt. "Request immediate Tomahawk abort."

  "Acknowledged and hold," said Vanzandt.

  Herbert listened as what he called the "ball and chain of command" made its way from the people at the site, through the military bureaucracy, back to the site again. He would never understand why the soldiers on the scene, the people whose lives were at risk, couldn't simply radio the HARDPLACE abort order to the missile. Or at least to Commander Breen on the USS Pittsburgh.

  By this time, Vanzandt should have passed the word to his Naval liaison. With any luck, he would call the submarine directly. And promptly. The missile was due to strike in just over two minutes, and there was no window for error or delay. The time it would take a member of this relay team to sneeze could bring the Tomahawk an eighth of a mile closer to its target.

  "This is madness," Herbert grumbled.

  "This is a necessary checks-and-balances," Martha said.

  "Please, Martha," Herbert said. "I'm tired and I'm scared for our people there. Don't talk to me like I'm a goddamned intern."

  "Don't act like one," Martha replied.

  Herbert listened to the silence on the other end of the phone. It was only slightly more frustrating than Martha.

  General Vanzandt came back on. "Bob, Commander Breen has the order and is passing it to his weapons officer."

  "That's another fifteen-second delay--"

  "Look, we're moving this as fast as we can."

  "I know," Herbert said. "I know." He looked at his watch. "It'll take them at least another fifteen seconds to transmit. Longer if they're--shit!"

  "What?" said Vanzandt.

  "They can't use a satellite to relay the abort code," Herbert said. "The ROC has a window of interference that's going to screw up the download from the satellite."

  Vanzandt echoed Herbert's oath. He got back on the phone to the submarine.

  Herbert listened as the general spoke to Captain Breen. He wanted to wheel himself into a closet and hang himself. How could he have forgotten to mention that? How?

  Vanzandt came back on. "They realized the satellite wasn't responding and switched to direct radio transmission."

  "That cost us some time," Herbert said through his teeth. "The missile's due to impact in one minute."

  "There's still a bit of a window in there," said Vanzandt.

  "Not much of one," Herbert said. "What'd they pack in that Tomahawk?"

  "The standard thousand-pound high-explosive warhead," said Vanzandt.

  "That'll take out ground zero plus a fifth of a mile in every direction," Herbert said.

  "Hopefully, we can pull the plug well before then," said Vanzandt. "And if we do, then just the missile blows. Not the warhead. The team should be okay."

  Herbert felt a jolt. "That's not true. What if the missile blows in the cave?"

  "Why would it?" Martha asked. "Why would the missile even go into the cave?"

  "Because the new generation of missile operates via LOS," Herbert said. He was thinking aloud, trying to figure out if he was right. "In the absence of geographical data, the Tomahawk identifies its target through a singular combination of visual, audio, satellite, and electronic data. The missile probably won't have visual contact because the ROC is behind a mountain, and the satellite's been shut down. But it will pick up electronic activity--probably through the cave, which is the most direct path. And the missile will go after it along that route. Sensors in the nose will warn it to stay away from everything which isn't the ROC, such as the sides of the cave."

  "But not people," Martha said.

  "The people are too small to notice," Herbert said. "Anyway, it isn't the impact I'm worried about. It's the abort itself. Even if the order is transmitted in time, it'll come when the missile is already inside the cave. Everything in the cave will be caught in the explosion."

  There was a short silence. Herbert looked at his watch. He grabbed the phone to Ishi Honda.

  "Private, listen to me!" Herbert said.

  "Sir?"

  "Take cover!" he yelled. "Any cover! There's a chance the missile's going to abort in your laps!"

  * * *

  FIFTY-NINE

  Tuesday, 4:01 p.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  Mike Rodgers had no desire to watch the B-Team Strikers help the Kurds. They were pulling burning bodies from the hell of the burning headquarters. The Strikers used dirt from the floor of the cave and even their own bodies to extinguish flaming clothes and hair and limbs. Then they began carrying them outside, to the light, where they could be given at least basic first aid.

  Rodgers turned his own burned body from the rescue effort. He didn't like what he was thinking and feeling--that he hoped they suffered. Each one of them. He wanted them to hurt the way he did.

  The general let his head roll back. Pain continued to flare along his arms and sides. Pain caused by a willful disregard for every legal and moral code. Pain ordered by a man who demeaned his cause and his people by inflicting it.

  Rodgers walked back into the cave. He would rescue Seden later. Right now, he wanted to see if there was anything he could do to help take back the ROC. The ROC which had been his to command, which he had lost.

  He listened as he approached. There were gunshots, followed by Colonel August counting down. He arrived just as Ishi Honda radioed Op-Center that the ROC had been retaken.

  Rodgers faded back against a wall. This was August's triumph and he had no right to share in it. He looked down and listened. He could hear the relief in the voices of the Strikers as A-Team moved in to secure the van. He felt nearly alone, though not quite. As the Italian poet Pavese had once written, "A man is never completely alone in this world. At the worst, he has the company of a boy, a youth, and by and by a grown man--the one he used to be." Rodgers had the company of the soldier and the man he'd been just a day before.

  After what was only a few seconds but seemed much longer, Rodgers heard Private Honda call for Colonel August.

  "Sir," Honda said quickly, "the Tomahawk may strike the ROC or abort in the cave in approximately forty seconds. We're advised to seek cover--"

  "Strikers assemble on the double!" August yelled.

  Rodgers ran toward them. "Colonel, this way!"

  August looked at him. Rodgers was already running down the other fork.

  "Follow the general!" August cried. "Ishi, radio B-team to get down the slope with the prisoners!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Rodgers reached the prison section even as they heard the bass horn roar of the Tomahawk racing toward the cave. The general ordered the men to throw open the grates and jump into the pits. He opened Colonel Seden's prison himself, making sure that no one hurt him as they climbed in.

  Private Honda was the last Striker into a pit. As soon as he was crouched down, his arms over his head, Rodgers stepped back. He stood in the end of the cave, listening to the bellowing as it grew louder. He felt proud of his countrymen as he thought of the Tomahawk, the result of applied American intellect, skill, spirit, and purpose. He felt that way about the ROC as well. Bo
th machines had worked exactly as they were designed to. They did their jobs. So had the Strikers and he was deeply proud of them as well. As for himself, he would have wished for the blast to consume him, whatever form it took, were it not for the fact that his own job was not yet finished.

  The walls and floor of the cavern shook. Particles of rock fell from the cave ceiling. The low thrum of the rocket engine grew deafening as the missile entered the cave.

  No sooner had the walls of the main cavern begun to glow with the missile's exhaust than the Tomahawk exploded. The glow became an instant of white light, then a fierce red glow as the roar shook down rocks and dirt. Rodgers clapped his hands over his ears in a failed effort to block out the sound. He watched as flame rolled down the main corridor and fragments of the Tomahawk bounced, skidded, and flew along the cavern. Large and small pieces struck the mouth of the fork and ricocheted off the walls. Some were knife-edged sheets spinning edge-over-edge. Others were clumsy, smoking slag. Most fell to the ground before they reached the pits. One popped the light bulb, throwing the tunnel into darkness. Rodgers was forced to duck and turn his face to the wall, not to escape the shrapnel but to protect his face from a massive fist of heat which pounded him. From the time the intense temperatures surrounded him, it hurt to move and especially to breathe.

  The sound died first, followed by the flames. A short time later the stifling heat released him. Rodgers heard coughing from the pits. He stood slowly and walked over.

  "Is anyone hurt?"

  There were a flurry of negatives. Rodgers reached down and pulled up the first soldier whose hand he could find. It was Sergeant Grey.

  "Help the others," Rodgers said, "then put a detail together to find and secure the warhead. I'm going to see about the ROC."

  "I think Colonel August already did that, sir," Grey said.

  "What do you mean?" Rodgers asked. "Where is he?"

  "He didn't come with us," Grey said. "He wanted to move the ROC farther away. He thought it'd give us a better chance if the Tomahawk hit it."

  Rodgers told him to help the others out, then jogged toward the main corridor. He took the gun from his belt so he wouldn't lose it.

  The cave had resisted the United States Navy's efforts to shut it down. There were chunks of still burning missile embedded in the walls and strewn on the floor. It reminded Rodgers of Gustave Dore's etchings of Dante's Inferno. But the cavern was still whole and still navigable. He turned left, toward the gorge, drawing on the last reserves of stamina to reach his friend.

  Rodgers saw the west-side mouth of the cave. He didn't see the ROC. As he came closer he looked out at the thick trees, the surrounding hills, flaming pieces of the missile, and long, late afternoon shadows. He didn't see the ROC. Then he noticed the dirt path which led to the road-cut. The ROC was parked about two hundred yards away. August was running back.

  "General!" he yelled. "Is everyone all right?"

  "A little scorched," Rodgers replied, "but otherwise okay."

  "What about the warhead?"

  "I sent Sergeant Grey and a small detachment to look for it."

  August reached Rodgers's side. He grabbed his wrists and drew him gently toward the wall beneath the ledge. "There are still some armed Kurds in the hills," he said. He pulled his radio from his belt. "Private Honda?"

  "Sir?"

  "Let me have Corporal Prementine."

  The NCO was on the radio a moment later.

  "Corporal," said August, "is B-Team all right?"

  "I'm with them now," he said. "They evacuated themselves and the surviving Kurds before the Tomahawk arrived. There were no injuries."

  "Very good," August said. "I want you and three other men out here with the ROC on the double."

  "What about an HP to find the rest of the enemy force?" Prementine asked.

  "Negative on the hunting party," August said. "I want to get the ROC back on the road with everyone onboard as soon as possible. We're getting out of here."

  "Yes, sir."

  August replaced the radio. He looked at Rodgers. "Let's get you some medical attention, food, and rest, General."

  "Why?" Rodgers asked. "Do I look that burned out?"

  "Frankly, sir, yes. You do. Literally."

  It took a moment for Rodgers to realize what August had said. When he did, he didn't smile. He couldn't. A piece of the process was missing. Rodgers could feel the hole, a void where his pride had been. You couldn't laugh at yourself if your self-worth wasn't strong enough to take the blow. The men walked to the cave in silence.

  Inside the main tunnel, Sergeant Grey and his team had found the warhead. It had been slammed into the ground when the missile aborted. Remarkably, the warhead--which was located just forward of the fuel section, behind the TERCOM system and DSMAC Camera--was relatively intact. The detonation works were in a modular compartment atop the explosives. By following printed instructions inside the casing, the detonator could easily be reprogrammed or removed. August told Sergeant Grey to input a countdown, but not to start it until he gave the order.

  Upon reaching the front of the cave, Colonel August and General Rodgers made their way down the road to the bottom of the slope. As they walked, August told Rodgers how Katzen had saved the Israeli's life by tackling his would-be murderers. By rescuing Falah, Katzen had made it possible for the Strikers to get inside as quickly as they did.

  Rodgers felt ashamed of himself for having doubted the environmentalist. He should have realized that Katzen's compassion came from strength, not weakness.

  At the base of the slope, Private Musicant, Falah, and members of the B-Team were tending to the injured Kurds as best they could. The thumb-cuffed prisoners had recovered from the neo-phosgene attack and were seated beneath a tree, their backs to the trunk. They were bound man-to-man, unable to run. The seven burn victims were spread out on the grass. Following Musicant's instructions, the Strikers used piles of branches to elevate the men's legs and help straighten their air ways. The medic had already given what little plasma he had to the more seriously burned. Now the men who had gone into hypovolemie shock were being given injections of an epinephrine solution. Falah, who had had some medical training in the Mista'aravim, was handling that.

  With the exception of Colonel Seden, who was being cared for by Private DeVonne, the rest of the liberated ROC crew was sitting on boulders and leaning against trees close to the main road. They were looking out at the valley and were unaware of Rodgers's arrival. He wanted it that way for now.

  "Private," said August, "I'd like you to have a look at General Rodgers as soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  Rodgers looked over at Colonel Seden. Private DeVonne had removed his tattered shirt and was washing out his gunshot wound with alcohol. "I want him cared for first,'' Rodgers said.

  "General," said August, "those wounds of yours need to be dressed."

  "After the colonel," Rodgers said firmly. "That's an order."

  August glanced down. Then he looked at Musicant. "See to it, Private."

  "Yes, sir," said the medic.

  Rodgers turned and stood over the Kurds. He looked down at a man on the far left. He was unconscious, with dark, leathery burns on his chest and arms. His breath came in irregular wheezes. "This man pointed a gun at Colonel Seden's head when he and I were first waylaid. His name is Ibrahim. He held the gun while his companion Hasan burned the colonel with a cigarette."

  "Unfortunately," said Musicant, "I don't think Ibrahim is going to be standing trial for what he did. He's got third-degree burns on the anterior and posterior trunk and he has suffered possibly severe inhalation injuries. Circulating blood volume appears to be way down."

  Rodgers usually felt bad for fighting men who had been wounded, regardless of their beliefs. But this man was a terrorist, not a soldier. Everything he had done, from blowing up an unfortified dam to ambushing the ROC, had been worked in whole or in part against unarmed civilians. Rodgers felt nothing for him.

&nbs
p; August was looking into Rodgers's eyes. "General, come on. Sit down."

  "In a minute." Rodgers moved to the next man. He had red, mottled burns on his arms, legs, and upper chest. He was awake and staring at the sky with angry eyes.

  Rodgers idly pointed at him with the gun. "What about this one?" he asked.

  "He's the healthiest of the bunch," Musicant replied. "Must be their leader. People were protecting him. He's got second-degree burns and mild shock. He'll live."

  Rodgers stared at the man for a moment, then squatted beside him. "This is the man who tortured me," he said.

  "We'll bring him back to the U.S. with us," August said. "He'll stand trial. He won't get away with what he did."

  Rodgers was still looking at Siriner. The man was dazed, but those eyes were unrepentent. "And when he does stand trial," Rodgers said, "Americans working in Turkey will be kidnapped and executed. Or an American plane bound for Turkey will be blasted from the air. Or a corporation which does business with Turkey will be bombed. His trial and even a conviction will become America's ordeal. And do you know what's ironic?" Rodgers asked.

  "No, General," August answered warily. "Tell me."

  "The Kurds have a legitimate complaint." Rodgers stood. He was still looking down at Siriner. "The problem is, a trial will give them a daily forum. Because they've been oppressed, the world will regard this man's terroism as understandable or even necessary. Holding a torch to a man's body and threatening a woman with violent abuse become acts of heroism instead of sadism. People will say he was driven to it by the suffering of his people."

  "Not all people will say that," said August. "We'll see to it."

  "How?" Rodgers asked. "You can't reveal who you are."

  "You'll testify," August said. "You'll talk to the press. You're articulate, a war hero."