Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  Breen halted the unit. The men did not carry explosives, but they had M9 9 mm side arms and a single M249 light machine gun. They also had surprise. The hogs could probably take the Scud then slag it with fire in the fuel tank. However, the Iraqis might have time to call in backup. If the Marines were hunted, that could doom the primary mission, not to mention the team itself.

  Reluctantly, Breen decided to continue with the original plan. However, he did break radio silence to call in the location of the Scud. Centcom agreed to hold off an attack until the hogs had time to get out of the area.

  Unfortunately, it did not work out that way. The Iraqis had intercepted their signal. The Scud commander had no idea what had been said, but he had a good idea why it was said. He decided to relocate and called for air cover.

  A joint dogfight, ground skirmish was not something Centcom wanted. It had the potential of becoming a flashpoint for the war before the coalition had a chance to put all its assets in place. Instead, the hogs were ordered to continue. The Scud would be dealt with by a mechanized army unit that was already in Iraq. The small tank group, nicknamed the Jolly Rodgers after their commander, was being prepositioned to help the 2nd Brigade move against the Iraqi 29th Mechanized Brigade’s security zone. They had the satellite uplink and artillery range that would enable them to target and take out the Scud.

  Breen and his hogs moved on to their target. Everything went well until the return trip. The Marines reached the cave early in the afternoon and hunkered down until sunset. Then they moved to the communications tower, spliced in the satellite interceptor, and went back along the original route. They had to circle wide around the still-smouldering wreckage of the Su-7, but the Iraqis did not see them.

  Unfortunately, a sudden sandstorm had grounded the Apache fleet. The hogs had two choices. They could stay in the foothills and wait for as long as it took for flying conditions to improve, or they could hitch a ride back with a tank that was going to lead part of the charge into Iraq as the hidden Jolly Rodgers advance team picked off advancing Iraqi armor.

  Breen did not want to ride back with army personnel, but it had been an arduous trek, they were very low on supplies, and there was no telling how long the sandstorm would last. He put the safety of his team above pride. The Marines agreed to a nearby rendezvous point and left after sunset. They connected at midnight, forty-eight hours after jumping into Iraq.

  The man who drove the hogs back was then-Colonel Mike Rodgers. The Marines rode on the outside of the M1A1 Abrams. The trip took six hours, and it was the bumpiest, dustiest journey Breen had ever experienced. The men alternately sat and lay belly down on the rear of the turret or on the forward armor, over the fuel tank. They each had a canteen and foil-wrapped turkey jerky to sustain them. Even worse than the ride, though, was the fact that Colonel Rodgers was an absolute gentleman. He did not rag on the Marines for accepting a lift from the army. In fact, he commended the hogs for sticking to their planned objective instead of going for the trophy Scud.

  “You saved a lot of lives,” was Rodgers’s final comment.

  When they reached the staging area in Saudi Arabia, a Marine troop transport truck was waiting to take them to their own home base. Colonel Rodgers walked them to the vehicle.

  “I’ll see you when this is over,” Rodgers said, saluting the Marine and then clasping his hand. “Where can I reach you?”

  “Pendleton,” Breen said. He grinned as his men climbed into the truck. “I’ll probably be with the base chiropractor getting my back realigned.”

  It was then that Rodgers took his one and only jab at the Marines. “You semper fi guys are proud of your sea legs. I’ve always found a strong army ass to be much more valuable.”

  “We’ll have to test that one day,” Breen said. “What about you? Where are you going?”

  “I’ve been overseas half my life. I’d like to find something stateside.”

  “Let me know where that is,” Breen told him. “When we get together, dinner’s on me.”

  “Not dinner,” Rodgers told him. “Never dinner. I’m like Don Corleone. I hold out for favors.”

  “You’ve got it,” Breen replied.

  The men did get together after the war, right after Rodgers had accepted a deputy directorship at the newly formed Op-Center. They had a great night on the town in Washington with one of Rodgers’s new coworkers, Bob Herbert. Op-Center picked up the tab. Rodgers never called in his chit.

  Until now.

  The voice mail message did not tell Breen what Rodgers needed, only that he might require intelligence-gathering support in nearby San Diego. Whatever it was, Mike Rodgers would get it. And when this little adventure was all over, General Breen would provide Rodgers with something he had been waiting fifteen years to give him: a high-speed ride on the bumpiest, wettest motorized rubber raft he could find.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:43 P.M.

  At this moment, Alexander Hood’s bedroom was more technologically capable than the bulk of Op-Center. That thought demoralized Paul Hood, though it was not as if they were starting from zero.

  The exception was the Tank. Hood was there now. He was not helping to get the facility marginally operational. He was not helping the search-and-dispose team from Andrews look for other explosives. He was taking calls from officials and from friends. The president had called, followed by a chat with Senator Debenport. The senator asked if Hood thought the USF was responsible. Hood told him that possibility was being investigated. Debenport informed him that the CIOC was going to provide him with emergency reconstruction funds. Hood was appreciative, even though he knew why Debenport was getting him the money.

  He spoke briefly with a reporter from the Washington Post, the only interview he gave, and with his occasional date Daphne Connors. Now Hood was talking with Sharon. His former wife had heard about an explosion from a friend at the Pentagon. She called to make sure Paul was all right.

  “We lost one man and most of our electronics,” Hood said.

  “I’m sorry. Will you be able to get the facility running again?”

  “That’s being assessed now,” Hood told her. “With enough money, though, anything can be fixed.” He hesitated. Except our marriage, he thought. He wondered if Sharon noticed the pause and thought the same thing. Probably. She still knew him better than anyone.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Sharon asked.

  “Just let the kids know what happened,” he said. “I’ll try to call later.” That, too, was probably the wrong thing to say. He used to say that all the time when they were married. The time they had been apart seemed to evaporate. It did not feel good. “I think the worst thing about this is that I’ve also seen the future, and it scares me,” he went on quickly. “I can’t imagine the fears our kids will have to live with.”

  “It sounds like you’ll have to, if you’re going to try to minimize them,” Sharon replied.

  Now that was different. A turnabout. Hood had expressed reservations about his job, and Sharon had encouraged him to work harder. It was as though the world itself had been rewired.

  “I’ll let the kids know you weren’t hurt,” Sharon went on. “I’ll also tell Frankie that there may be a change of plans.”

  It took Hood a moment to remember who Frankie was. The intern. The son of his replacement.

  “Don’t tell him that,” Hood said. “If he has a car that works and won’t mind running errands, we can probably use him sooner rather than later.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Sharon replied.

  Hood thanked Sharon for the call and said he would get in touch with Frankie as soon as possible. In the midst of electronic chaos it was nice to be grounded by humanity. Ironically, that fact reflected something Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert had been saying for years. Life, like intelligence operations, relies too much on electronics and too little on people.

  Hood had written Frankie’s cell phone number on a leather-bound notepad he
carried in his shirt pocket. It had been a Father’s Day gift from Harleigh several years before. Hood had not bothered to transfer the data to his computer. Another irony. Hood would have trouble digging the home number of his Russian counterpart Sergei Orlov from the data dump Matt Stoll had created in the Tank. But he possessed the number of intern Frankie Hunt.

  Then again, Hood thought, the way you’ve been handling crises lately, maybe you should give the kid your keys to the kingdom. He could not do a worse job. He wondered what would happen if they turned over every aspect of government to newcomers for just a day or two. Would that bring their best or worst instincts to the fore? Would power destroy their innocence, or would they know, intuitively, to handle it with extreme care? Would they crush lives and careers simply because they could, because it was more convenient, more expedient than open debate, or would their angel natures guide them to higher ground?

  Hood called Frankie, who said he could be available that night. Hood said the next morning would be fine. Frankie Hunt sounded wildly enthusiastic. He did not ask if there was any danger. He even addressed his new boss as “sir.” Maybe Hood would not have to work as hard as he anticipated not to hold the “sins” of the father against the young man.

  McCaskey came to see Hood while he was still on the phone with Frankie. Hood motioned him in. The FBI liaison had obviously taken a tour of the facility. He had been putting a lot of hours into the case and looked drawn. Now he looked a rung above beaten.

  “By my soul, Paul, I do not want to find out that Americans did this to Americans,” McCaskey said. “We don’t make war on one another. Not anymore.”

  “Sure we do. We chew each other up with politics every day of every week,” Hood said.

  “Someone died here,” McCaskey said. “That’s different.”

  “I know, and I don’t want to minimize that,” Hood said. “But I’ve just been sitting here thinking how everyone in this town is a killer. Every damn one of us. We just don’t use that word. We call it politics.”

  “Forgive me, Paul, but nuts to that,” McCaskey said. “I believe that we’re the good guys, Op-Center and most Americans. Our response mechanisms get triggered when something is wrong.”

  “Wrong by what yardstick?”

  “This one,” McCaskey replied, touching the left side of his chest.

  Hood looked wistfully at McCaskey. He had not intended to discuss the new situation with his staff just yet. But maybe it was time. He shut the door of the Tank and returned to the conference table. He sat beside McCaskey.

  “What if I told you that Op-Center’s triggers had changed?” Hood asked.

  “Changed how?”

  “What if the only way the National Crisis Management Center can survive is by catering to partisan interests? By handling crises as before, but also by executing domestic black-ops activities?”

  “Paul, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked. “What else happened that I don’t know about?”

  “We were hit with a different kind of bombshell,” Hood told him. “It seems the president and Senator Debenport have decided that the USF represents a threat to this nation. They have requested that we use Op-Center and this investigation to stop Senator Orr.”

  “Are they insane?” McCaskey yelled. “This isn’t the 1950s. I’d rather shut the door than—”

  “Than do what, Darrell?” Hood asked. “Spy on Americans? The FBI and CIA do it all the time.”

  “With one difference,” McCaskey said. “Reasonable suspicion. We cannot use the investigation to impede a Constitutionally protected process.”

  “The problem is, we can,” Hood replied. “It’s a legitimate investigation—”

  “Of a homicide. What you are suggesting is a completely different beast. It isn’t ethical, Paul.”

  “Tell me which is the greater morality,” Hood asked. “Do we let ourselves get squeezed a little so we can continue doing good in other areas? Or do we put up a Going Out of Business sign with our pride intact, allowing God knows how many crises to slip by Homeland Security?”

  “That’s an old argument, Paul. Does a commander sacrifice one life to save ten? What do you do for the greatest good?”

  “It’s an old argument because there is no clear-cut answer,” Hood said.

  “Sure there is. If you have to think about something in order to justify it, the thing is probably wrong.”

  “No,” Hood insisted. “Sometimes you have to think about things because your initial instinct is to run. That’s fear, not courage.”

  “That’s rationalization.”

  “That’s reality,” Hood countered. “A reality in which Americans do fight Americans, whether we like it or not. Tell me, where does Darrell McCaskey end up if he walks out of here or the CIOC shuts us down? Back at the Bureau? At the Company, where national security is the meal and morality is the garnish? All you would be doing somewhere else is losing yourself in the system. The corruption would still be there. You just would not be able to see it.”

  McCaskey said nothing.

  “We had it good,” Hood said. “Maybe too good to last.”

  “We could tell them no.”

  “Sure. And do you think Debenport would get us funding to replace the equipment we lost?”

  McCaskey just stared at his old friend. “I hear what you’re saying, Paul, but—forgive me—it still sounds like sophistry. I’m disappointed the president even put you in this position, after all you’ve done for him.”

  “He has his bosses, too. Every job has you shovel some shit. In this case, at least, we can still do our job. Maybe even better than before, because more money will be available to us.”

  “At what price, though?” McCaskey asked.

  “Compromise,” Hood said.

  McCaskey shook his head. “I don’t think I can go along with this.”

  “That’s your choice,” Hood said. He was sad but not surprised to hear that. “But it explains what I said before about dying. When I was at the White House this morning, I listened to Senator Debenport’s bloody damn deal. I left, I had a long think, and I made my choice. But it cost me, Darrell. A part of my soul died before that electromagnetic pulse bomb was even detonated.”

  McCaskey looked as though his grip on the last rung had slipped. This was not how he had planned his life, how he ran his life.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Hood asked.

  “Please.”

  “Continue the work you were doing for the reasons you were doing it. We can worry about the rest of it later.”

  “Self-deception,” McCaskey said.

  “Will you feel better if a killer and possibly a bomber gets away?” Hood asked with uncharitable bluntness.

  “That’s a helluva choice,” McCaskey said, his voice low, his eyes flat.

  “Maybe it’s just old age, but I can’t remember a time when options were easy or clear.”

  McCaskey nodded gravely. “We agree on that, at least.”

  “I’ll take it,” Hood said with the hint of a smile.

  “What I do not understand is how the hell we got here, Paul. Mike is gone, the building has been gutted, our integrity is no longer impervious. Even you would have to admit that.”

  “I do,” Hood replied sadly.

  Integrity had always been the center’s hallmark. Integrity had also been Paul Hood’s personal hallmark. Now, even if he draped an albatross around his neck and preached virtue like the Ancient Mariner, Hood would never have that quality again. What upset him more than the deal with Debenport was the fact that he had not seen this coming. He thought he was smarter than that.

  “I’ll have to get back to you on how we got here,” Hood said. “Right now, I’m more concerned about where we are going and who is coming along. Can I count on you?”

  “I’ll finish what I started,” McCaskey said.

  “That’s all I need. Thanks.”

  McCaskey headed toward the door. “I told Mike I would wait to hear fr
om him before leaning any more on Orr and Link,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to see if the Metro Police have anything. They’ve been concentrating their efforts on the second murder.”

  Hood nodded. “Thanks again,” he added.

  “Sure,” McCaskey said.

  The former FBI agent left, and Hood was alone once more. Alone in the Tank, the brain of Op-Center encased in its electromagnetically protected skull. Alone while his staff struggled to put the other organs together again. There was one, however, that Hood wondered if they would ever be able to retrieve. The one they needed almost as much as the brain: the heart.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 6:31 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey picked up two things on his way to the Metro Police. The first was a cheeseburger. The second was his wife.

  Maria had not asked to be involved in the investigation. But McCaskey knew she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and in his mind this was as dirty as things got. Politics and murder. As old as Genesis. McCaskey did not tell her about Hood’s conversation with Debenport. It was important that he convey the information objectively. He wanted her opinion, not her reaction to his own upset.

  The murders were being investigated by the Metro Police First District Substation at 500 E Street SW. Lieutenant Robert Howell was leading the Focused Mission Unit, which consisted of four sergeants on loan from homicide.

  McCaskey had phoned ahead. Howell said he would still be at the stationhouse when they arrived. He greeted the McCaskeys in his small, clean, second-floor office. The men had spoken on the phone the day before, after District Commander Charlie Alterman agreed to let Op-Center run the Wilson investigation. That meant Howell got to keep the case, which otherwise would have shifted from FMU to Homicide. The murder of Lawless was added to the FMU “dig,” as they referred to forensics investigations, since the team had already been fielded.