Clancy, Tom - Ballance of Power
Page 37
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 11:23 a.m. Madrid, Spain
Colonel August had leaned to his left in order
to get a clear shot at Amadori's leg. All
he managed to get was the top of the general's foot,
but it was enough. Amadori howled through his gas mask and
fell against the major general. As he did, the
general's gun discharged. The automatic was still poking
out from under the priest's arm and it pumped several shots
in August's direction. They traced a straight
vertical line as the general stumbled back. But the
colonel had already jumped to the left while Scott
dove to the right. Screaming and covering his
ears, the priest had fallen to his knees and
remained there with his face between his legs. The bullets
pinged off the marble wall but no one was hit.
The two Strikers hit the ground in perfect diving
roll-outs, one shoulder connecting with the floor with the
head tucked into the chest. The rest of the body followed
in a somersault and the men ended up standing, facing in the
direction of the dive. They turned quickly toward their
targets as the other Strikers fanned into the
hallway, making sure that the other soldiers were still
on the ground. Private DeVonne
BALANCE OF POWER 383
emerged on her own, though she was stooped over and in
obvious pain from the shot she'd taken.
During the time it had taken August and Scott
to roll out, the major general had grabbed Amadori
around the chest with one arm. Pulling hard, he helped
the general stay on his feet. The two men
retreated. As they did, they set up a spray of
automatic fire that sent the Strikers dropping to the
ground and rolling in all directions for cover. There
were screams all around them as several of the Spanish
soldiers were struck.
Throughout the exchange, Aideen had remained just
inside the Hall of the Halberdiers. She
didn't stay there because she was afraid. She stayed
there because she didn't want to get in the way of the
Striker game plan. She also wanted to be free
to assist any of the Strikers who might go down.
She'd tried to help Sondra into the hallway but the
private had insisted that she was all right. For the
moment, she probably was. Aideen knew from
experience that at least there was one benefit to constant
pain, like a broken rib or a nonlethal bullet
wound. The mind had the ability to block that pain out,
even when it was severe. It was the jab of recurring
or steadily increasing pain that was difficult to deal
with.
Now, standing beside the jamb, Aideen suddenly had
another mission. The wounded Amadori had disappeared
around the turn in the corridor to the east. At that
moment she was the only team member who was still on her
feet. From the western end of the corridor, straight
ahead, she heard the distinctive stomp of boots.
The smoke was still too thick for her to see that far, but
she knew that reinforcements were
384 OP-CENTER
on the way. The Strikers would have to release more
grenades to deal with them. If the soldiers had been
alerted by security cameras or by a call
from the throne room, they might very well be wearing gas
masks. If that were the case, the Strikers would have their
hands full just getting out of there. And Colonel
August would abort if he felt that the mission had
been too severely compromised. In the meantime
Amadori might get away.
Someone had to stay with the general. Remote
Surveillance System or not. If Aideen kept
her distance, Amadori might not spot her. Chances
were he'd be watching the cameras ahead of him, not behind
him. And keeping her distance until she had a clear
shot at the general was doable. There was blood on the
floor from the bullet wound in Amadori's leg.
It would provide a trail she could follow
easily. And if he stopped to bandage it, that was fine
too. Perhaps Aideen would be able to get to him then.
Aideen looked back. The Spanish soldiers were
wearing gas masks. August motioned his team back
while he and Scott fired and drove the onrushing
soldiers running for cover.
Aideen swore. Colonel August was going
to call the mission off. But she wasn't a Striker.
She didn't have to abort anything. This whole thing
started when someone was encouraged to shoot at her and
Martha Mackall. That seemed a fitting
way to end it.
Aideen took a deep breath to still her trembling
legs. The air tasted like charcoal through the mask, but
she was getting used to that. Rolling off the jamb, she
ran into the smoke-filled hallway, and followed the
corridor to the east.
THIRTYOT-LIKE caret Every
Tuesday, 5:27 a.m. Washington, B.c.
Sitting back in his wheelchair. Bob Herbert
reflected on the fact that there was nothing quite like this
feeling. Waiting in Paul Hood's office with
Hood, Mike Rodgers, and Op-Center's
international legal expert, Lowell Coffey
II, Herbert contemplated the mood that settles
onto a room in which officials are waiting for news
of a covert operation.
They're very much aware of the world going on around them, as
usual. And they're envious of the people in that world, where the
problems don't usually involve life and death and the
fate of millions. They're also slightly
condescending toward those people.
If they only knew what real responsibility
was....
Then there's the personal side of the situation. There's
extreme tension over the fate of people everyone
works withand cares about. It's not unlike waiting for a
loved one to come out of life-threatening surgery. But it
is
worse in one key way. This is something
you
ordered them to do. And being good soldiers, they accepted
the assignment with courage and poise.
Add to that the possibility that those heroic souls
might have to be disavowed if captured, left to twist
386 OP-CENTER
in the wind. That was good for a healthy helping of guilt.
And there was more guilt over the fact that while their
butts were on the firing line, yours was safe and
secure. There was also envy-ironically for the same
reason. There's no high quite like risking your life.
Throw exhaustion into the mix, with eyes that fight
to shut and minds too tired to process thoughts or
emotions, and the mood was unlike any other.
Yet Herbert cherished that mood every time it came
around. He cherished it without gloom and without
pessimism. Occasionally their worst fears were
realized. Occasionally there was death. A Bass
Moore like in North Korea or a X. Col.
Charlie Squires. But because of everything that was at
risk in oper
ations like these, Herbert never
felt more alive.
Hood obviously didn't share his feelings. He
had been extremely down since before the operation
began, something Herbert had never seen before. Of all
of them. Hood was usually the most even-keeled, always
ready with an encouraging word or smile. This morning
there was none of that. He had also become uncharacteristically
angry when he learned that Darrell McCaskey
had choppered over to the palace. And even worse, that
McCaskey had taken Luis Garcia de la
Vega with him. Unlike Striker, McCaskey
could easily be traced to Op-Center. Through Luis,
Op Center's involvement with Interpol on this
mission could be ascertained. With all of the nations
connected to Interpol-a few of which were not exactly
America's best friends-the political mess could be
horrendous. It was Hood, not By-the-Book
Rodgers, who had thought out loud about disciplinary
action against
BALANCE OF POWER 387
McCaskey. It was the usually skittish Coffey
who had pointed out that it might not be as bad as Hood
thought. Since Maria Comeja was a prisoner at the
palace, a rescue attempt might be entirely
justified under Interpol's charter. Hood
calmed down upon hearing that. The mood in the room
returned to being merely apprehensive.
And through it all, through the heavy silence and gnawing
concern, there wasn't a word from Spain or Interpol.
Not until 4:30, when they got a call from a
groggy Arm Fan-is at home. She told them
to turn on the television and have a look at CNN.
Coffey hopped from the sofa and walked to the back of the
room. While he opened the TV cabinet in the
back of the office. Hood pulled the remote
control from his desk. As everyone turned around, he
punched the television on. At the top of the news
on the halfhour was a report on a shootout at the
Royal Palace in Madrid. An amateur
videotape had captured the Interpol helicopter
leaving the courtyard south of the palace while
gunfire was heard in the distance. Then the report
cut live to a camera crew on the scene in a
helicopter. There were faint traces of yellow
smoke rising from several windows.
"That's Striker's IA," Herbert said, referring
to the irritant agent.
Rodgers was sitting in the armchair next to Hood's
desk. He reached for the small color map that had
been downloaded from the Interpol computer.
Herbert rolled his chair over.
"That smoke on TV looks awfully close to the
courtyard, doesn't it?" Rodgers asked.
388 OP-CENTER
"Right where the throne room should be," Herbert said.
"So the Strikers are definitely in there," Hood
said. He looked at the clock on his computer. "And
on time."
Herbert turned back to the TV and leaned an ear
toward the screen. The onsite announcer had nothing
to offer but dire superlatives about the event. The
usual drone. There was no information about the cause or
the nature of the struggle. But that wasn't what he was
listening for.
"I'm hearing gunfire," Herbert said
cautiously. "Muted-like it's not coming from the
courtyard."
"Is that surprising?" Hood asked. "We knew
that if the Strikers succeeded in getting Amadori
there'd almost certainly be pursuit."
"Pursuit," Rodgers said. "Not resistance. The
IA should have prevented that."
"Unless the gunfire's coming at "em blindly,"
Herbert said. "People can do some weird stuff when
they're choking."
"Could those shots be coming from the firing squad we were
told about?" Coffey asked.
Rodgers shook his head. "This is individual
fire and much too sporadic."
"The good news," Herbert said, "is if the
Strikers had been caught, there wouldn't be any
shooting at all."
The men were silent for a moment. Hood looked at the
computer clock. "They were supposed to signal
Luis's office once they got back into the
dungeon." He looked at the phone.
BALANCE OF POWER 389
"Chief," Herbert said, "it's an open line from here
to there and my people are monitoring it. They'll let us
know as soon as they hear anything."
Hood nodded. He looked back at the
television. "I don't know where the Strikers get
it," he said. "The courage to do these things. I
don't know where any of you gets it. In Vietnam,
Beirut-was
"It comes from a lot of places," Rodgers said.
"Duty, love, fear-was
"Necessity," Herbert added. "That's a big one.
When you don't have a choice."
"It's a combination of all of those,"
Rodgers said.
"Mike," Herbert said, "you know all about famous
quotes. Who was it that said you can't fail if you
screw your courage up-or words to that effect." -
Rodgers looked at him. "I think the quote
you're looking for is, 'But screw your courage
to the stickingplace and we'll not fail." his
"Yeah, that's the one," Herbert said. "Who said that?
Sounds like Winston Churchill."
Rodgers grinned faintly. "It was Lady
Macbeth. She was encouraging her husband to murder
King Duncan. He did and then the whole plot
came crashing down around him."
"Oh," Herbert replied. He looked down.
"Then that's not the quote we want, is it?"
"That's all right," Rodgers said. He was still grinning
slightly. " "The regicide may have backfired
badly but the play was a brilliant success. It
all depends how you look at things."
"As I used to tell all my clients while the
jury was deliberating," Coffey said, "trust in the
system and in
390 OP-CENTER
the people to whom we've entrusted it." He was still standing by the
television, staring at the screen. "Because as
another great thinker once said, 'It ain't over
till it's over." his
Herbert looked back at the television. The sounds
of gunfire seemed to increase in frequency but not in
volume. The announcer made an observation about that.
Herbert still felt alive. And optimistic, because that
was his nature. But there was no ignoring the shadow that
had fallen over the room. The unhappy truth that
what they had all been quietly hoping for had not
materialized: a call or broadcast declaring that a
coup attempt in Spain had ended with the assassination
of its leader.
The realization that the mission had not gone exactly as
planned.
FORTY
Tuesday, 5:49 a.m. Old Saybrook,
Connecticut
Sharon Hood couldn't sleep. She was tired and she
was at her childhood home in her old bed but her
mind wouldn't shut down. She'd argued with her
husband, read one of her old Nancy Dre
w
books until three, then shut off the light and stared
at the patterns of moonlight and leaves on the
ceiling for nearly two hours. She looked around at
the posters that had hung there since before she
moved out to go to college.
Posters of the movie
Doctor Zhivago.
Of the rock group Gary Puckett and the Union
Gap. A cover of a
TV Guide
signed, "Cherish and Love, David Cassidy,"
which she and her friend Alice had waited in line three
hours to get at a local shopping center.
How had she managed to be interested in all those
things, get high honors in school, hold a
part-time job, and have a boyfriend when she was sixteen and
seventeen?
You didn "I need as much sleep then,
she told herself.
But was that really what made it all mesh? Time
alone? Or was it the fact that if one job didn't
work, she got another. Or if one boyfriend didn't
make her happy, she got another. Or if one
group recorded a
392 OP-CENTER
song she didn't like, she stopped buying their
records. It wasn't a matter of energy. It was
a matter of discovery. Learning about what she needed
to be happy.
She thought she'd found it with that multimillionaire
winemaker Stefano Renaldo. Sharon had met his
sister in college and gone home with her one spring
break and had been seduced by Stefano's wealth and his
yacht and his attention. But-ironically, now that she
thought about it-after two years she realized that she
didn't want someone who'd inherited all his money.
Someone who didn't have to work for a living. Someone who
people came to for investment capital while he, depending
upon his mood, yea'd or nay'd their hopes and
dreams. That kind of life-that kind of man-was not for
her.
She up and left the yacht one sunny morning,
flew back to the United States, and didn't
look back. The bastard never even phoned to see
where she'd gone and Sharon didn't understand how she could
ever have been with him-what the hell she'd been
thinking.
Then she met Paul at a party. It wasn't like
being hit with a hammer. Except for Stefano, no
man had ever struck Sharon that way-and Stefano's
appeal was all on the surface. The relationship with
Paul took time to develop. He was
even-tempered, hard-working, and kind. He seemed like
someone who would give her room to be herself,
support her in her work, and be a nurturing father.