by Tom Clancy
“Yeah.” Kelly gestured for her to get in the elevator first.
“You’re the patient,” she objected.
“You’re the lady,” he insisted. “Sorry, it’s the way I was raised.”
Who is this guy? Sandy asked herself. She was managing the care of more than one patient, of course, but the professor had ordered her—well, not exactly, she told herself, but a “suggestion” from Dr. Rosen carried a lot of weight, especially since she had great respect for him as a friend and counselor—to keep a special eye on him. It wasn’t matchmaking, as she’d initially suspected. He was still too hurt—and so was she, though she would not admit it. Such a strange man. So like Tim in many ways, but much more guarded. A strange mixture of the gentle and the rough. She hadn’t forgotten what she had seen the previous week, but it was gone now, and never a hint of it had returned. He treated her with respect and good humor, never once commenting on her figure, as many patients did (and to which she pretended to object). He was so unlucky and yet so purposeful. His furious effort in rehab. His outward toughness. How to reconcile that with his incongruous good manners?
“When will I get out?” Kelly asked in a voice that was light but not light enough.
“Another week,” O’Toole replied, leading him off the elevator. “Tomorrow we unwrap your arm.”
“Really? Sam didn’t tell me. Then I can start using the arm again?”
“It’s going to hurt when you do,” the nurse warned.
“Hell, Sandy, it hurts already.” Kelly grinned. “I might as well get some use out of the pain.”
“Lie down,” the nurse ordered. Before he could object, she had a thermometer in his mouth and was taking his pulse. Then she checked his blood pressure. The numbers she put on the chart were 98.4, 64, and 105/60. The last two were especially surprising, she thought. Whatever else she might say about the patient, he was rapidly getting himself back into shape. She wondered what the urgency was.
One more week, Kelly thought after she left. Got to get this damned arm working.
“So what have you found out for us?” Maxwell asked.
“Good news and bad news,” Greer replied. “The good news is that the opposition has very little in the way of regular ground forces within response distance of the objective. We have ID’d three battalions. Two are training to go south. One just returned from Eye Corps. It’s pretty beat-up, in the process of reconstituting. The usual TO and E. Not much in the way of heavy weapons. What mechanized formations they have are well away from here.”
“And the bad news?” Admiral Podulski asked.
“Do I have to tell you? Enough triple-A along the coast to turn the sky black. SA-2 batteries here. here, and probably here, too. It’s dangerous there for fast-movers, Cas. For helicopters? One or two rescue birds, sure, it’s doable, but a large lift will be real dicey. We went all over this when we scoped out KINGPIN. remember?”
“It’s only thirty miles from the beach.”
“Fifteen or twenty minutes in a helo, flying in a straight line, which they will not be able to do, Cas. I went over the threat maps myself. The best route I can identify—it’s your area, Cas, but I do know a little, okay?—is twenty-five minutes, and I wouldn’t want to fly it in daylight.”
“We can use -52s to blast a corridor through,” Podulski suggested. He’d never been the most subtle man in the world.
“I thought you wanted to keep this small,” Greer observed. “Look, the real bad news is that there isn’t much enthusiasm for this kind of mission anywhere. KINGPIN failed—”
“That wasn’t our fault!” Podulski objected.
“I know that, Cas,” Greer said patiently. Podulski had always been a passionate advocate.
“It ought to be doable,” Cas growled.
All three men hovered over the reconnaisance photos. It was a good collection, two from satellites, two from SR-71 Blackbirds, and three very recent low-obliques from Buffalo Hunter drones. The camp was two hundred meters square, an exact square in fact, undoubtedly fitting exactly the diagram in some East Bloc manual for building secure facilities. Each corner had a guard tower, each of which was exactly ten meters in height. Each tower had a tin roof to keep the rain off the NVA-standard-issue RPD light machine gun, an obsolete Russian design. Inside the wire were three large buildings and two small ones. Inside one of the large buildings were, they believed, twenty American officers, all lieutenant-colonel/commander rank or higher, for this was a special camp.
It was the Buffalo Hunter photos that had first come to Greer’s attention. One was good enough to have identified a face, Colonel Robin Zacharias, USAF. His F-105G Wild Weasel had been shot down eight months earlier; he and his weapons-systems operator had been reported killed by the North Vietnamese. Even a picture of his body had been published. This camp, whose code name, SENDER GREEN, was known to fewer than fifty men and women, was separate from the better-known Hanoi Hilton, which had been visited by American citizens and where, since the spectacular but unsuccessful Operation KINGPIN raid on the camp at Song Tay, nearly all American POWs had been concentrated. Out of the way, located in the most unlikely of places, not acknowledged in any way, SENDER GREEN was ominous. However the war would turn out, America wanted her pilots back. Here was a place whose very existence suggested that some would never be returned. A statistical study of losses had shown an ominous irregularity: flight officers of relatively high rank were reported killed at a higher rate than those of lower rank. It was known that the enemy had good intelligence sources, many of them within the American “peace” movement, that they had dossiers on senior American officers, who they were, what they knew, what other jobs they had held. It was possible that those officers were being held in a special place, that their knowledge was being used by North Vietnam as a bargaining chip for dealing with their Russian sponsors. The prisoners’ knowledge in areas of special strategic interest was being traded—maybe—for continuing support from a sponsor nation that was losing interest in this lengthy war, with the new atmosphere of detente. So many games were going on.
“Gutsy,” Maxwell breathed. The three blowups showed the man’s face, each one staring straight at the camera. The last of the three caught one of his guards in the act of swinging a rifle butt into his back. The face was clear. It was Zacharias.
“This guy is Russian,” Casimir Podulski said, tapping the drone photos. The uniform was unmistakable.
They knew what Cas was thinking. The son of Poland’s one-time ambassador to Washington, by heredity a count and scion of a family that had once fought at the side of King John Sobieski, his family had been extinguished on one side of the demarcation line by the Nazis along with the rest of the Polish nobility and on the other by the Russians in Katyn Forest, where two brothers had been murdered after fighting a brief and futile two-front war. In 1941. the day after graduating Princeton University, Podulski had joined the U.S. Navy as an aviator, adopting a new country and a new profession, both of which he had served with pride and skill. And rage. That was now all the more intense because soon he would be forced to retire. Greer could see the reason. His surprisingly delicate hands were gnarled with arthritis. Try as he might to conceal it, his next physical would down-check him for good, and Cas would face retirement with memories of a dead son and a wife on antidepressant medications, after a career he would probably deem a failure despite his medals and personal flag.
“We’ve got to find a way,” Podulski said. “If we don’t, we’ll never see these men again. You know who might be there. Dutch? Pete Francis, Hank Osborne.”
“Pete worked for me when I had Enterprise,” Maxwell acknowledged. Both men looked at Greer.
“I concur in the nature of the camp. I had my doubts. Zacharias, Francis, and Osborne are all names they’d be interested in.” The Air Force officer had spent a tour at Omaha, part of the joint-targeting staff that selected the destinations for strategic weapons, and his knowledge of America’s most secret war plans was encyclopedi
c. The two naval officers had similarly important information, and while each might be brave, and dedicated, and obstinately determined to deny. conceal, and disguise, they were merely men, and men had limits; and the enemy had time. “Look, if you want, I can try to sell the idea to some people, but I’m not very hopeful.”
“If we don’t, we’re breaking faith with our people!” Podulski slammed his fist on the desk. But Cas had an agenda, too. Discovery of this camp, rescue of its prisoners, would make it explicitly clear that North Vietnam had publicly lied. That might poison the peace talks enough to force Nixon to adopt yet another optional plan being drawn up by a larger Pentagon working group: the invasion of the North. It would be that most American of military operations, a combined-arms assault, without precedent for its daring, scope, and potential dangers: an airborne drop directly into Hanoi, a division of marines hitting the beaches on both sides of Haiphong, air-mobile assaults in the middle, supported by everything America could bring to bear in one massive, crushing attempt to break the North by capture of its political leadership. That plan, whose cover name changed on a monthly basis—currency it was CERTAIN Cornet—was the Holy Grail of vengeance for all the professionals who had for six years watched their country blunder about in indecision and the profligate waste of America’s children.
“Don’t you think I know that? Osborne worked for me at Suitland. I went with the chaplain when he delivered the fucking telegram, okay? I’m on your side, remember?” Unlike Cas and Dutch. Greer knew that CERTAIN CORNET would never be more than a staff study. It just couldn’t happen, not without briefing Congress, and Congress had too many leaks. A possibility in 1966 or ‘67, maybe even as late as 1968, such an operation was unthinkable now. But SENDER GREEN was still there, and this mission was possible, just.
“Cool down. Cas,” Maxwell suggested.
“Yes. sir.”
Greer shifted his gaze to the relief map. “You know, you airedales kind of limit your thinking.”
“What do you mean?” Maxwell asked.
Greer pointed to a red line that ran from a coastal town nearly to the camp’s main gate. On the overhead photos it looked like a good road, blacktopped and all. “The reaction forces are here, here, and here. The road’s here, follows the river most of the way up. There are flak batteries all over the place, the road supports them, but, you know. triple-A isn’t dangerous to the right sort of equipment.”
“That’s an invasion,” Podulski observed.
“And sending in two companies of air-mobile troops isn’t?”
“I’ve always said you were smart. James,” Maxwell said. “You know. this is right where my son was shot down. That SEAL went in and recovered him right about here,” the Admiral said, tapping the map.
“Somebody who knows the area from ground level?” Greer asked. “That’s a help. Where is he?”
“Hi, Sarah.” Kelly waved her to the chair. She looked older, he thought.
“This is my third time, John. You were asleep the other two.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of that. It’s okay,” he assured her. “Sam’s in here a couple times a day.” He was already uncomfortable. The hardest part was facing friends, Kelly told himself.
“Well, we’ve been busy in the lab.” Sarah spoke rapidly. “John, I needed to tell you how sorry I am that I asked you to come into town. I could have sent you somewhere else. She didn’t need to see Madge. There’s a guy I know in Annapolis, perfectly good practitioner . . .” Her voice stumbled on.
So much guilt, Kelly thought. “None of this was your fault, Sarah,” he said when she stopped talking. “You were a good friend to Pam. If her mom had been like you. maybe—”
It was almost as though she hadn’t heard him. “I should have given you a later date. If the timing had been a little different—”
She was right on that part, Kelly thought. The variables. What if? What if he’d selected a different block to be parked on? What if Billy had never spotted him? What if I hadn’t moved at all and let the bastard just go on his way? A different day, a different week? What if a lot of things. The past happened because a hundred little random things had to fall exactly into place in exactly the right way. in exactly the proper sequence, and while it was easy to accept the good results, one could only rage at the bad ones. What if he’d taken a different route from the food warehouse? What if he’d not spotted Pam at the side of the road and never picked her up? What if he’d never spotted the pills? What if he hadn’t cared, or what if he’d been so outraged that he had abandoned her? Would she be alive now? If her father had been a little more understanding. and she’d never run away, they would never have met. Was that good or bad?
And if all that were true, then what did matter? Was everything a random accident? The problem was that you couldn’t tell. Maybe if he were God looking down on everything from above, maybe then it would fit some pattern, but from the inside it merely was, Kelly thought, and you did the best you could, and tried to learn from your mistakes for when the next random event happened to you. But did that make sense? Hell, did anything really make sense? That was far too complex a question for a former Navy chief lying in a hospital bed.
“Sarah, none of this is your fault. You helped her in the best way you could. How could you change that?”
“Damn it, Kelly, we had her saved!”
“I know. And I brought her here, and I got careless, not you. Sarah, everyone tells me it’s not my fault, and then you come in here and tell me it’s yours.” The grimace was almost a smile. “This can be very confusing, except for one thing.”
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” Sarah noted.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“There he is,” Oreza said quietly, keeping his binoculars on the distant speck. “Just like you said.”
“Come to papa,” the policeman breathed in the darkness.
It was just a happy coincidence, the officer told himself. The people in question owned a corn farm in Dorchester County, but between the cornrows were marijuana plants. Simple, as the saying went, but effective. With a farm came barns and outbuildings, and privacy. Being clever people, they didn’t want to drive their product across the Bay Bridge in their pickup truck, where the summer traffic was unpredictably interrupted, and besides, a sharp-eyed toll taker had helped the State Police make a bust only a month before. They were careful enough to become a potential threat to his friend. That had to be stopped.
So they used a boat. This heaven-sent coincidence gave the Coast Guard the chance to participate in a bust and thus to raise his stature in their eyes. It couldn’t hurt, after he’d used them as the stalking horse to help get Angelo Vorano killed, Lieutenant Charon thought, smiling in the wheelhouse.
“Take ’em now?” Oreza asked.
“Yes. The people they’re delivering to are under our control. Don’t tell anybody that,” he added. “We don’t want to compromise them.”
“You got it.” The quartermaster advanced his throttles and turned the wheel to starboard. “Let’s wake up, people,” he told his crew.
The forty-one-boat squatted at the stern with the increased power. The rumble of the diesels was intoxicating to the boat’s commander. The small steel wheel vibrated in his hands as he steadied up on his new course. The funny part was that it would come as a surprise to them. Although the Coast Guard was the principal law-enforcement agency on the water, their main activity had always been search and rescue, and the word hadn’t quite gotten out yet. Which, Oreza told himself, was just too goddamned bad. He’d found a few coastguardsmen smoking pot in the past couple of years, and his wrath was something still talked about by those who’d seen it.
The target was easily seen now, a thirty-foot Bay-built fishing boat of the sort that dotted the Chesapeake, probably with an old Chevy engine, and that meant she couldn’t possibly outrun his cutter. It was a perfectly good thing to have a good disguise, Oreza thought with a smile, but not so clever to bet your life and your freedom on
one card, however good it might be.
“Just let everything look normal,” the policeman said quietly.
“Look around, sir,” the quartermaster replied. The boat crew was alert but not obviously so, and their weapons were holstered. The boat’s course was almost a direct one toward their Thomas Point station, and if the other boat even took note of them—and nobody was looking aft at the moment—they could easily assume that the forty-one-footer was just heading back to the barn. Five hundred yards now. Oreza jammed the throttles to the stops to get the extra knot or two of overtake speed.
“There’s Mr. English,” another crewman said. The other forty-one-boat from Thomas Point was on a reciprocal course, outbound from the station, holding steady on a straight line, roughly towards the lighthouse that the station also supported.
“Not real smart, are they?” Oreza asked.
“Well, if they were smart, why break the law?”
“Roger that, sir.” Three hundred yards now, and a head turned aft to see the gleaming white shape of the small cutter. Three people aboard the target craft, and the one who had looked at them leaned forward to say something to the guy at the wheel. It was almost comical to watch. Oreza could imagine every word they were saying. There’s a Coast Guard boat back there. So just play it cool, maybe they’re just changing the duty boat or something, see the one there . . . Uh-oh. I don’t like this . . . Just be cool, damn it! I really don’t like this. Settle down, their lights aren’t on and their station is right down there, for Christ’s sake.
