by Tom Clancy
Rodgers understood what Harleigh was feeling. The general was luckier than the young woman. The difference between an adult and an adolescent was a lifetime of anger. "Impotent rage" was what Liz Gordon had called it. When a kid took an emotional beating, he tended to feel victimized. He shut down the way Harleigh had done. When an adult took a hit, it often tapped into buried resentment. He let it out. That aggressiveness did not heal the trauma, but it did provide fuel to keep the individual going.
"He's off now, General," Bugs said.
The general nodded. He did not have to knock. There was a small security camera in the upper left corner. Hood already knew Rodgers was there.
"Good morning, Mike," Hood said.
"Morning."
"Sit down," Hood said. He did not say anything else.
The general lowered himself into one of the room's two armchairs. He knew then that Hood was troubled. Whenever Paul Hood had bad news, he did not engage in top-of-themorning chat. The only thing Mike Rodgers did not know was whether this was personal or professional. And if it was professional, which one of them it was about.
Hood did not waste time getting to the point.
"Mike, I received an E-mailed letter of resolution from Senator Fox early this morning," Hood told him. He regarded the general. "The CIOC has voted unanimously not to allow the NCMC to rebuild its military capacity."
Rodgers felt as if someone had driven a baseball bat into his gut. "That's knee-jerk bullshit."
"Whatever it is, the decision is final," Hood said.
"We can't restaff Striker?" Rodgers said, still in disbelief.
Hood looked down. "No."
"But they can't order that," Rodgers protested.
"They have-"
"No!" Rodgers said. "Striker is mandated by charter. Fox would need an act of Congress to change it. Even if we sent Striker on an unauthorized mission, the CCP very clearly states that disciplinary actions are to be directed against the commanders in the field and at HQ, and not against the unit individually or in total. I'll send her the chapter and verse."
"They took pains to point out that this is not a disciplinary action," Hood told him.
"Like hell it isn't!" Rodgers snapped. Senator Fox had poked a hole in his rage. He was fighting to control it. "Fox and the CIOC doesn't want one, because if they investigate us under DA charges, the hearing has to be public. The press would put her against a wall and pull the trigger. We stopped a goddamn war. They know it. She has no reason other than pressure from other agencies to shut us down. Hell, even Mala Chatterjee had good things to say about us."
Mala Chatterjee was the Indian-born secretary-general of the United Nations. Before the Striker action in Kashmir, she had been fiercely critical of Paul Hood's handling of the United Nations situation.
"Mike, we stepped on the toes of the military and made things rough for the embassy in New Delhi," Hood said.
"Aw, I'm bleeding for them," Rodgers said. "Would they have preferred dealing with a nuclear attack?"
"Mike, what was going on between Pakistan and India was not our official business," Hood said. "We went in to reconnoiter, not intervene. Yes, you have humanitarian rights on your side. They have political ramifications on their side. That's why the CIOC is hitting us so hard."
"No, they're just hitting us low," Rodgers shot back. "They don't have the balls to hit hard. They're like my friggin' Uncle Johnny who didn't have a car but liked to take drives. He called realtors and asked them to show him houses. The CIOC doesn't have a car, or money, but they're working us."
"Yes, the CIOC is working us," Hood said. "And yes, they're doing it very quietly and very effectively."
"I hope you told them to stuff their little letter," Rodgers said.
"I did not," Hood replied.
"What?" Rodgers said. That felt like the small end of the baseball bat.
"I informed Senator Fox that the NCMC would comply with the resolution," Hood said.
"But they're cowards, Paul!" Rodgers yelled. "You kowtowed to a bunch of sheep."
Hood said nothing. Rodgers took a long breath. He had to reel it in. He was not going to get anywhere beating up on Paul Hood.
"Fine," Hood agreed at last. "They're cowards. They're sheep. But you've got to give them credit for one thing."
"What's that?" Rodgers asked.
"They did something that we did not," Hood replied. "They did this thing legally." Hood opened a file on the computer and swung the monitor toward Rodgers. "Have a look."
Reluctantly, the general leaned forward. He needed a minute to calm down. He looked at the monitor. Hood had brought up section 24-4 of the CCP manual. Paragraph 8 was highlighted. Rodgers read the passage. Even as he focused on the text, Rodgers could not believe this was happening. What had happened to Striker in the field was crushing enough. But at least they died in action. To be shut down and humiliated by a clutch of soft, self-serving politicians like this. It was almost unbearable.
"Seconding fresh troops from other military forces falls under the heading of 'Domestic military activity and procurement,' " Hood continued. "That is something the CIOC can and has preemptively denied. They've also blocked the hiring of retired military personnel for other than advisory activities. They used section 90-9, paragraph 5, to do that."
Hood jumped to that part of the CCP. It outlined the need for all recommissioned personnel to undergo field examinations at Quantico, which was where Striker had been stationed. The manual defined that as military activity that had to be approved by the CIOC.
Mike Rodgers sat back. Hood was right. He almost had to admire Senator Fox and her backstabbing colleagues. They had not only stopped Hood and Rodgers by the book, but they had done it without kicking up any dust. He wondered if they were also hoping to get his own resignation.
Maybe they would. He did not want to give them the satisfaction, but he also did not have the patience for this kind of bureaucracy anymore.
Hood turned the computer screen around and leaned forward in his chair. He folded his hands.
"Sorry I got a little hot," Rodgers said.
"You don't have to apologize to me," Hood said.
"Yes, I do," Rodgers replied.
"Mike, I know this is a tough blow," Hood went on. "But I've also been reading the CCP. This does not have to be a terminal blow."
Now Rodgers leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
Hood typed something on the keyboard. "I'm going to throw some names at you."
"Okay," Rodgers said.
"Maria Corneja, Aideen Marley, Falah Shibli, David Battat, Harold Moore, and Zack Bemler," Hood said. "What do those people have in common?"
"They're agents we've worked with over the years," Rodgers said.
"There's something else most of them share," Hood said.
"I'm missing whatever it is," Rodgers admitted.
"Except for Aideen, none of them ever served in the military," Hood said. "And none of them is in it now."
"I'm still not following you," Rodgers said apologetically.
"These people are not governed by the CIOC resolution or by CCP restrictions," Hood said. "What I'm saying is that we get back in the field, but we don't do it with a military team. We don't replace Striker."
"Infiltration," Rodgers said. Now he got it. "We defuse situations from the inside rather than the outside."
"Exactly," Hood replied.
Rodgers sat back. He was ashamed that he had been so slow on the uptake. "Damn, that's good," Rodgers said.
"Thanks," Hood said. "We have an absolute mandate to collect intelligence. The CIOC doesn't control that," he went on.
"So we run this as a black ops unit. Only you, Bob Herbert, and one or two others know about it. Our people fly commercial airlines, work with cover profiles, move around in daylight, in public."
"They hide in plain sight," Rodgers said.
"Right," Hood said. "We run an old-fashioned HUMINT operation."
Rodgers nodded. He wa
s annoyed that he had sold his boss short. Yet this was a side of Paul Hood he had never seen. The lone wolf in sheepish team player's clothes.
Rodgers liked it.
"Any thoughts?" Hood asked.
"Not at the moment," Rodgers said.
"Any questions?" Hood asked.
"Just one," Rodgers replied.
"I already have the answer to that," Hood said. He smiled. "You start right now."
Chapter Seven
Okavango Swamp, Botswana
Tuesday, 5:36 P. M.
It felt good to breathe again.
For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the ovenlike convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.
After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygendeprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.
Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.
The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.
The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury's hood was lifted at the bottom and he was given scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.
In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone's back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury's body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to swell, and swallowing became a chore. The clergyman once again succumbed to mortal despair. But he was too — weak to struggle. Father Bradbury went where he was taken.
Whenever he opened his eyes, the priest saw dark orange instead of black. The sun was up. As the humidity increased, the priest became dehydrated. He found himself fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he lost consciousness, he would never regain it. Yet he must have passed out. When they stopped, the sun appeared to be much lower in the sky.
But he could not be sure. Even as he was walked across thick, almost muddy soil, his captor would not remove his hood. Once again, he would not tell the priest why he was brought here. It was not until Father Bradbury had been taken into a structure of some kind that he was given any information at all.
Unfortunately, not all of the communication was verbal. And none of it was encouraging.
Father Bradbury was led onto a rug and was ordered to stand there. The man who had brought the priest in released him. Through the hood, he saw a gauzy spot of light directly ahead.
"May I have a drink?" Father Bradbury rasped.
The priest heard a high whistling sound from behind. A moment later, there was a sharp snapping sound followed by a blaze of intense heat behind both knees. The fire jumped up through Father Bradbury's thighs and down to his ankles like an electric shock. He sucked a deep, involuntary breath. At the same time, his legs folded, and he dropped to his knees. When he was finally able to let the air from his lungs, he moaned miserably.
The burning grew worse as he lay there. He knew at once that he had been struck with a switch.
After several moments, he was hoisted roughly back to his feet and cuffed on the side of the head to get his attention.
"Do not speak," someone ordered.
The speaker was standing a few feet in front of the priest. His voice was soft but commanding. Father Bradbury's ear was ringing from the blow. He turned the side of his head toward the man who had just spoken. There was something compelling about his voice.
"This island has been sanctified with blood of fowl and day dancing," the man continued. "The voice of a reverend from outside the circle can only be used to advance or accept our faith."
The words made sense, but Father Bradbury was having difficulty concentrating on them. His legs were weak and trembling violently. He fell again.
"Help him," the voice from in front said.
Strong hands moved under the priest's arms. He was raised from the rug. This time the hands held him upright. The priest's breath was tremulous. The pain behind his knees settled into a regular, forceful throbbing. His head, overheated and aching for water, sagged forward. The hands released him after a moment. The priest wobbled but forced himself to remain standing.
The only sound the priest heard was his own breathing. And then, after a minute or two, the man in front spoke again. He was nearer now. Though the voice was barely more than a whisper, it was deep and compelling.
"Now that you understand my position, I want you to do something," said the speaker in front.
"Who… who are you?" Father Bradbury implored. The words were cracked. It did not sound like his own voice.
A moment later, he heard the terrible whistle. He cried out as he felt the bite of the switch. This time, it struck a little higher, along the backs of his thighs. The pain was so great that he actually danced forward several steps before collapsing. He fell on the dirt floor, panting and whimpering. He had a flashback to when he was a boy and had been hit with a strap by his father. This was how he sounded then. The priest lay writhing on his belly, hooting pain into the hood. He could not control what came from his mouth. His bound hands pulled against the ropes. But Father Bradbury was not trying to get free. His body had to move, to keep from letting the pain be his only stimulus.
"You were told not to speak!" someone yelled from behind. It did not sound like the man who had brought him here. This was some other tormentor. Perhaps they had brought in someone who was proficient with a switch. Many villages had people like that, men who were skilled at corporal punishment. "Nod if you understand the instructions."
Father Bradbury was curled on his side. He nodded. He barely knew what he was doing anymore. His body was in agony, yet his mind was numb. His mouth was dry, but his hair and face were greasy with sweat. He was struggling mightily with his bonds yet he had never felt so weak.
Only the priest's spirit was intact. It had been shaped and reinforced by over two score years of reflection, reading, and prayer. He needed that part of him to stay strong.
The switch nipped the backs of his bound hands. Father Bradbury yelped and stopped moving them. He thought of restless young boys whose knuckles he had rapped in catechism class and apologized to God. He was pulled back onto his feet. His knees folded inward, but the priest did not fall. The powerful hands continued to hold him.
"You must believe me," said the gentle man in front. He was leaning close again, his voice even more compassionate now. "I do not wish to hurt you. On my soul, I do not. The creation of pain is a black deed. It hurts you, and it attracts the attention of evil spirits. They watch us. They feetj on evil, and they grow stronger. Then they attempt to influence us.
That is not what I wish. But for the sake of my people, I must have yo
ur cooperation. There is no time to debate this."
Father Bradbury had no idea what this man was saying. Everything around him was confusion.
"Now," the voice said as the man stepped away. "You will be taken to a telephone. We have been watching your seven deacon missionaries. We have the numbers of their cellular telephones. You will call them and tell these men to leave my country. When their departure has been confirmed, you will be permitted to leave our camp. Then you, too, will leave our Botswana. You and the other priests of a false divinity."
"He is not false," Father Bradbury said.
The clergyman braced for a blow that did not come. Then it came, just as he was relaxing. It struck his lower back. He felt the shock of the blow race up his back to his neck, and he whimpered loudly. No one said anything. There was no need. He knew the rules.
The hands holding Father Bradbury were joined by another set of hands. They pulled the priest forward. He could not keep his wounded legs under him. He did not even try.
The priest was dragged across the room. His legs were screaming, but he could do nothing to quiet them. His head was throbbing as well, not just from the blows but from thirst and hunger. One set of hands pushed him onto a stool. The edge of the seat brushed his leg where he had been hit. It burned terribly, and he jerked away. The men settled him back down. Another man untied the bottom of the hood. It was lifted to just above the priest's mouth. As warm as the evening was, the air felt wonderfully cool on his face.
"There is a speakerphone in front of you," said someone close to Father Bradbury. This was the man who had originally captured him. "The first person we are calling is Deacon Jones."
No one was holding the priest now. He slumped forward slightly, but he did not slip from the stool. His feet were spread wide, and his hands were still bound behind him. His arms served as a counterbalance to keep him from falling. His legs and hands burned furiously where he had been struck. His arms shook. Tears slipped from the edges of his eyes. His parched lips were trembling. He felt violated and forsaken. But Father Bradbury still had one thing neither pain nor promises could take from him.
