by Tom Clancy
“We have attorneys, too,” Kat said over her shoulder.
“Darrell, I said I’ll take care of this,” Rodgers told him.
“Really? If you had helped before, we might have nailed the perps before Op-Center was tagged.”
Rodgers moved McCaskey toward a corner, away from the receptionist. “That isn’t fair,” the general said.
“Like hell. You were off licking your thorny paw because Paul Hood hurt your feelings.”
“Darrell, you’re stressed. This is battle fatigue talking—”
“No. This is what I should have been doing from the start. Pushing. Maybe then the attack would not have happened.”
“We’ll never know. Look,” Rodgers said. “I will go to San Diego with the senator and his staff. If they are involved, I will find out.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, maybe,” Rodgers agreed. “But pushing like this, in Washington, may not get you anything. Lowell is very good, but the senator has friends and influence. That’s better.”
McCaskey exhaled through his nose. “I’ve never played good cop, bad cop, Mike. I don’t like manipulating people, or the law.”
“That isn’t what we’re doing,” Rodgers told him. “We’re playing by the rules of the system.”
McCaskey leaned closer. “Do you think they’re involved?”
“I don’t know. I belong to the school of innocent until proven guilty,” Rodgers said.
“Your gut, Mike. Mine says yes. What does yours tell you?”
Rodgers looked into the main office. Kat was helping Kendra organize computer files for the trip. He could not tell if she was watching him. That was the great thing about the military. He knew who the enemy was.
“My gut tells me the same thing it told me before,” Rodgers said. “To proceed with care, but definitely to proceed. I want the guys who hurt Op-Center as much as you do, Darrell. If they were responsible, I’ll find out. I give you my word.”
“What if I went with you?” McCaskey asked.
“That would be overkill,” Rodgers said. “This needs to be finessed.”
McCaskey sighed again. He seemed a little more temperate now. “You could have ordered me off. You didn’t.”
“I won’t.”
“When will you leave?”
“Kendra is leaving tonight with the senator and wants me to go with Link and his group tomorrow morning,” Rodgers told him. “That should work. It will give me a chance to smooth things over with Kat.”
“All right, Mike,” McCaskey said. “I should probably get over to Op-Center anyway. Do you know exactly how bad it was?”
Rodgers told him. McCaskey was sorry to hear about Mac but relieved and also surprised that there were no other casualties.
McCaskey left, and Rodgers went to make a phone call. He would use a pay phone, not one in the senator’s office. He did not want the call to be logged. He no longer felt like the Man Without a Country. He felt worse, like a wayward apostle.
“No man can serve two masters,” Rodgers reminded himself. Yet here he was, the man who prized loyalty above all, preparing to spy on his future colleagues to help his former teammates. Fortunately, there was another biblical quote that gave the general comfort: “The righteous man escapes trouble, and the wicked man falls into it in his stead.”
Rodgers chose to believe that one. It was easy.
There was no other choice.
THIRTY-FOUR
Camp Pendleton, California
Tuesday, 2:21 P.M.
Two-star Marine General Jack Breen was listening to his voice mail when a name from the past appeared. Breen smiled. He remembered the name, all right. He remembered the day he first heard the name. It was February 18, 1991.
And he sure as hell remembered where he was when he first heard the name.
Their initial meeting was the result of a very unusual multiservice action in the first Iraq war. Then-Colonel Breen was the commander of a ten-man SWEAT “hogs” unit — Special Warfare, Elite Advance Troops. The men had been air-dropped into Iraq six days in advance of the planned main Marine invasion. An Iraqi transmission tower was located in a mountain four thousand feet northeast of the city of Ad Najaf. Breen’s mission was to set up a satellite interface that would intercept Iraqi communications. Before the 2nd Marine Division moved in, Central Command wanted to know in which villages or underground tunnels enemy troops might be hidden. Those sites would be bombed ahead of time or avoided, if possible.
The SWEAT unit found one of those enemy bands. Or rather, the Iraqi band found them.
It happened in the foothills, at midnight, shortly after the Marines had landed. It was a cool night, in the mid-fifties, with a dry wind blowing down from the mountaintop. Because of the wind howling through their helmets, it was difficult to hear but not to see. All of the men were wearing khaki-and-green mountain camouflage uniforms and night-vision goggles. Four Marines were on parachute detail, burying the shrouds. The other six had formed a perimeter secure line. The PSL, which was actually a circle, sought to establish the outward parameters of the safe zone. They had landed on a gently sloping hill, with clear visibility below and short bluffs and boulders above. The high sites would need to be examined and secured before the group could proceed. Their target was on the opposite side of the mountain. Access was along a narrow dirt path, two thousand feet up, which girdled the peak. Satellite reconnaissance had revealed a cave toward the end of the route, near the tower. The men had until sunrise to reach it. The plan was to wait there until dark, then go out and set up the compact satellite dish. When the men were finished, they would retrace their steps, radio their base in Kuwait, and wait for an Apache to extract them.
The plan was changed by the United States Air Force.
The men had secured the area by 0027 hours. They were able to walk up the peak rather than climb, and moved in a relatively tight formation known as the flying geese. The point man of the wedge watched the ground for mines, the next two watched the terrain ahead, the next two watched the sides, and the next pair kept an eye on the skies. The two who followed covered the group, and the last man hung back to protect their flank. If they were attacked, they would drop and crawl in opposite directions to widen the wedge. It would be easier for the enemy to pick them off if they stayed in their close ascent phalanx.
The hogs were on the dirt path when Breen heard a whistle. It sounded like the wind. In fact, the noise was coming from a Sukhoi Su-7, a single-seat ground attack aircraft that was a standard tactical fighter-bomber in the Soviet Air Force for nearly forty years. Saddam had thirty of them in his air force, each armed with two 30 mm NR-30 guns, seventy rounds per gun. Pylons under the wings carried two 742 kg or two 495 kg bombs or rocket pods.
This particular aircraft had been on patrol in what would later be known as the southern no-fly zone. The fighter was screaming toward the ground, illuminated by its own flames after taking a hit from a United States Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle. The F-15E had been searching for mobile Scud missile launchers and had not been informed about the Marine presence. Breen ordered the hogs to drop and cover, which was all they could do before the fireball ripped into the mountainside. It impacted well north of the Marines, about a quarter of a mile, but it sent flaming debris and rock in their path. Worse, the crash was sure to attract Iraqi troops.
Breen sent two men ahead to check the route, to see if there was some way to get around the wreckage. There was, but they would have to go back down the mountain and around the base. According to the topographic map, that would take them twice as long. They would be moving around in daylight.
Breen decided to try to complete the mission.
The mountain was steep in their present location, so they backtracked a half mile to a point where the map said they could walk down. Breen double-timed the unit, keeping the wedge formation as they descended. They slowed as they reached the base of the foothills, partly to conserve energy and partly to watch for shepherds or farmers who
might be up early. Unfortunately, they were stopped by something they did not anticipate: the hogs found the mobile Scud for which the F-15E had been searching. It was sitting under an outcropping of rock, about three hundred yards below them. The tractor was hidden beneath a camouflage tarp. Iraqi soldiers were busy covering it with brush before sunrise.
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 s
oon 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.
