by Tom Clancy
Hood had expected there to be tension between himself and Rodgers, between himself and Herbert. Instead, there was a sense of triumph. Darrell McCaskey had started an operation that they had seen to the finish line, all of them carrying the load part of the way. Hood was glad that it was Mike who had gotten to carry it home. He deserved to go out with a victory. If Bob Herbert held any bitterness about the downsizing of Op-Center, he had put it aside for now. Or maybe it was forgotten. The Mississippi native was like magnesium: a quick, bright burn, and then it was over. Just a few months before, Herbert had been angry at Rodgers for taking on an intelligence unit after the disbanding of Striker.
Or maybe he is just exhausted from pushing his wheelchair around, Hood thought. Herbert had ordered a spare motor, phone, and computer from the base quartermaster, but they would not be delivered until the next day.
“Detective Superintendent George Daily is a very happy man,” McCaskey said as they settled in around the conference table. He looked at Rodgers. “Mike is a hero in the London press.”
“Maybe Scotland Yard will give me a job,” Rodgers replied.
“Whatever you do, go someplace where there is a window that opens,” Herbert said. He was fanning himself with an intelligence briefing from Andrews. Until his own division was functioning again, Herbert had to rely on data from other OSARs, offices of surveillance and reconnaissance. “The flyboy engineers said it could be a day or two before they get the motor working again.”
“Don’t believe them,” Rodgers said. “Military engineers always say things will take longer than they should. That way, when everything is up and running, we think they’re miracle workers.”
“I thought I was cynical,” Herbert said. “Someone’s been in the military way too long.”
“You know, you could always run for president,” McCaskey said. “I hear the USF has an opening.”
“That is not for me,” Rodgers said.
“The job or the philosophy?” Hood asked.
“The mantle of Donald Orr,” Rodgers said. “I don’t think the USF will survive. If it does, it will be a fringe organization. If what Kenneth Link said about Orr proves correct, he will become a poster boy of the lunatic far right.”
“It’s very true,” Herbert assured him. “Whatever job you take next, Mike, let me handle the due diligence. I looked at the minutes of some of those closed sessions Link told you about, the ones Orr attended. USF should have stood for Under a Serious Fascist.”
“Gentlemen, Link is a name I do not particularly want to hear right now,” Hood interjected. “Not after what he did here.”
“In the name of patriotism, no less,” McCaskey said.
“The sick thing is, who can deny that Senator Orr was a threat?” Rodgers said.
“Me,” Herbert said, raising his hand. “Who can deny that William Wilson was a threat to the American economy?”
“No one, but that doesn’t justify murder,” McCaskey said.
“Why not? We’ve fought wars over economic issues,” Herbert said. “Lots of people died in those, all of it wrapped in flags and served with apple pie.”
“So we should just kill people who threaten our wallets?” McCaskey asked.
“That is way too big a thought for me,” Herbert said. “I’m in intelligence, not wisdom.”
Rodgers smiled.
“Look, I’m not defending Orr,” Herbert went on. “If nothing else, he was a coward for sending a gullible kid like Lucy O’Connor to do his crap work and lying to her about what would happen. He was a scumbag for blackmailing Detective Howell. All I’m saying is that this happens routinely as a matter of national policy. In that respect, Orr’s mistake was that he was the only member of Congress to vote on the issue. If war had been declared on England and Wilson were the only casualty, this whole thing would have been legal.”
“I always believed that one should try to fight harmful or restrictive policies with better, more creative policies,” Hood said.
“Sure. And when that fails, guys like me come in and set it right,” Rodgers said.
“Bingo,” Herbert said.
“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “My older sister used to take part in sit-ins and be-ins in the sixties. They were pretty effective.”
“Very,” Rodgers said. “They cut the aid and support me and my guys needed to beat the Vietcong,” Rodgers grumbled. “Only at that, Darrell.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. The sense of a bittersweet reunion had passed. The balance was way off now, even among the men who were remaining with Op-Center.
“I think we’re all still a little close to this situation,” Hood said. “We should probably table the political debate.”
“I agree,” Rodgers said. “I just came by to thank Darrell and Bob for their help on this, and also Maria. She did great.”
“I’ll tell her,” McCaskey said. He regarded Rodgers for a long moment. “So. What are your immediate plans?”
“Professionally, I have none,” Rodgers said. “Personally, there’s something I have to do. A question I have to answer.”
“Need help?” Herbert asked.
“I thought you were short on wisdom,” Rodgers said.
“That was false modesty,” he replied.
“No,” Rodgers said. “It was something the admiral asked me while the marines were taking him away. One of those lady-or-the-tiger things that I want to think about. Preferably while I’m rock climbing or baking on a coast-line somewhere.”
“You earned those breaks,” Hood said. He was hurt by the fact that Rodgers had singled out the help of the others but not him. It seemed petty. But he let it pass. Hood was not in Rodgers’s position and did not know how it felt.
The meeting broke up, McCaskey and Herbert leaving to help reboot Op-Center. Hood and Rodgers stood. The general faced his longtime associate.
“Have you spoken with the president about what went down?” Rodgers asked.
“Late last night,” Hood said. He hesitated. He wanted to say more about the new arrangement, solicit the input of a valued confederate. He decided against it. “The White House was happy and very appreciative.”
“That’s good.” Rodgers said. “Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“You looked like you wanted to say something else,” Rodgers said.
“No,” Hood assured him. “No, I just remembered there’s an intern who I need to check in with.”
“An intern? After all this, you’re worrying about an intern. Can you say ‘micromanage’?”
“It isn’t that,” Hood told him. “He’s the son of Sharon’s new squeeze.”
Rodgers made a face. “And you’re taking him on?”
Hood nodded. He felt like the high school nerd who had joined another club because they needed a chess player or debater.
“Always a difficult tightrope to walk, isn’t it?”
Hood smiled. “Hopefully, my low-yield form of diplomacy will work.”
“That wasn’t a knock earlier, about talk ending in combat,” Rodgers said. “It was a lament. I don’t like war any more than you do. I’ve lost too many friends.”
“I know.”
The general’s eyes softened and moistened. For a moment, he seemed to be near tears.
“I also didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you before, when I thanked Bob and Darrell for their help. One of the things I was thinking on the flight back was some of the decisions Orr and Link made. It isn’t like the military, where you have a target and a limited number of ways to reach it. Where everyone in your unit is identically armed and trained and you know pretty much how they’re going to react. There is nothing predictable and no one reliable in politics.”
“Some of us try; most of us fail,” Hood admitted.
“You tried harder than most,” Rodgers said. “I haven’t always bought what you were selling, and I’ve been pretty vocal about that. But I can’t fault your efforts. I guess you wer
e the right man for this job.” He gestured behind him to indicate all of Op-Center. “You listen, your instincts are damn good, and you have a good heart. And, hell. You had the White House nipping at one ankle, me kicking at the other, and a bomb that tore a hole through your middle. You still got us through and beat the bad guys.”
“We all did,” Hood reminded him.
“You were the coach. You get first champagne.”
“Thanks,” Hood said. It seemed a frail word for what Hood felt. But the feeling behind it was sincere.
“Well, I’m going to get myself out of here,” Rodgers said. “Start that long furlough.”
“You earned it,” Hood said. “And I hope you find the answer to whatever the question is. You know where to come if you need advice.”
“Yeah,” Rodgers smiled.
The men shook hands, then embraced. It was a tough good-bye. The men had been through loss and triumph together. This was the man who had saved the life of Harleigh Hood. Though Hood expected that they would see each other again, an era of shared victory and pain was ending.
Rodgers broke the embrace with a sharp salute, then turned and left. He walked quickly and proudly into an uncertain future.
Hood went back to the conference table. His own future was also cloudy. There was rebuilding to be done, not just at Op-Center but inside Paul Hood. He did not question the decisions that had brought them to this point, the loss of Rodgers and other staff members, as well as the new alliance with the White House. But Hood did regret them. He always would.
Hood did not know his own future, of course. But he hoped that Rodgers was right about one thing. Hood hoped that unlike Donald Orr and Kenneth Link, he knew the difference between what was moral and what was not. And that he had the strength to stand up for what was right. The coming weeks would be a test, not just for him but for Op-Center.
Suddenly there was a hollow cheer from somewhere along the air ducts. That was where the group of air force mechanics had been working. A moment later, cool air began to circulate throughout the underground complex. Whether the engineers had misled Herbert or whether they had worked a wonder was not important. Only one thing mattered: Renewal, Hood thought. You can never write it off.
Never.
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