Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War

by Acts Of War [lit]

  Mary Rose squeezed Coffey's hand as Katzen held the sheep tightly and took a step back. The sheep moved an inch, then another. Katzen put it down, went to the other side, bent low, and flashed the light under the carcass.

  "I don't see any booby traps," he said.

  He returned to the hindquarters and pulled the sheep a little more. After it had moved another few inches; Katzen went back and checked beneath it. Again he saw nothing.

  In just over a minute the environmentalist had moved the sheep entirely away from the space it had occupied. There was nothing beneath it, and Katzen quickly pulled it off the road. He was perspiring heavily when he returned to the van.

  "So what the hell was that all about?" he complained.

  Coffey was looking out into the dark. "The dead sheep could've been the result of army target practice, like we thought," he said. "Or maybe someone was out there, watching us. To see who we've got inside."

  Katzen shut the door. "Well, now that they think they know," he said, "let's get the hell over this hill."

  Mary Rose shifted the van to drive. She breathed deeply before pressing down on the gas. "I don't know about you two, but that did a number on my stomach."

  Katzen smiled weakly. "Ditto."

  While Mary Rose guided them toward the rise and the hillock beyond, Coffey went back to explain the delay to the Strikers. As the attorney knelt on the floor, he began to feel dizzy. He rested his forehead on his knee.

  "Hey, Phil," Coffey said, "are you feeling okay?"

  "I'm feeling a little drained," he said. "Why?"

  Coffey's ears were beginning to ring. "Because I'm having... a little trouble here. Dizzy. Buzzing in my ears. Have you got that?"

  When Katzen didn't answer, Coffey turned toward the front of the van. He was just in time to see Katzen fall heavily into the passenger's seat. Mary Rose was leaning forward, her forearms against the steering wheel. She was obviously struggling to keep her head up.

  "I'm going to stop;" she said. "Something is... wrong."

  The van slowed and Coffey rose. As he did, he was overcome by a sense of vertigo which brought him back to the floor. He reached along the backs of the two chairs beside the computer stations and struggled to pull himself up. Nausea filled his stomach and rose in his throat and brought him back down again.

  A moment later, as black clouds swirled inside his eyes, Lowell Coffey felt himself hoisted up bodily and dragged backward.

  EIGHTEEN

  Monday, 8:35 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  They look without seeing, Ibrahim thought.

  The young Kurd had shot the wild sheep and dragged it into the road to stop the van. When the driver braked to avoid hitting it, Ibrahim climbed from the ditch in which he'd been hiding. He crept from the side of the road to the back of the van, plugged the exhaust pipe with his T-shirt, and snuck away again. The windows were closed. Once the door was shut, he knew it would take less than three minutes for the passengers to be overcome by carbon monoxide. He had selected a relatively flat stretch of roadway so that when the driver fainted, the van would simply glide to a stop. Then, removing his T-shirt from the exhaust, Ibrahim entered the van and opened the windows. He was both surprised and delighted to find it filled with computers. The equipment and perhaps the data itself would be useful.

  Ibrahim checked the three Americans. They were still breathing. They would survive. Dragging the unconscious man to the front of the van, Ibrahim sat him and the others back-to-back behind the passenger's seat. Using his knife to cut out the seat belts and shoulder harnesses, he tied the three people together by the wrists. Then he bound their legs at the thighs and shins.

  He took a last look around the van before slipping into the driver's seat. As he sat down he thought he heard something behind him. It sounded like someone gagging. Noticing the flashlight between the seats, he shined it into the back of the van. For the first time he noticed that there were doors in the floor. Drawing the .38 from his belt holster, he walked over. He stopped at the compartments and looked down.

  Each compartment was large enough to hold one person. He heard the retching sound again.'There was definitely someone in the left-side compartment.

  Ibrahim fought the urge to put bullets into the floor before raising the door. But he knew that whoever was inside would have been incapacitated by carbon monoxide just as the other three had been. Bending, he pointed his gun down and threw open the first door.

  There was a woman inside. She was conscious, but just barely so. There was a pool of vomit below her head. Ibrahim opened the other door. There was another soldier inside. He was unconscious. Trapped in the unventilated compartment closest to the exhaust, he had obviously been the most seriously affected of the five. But he too was still alive.

  So the American officer did warn these people, Ibrahim thought. They were trying to sneak these two people in to kill them. But Allah was looking out for them, blessed be His mighty name.

  Pulling the man out, Ibrahim slipped off his black shirt. Tearing it into strips, he draped the man over the back of the chair and tied his hands to the front legs and his feet to the back legs. Then he went to the woman, threw her over the back of the other chair, and tied her up using the rest of the shirt.

  With a self-satisfied smile, he surveyed all his captives one last time before slipping his gun back into his holster and returning to the driver's seat. Flashing the van's headlights three times to signal Hasan to let him through, he put the vehicle into drive and quickly covered the short distance to the hillock.

  NINETEEN

  Monday, 2:01 p.m.,

  Washington, D. C.

  There was a ping from the side-mounted speakers of Paul Hood's computer. Hood looked at the monitor and saw Bob Herbert's code on the bottom of the screen. He pushed Ctrl/Ent.

  "Yes, Bob."

  "Chief, I know you're in a rush," Herbert said, "but there's something you've got to take a look at."

  "Something bad?" Hood asked. "Is Mike okay?"

  "It may involve Mike directly," Herbert said, "and I'm sorry. Yeah, it does look pretty bad."

  "Send it over," Hood said.

  "Right away," Herbert replied.

  Hood sat back and waited. He'd been busy downloading classified data onto diskettes to take with him on the airplane. The diskettes were specially designed for use on government flights. The jackets became superheated in a fire, though they, could not burn. In the event of a crash, the disks as well as their data. would be reduced to slag.

  The White House was sending a chopper to Andrews and putting him and Assistant Deputy Director Warner Bicking on a three p.m. State Department flight to London. Hood was scheduled to meet Dr. Nasr at Heathrow Airport and catch a British Airways flight to Syria an hour later. Hood watched as the computer finished copying files onto diskettes. When the hard drive stopped humming, Hood continued to stare at the blank screen.

  "Hold on a second," Herbert said. "I want the computer to animate the stuff for you."

  "I'm holding on," Hood said, a trace of impatience in his voice. He tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than Mike Rodgers having been captured by terrorists.

  Mike Rodgers a hostage, he thought bitterly. Your wife disappointed in you. A new problem will give you a hat trick. Still, it was a record he didn't feel like shooting for.

  Less than two minutes ago Hood had phoned his wife to tell her he wouldn't be able to make daughter Harleigh's piccolo solo at school that night, and almost certainly son Alexander's championship soccer game on Thursday. Sharon had reacted the way she always did when work came before family. She immediately grew cold and distant. And Hood knew she would stay that way until he came back. Part of her reaction was concern for her husband's safety. American government and business leaders abroad, particularly in the Middle East, were neither low-profile nor particularly well liked. And after her husband's experiences with the New Jacobin terrorists in France, Sharon was less complacent than ever about his s
afety.

  Another, possibly larger, part of her reaction was Sharon's oft-voiced concern that time was passing and they weren't spending enough of it together. They weren't building the memories that helped make marriages rich... and durable. Ironically, long hours was one of the reasons he'd gotten out of politics and then out of banking. The directorship of Op-Center was supposed to have been about managing a modest staff which managed domestic crises. But after being drawn into a near-disaster in North Korea, Op-Center suddenly found itself an international player, a streamlined counterpart to the bureaucracy-heavy CIA. As a result, Hood's own responsibilities had increased dramatically.

  Working hard certainly didn't make him a bad person. It provided a very comfortable life for his family and it exposed their two children to interesting people and events. But on top of everything else, he had to deal with the fact that his freedom to work, and to work hard, made Sharon jealous. She'd been forced to cut back her "healthy cooking" appearances on Andy McDonnell's cable food show to twice a week. There simply wasn't enough time to do a daily segment and shuttle the kids to where they had to go and run the house. Though Hood felt bad for his wife, there was nothing he could do.

  Except get home on time, he thought, which sounds great on the surface but isn't practical. Not in a city that operates on international time.

  "Here it is," Herbert said. "Watch the left side of the screen."

  Hood leaned forward. He saw an extremely jerky motion picture of what looked like the ROC sitting in darkness. From the ID numbers in the lower left corner of the picture, he knew that these were successive NRO photographs being flashed together sequentially, flipbook style. There was approximately a one-second delay between each image.

  "Am I looking for anything in particular?" Hood asked. "Is that Phil?"

  "Yes," said Herbert. "He's pulling a dead something off the road. It looks like a sheep or dog. But that's not what I want you to see. Watch the back of the Regional Op-Center."

  Hood did. The darkness seemed to shift slightly behind the ROC, though that could have been caused by atmospheric conditions between the satellite and the target. Suddenly, there was a tiny flash which lasted for just one image. A few seconds later there was another flash in a slightly different spot.

  "What was that?" Hood asked.

  "I've run it through computer enhancement," Herbert said. "We thought at first that it might have been a moth or an artifact in the image. But it was definitely a reflection, slightly concave and probably coming from a watch crystal. Keep looking, though."

  Hood did. He saw Phil Katzen return to the van. He watched it start to move ahead. Then he saw it stop. The van remained parked for several images. Hood leaned closer to the screen. Then the door opened, the light came on inside the ROC, and someone got in.

  "Oh, no," Hood said. "God, no."

  Herbert froze the image on the monitor. "As you can see," he said, "whoever it is, he's armed. Looks like a .38 in the holster and a Czech Parabellum over his shoulder. According to Darrell, the Syrian Kurds bought crate loads of those from Slovakia in 1994."

  Herbert started up the moving image again. For a moment Hood couldn't see anything else because the image had been taken from almost directly overhead. But as he waited, he felt his guilt and every other priority evaporate in the face of what he was watching.

  "In about four minutes real time," Herbert said, "the ROC headlights are going to flash three times. Obviously, whoever is at the controls is signaling someone up ahead."

  "How did this happen?" Hood asked. "Mike wouldn't have told them about the ROC."

  "We don't think his captors knew about the Regional Op-Center ahead of time," Herbert said. "They were probably just waiting for Mike's wheels to arrive and lucked out."

  "How was it done?" Hood asked.

  "My guess is the carjackers set up a watch alongside the road. As a precaution, they must have gassed the ROC as it passed. The way the van slowed seems to indicate that the crew was overcome quickly, although not immediately. The driver had enough time to brake. The good news is that the intruder didn't shoot our people once he got inside."

  "How do you know?"

  "We would've seen flashes," Herbert said.

  "Yes, of course," Hood replied. That was a stupid question. Pay attention to what the hell's going on. And then he said, "Unless they were already dead from the gas."

  "That's unlikely," Herbert replied. "The crew would be no help if they were dead. Alive they can serve as hostages. Perhaps they can help the Kurds get out of the country. Or," Herbert added gravely, "maybe they can tell the Kurds how to work the ROC."

  Hood knew that Mike Rodgers and the two Strikers would die before they helped their kidnappers work the ROC. But Hood did not know whether Katzen, Coffey, or Mary Rose would sacrifice their lives to protect it. Nor did he believe that Rodgers would let them.

  "We don't have too many options here, do we?" Hood asked.

  "We do not," said Herbert.

  According to prescribed Regional Op-Center procedures established by Rodgers, Coffey, Herbert, and their advisors, if the ROC were ever captured, the immediate response would be for someone to hit the "Fry" buttons. Simultaneously pressing Control, Alt, Del, and Cap "F" on either keyboard would cause a surge from the ROC engine batteries. The current generated by the command would be sufficient to burn out the major circuits in the computers and batteries. For all intents and purposes, the fried ROC would cease to be anything but a gas-powered van. If for some reason the procedure failed, the crew or Op-Center itself was required to destroy the ROC by any means at its disposal. If an enemy were to obtain access to communciations links and codes, national security and the activities and lives of dozens of undercover operatives would be compromised.

  Having designed all of that, however, even Rodgers admitted there was no way of knowing what he or anyone would do if the ROC were ever taken. As an experienced hostage negotiator, Herbert had said that it might be worth preserving the operations if some of them could be bartered to keep hostages alive.

  But all of that was speculative, Hood thought. We never thought it was ever going to happen.

  Hood watched as the ROC's headlights flashed three times. Then the screen went blank.

  "Whatever is happening now," Herbert said, "is anybody's guess. It's taking place in darkness. Viens gave this situation Priority A-1, and is trying to get us some infrared reconnaissance. But it'll take at least ninety minutes to reprogram the nearest satellite and turn it around."

  Hood continued to stare at the dark image on the monitor. This was one of his worst nightmares. All of their planning, all of their technology had been undermined by what Rodgers called "street fighters." People who fought without rules and without fear. People, who weren't afraid to die or to kill. As Hood had learned from the legitimate strikes and bitter riots Los Angeles had endured during his mayoralty, desperation made enemies deadly.

  But Hood reminded himself that adversity made strong leaders stronger. He would have to swallow his guilt and disappointment, put aside his sudden desire to kick things, including himself. He was going to have to lead his team.

  "Bob," Hood said, "there's a strike force at the Incirlik Air Base, correct?"

  "A small one," Herbert said, "but we can only use it inside Turkey."

  "Why?"

  "Because there are Turks on the team. If U.S. and Turkish troops go into an Arab nation together, that will be considered a NATO action. It'll create a firestorm with our European allies and turn even friendly Arab nations against us."

  "Great," Hood said. He cleared the screen and brought up a form document. He began typing. "In that case," he said, "I'm ordering Striker into the region."

  "Without prior Congressional approval?"

  "Unless Martha can get it for me within the next ninety minutes, yes. Without approval. I can't wait while they diddle."

  "Good man," Herbert said. "I'll order the C-141B packed for a desert operation."

  "
We can put Striker down at the Incirlik if the ROC stays in Turkey or northern or eastern Syria," Hood said. "If the ROC goes into southern or western Syria or Lebanon, we'll have to see about getting them into Israel."

  "The Israelis would welcome anyone wanting to kick terrorist butt," Herbert replied. "And I know just the place to base our team there."

  Hood picked up a light-pen and signed the screen. His signature appeared on the Striker Deployment Order No. 9. He saved the document on the hard drive, and then Emailed it to both Martha Mackall and to Colonel Brett August, the new Striker commander. He put the pen down. Then he rapped the edge of the desk slowly with his knuckles.

  "Are you okay?" Herbert asked.

  "Sure," Hood said. "I'm probably a hell of a lot better than Mike and those poor devils in the ROC."