Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.

  “Good morning, General,” the sentry said.

  “Good morning,” Rodgers replied. He stopped. “Valentine,” he said.

  “Go right in, sir,” the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.

  Valentine was Rodgers’s personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.

  Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.

  “Robert!” Rodgers said.

  “Morning, Mike,” Herbert said quietly.

  “I was just coming to see you,” Rodgers said.

  “To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?” Herbert asked.

  “No. I haven’t been in the mood for Frank Capra,” Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. “Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?”

  “Yes. They caught that item upstairs,” Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.

  “What do you make of it?” Rodgers asked.

  “Too early to say,” Herbert answered truthfully.

  “The uniforms don’t sound like the men were Botswana army regulars,” Rodgers went on.

  “No,” Herbert agreed. “We haven’t had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who’s going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region.”

  “Then why take a priest?” Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.

  “Maybe they needed a chaplain,” Herbert said. “Or maybe the priest heard someone’s confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?”

  “There’s something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me,” Rodgers said. “Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night.”

  “That’s true,” Herbert agreed. “But you still haven’t told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?”

  “No,” Rodgers admitted. “There’s just something about it—” He did not finish the thought.

  Herbert’s eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn’t remember where.

  Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. “You know, now you’ve got me thinking,” the intelligence chief said. “If this is a paramilitary unit that’s been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it’s a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn’t that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?”

  “Yes,” Rodgers said. “It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep.”

  “That was it,” Herbert said. “So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa,” Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. “I’ll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there’s any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet.”

  Rodgers’s expression perked. “Did he hear from the CIOC?” the general asked.

  “I don’t know,” Herbert said.

  “He would have told you if he had,” Rodgers said.

  “Not necessarily,” Herbert said. “He’s supposed to brief his number-two man first.”

  “That’s according to the Good Book,” Rodgers said. The Good Book was what they called the National Crisis Management Center Operations Book of Codes, Conduct, and Procedure. The CCP was as thick as the Bible and almost as idealized. It explained how life should be lived in a perfect world.

  “Maybe Pope Paul’s found religion after all these years,” Herbert said.

  “There’s one way to find out,” Rodgers said.

  “Go get ’em,” Herbert said.

  “I will.” The general stepped around the wheelchair. “And thanks for checking out that priest for me.”

  “My pleasure,” Herbert replied.

  Rodgers threw him a casual salute and started down the hall. It was strange to hear Hood’s old nickname after all these years. Press liaison Ann Farris had given it to Hood because of his strict selflessness. Ironically, the name didn’t really apply. Early in his tenure, Hood had discontinued adherence to the CCP. He tossed the rule book when he realized that it was the antithesis to intelligence work. All an adversary needed to do was get a copy of the CCP from the government printing office to know exactly what Op-Center was going to do in a given situation. That included enemies outside the country as well as rivals inside the U.S. intelligence community itself. When Hood retired the CCP, his nickname went with it.

  Hood’s door was closed when Rodgers arrived. The director’s assistant, Bugs Benet, was sitting in a cubicle directly across from the door. Bugs told Rodgers that Hood was on a personal call.

  “I don’t expect it to be a long conversation,” Benet said.

  “Thanks,” Rodgers said. The door was soundproof. Rodgers stood beside it and waited.

  Hood was probably talking to his wife, Sharon. The two had recently reached an agreement on terms for their divorce. From what little Hood had confided to Rodgers, their primary goal now was the rehabilitation of their daughter, Harleigh. The young girl was one of the hostages taken by terrorists at the United Nations. After nearly a half year of intensive therapy, Harleigh was at last beginning to recover from the trauma she had suffered. For weeks after the crisis, she had done little more than cry or stare.

  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-the-morning 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 was 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.”

  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 oxygen-deprived 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.