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

by Clancy, Tom

  Hood and his daughter exchanged a few terse words of greeting.

  “Hey, I like your hair, hon,” Hood said at last.

  “You do?” she asked, without looking up.

  “Very much,” he replied.

  “Mom thought green was a good color,” said the girl.

  “What do you think?” Hood asked.

  “It reminds me of that hill I used to roll down when I was little,” Harleigh replied.

  “The one near Grandma’s house in Silver Spring?” Hood said.

  Harleigh nodded.

  “I remember that place,” Hood said. “Didn’t we put Alexander in a cardboard box and roll him down that hill?”

  “I think so,” Harleigh said.

  “You did!” Alexander yelled from offscreen. “You traumatized me. I can’t go in small places now!”

  “Alex, shut up,” Harleigh snapped. “You didn’t even know what a trauma was before Ms. Gordon told you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t be traumatized, Harleigh,” Alexander barked back.

  “All right, kids. Stop,” Hood said. He did not want his daughter pursuing this topic of conversation. “Harl, what’s been happening at school?”

  Harleigh returned to her one-word answers.

  Classes were “fine.” Other kids were “okay.” Even the novel she was reading for English class had a one-word title: Emma. But Hood was grateful his daughter was talking at all. In the first few weeks after the UN crisis, Harleigh had barely said a word.

  “How about Mom?” Hood asked. “How is she?” He was not sure he wanted to know. But Liz Gordon had told him it was important the kids think he was still interested in the family members.

  “She’s okay,” Harleigh said.

  The teenager was hiding something. He could hear the catch in her voice. Probably the fact that she had a boyfriend. But that was all right. If that were the case, it would come out when it was time.

  Hood told Harleigh to take care of herself. He kissed his index finger and blew it toward her. He made certain he put his fingertip close to the tiny fiber-optic lens. That got a flash of eye contact from the girl and a tiny smile. The master screen returned as Harleigh clicked off.

  Sharon had not come to the computer talk. Nor had Hood asked to chat with his estranged wife. They had gone from being emotionally and intellectually involved in whatever the other was doing to a state of aggressive neutrality. It felt strange and unnatural. What’s more, Hood still had to deal with the guilt of not spending time with his kids. Only now it had been formalized. It was not, “Daddy is working late.” It was, “Daddy does not live at home anymore.”

  Over the past few weeks, there was one thing Hood had learned. He could not dwell on what went wrong with his marriage. That only caused him to beat himself up. He had to look ahead.

  Hood propped his two pillows against the headboard. He set the alarm clock for five A.M. and took off his shoes. Then he lay on the bed with his pasta. A thirteen-inch TV sat on the night table to his right. He punched it on. The Discovery Channel was showing a documentary about mummies. The Discovery Channel was always showing documentaries about mummies. Hood did not bother to change the channel. At least these were Aztec mummies instead of Egyptian mummies.

  Hood was exhausted. After a few minutes, his eyes began to close. He put his half-eaten meal on the night table and turned off the TV. His brain told him to get out of his clothes. To turn off the light. To shut the window in case it got too cold.

  His body did not want to move.

  His body won, and in a few minutes, Hood was asleep.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 A.M.

  The bus to Maun would be arriving in a little over a half hour. Seronga and Pavant found peanut butter and bread in the pantry. They made two sandwiches each to eat on the veranda. They also made four more sandwiches to take with them. Once they met up with trucker Njo Finn and left with the bishop, they would not be able to stop for food.

  At least they would not be returning to the belly of the swamp. Seronga was happy about that. Even though they were a few months short of the fall malaria season, the Okavango region was ground zero for the disease. When he had left for the tourist center, Seronga saw what he thought were a few of the distinctive, humpbacked anopheles mosquitoes that carried the disease. He was not so much concerned about his own health or that of the Brush Vipers. He was worried about Dhamballa. They could not afford for him to become ill and seem infirm.

  The men would be joining Dhamballa at the southern edge of the swamp. They would hold a rally at the diamond mine where Dhamballa once worked. Then they would move their camp to Ghanzi, a town just north of the Kalahari Desert. The prisoners would remain behind on the island with a unit to watch over them. There, they would be relatively safe from detection. The tree cover protected them from the air. From the water, motorboats would be heard and a defense mounted. The Brush Vipers were prepared to take their own lives rather than be captured. There would be nothing to connect those men to Dhamballa. No uniforms. No documents. No religious artifacts.

  And no witnesses. If the island were taken, Seronga had left orders that the priests would have to die. Like the killing of the deacons, that was one of the difficult choices a military leader had to make. Unlike Dhamballa, he could not afford to adhere exclusively to white magic.

  Dhamballa had selected Ghanzi because it was close to the airstrip Albert Beaudin’s people used when they visited Botswana. Supplies could be brought directly to them. If necessary, personnel could also be quickly evacuated. The town of 400 was where the priest would establish the first hounfour, a Vodun temple. There would be no permanent physical structure in Ghanzi. A portable poteau-mitan would be erected, the pole through which the gods and spirits communicate with the worshipers. Symbolically, however, the pole-raising ceremony would be significant. It was to be the first public Vodun sanctification of African ground in hundreds of years. If local houngans and mambos, male and female priests, had done their job, thousands of faithful would be in attendance. With that one act, Dhamballa would become a figure of national stature. A day after thousands had proclaimed their devotion, tens or even hundreds of thousands would be emboldened to join the movement.

  As the men were finishing their sandwiches, two young men walked over to the veranda. They were dressed in wide khaki shorts, short-sleeve shirts, sunglasses, and Nikes. They wore big, white, Australian outback shade hats. They looked like any members of a photo safari.

  They were not.

  One man stood a little over six feet tall. The other was a much broader five foot seven or eight. They both had extremely swarthy skin and ramrod-straight posture. They stopped just short of the veranda. The taller man removed his hat and took a step forward.

  “Buenas días, diáconos,” he said in a strong voice.

  Seronga smiled pleasantly at the speaker. He assumed the man had said “good morning,” but he was not sure. When you weren’t sure what had been said, it was best not to answer.

  “¿Puedo hablar con usted por un momento, diáconos honrados?” the man went on.

  Seronga had no choice now but to answer. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I do not understand,” the Brush Viper informed him. “Do you happen to speak English or Setswana?”

  The shorter man stepped forward and removed his own hat. “I speak English,” he replied in a gentler voice. “I’m very sorry. We thought missionaries were required to speak many languages.”

  “It is helpful but not a requirement,” Seronga replied. He had no idea if what he had just said were true. But he said it with authority. For most people, that was usually enough to make something true.

  “I see,” the man said. “May we speak with you both for a moment, honored deacons?”

  “For a moment, yes,” Seronga told him. “We have to prepare for our trip to Maun.”

  “That is what we wish to talk to you about,” the man told him.

  The small of
Seronga’s back began to tingle.

  “I am Sergeant Vicente Diamante, and this is Captain Antonio Abreo,” the man went on.

  Captain Abreo bowed slightly at the mention of his name.

  “You are vacationing soldiers?” Seronga asked.

  “Not vacationing, sir,” Diamante replied. “We and our comrades are special forces soldiers with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue, out of Madrid.”

  Pavant sneaked a glance at Seronga. Seronga did not have to look back to know what was in his eyes. The same fire that was there when he urged Seronga to kill the two deacons.

  “Special forces soldiers,” Seronga said. He tried his best to sound impressed, even honored. He wanted to get the man to talk. “Are you expecting a military assault?”

  “We do not know,” Diamante admitted. “Our unit has been sent to safeguard the bishop who is coming from America. We will do whatever is necessary to support that mission. What we wanted to tell you is that we consider the tour bus to be a potential target.”

  “Thank you,” Seronga replied.

  “But do not worry,” Diamante went on. “Two of us will be in the tour bus with you. If anything happens, all we ask is that you do your best to keep out of the way.”

  “We will,” Seronga replied. “Tell me. Do you have any special reason to expect that something will happen on the bus or anywhere else?”

  “We have no knowledge of a plot against the bishop,” Diamante told him. “But after what happened to Father Bradbury, we are taking nothing for granted. We will be armed and watching for any unusual activity.”

  “Armed,” Seronga said with a shudder. “We put our trust in the lord. In what do you put your trust? Machine guns? Knives?” Seronga had to know what he might be up against.

  The sergeant lightly patted a bulge under his left arm. “Our M-82s will help the lord to protect you.”

  “That is gratifying. How many of you are there?” Seronga asked.

  “Twelve,” Diamante replied. “We’ve arranged with Señor Ndebele to borrow one of the safari cars. Four soldiers will follow the bus in that. The other four will remain here to make sure this area stays secure.”

  Seronga put his hand on his chest. He lowered his head gratefully. “Although I hope these precautions will not prove to be necessary, Sergeant Diamante, they are appreciated.”

  The sergeant nodded back. “We will not acknowledge you on the bus except in passing, as fellow travelers. I hope you are correct, Deacon. That the journey will be a safe one.”

  The two men left. When they had disappeared around the corner of the church, Pavant got out of his wicker chair.

  “None of these bloody devils understands!” Pavant said angrily.

  “I know,” Seronga answered calmly. Part of his mind was here, dealing with Pavant’s rage. The rest of it was looking ahead three hours, trying to figure out what to do.

  “They think they can call in even more foreigners and swat us down. They don’t understand that this is our country,” he struck his chest with his fist, “that this is our faith we are fighting for. Our history, our birthright.”

  “They’re wrong,” Seronga assured him. “They will find that out.”

  “We have to alert Njo,” Pavant said.

  “I agree,” Seronga replied. But that was all Seronga knew for certain. He looked down.

  “What is it?” Pavant asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The question is, what do we tell Njo?” Seronga said. “It is one thing to defend the island from an attack that probably will not come. This is different. We have to decide how far to escalate this conflict militarily.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Pavant asked. It was more of a statement than a question. “As soon as we take the bishop toward Njo’s truck, they’re going to realize that something is wrong.”

  “I know that,” Seronga said.

  “Either we need backup to cover our retreat from Maun, or we must make a preemptive strike against the Spaniards,” Pavant decided.

  “A retreat would not work,” Seronga said. “Even with the bishop as a hostage, they would follow us to camp.”

  “Then we must attack,” Pavant said forcefully.

  “Lower your voice,” Seronga cautioned, looking around. He gestured toward the church. For all they knew, the Spanish soldiers were standing there, having a smoke.

  “I’m sorry,” Pavant said. The Brush Viper bent closer. “We must make sure that they do not leave the bus station. They must not trace us to Dhamballa. They must be killed.”

  “Or eluded,” Seronga said.

  “Why?” Pavant asked. “Dhamballa will have to understand—”

  “It isn’t just Dhamballa that I’m worried about,” Seronga said. “If we attack these men, the Spanish government will insist that it was unprovoked. They will say the soldiers were tourists. They will brand Dhamballa and his followers as terrorists. Our own government will be forced to hunt us in earnest to protect international relations, business investments, and the tourist trade.”

  Pavant stared at Seronga. His dark eyes lost some of their fire. “Then what do we do?” he asked. “We can’t bring the bishop here. That will invigorate this parish. The Church will win.”

  “They will also find out that we are not real deacons,” Seronga added. “We will be hunted relentlessly.”

  “So we cannot come back to the church, and we cannot let the Spanish soldiers follow us to Dhamballa’s camp,” Pavant said. There was renewed anger in his voice and frustration in his dark eyes. “That does not appear to leave us very many options.”

  “No,” Seronga agreed.

  In fact, there was only one thing to do. Regardless of the consequences, they would have to fight. Seronga would not let Dhamballa know now. He had already decided that sooner rather than later, the Brush Vipers would have to separate themselves from Dhamballa. The Vodun leader wanted to be known as a man of white magic. His credibility would suffer if the death of the deacons were tied to the Brush Vipers. Seronga could still help him, but from a distance. He thought of the Middle East, where leaders publicly denounced radical military organizations while benefiting from their violent activities. That separation could occur within weeks when, hopefully, Dhamballa would have enough bodies around to protect him from government interference. There would be followers who moved around with him as well as foreign journalists who covered his rallies. The Europeans had promised to bring in reporters as soon as the Vodun movement had its first major rally.

  The leader of the Brush Vipers rose. Everything old eventually returns, he thought. During his decades of service to the government, Seronga had engaged in various small-scale engagements, from border skirmishes to ambushes. Most of those times, the Brush Vipers had been the perpetrators. Occasionally, they had been the targets. So it would be again.

  Seronga knew the small-unit offensive and defensive drills by heart. He also knew the area where the bus would be bringing them. If it came down to self-defense, he would have to have a plan.

  Seronga entered the living quarters. While Pavant stood by the door to make sure no one entered, Seronga went to the bed. He opened his backpack and withdrew his cell phone. He called Njo Finn. The truck driver was about sixty miles northwest of Maun. The signal was not very strong, and Seronga made the message as succinct as possible. Seronga told the man exactly where to meet him. Using code words that were known to all the Brush Vipers, Seronga also told Njo what to have ready when the tour bus arrived.

  It might not be the cleanest or best-planned operation the Brush Vipers had ever undertaken, but that did not matter to Seronga. He only had one concern: that it worked.

  THIRTY

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 5:03 A.M.

  It was not a restful night for Paul Hood.

  He dreamed that he was trying to prop up the Hollywood sign. It was an endless task. One of the big white letters would begin to tilt forward, and he would rush over to it. He would push it back up, and a
nother would immediately start to drop over. The rate of fall did not change, but the order did. There was no respite, nothing that could be done by rote. Hood woke around three-thirty A.M., wired and perspiring. Is that how he viewed his life? Constantly propping the same things up, minute after minute after minute? Was it all superficial, like Hollywood? Or was that his own past as the mayor of Los Angeles coming back to nag at him, to tell him that this was all he was good for? Bureaucratic management.

  Hood flicked the television on and turned on the History Channel. The subject was World War II, the European Theater. The subject was always World War II, the European Theater. Hood watched for a while, then decided there was no point. He was not going to get back to sleep. He showered, dressed, and headed for Op-Center.

  The night team was not surprised to see him. Since the separation, he had been there late at night and early in the morning. And Hood was not surprised to find Liz Gordon still in her office. She was there with J2 and Mae Won. Those two had the energy of the young. They were sitting around her desk, working on networked laptops. The smell of coffee hung in the open door like a scrim.

  Hood rapped on the jamb. “Good morning.”

  J2 and Mae both returned the greeting. Liz did not look away from her monitor.

  “Paul, I’m beginning to think you’ve got a very serious problem in Botswana,” Liz said.

  “More than just a Vatican problem?” he asked.

  “Very much so,” she said.

  “Talk to me,” Hood said. He walked toward her.

  Liz’s shoulders were slumped. She rubbed her eyes and looked over. “There are events in history that trigger what we call ‘mass movements.’ Examples are the American Revolution. The Communist Revolution. The French Resistance during the Second World War. Even the Rennaissance, though that was less clearly defined. It’s the result of a collection of people whose imaginations are stirred to action by a person or an event or even an idea.”