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

by Clancy, Tom

  But if Dhamballa was right, maybe Seronga had been finding Africa in the wrong place. Maybe the land and the people were just the manifestation of a greater identity.

  Or maybe a veteran Brush Viper is just getting old and scared, Seronga had to admit.

  That thought came with a little smile. He did not like to think of himself that way, but maybe it was time. Seronga had seen old lions stand in the brush and watch young members of the pride lead the hunts. He often wondered what those elder warriors were thinking. Did they not want to show how slow they had become? Were they too tired to get into the fray?

  Or maybe it was something else, Seronga thought.

  Maybe a voice inside the old lion was telling him to pick the time and place for a final hunt. There would be a better time for the warrior to become legend. Seronga wondered whether animals, like people, were powered by legends. And maybe those legends were the real essence of a people.

  That was what led Seronga to wonder if Dhamballa might be right.

  The gods of which Dhamballa spoke might be nothing more—or less—than ancient warriors who fell in combat and were immortalized in stories. After all, Seronga asked himself, what were gods but idealized beings? They were entities who could not be challenged or assailed, whose purpose was clear and perfect. Whether they were fancy or spirit did not matter. By keeping these memories alive, the nature of a people could be sustained. Even if the land was conquered and the inhabitants enslaved and shipped to other continents, the stories could not be erased. The gods could not be destroyed.

  “We’re almost there,” Finn said.

  Seronga had constructed giants and eternities in his mind. The driver’s very real voice startled him.

  “Thank you,” Seronga replied. He took a swallow of Coke. The tingle brought him back to the moment. He looked at the map.

  The point they were approaching was within the reach of Dhamballa’s radio. Even if he had left the base camp, the route he would take would keep him within the circle. As the truck entered that circle, they would finally be able to contact Dhamballa.

  Seronga was not sure what he would find when that happened. He did not know how Dhamballa had reacted to the assassination. He did not know how that would affect their next rally.

  They passed a small, kidney-shaped lake. The stars shone back at themselves from its surface. A few minutes later, Seronga spotted the dark silhouette of Haddam Peak. The 2,000-foot mountain stood alone in the northeast. Seronga recognized the distinctive hooked tor blocking the stars. It was the last landmark on the map. The truck was entering the call radius. The Brush Viper opened the rusted glove compartment. He replaced the map and removed a slender, oblong, black radio. It was a Belgian Algemene-7 unit. Used by the federal intelligence and security agency Veiligheid van de Staat, it was a secure point-to-point radio with a range of seventy-five miles. Dhamballa had the only receiver.

  Seronga pressed the green Activate button on the bottom right of the unit. A red Speak button was to the right. A blue Terminate button was located to the left.

  Seronga placed his thumb on the red button. He raised the hooded mouthpiece to his lips.

  And stopped. He looked around.

  “What’s that?” Seronga asked.

  Finn peered ahead. So did Maria.

  “Where are you looking?” the driver asked.

  “At one o’clock,” Seronga said. He used the radio to point to his right.

  “I don’t see anything,” Finn said.

  “I do,” Maria replied. “It’s a car. A Jeep.”

  The woman was right. A small vehicle glinted faintly in the headlights of the truck. It was about one hundred yards away.

  Finn slowed.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Seronga asked.

  “Yes,” Maria said.

  Seronga glared at her. “Stop the truck,” he said.

  Finn crushed the brake. The truck stopped with effort, skidding slightly toward the passenger’s side. That left Seronga staring out his open window, directly at the Jeep.

  Seronga put the radio in his lap. He slid his hand beside the seat and withdrew the gun. He did not let Maria see it. Not yet.

  Pavant poked his head around. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ahead,” Seronga said.

  “I see them,” Pavant replied. “Do you want me to get the night-vision goggles and intercept?”

  “Not yet,” Seronga said. He regarded Maria. “Who are they?”

  “Two of my associates,” Maria replied.

  “What do they want?” Seronga asked.

  “They’re here to help.”

  “To help who?” Seronga pressed. “You?”

  “No. To help you and your people survive the night,” she replied. Her voice was chilling in its calm prediction of disaster.

  Seronga looked ahead. The Jeep remained stationary.

  “How did they know we were going to be here?” Seronga demanded. “Do you have a signaling device of some kind?”

  “That isn’t important,” Maria replied.

  “It is to me,” Seronga insisted.

  “What matters is that there is an elite Spanish unit searching for your leader’s camp,” Maria told him. “These people may have news about them. I suggest we hear what they have to say.”

  Seronga saw Finn running his hands anxiously along the wheel.

  “It’s going to be all right, Njo,” Seronga said.

  “I’d like to get out of the truck,” he said. “I need to get out.”

  “It will be all right, I promise,” Maria assured him. “But you had best trust me quickly.”

  Seronga raised the gun. He let Maria see it but did not put it on her. The woman was obviously a skilled fighter. In tight quarters like this, it would be easy for her to neutralize the weapon by moving close to Seronga. He also did not want to risk firing wild.

  “We’ll all get out,” Seronga said. “We’ll go to the Jeep together. Pavant?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you see anyone watching from the sides or back?” Seronga asked.

  Pavant looked around. “No. There’s no place to hide,” he replied.

  “All right. You stay where you are and cover us,” Seronga said. He cracked the door and eased out. His shoes crunched on the rocky terrain. “Let’s go,” he said to Maria.

  The woman slid out beside him. Seronga stepped back. He allowed her to walk several yards ahead. Finn jumped out on the other side. Seronga was glad the driver did not have a gun. He was a good and loyal man, but he had never been in combat. He had not trained extensively for it. The damn thing was, Seronga had not expected to be in combat, either. This was supposed to be a peaceful revolution. A war of ideas, not bloodshed.

  The three walked toward the Jeep. Seronga did not even think to doubt what the woman had told him, either about the Spanish soldiers or that the people in the Jeep wanted to help them. It was a remarkable individual to command that kind of trust having said so little.

  Finn stayed close to Seronga, behind the woman. Seronga watched for signs of movement. He wondered if the occupants of the Jeep were as cool as their comrade.

  He knew he was not. Although he did not show it the same way as Njo Finn, he was afraid. Not for himself but for the cause. At the same time, he had a thought that was also new to him. It was not so much a whisper of hope but a challenge.

  If the Vodun gods existed, this would be a very good time for them to make themselves known.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:10 P.M.

  “Chief, we’ve got some weird stuff going on.”

  The call from Bob Herbert came while Paul Hood was checking in with the rest of the staff. There were other divisions of Op-Center that functioned independent of the core crisis management group. There was a small budget office, a human resources center, and a communications group that worked directly under Bob Herbert.

  They monitored fax transmissions, cell phone calls, and satellite activities in regi
ons where Op-Center personnel were working. Hood was lucky to have a great group of young gogetters and veterans working under him. Each learned from the others. Their briefings were always reassuring. As Bob Herbert had once put it, half joking, “They’re the bedrock on which us big ol’ titans do our striding.” Hood was just happy to have a group that really supported him. That had been a big change from being mayor of Los Angeles. Unlike the city council and various departments in the city, everyone here was on the same page.

  “What’s happening?” Hood asked.

  “There has been an unusual amount of radio traffic at the Air Wing of the Botswana Defense Forces,” Herbert said.

  “Define unusual,” Hood said.

  “An across-the-system jump from ten to fifteen communications an hour to more than three hundred,” Herbert replied.

  In the United States, that kind of increase would signify a Defcon One state of readiness.

  “We’ve picked it up here, and the CIA noted it, too,” Herbert went on. “Their frequency scanners at the embassies don’t react unless there’s a spike of at least one hundred percent.”

  “Do we know what the increased traffic is about?” Hood asked.

  “Not yet,” Herbert said. “The signals are all encrypted. We’re collecting it and breaking it down here. Viens is trying to get us some satellite visuals of the bases. He’s scraping together all the satellite time he can for us. The thing is, Jody Cameron at NAVSEA intelligence just told me they’re also starting to get radar blips. One of their destroyers is picking them up from the Mozambique Channel.”

  NAVSEA was the Naval Sea Systems Command. The intelligence division was comprised of a worldwide deployment of cutters and destroyers. These ships were responsible for monitoring land and sea activities inaccessible by U.S. or allied bases. The intelligence collected by these ships determined whether vessels of the Maritime Preposition Force needed to be sent to a region. These were ships that provided military support prior to the arrival of main expeditionary warfare ships. The ships that patrolled the Mozambique Channel were responsible for covering the region from South Africa to Somalia.

  “What did the blips suggest?” Hood asked.

  “Chopper traffic,” Herbert replied. “More than they’ve ever seen in the region.”

  “Are they doing search grids or heading somewhere?” Hood asked.

  “The helicopters are heading north from the airfield outside Gaborone,” Herbert said. “NAVSEA is saying this is either an action or a drill.”

  “We’ve got to assume it’s not a drill,” Hood said.

  “Of course,” Herbert said. “Hold on—Matt Stoll’s shooting me some of the data from the encrypted transmissions.”

  There was a short silence that felt very, very long.

  “Shit,” Herbert said. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What is it?” Hood demanded.

  “They’ve got a destination,” Herbert said. “Okavango Swamp.”

  “Damn,” Hood said.

  “They also say it was Edgar Kline who gave them that destination,” Herbert added.

  “How the hell could Kline have given them a target?” Hood asked. “We didn’t know it ourselves.”

  “I don’t know,” Herbert admitted.

  It had been more than an hour since Hood had called Kline on his cell phone and given him the location for the rendezvous between Op-Center’s teams and the soldiers from the Unidad Especial del Despliegue. And there was no way the Vatican Security Office could have extrapolated Dhamballa’s location from what Hood told him. Op-Center did not even know for sure where the Vodunists were based.

  “Get him on the phone,” Hood said.

  “With pleasure,” Herbert said angrily.

  Hood was uncharacteristically impatient as he called Mike Rodgers. He brought the general up to date, then conferenced him into the discussion. The two men waited as Kline’s voice mail picked up on the cell phone.

  “Goddamn him!” Herbert said. “He’s ducking us.”

  Hood was frustrated, too, and angry, but he forced himself to stay cool and on target.

  “Bob, do we think Kline’s still at the Mission of the Holy See in New York?” Hood asked.

  “That’s the only secure place Kline could use to monitor a military action,” Herbert told him. “Kline definitely would not have left if something is brewing.” Before Hood could suggest it, the intelligence chief added, “I’m calling over there now. I’ll find him.”

  “If you do, I’ll do the talking,” Hood said.

  “You got it,” Herbert said. “Only if I get to break his freakin’ nose when this is all over. Screening calls,” the intelligence chief went on. “That’s so frigging low rent. You want to impede someone, do it like a man. Use diplomatic doublespeak. Face-to-face, toe-to-toe.”

  Hood did not interrupt or comment. Bob Herbert frequently raged at something. It was in his hot Mississippi blood to do so. This time, though, Hood had to agree that Herbert had a good reason to boil.

  Herbert reached an automated switchboard. The intelligence chief had no idea whose office Kline was using. He waited for an operator. The operator did not know anyone by the name of Edgar Kline. Exasperated, Herbert hung up and redialed the main number. When the voice menu came up, he punched the extention of the Path to Peace Foundation Bookstore.

  “Can I help you?” asked the youthful-sounding man who answered the telephone.

  “Yes,” Herbert said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mr. Hotchkiss,” said the clerk. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hotchkiss,” Herbert told him. “Do you carry a copy of the last rites?”

  “We do,” replied the clerk. “It’s in several books. The most popular is the Concordance of Catholic Liturgy—”

  “I’ll take it,” Herbert said. “And I want a bookmark placed on that page.”

  “Any particular style of bookmark?”

  “No,” Herbert replied. “I’ll need the book delivered to someone in your building.”

  “In our building?” the man said.

  “That’s right,” Herbert replied. “Mr. Hotchkiss, is there anyone else working in your shop?”

  “Yes—”

  “Please ask him to deliver the book while I give you the credit card information,” Herbert said. “Oh, and I want an inscription on the title page.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “It should read, ‘Answer your cell phone, or you’ll need this,’ ” Herbert told him. “Sign it Bob H.”

  “Excuse me?” the young man said.

  “Just do it,” Herbert said. “Lives depend on you.”

  Hood was impressed by the concern and conviction Herbert put in that one statement. The man was the best.

  “I’ll do it right away, sir,” the clerk replied. “To whom is the concordance being delivered?”

  “Man named Edgar Kline,” Herbert said. “Ask around in the diplomatic corridors. Someone will know him.”

  “I know him,” the man said.

  “You do?” Herbert asked.

  “He was in here before, buying a travel guide,” the man said.

  “To southern Africa?” Herbert asked.

  “That’s right,” replied the clerk.

  “Did he want to see maps?” Herbert asked.

  “He did!” Hotchkiss replied. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” Herbert told him. “Mr. Hotchkiss, can I count on you to do this?”

  “You can,” Hotchkiss said. “Since I know what he looks like, I’ll deliver it myself.”

  “Thanks,” Herbert replied.

  The clerk turned the phone over to his associate, and Herbert gave him the credit card information. While he did, Hood hung up. He consulted a computer map of northern Botswana. The rendezvous point for Maria, Aideen, and Battat was thirty miles from the swamp. He did not give Kline any information that could have led the Botswanan military to that region. The target had to have come to him some other way. But who
would have known to contact him? The VSO was a highly secretive organization. They did not maintain ties with very many international intelligence groups. Only the Spanish, the Americans—and then it hit him. The intelligence did not come from the outside. They had missed the obvious source.

  Mike Rodgers walked in. “What do you think, Paul?” the general asked Hood.

  “I think it was Father Bradbury,” he said.

  Rodgers was puzzled. “What about him?”

  “He’s the only one who knows exactly where Dhamballa is,” Hood said. “Either the VSO pinpointed the last call he made or, maybe more likely, he found a way to signal them.”

  “Radio equipment or a phone,” Rodgers said. “Dhamballa has to have them. It’s possible.”

  “Gentlemen, this is not good,” Hood said. “We have to stop our people from going in.”

  “You’re getting ahead of me,” Rodgers said.

  “The Botswana government thinks that Dhamballa’s people killed our bishop,” Hood said. “They have to move against him. The Air Force is going to clean the lot of them out.”

  “But not before the Spanish get in and save Bradbury,” Rodgers said.

  “Maybe no,” Hood said. “If they think the Vodunists killed once, they can always be blamed for killing twice. Who will be able to prove that they did not kill Father Bradbury?”

  “No one,” Herbert said.

  “We have to give Gaborone the photo Maria took,” Rodgers said.

  “That may not stop them,” Herbert replied. “The photo will tell them they have a larger problem. Other enemies on the inside. They will still want to clean up this one first, as quickly as possible.”

  “I still don’t think the Vatican will offer Father Bradbury up as an altar sacrifice,” Rodgers insisted. “I do not want to believe that. Not while they have an option.”

  “Maybe not,” Hood agreed. “What options do they have?”

  “The Unidad Especial del Despliegue,” Rodgers said. “They can get one of the air force choppers to airlift the Spaniards close to Okavanga Swamp. The soldiers go in and get Father Bradbury out.”