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

by Clancy, Tom

  “I’m interested in having the access it takes to do my job, not in collecting it,” Hood replied.

  “An idealist.”

  Hood shrugged a shoulder.

  “Is that a yes?” Daphne pressed.

  Hood looked at her. Daphne had a nice smile. It started at the eyes and made its way down. “Let’s say I try to do what’s right,” he replied. “When I screw up, it’s not out of malice.”

  “So you don’t possess the revenge gene that most people in big government have,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Bastards invariably cause their own downfall.”

  “And that really works for you?” she asked.

  “It leaves me free to do more constructive things,” Hood said.

  Daphne laughed. “Lord, we are very different people. I hate SOBs or discourtesy or people who beat me at anything.” She regarded him. “I still don’t believe you have absolutely no bloodlust. Tell me if I’m overstepping some kind of first-date rule with this, but I read about those men who took the children hostage in New York. The ones you and your team killed. Didn’t you hate them?”

  “That’s a good question,” Hood replied.

  Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood’s daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

  Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

  “I certainly hated what they did,” he told her.

  “But not them?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered truthfully. “They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.”

  “So you see it as a net gain for our side,” Daphne said.

  “I’m not quite that dispassionate about it, but yes. More or less,” Hood told her.

  “You’re more philosophical about confrontations than I am,” Daphne told him. The woman leaned forward again. “I hate my enemies, Paul. I despise them from my nose to my toes. And I track them. I follow their activities in the trade magazines and through the cocktail-party circuit. If they are executives in a public company, I check the stock several times a day. Each time it goes down, I’m a happy woman. I don’t miss an opportunity to cut their hamstrings. In fact, I go out of my way to get them.”

  “Well, that’s business,” he said.

  “No, Paul. It’s personal. I personalize it. I personalize everything. You don’t understand that, do you?”

  “It seems a little obsessive to me,” he admitted. “Or maybe that should be for me.”

  “It is obsessive!” Daphne agreed. “Who says that’s a bad thing?”

  “Well, there will always be more enemies,” Hood replied. “You can’t vanquish all of them.”

  “Probably not,” she said.

  “So I don’t see what the benefit is to an ongoing high-intensity conflict,” Hood said.

  “Living,” she said. “You feel passionate about something every second of every day.”

  “The hate doesn’t eat you up?” Hood asked.

  “That’s the point!” she said. “It only eats you up if it stays inside. I channel it, use it as fuel for other things.”

  “I see,” Hood said.

  Not only did Daphne remind Hood of Martha Mackall, but she would get along terrifically with Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert. Herbert hated fast and deep and enthusiastically. Hood admired, respected, and trusted him. But if Herbert didn’t have someone to keep him in check, he would constantly struggle between what was right and what was satisfying.

  Daphne sat back again. “So. Now that I’ve turned you off completely, talk to me about whatever you do that isn’t classified.”

  “You didn’t turn me off,” Hood insisted.

  “No?”

  Hood shook his head as he took another bite of breadstick. “Some of my best friends are sociopaths.”

  The woman gave Hood a twisted little smile.

  That’s promising, Hood thought. She can laugh at herself.

  Hood answered Daphne’s question as she finished her appetizer. He explained that Op-Center was the epithet for the National Crisis Management Center. It was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, the nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials to safe command centers outside of Washington, D.C. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the NuRRDs, emergency air operations were consolidated elsewhere. The newly evacuated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered NCMC.

  Hood told Daphne no more or less than was described in Op-Center’s public charter.

  “The NCMC has two primary functions,” Hood said quietly. Speaking in a loud whisper was a habit he had developed whenever he discussed even declassified Op-Center business in public. “One is preventative. We monitor intelligence reports as well as the mainstream press for possible ‘hot button’ incidents. These are seemingly isolated events that can trigger potential crises or terrorist activities at home and abroad.”

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “The failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, which can lead to revolution and attacks on American interests,” Hood said. “The seizure of a large cache of drugs, which can spur retaliation against law enforcement officers. We make sure local personnel are aware of potential dangers.”

  “So there’s a lot of profiling, intelligent guesswork, that sort of thing,” Daphne said.

  “Exactly,” Hood said. “The other function of Op-Center is to deal with situations that have already started to burn. I can’t go into details, but it’s along the lines of what we did at the United Nations.”

  “Killing bad guys,” Daphne said.

  “Only when necessary,” Hood replied. He said no more.

  Until eight months ago, the crisis-management process relied heavily on the rapid-response military squad known as Striker. After Striker was decimated in Kashmir, Hood decided to rely instead on the surgical insertion of deterrent personnel. This allowed Op-Center to undermine enemies from the inside. It might take more time, but it risked fewer lives. If a military presence were required, Rodgers would call in an outside special ops unit.

  The conversation turned to their private lives. Daphne told Hood about her ex-husband and how he was not ambitious enough to satisfy her.

  “He was a partner in his father’s law firm, a very powerful and high-profile firm,” she said. “But he preferred riding horses to working with cases. I tried to get interested in that, but the smell and the empty shmoozing just drove me crazy. Especially since that was as high as he ever aimed.”

  “Didn’t you know what kind of man he was when you married him?” Hood asked.

  “I was twenty-two,” she said. “I didn’t know anything. I had spent my teenage years building my little advertising business. I thought it would be fun to hook up with a man who knew how to relax and had the means to do so. I didn’t count on losing respect for him.”

  Hood laughed. “I had just the opposite problem,” he said. “My wife wasn’t happy with the way Op-Center monopolized my time. I actually quit for a few days, but I couldn’t stay away.”

  “Did you know it was costing you your marriage?” Daphne asked.

  “Not until the account was overdue,” Hood said. “I knew Sharon was unhappy, but I didn’t think she was that unhappy.”

  “So she initiated it?”

  Hood nodded.

  “How do you get along now?” Daphne asked.

  “Okay,” Hood said. “She’s flexible with visitation and all that. But we were never really best friends. I suppose that was a problem all along.”

  “I agree,
” Daphne said. “You have to like someone to be their friend. You don’t have to like them to be married to them. Actually, I’ve developed a simple test for that.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I call it the sandbox test. If you and your potential mate were dropped in a sandbox, could you have fun there for twenty-four hours? Could you build castles or have a little Zen garden or pretend you were on a beach? Could you improvise a game of Battleship or draw pictures? Could you do something other than have sex or wish you were somewhere else? If the answer is yes, then that’s a person you should consider being with.”

  “Does it have to be a sandbox?” Hood asked. “Why not just a hotel room or some form of transportation?”

  “You would have TV in a hotel room,” Daphne said. “Or magazines and food in an airplane or train. A sandbox demands imagination. You have to look at a mound of sand and see a dune or a mountain or a castle. It requires the ability to play well with others and to be a little silly. It requires the capacity to access the child inside you. Otherwise you can’t be in a sandbox at all. Or a fun relationship. You also need to be able to communicate. If you don’t have all of that, you’ll be incredibly bored. Or else you’ll end up bickering. Those same qualities are necessary for a successful relationship.”

  “And how did you arrive at this concept?” Hood asked.

  “When I was doing a national campaign for an insurance company,” the woman said. “It was set in a sandbox, with two people growing old together. It started me thinking.”

  Now Hood thought, too. He could never have spent a day in a sandbox with Sharon. He could not imagine himself playing in a sandbox with former Op-Center press liaison Ann Farris. After his separation, he had a fling with her. But Hood could have spent a day in a sandbox with the woman he was dating before, Nancy Jo Bosworth. The love of his life. A woman who walked out on him and shattered his heart. Hood thought about the way Bob Herbert talked about his wife, a fellow CIA operative who was killed in the Beirut embassy blast in 1983. He could imagine them playing together in a sandbox. Hell, that was essentially what they were doing together in Lebanon when she died and Herbert lost the use of his legs.

  “It works with most of the ladies I’ve known,” Hood told the woman. “But it sounds as if your former husband would have been a great one for playing in the sandbox.”

  “He would have been,” Daphne agreed. “If it were a really big sandbox and he was with a Thoroughbred. Gregory would have felt self-conscious, uptight, and bored with just me. Like Lawrence of Arabia without a camel. That’s the key, Paul. Would you enjoy a silly experience like that together? Is the idea of being together more important than where you are?”

  “I get it,” Hood said.

  The sandbox test was an absolute. Daphne was obviously a woman of extremes, and life demanded more compromise than she seemed willing to allow. Yet it was sad to think that very few people Paul Hood knew could pass the test. Especially himself and Sharon.

  Hood did not know whether he and Daphne Connors would enjoy a day in a sandbox. And it was much too early to worry about that. Still, they had spent an agreeable time having dinner and discussing very different philosophies of life.

  They had not come to blows.

  That was a good start.

  THREE

  The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:34 A.M.

  The sampan rocked vigorously from side to side as it neared the yacht from the stern. Lee Tong had moved aft. Clark Shunga had passed out plastique to Lee and one of the other men. Koh Yu continued to monitor the radio while the men silently oared the sampan closer.

  Lee was poised on the horseshoe-shaped aft section of the boat. His feet were bare, and his legs were spread wide to help him keep his balance. Two curved wooden arms rose three feet above a seat to which the keel was attached. Lee worked the long yuloh-shaped keel with his left hand. The water whispered across the paddle of the keel. The sound always calmed him, especially before an assault. In his right hand he held a fist-sized chunk of plastique. The explosive was sealed in a sheet of plastic food wrap. The covering prevented the sea spray and Lee’s perspiration from coating the plastique. The dampness would make it difficult for the waxy substance to adhere to the hull. The pirates had slung six large canvas sacks filled with sand over the port side of the sampan. This quieted the impact in case the vessels happened to bump one another.

  Lee’s pistol was tucked in a worn leather holster attached to his belt. He wore the gun low on his right hip. Once the explosives had been placed and the sampan pulled away, Koh would come from below with a megaphone. He would call out to the passengers on the yacht. If necessary, Lee and Clark were the ones who would fire at the plastique.

  The sampan was just a few meters from the yacht. The ship was not at anchor, and the sampan was rocking slightly in its wake. Lee skillfully maneuvered the keel while the other men oared forward. At the bow, Clark watched the yacht with night-vision glasses. Virtually every pleasure ship that sailed these waters had a deadman’s watch from dusk until dawn. Even so, a ship traveling dark and silent was virtually impossible to see or hear. Especially if it came from the bow or stern. Most sentries tended to stay in the midsection of the vessel and watch the horizon. That was especially true in this region. Most sailors did not yet consider the Celebes Sea to be dangerous.

  The sampan eased ahead. The yacht was more than four times the length of the pirate vessel. They would sail alongside, close to the hull, and place the explosives in reverse order. Clark would attach his explosive to the rear of the vessel as they passed. Then the sampan would continue forward. If the pirates were spotted, Lee would be able to aim his weapon at the plastique Clark had placed. When they reached the bow, Lee would use a rag to wipe sea spray from the vessel. Then he would place his charge against the hull. Then the sampan would move off to the side.

  Clark continued to scan the ship slowly from bow to stern. As far as Lee could tell, there was no one on deck. Suddenly, Clark stopped. He was looking at a spot low on the forward mast.

  “Retreat!” Clark said in a strong whisper.

  Lee turned the keel to the port side. The yuloh men immediately switched to backwater strokes. Lee bent at the knees to brace himself for the lurch he knew would follow. The sampan shook as it braked. The streamlined boat steadied quickly as the men began to row in reverse.

  Lee opened his eyes very wide. He tried to see into the darkness. He searched the spot where Clark was still looking. He could not see anything.

  “It’s tracking us,” Clark said. His voice was louder now.

  “What is?” Lee asked.

  “A security camera with a night-vision lens,” Clark said. “It’s three meters up on the mast.”

  Lee looked up. He still did not see the surveillance camera. But there was no time to worry about it. Just as the sloping prow of the sampan cleared the stern of the yacht, several figures came on deck. They were about four meters up. Lee could not see them, but he could hear them. He could also hear the distinctive slap of clips being loaded into automatic weapons. An instant later, the soft, black night was pocked with yellow flashes, deadly stars on the deck of the ship. A sound like balloons popping rolled from the deck. And then there were screams. The screams of the men on the sampan.

  Lee felt the backward movement slow. The yuloh men must have been hit. He did not dwell on that. He released the tiller and ran forward. Realizing that he was still holding the plastique, Lee tossed it overboard. He did not want to risk having a bullet strike the explosives by chance. His chances of surviving the attack were remote enough without the added risk.

  As the wooden deck spat splinters of wood at him, Lee scurried on hands and knees to the middle of the vessel. The belowdecks compartments were covered by a long, inverted U-shaped shelter. This was made of Foochow pine covered with bamboo matting. The roofing would provide some protection as Lee made his way belowdecks. The pirate’s intention was to hide there and hope that the yachtsmen did no
t board the sampan. If they did, he still had his pistol. He would use it against them if he could. If not, he would turn it on himself. He did not intend to spend any time in a Singapore prison.

  Lee screamed as a bullet hit his right ankle. The shot cut his Achilles tendon and caused his leg to straighten. He flopped flat on his belly as a hot, cramplike pain raced up his right side all the way to his neck. As he fell, a second bullet drilled into his left calf. That sent a wave of fire up the other side. Lee bit down hard to keep from screaming and giving his location away. Desperately, he tried to pull himself forward on his flat hands. Perspiration stung his eyes. He felt as though his body weight had tripled as he dragged himself ahead. He sucked air through his teeth and fought to keep his eyes open.

  Suddenly, that effort was no longer necessary.

  There was a sound from the bow like a rock going through glass. He knew that sound. It was plastique. Lee felt himself rising. The sound was followed by intense heat and white light, both of which hit Lee like a fist. He couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything but that for an endless moment.

  And then he heard, saw, and felt nothing.

  FOUR

  Sydney, Australia Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

  Lowell Coffey liked a good intellectual fight. He loved joining them. He loved causing them. Typically, there were two ways they came about.

  One way was by giving speeches. Communicating his strongly held ideas as concisely and effectively as possible. Being the attorney for Op-Center allowed him to do that from time to time. He spoke on issues of international rights and national security, of civil liberties and the loss of privacy. If the thirty-nine-year-old attorney had the thick skin required for politics, he would have run for office. But he had a stubborn, confrontational nature when anyone criticized his views. In politics, Coffey knew he would get it from both sides. The Southern California native believed in a very strong and aggressive military. That was his conservative side. He believed very deeply in human rights in all their forms and variations. That was his liberal side. He would never form any kind of coalition to get himself elected, which was unfortunate. Unlike many politicians, Lowell Coffey III had what he jokingly referred to as a “substance abuse” problem. He was addicted to issues that had meat on strong bones. His interest in substance was what drove him to international law. His father would have preferred that he join the successful entertainment law firm of Coffey and O’Hare, based in Beverly Hills. But while Coffey liked his Armani suits, Rolex watch, and Jaguar—which was in the shop more than it was out—he had needed substance as well. He found it first as an assistant to the California state attorney general, then as deputy assistant to the United States solicitor general. Since joining Op-Center six years ago, he was up to his cleft chin in substance. There was hardly a nation on earth or a division of the federal government Coffey had not dealt with since joining the National Crisis Management Center. Sometimes those dealings were adversarial, as when Striker was caught in the struggle between India and Pakistan, or when Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers shot up the United Nations to end the hostage standoff. Often he ended up learning on the job. But even international confrontations gave him satisfaction he would not have gotten from negotiating product placement in movies for deodorant or beverage brands. Coffey’s personal and professional integrity did not prevent his coworkers from referring to the sandy-haired Californian as Percy Richkid. It was a tease, and he rolled with it. Besides, Coffey could not help the financial stratum in which he was born. He took pride in the fact that he had never used family connections to get anything. Coffey had worked hard at every school he attended, and he had earned every position he held.