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

by Clancy, Tom

  “Unexceptional,” she replied.

  “Yes. The best spies are, you know,” Le told her. “They should never stand out.”

  “Do you think he is spying on us?”

  “Almost certainly,” the prime minister answered. “The American president already has an ambassador. Why send another? Besides, a man with his credentials is always watching for new faces, new dynamics, new technology. Yet he may be sincere in his desire to want to help protect the launch.”

  “Why?”

  “If something happens, it may have repercussions throughout the region,” the prime minister said. “His government might not wish to be forced to participate. Hopefully, we will know more in a minute.”

  “How?”

  “You will ask him a question.” Le smiled.

  “I will?” she said.

  The prime minister nodded once. “Mr. Hood virtually ignored his own ambassador during our chat,” Le told her. “Yet Mr. Hood was watching your reaction very closely.”

  “I was translating—”

  “Interpreters are usually invisible, you know that,” Le said.

  “He was simply being polite.”

  “The ambassador was watching me, and he was watching Mr. Hood,” Le told her. “You must have impressed him. I would like you to find out why this launch is so important to him. He may confide in you.”

  “Father, I am not a diplomat,” she protested.

  “Neither is your mother. But I trust you both, and you are intuitive in ways that I am not.”

  The prime minister squeezed his daughter’s hand to signify that the conversation had ended. They had entered the ballroom. A number of people were now within earshot, and they spoke Mandarin. He did not want his thoughts or concerns to become part of a public debate.

  Anita seemed a little confused by his observation. That was all right. It was good for her to step from the armor of academic absolutes now and again. He was not sure whether he trusted Paul Hood entirely. He seemed likable and sincere, but the interests of the United States in this matter were curious. Le had listened, but he had not learned much. The White House should not be so concerned about a multinational corporation like Unexus. Not to the extent that they would send a high-level troubleshooter to check on its interests. And this was not a diplomatic issue. Otherwise, the ambassador could have handled it.

  Unless it is not the satellite that really concerns them, Le reflected. Paul Hood had come directly to see him. Le wondered what they might know or suspect beyond what he already feared. At the moment, the only casualty on Chinese soil had been his own credibility. If he could not make peace between Director Chou and General Tam Li, the president and influential members of the National People’s Congress would lose faith in him. That was not something that would matter to the United States. And the destruction of the rocket would not impact them directly unless it affected one of their allies in the region.

  Hopefully, there would be a way to find out.

  Le was approached by Australian ambassador Catherine Barnes and her husband. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, the prime minister saw Hood making his way toward the door. Excusing himself from Ms. Barnes, the prime minister turned to his daughter.

  “Anita, go to Mr. Hood before he leaves,” the prime minister whispered.

  “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Ambassador Barnes speaks passable Mandarin, and it is almost time for the toasts. Go.”

  Le released Anita’s hand, and she made her way through the crowd. She followed Hood as he left the ballroom. Hood had his cell phone in his hand, possibly preparing to call General Rodgers.

  There was something a little dirty about it, Le realized. Part of what may have appealed to Paul Hood was the fact that his daughter was an attractive woman. If so, he was using her in an unseemly manner. But while that could be part of it, that was not all of it. Le’s sense of the brief meeting was that Paul Hood might be a new kind of spy. He was somewhere between General Rodgers and Ambassador Hasen: a covert bureaucrat, an ambassador without borders.

  Testing a new kind of spy required a new kind of counterspy. Anita, an educator-interrogator. In a world where there were rumors of an American physician-assassin, the rules were definitely changing. Perhaps for the best. Le believed that Hood may have come for the reasons stated: to collect intelligence without prejudice and to begin forming a strategic international alliance. Whether that union lasted for as long as it took to protect the launch, or whether it was the start of a new détente remained to be seen. Even if that was not why Hood was here, the prime minister might be able to use him in that way. That would make this like any relationship in politics or in life. If it was successful, it did not matter who had contributed what and why.

  It would be ironic, though, Le thought as he chatted superficially with Ambassador Barnes. A fight between two Chinese officials spills into the global arena. The one who stops it is a member of the audience. What was it Li-Li had said just two days ago?

  “This situation is about the future.”

  His wife may have been wiser and more prophetic than she knew.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Alexandria, Virginia Wednesday, 8:41 A.M.

  General Carrie did not get very much sleep.

  She came home, sat on the sofa to go through the mail, and the next thing she knew, her husband was very gently nudging her awake.

  “You must have been tired,” Dr. Carrie said.

  The woman opened her eyes. The general was lying against the armrest, her feet on the floor. Her husband’s brown eyes were staring down at her.

  “What?” she asked, still groggy.

  “I said you must have been tired,” he repeated. He held up an envelope. “You actually opened a ‘You Won a Millions Bucks!’ come-on.”

  General Carrie’s eyes shifted from her husband to the envelope. She did not remember opening it. She did not even remember sitting here. She looked at the clock on the digital video recorder. It was coming up on nine A.M. It was late.

  “The housekeeper will be here in twenty minutes,” Dr. Carrie said.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” his wife replied. She moved stubborn limbs in an attempt to get up. Her husband helped her. He was already dressed, which meant he had showered, and she did not hear him. She smelled coffee. General Carrie did not hear him make that, either.

  “Can I get you anything before I leave?” he asked.

  “Tea, thanks,” she said. “Also, a kiss.”

  He bent over and planted one on her lips. It did not work as well as caffeine, but it was a start.

  The neurosurgeon brought his wife her tea, then left. Carrie rose and took a long slug of the strong Earl Grey. She felt as tired as she did when she had come home. She heard the car pull from the driveway and savored her daily moment of solitude. She checked her cell phone. There was just one message. It was from the Andrews dispatch sergeant, probably wanting to know when he should come and get her. She was glad someone had been there for her the night before. That was the great thing about working on an air force base. There was always a driver in the staff pool. She called him and told him she’d be ready to leave at 9:30.

  The general took off her uniform, showered quickly, and felt better when that was done. The housekeeper had arrived and let herself in. Patricia Salazar was a young single mother of two who went about her work with easy efficiency. It had occurred to Carrie years before that Patricia would be a perfect spy. She had the run of the house, and who would ever suspect a Portuguese-speaking housekeeper of being an agent for a third party?

  Which was exactly the point. Carrie had her G2 staff run a background check. Although Patricia had been married to an NCO in an army signals regiment seven years before, he had left her—and the children—for another woman. Phone logs were checked, as were travel records. Patricia was watched for several weekends. The Salazars apparently had no contact after Patricia came to Maryland to live with her sister and brother-in-law.


  Carrie had not felt bad about doing that. A clean house—and a happy housecleaner—were not more important than national security. But caution was a part of her profession. The general did not usually discuss work at home and never took sensitive documents to the house. But she did not want to go to work with a bug concealed in the heel of her shoe.

  Carrie poured another cup of tea into a thermos, then glanced at the news on-line before the car arrived. There had been no explosions during the night. That was both good and bad. Good because no one had been hurt. Bad because each new event would give them more information to work with.

  The driver arrived, and Carrie left with two things that were at her side constantly: her laptop and her secure phone. As soon as the general was comfortably settled in the car, she raised the glass partition between the seats and switched on the telephone. She entered the password neurodoc, then punched in 1*. That speed-dialed the cell phone of someone she spoke with almost every day, the man who had helped her rise through the military. The man who had ensured her promotion and made the transfer to Op-Center possible. General Raleigh Carew, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “You did not call since you started,” Carew said.

  “I was settling in, getting the overview.”

  “And what’s your impression of Op-Center?”

  “Most of the people are dedicated, hardworking, and extremely burned out,” the general informed him.

  “Burned out in what way?”

  “They work long hours, they take their cases home with them, and when they are not involved in a crisis, I’m told they are busy looking for the next one.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Liz Gordon, the staff psychologist,” Carrie said. “That last factor is the one that’s killing them. There is no downtime.”

  “What’s going on there? The Napoleon syndrome?” Carew asked.

  “I do not get the sense they are trying to compete with the big boys of intelligence,” Carrie told him. “At least, that’s not their primary motivation. It is more like a bunker mentality. They see themselves as a key line of defense—which they are. But according to Liz, Paul Hood made them feel as if they are the only line of defense. His personal line of defense.”

  “Against what?”

  “Mediocrity,” she replied. “Liz thinks that Paul Hood used the NCMC to fix the world in ways that he couldn’t fix his life.”

  “General Carrie.” Carew sighed. “Are you going to sit there and give me a lot of psychobullshit?”

  “Mr. Chairman, I was not the one who brought up the Napoleon syndrome,” Carrie remarked.

  Carew was silent for a moment. “Touché,” he replied. “Go on.”

  “Liz says that the big problem is the way Hood integrated everyone into the crisis management process on every level. Military planning was plugged into tech, intelligence gathering was hot-wired into the political liaison office, legal worked with psychological, everyone handson everywhere. I saw that happening myself around two this morning. I was talking to Herbert and McCaskey, and they were overanalyzing everything they had picked up that day instead of acting on it. The guiding principle is that the team takes risks but not chances.”

  “Everything comes from the brain, not the gut,” Carew said.

  “Exactly,” Carrie said. “Whereas we encourage our intel people to explore from within, these people investigate from without. They started a unit of field agents under Mike Rodgers, but it never worked out. Liz says that Hood couldn’t let go. I discovered that Hood is also one reason that Liz back-doored a recommendation to then-Senator Debenport that Mike Rodgers be the first one downsized. Hood’s number two was burning out big time.”

  “That’s because he’s a soldier, not a bureaucrat. He took the full frontal hits for Op-Center, all of them in the field.”

  “Liz doesn’t think Hood realized the damage he was doing to General Rodgers or to the rest of the staff,” Carrie continued. “If he thought about it at all, he would blame it on being understaffed.”

  “Where was the CIOC in all this?”

  “The Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee didn’t seem to care how Hood ran the organization as long as he got results,” Carrie said. “And he did. Hood was one reason the CIOC felt they could cut his budget. Debenport knew that Hood would make it work. What I don’t understand, though, is if he was so important to the mix, why did President Debenport pull him away?”

  “So Hood could do the same thing for the West Wing that he was doing at the NCMC, pulling together an intelligence community under the direct control of the president,” Carew said. “Debenport knows we want to create a greater structure allied with G2. Hood is his countermove.”

  “And his spy.”

  “What do you mean?” Carew asked.

  “Hood is using personnel from Op-Center on the situation in China.”

  “Of course. The president had to realize Hood would do that,” Carew said. “He would use long-standing relationships to tap Op-Center’s resources and confuse their loyalty.”

  “Liz feels the danger to Op-Center goes deeper than that,” Carrie said. “She says that Hood’s command style not only connected people professionally but emotionally—in a common, often open dislike of Hood. Rodgers, Bob Herbert, attorney Lowell Coffey, and FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey all manifested extreme resentment from time to time. But she thinks that instead of being relieved by his absence they’re feeling lost. These people don’t have a familiar commander—or a place to put their frustration. In the absence of that, Hood can cherrypick the personnel he needs in his new position. Whether intentionally or not, that will divide their loyalty.”

  “Keep us from solidifying the unit.”

  “Right.”

  “Whether or not that’s true, and whether or not this was all Hood’s fault, how long will it take to fix?” Carew asked.

  “I’m going to work on that with Liz today,” Carrie said. “We’re going to see who we can retain and retrain.”

  “Are you sure Liz Gordon was not affected by all this?” Carew asked.

  “Very sure,” Carrie replied. “Hood did not trust profiling or psychology very much. He says as much in his own reports. Liz stayed aloof and apart from much of what went on at Op-Center.”

  “Sounds promising,” Carew said. “Don’t hesitate too long to do whatever is necessary to get the NCMC healthy.”

  “Of course not. China should be a good shakedown cruise for us.”

  “Speaking of which, what’s the latest? G2 has nothing new on the Taiwan front.”

  “I’ll be following up on that when I get to the office,” Carrie said. “If something had happened, the night staff would have let me know.”

  General Carew said he would speak with her later. Carrie hung up and looked out the tinted window. She believed what she was doing was right for Op-Center, for the intelligence community, and for the nation. When Carrie first took over G2, it was an efficient collection of groups that tended to act unilaterally. The overall mission was to collect and disseminate military intelligence and counterintelligence, and to oversee military security and military intelligence training. After the Iraq War, Carrie had been charged with improving the organization on the tactical level. She planned and supervised a restructuring from battalion through division to allow G2 to effectively execute its mission in war and peace. During peacetime, she arranged it so that operations were centrally consolidated with outflow controlled by her office under the daily control of her number two, Lieutenant Colonel Scott Denny, the assistant chief of staff. In support of war, the intelligence assets were jumped directly to the tactical command post, the main command post, and the rear command post. This dissemination was executed by units Carrie had hand-picked: the 640th Military Intelligence Battalion, the 210th Weather Flight, Air National Guard, the 1004th/1302nd Engineer Detachment, which specialized in terrain analysis, and the Quickfix Platoon C/1-140AV.

  Of course, at G2 Carrie had the entir
e United States military at her disposal to accomplish that goal. The challenge of Op-Center was to do the same thing with a mostly civilian group and a relatively small budget.

  It was a challenge she was looking forward to. There would probably be some casualties, though she hoped to minimize those with Liz’s help. Burned out was not the same as passed away. This team had done some remarkable work, and she wanted to try to keep them intact.

  The big challenge was not Bob Herbert or Darrell McCaskey or any of their teammates. The big challenge was the goal.

  General Patton had once decried the short-sighted decisions of those “temporary residents of the White House.” International policy and national security were too important to be left to upgraded senators and former governors. The objective of General Carrie was to help strengthen the United States by making military intelligence a bigger and more integral part of America’s defense structure.

  On the way to that goal, however, another challenge suddenly presented itself. One that was smaller but tactically and morally important. According to Liz Gordon, Paul Hood was not burned out. Why would he be? Whatever his flaws, Hood had built and used a strong, hardworking support structure.

  It would be quite an asset, Carrie thought, to have the president’s personal intelligence officer work with the military to achieve their goal. Fortunately, by relying on his old Op-Center personnel, Hood had given her a head start in that direction.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Beijing, China Wednesday, 8:44 P.M.

  Paul Hood stepped into the warm, damp night. There was a clinging mist in the air, and it caused his cell phone to crackle. He could only imagine what kind of pollutants were in the air.

  He stepped away from the canopy to call Rodgers. Hood stood with his back to the reception hall, a finger in his ear to block out the sounds of traffic. The general was in his hotel room having dinner.

  “Chinese food isn’t Chinese food,” Rodgers said. “I’m sitting here eating chicken kidneys and shark fins. What are you doing?”