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

by Clancy, Tom

  “I think he’s ready to move on, frankly,” Liz said. “But that doesn’t mean this will go down easy. Do you have to dismiss him?”

  “I do,” Carrie said. “Any advice?”

  “He’s gonna be Bob Herbert,” Liz said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Expect him to be very bitter and sarcastic, but don’t offer to help him find anything,” she said. “Herbert does not like to feel disabled in any way.”

  “All right.”

  “Also, may I come to see you when you’re finished?”

  “Of course,” Carrie said. “Make it eleven.”

  Liz thanked her, and Carrie hung up. She asked Bugs to have Herbert come to see her. She had already decided that he would not be escorted out by security guards. It would not be that kind of dismissal.

  Bob Herbert arrived looking more rested than he had since Carrie’s arrival at Op-Center. The two had spoken only briefly after the mission was completed, and Herbert had seemed pleased with the way it worked out. She asked him to shut the door behind him.

  “One-on-one before lunch,” Herbert said. “That isn’t good for me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s nothing happening abroad; I’ve read all the intelligence briefings. So it’s a local matter,” Herbert said. “Things percolate through the D.C. political system at night, decisions get made in the dark, and those encyclicals are handed down early in the morning. For top officials, that means shortly after ten.” He looked at his watch. “It’s half-past ten now. Obviously, whatever this is, it could not wait.” Herbert looked at Carrie. “Also, Paul Hood called me at home. The president is happy, but the Joint Chiefs are upset with how this played out, especially the exposure of the field ops. Someone has to be scapegoated for that.”

  Carrie was impressed by Herbert’s comprehensive analysis. It gave her second thoughts about what she had to do.

  “I am not happy with the way priorities were established by your office, nor with the overall evolution of the mission in China,” Carrie said.

  “Should we have let the rocket blow up and a Taiwanese force be annihilated while we collected intel?” Herbert asked.

  “The mission parameters were about the payload, which was lost,” she pointed out. “The situation in Taiwan is speculative and secondhand. Moreover, a team that had been seconded to Op-Center was exposed.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Herbert said. “We usually kill our field units.”

  She did not reply to that.

  “When do you want my resignation?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  Herbert seemed surprised for the first time. “What do you mean? Are you firing me?”

  “Very reluctantly,” she said.

  “You’re fucking firing me?” he exclaimed. “I take the fall for the marines so you don’t have to?”

  “You take the fall for the marines because you were the middleman between them and the orders of outsiders,” Carrie said. “You acted unilaterally without considering the long-term effect on Op-Center.”

  “If I had not acted, the team would have been fried, along with two of our distinguished alumni!” Herbert shouted.

  “That was not your decision to make,” Carrie said.

  “Like hell!”

  “If you’d like, I can show you the job description,” she said evenly. “The director of intelligence does not give orders unless they apply directly to the collecting of information. Since neither General Rodgers nor Mr. Hood was authorized to command the team, you should have gone to Mr. Plummer or myself.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “I am not happy about it either, but I cannot have rogue directors working under me.”

  “Okay. I won’t do it again.”

  “I know,” she said firmly.

  Herbert got the message. “Screw you, ma’am,” he said, then turned and opened the door. He stopped. “If you send security, I’ll piss on them,” he warned without turning around.

  “We would not want that to be your final act here,” she said. “You can leave at your leisure.”

  “I’ll be gone by lunchtime,” Herbert said and wheeled himself through the door.

  General Carrie was sorry the conversation had taken the turns it did, but there was no way to prevent that. The dismissal was humiliating, but Herbert would get another position. And Op-Center would be on notice that there was a chain of command that had to be followed.

  She punched on the intercom. “Bugs, have Darrell come in and get me General Selby at G2. Tell Lowell Coffey I’ll want to see him in an hour. Also, please get Liz on the phone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The first thing Carrie needed to do was replace Bob Herbert and have Darrell McCaskey ready to interface with the new person. She assumed McCaskey would stay on. Unlike Herbert, the former FBI agent was a career team player. As for Coffey, she wanted to make sure there was nothing Op-Center needed to do legally in regard to Bob Herbert. She wanted it understood that his dismissal was due to a serious infraction of policy and not his disability. She did not think he would pursue that route, but angry men often behaved unpredictably.

  Bugs beeped. “Liz Gordon is on line two.”

  “Thank you,” Carrie said as she scooped up the phone and punched the button. “Liz, can we postpone our chat till later?”

  “Of course. How did it go?”

  “Pretty much as you said. He’s not happy.”

  “He holds on to grudges, but they’re part of what fuels him,” Liz admitted.

  “Was there something you needed to talk about quickly?” Carrie asked.

  Liz hesitated. “No.” She added, “Not quickly.”

  “Okay. Then we’ll get together in the afternoon, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure.”

  There was something oddly reserved in the psychologist’s answers. She was usually very outspoken. But General Carrie could not worry about that now. She had a command to run.

  She had a responsibility that was greater than the moment and the people moving through it. Chairman Carew was right. There was a nation to keep secure.

  Nothing was more important than that.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 10:43 A.M.

  Liz Gordon sat alone in her office. The door was shut, and air hummed from the vent overhead, from the back of her computer.

  The machines were breathing easier than she was.

  What the hell is going on? she asked herself.

  She knew the answer, of course. General Carrie had grabbed her attention and teased her imagination. Liz would miss Bob Herbert. He was a fascinating man and a valued coworker. But Carrie’s decisive action against his bad judgment had done more than impress her. It had encouraged and emboldened her.

  It was schoolgirl stupid, but she had a crush on the woman. The question was what to do about it.

  Liz had wanted to meet with the general to discuss counseling for staffers about the fallout of the firing. But Liz had really wanted to meet with the general so she could take another physical and emotional core sample on herself. To see if she could work with Carrie without being distracted by her. To see if perhaps Carrie found her intriguing or maybe more.

  Perhaps it was just as well the meeting was delayed. That gave Liz a little more time to collect herself.

  Into what? A more composed exterior? Her insides would be the same: roiling and eager, frightened and hopeful.

  She thought back to Martha Mackall. It had been different with the late political liaison. Liz had liked the woman, but there was no chemistry. Martha was pushy, not strong. She was out for herself. The good of the organization did not matter to her. It mattered deeply to Morgan Carrie.

  She said the name again in her head. It was a strong name. It went with her strong character.

  It was not just her style of leadership that had won Liz Gordon, it was her attentiveness. Liz had spent the better part of tw
o decades looking into people’s eyes to see what they were about. The people who had nothing to hide looked directly at you. The people with something to share did so with words and with unflinching commitment. That came through the eyes.

  During the limited time they had been together, General Carrie always looked at her flush, square, and bold. Liz did not think it was simply because Carrie had the confidence of a three-star general. Liz believed that all women shared a bond that transcended the practical needs of the moment. The notion of unimpeachable sisterhood was a myth. But the desire and capacity to love was strong. Especially among female soldiers who are forced to break the rules of traditional gender roles and behavior. In times of war they must be as aggressive as men. In times of peace, they work harder to recover their gentler humanity.

  Being decisive at the helm of the NCMC was like being at war. General Carrie would also need downtime to reflect on that. A husband, even a caring and devoted one, could not understand that in quite the same way as a woman.

  He could not. Another woman would not need the reclamation process explained to her. Especially if that woman were in the trenches as well.

  Of course, not every woman understood that she required the attention. Sometimes she had to be educated. Therein lay the delicacy of the situation. Liz did not know what General Carrie knew or understood or sensed.

  But she would.

  The psychologist tried to concentrate on work as her heart throbbed anxiously in her throat. She made a list of the people who had worked closely with Bob Herbert, who would be hardest hit by his firing. Darrell McCaskey, of course. But the man was a professional and would roll with it. Lowell Coffey—who did not get along with the intelligence chief but respected him—and Ron Plummer, who found Herbert sharp but abrasive. Their main concerns would not be about Herbert but about how to avoid his fate. How to make sure Op-Center ran smoothly and efficiently during the transition. That was surely the result Carrie was after.

  Liz had to be careful she did not upset that goal, or she could be dismissed herself.

  It was exciting and frightening, uplifting and unnerving. For the first time in a long time there was optimism in the psychologist’s racing heart and a powerful sense of belonging.

  Life was good.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 3:48 P.M.

  “Life sucks,” Herbert said into his glass.

  Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers were sitting at a small rectangular table in Off the Record when Paul Hood arrived. The tavern was located just below street level at the elegant Hay-Adams Hotel, a short distance across Lafayette Park from the White House. Hood walked over, enjoying the warm, clear late afternoon. It was remarkable how clean the air was compared to Beijing and even Xichang. Or maybe he was just happy to be back and intact. It was probably a lot of both. On the way he phoned the kids to see how they were doing. He also phoned Gloria Lynch-Hunt to make sure they still had a date for tomorrow night.

  The kids were fine. The date was on.

  Life was good.

  After an unsteady start, Hood was actually fairly alert. The new executive crisis management adviser had slept until eleven. Yawning but alert, he went to his office at the White House where he had a brief meeting with President Debenport. Since Hood had already filed an overview report he had written on the plane—the Ben Affleck movie was not one he had been wanting to see—the Oval Office meeting was primarily a chance for the commander in chief to congratulate him. Even Chief of Staff Lorraine Sanders was complimentary.

  It was easy to be gracious in victory, and Hood smiled a great deal. The big smiles also helped him to cover up the lingering yawns.

  Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Raleigh Carew came by and offered a big handshake and a tight expression. He had come to see the president, not Hood. That marked the end of the Oval Office meeting.

  Hood had intended to call the kids and go through his voice mail messages, then head to his new office. Even though his assistants would not be starting until Monday, he wanted to get a feel for the place. He was feeling good about his new position and wanted to be a participant in the process instead of a passenger. But then Bob Herbert called, asking to meet him at Off the Record. Herbert did not say what it was about, and Hood agreed to stop by.

  Hood had not known that Rodgers was going to be there. He joined the men at the dimly lit table well away from the bar. It was strange to be together like this for the first time in months. It used to be a daily occurrence, usually strained by outside events or their own mismatched personalities. But it did not feel wrong. Whatever their differences, they had been through wars together. They had survived.

  Bob Herbert made his comment about life and then fell silent. Herbert was often gloomy, so his pronouncement was not a surprise. What he said next, however, was very unexpected.

  The Mississippi native looked up. “I got shit-canned, Paul.”

  “What?”

  “The general fired me.”

  Hood was stunned. “No notice?”

  “None.”

  “Why?” Hood asked.

  “For helping you guys,” Herbert said.

  “I can’t believe that,” Hood said.

  “I can,” Rodgers told him.

  Hood regarded him.

  “There’s a general in charge of Op-Center now,” Rodgers said. “Officers run things very differently than civilians. Bob went outside the chain of command. The general made an example of him.”

  Rodgers’s tone was cold. Perhaps it was Hood’s imagination, but there seemed to be implicit criticism of the way he had run the NCMC.

  “Do you agree with that?” Hood asked him.

  “In theory, yes,” Rodgers said. “In practice, I would have given the individual a warning.”

  “Gentlemen, can we not discuss whether my execution was an overreaction?” Herbert asked.

  “Sorry,” Rodgers said.

  “That’s okay,” Herbert said as he drained his glass. “What happened is not important. What matters is that I’ll know better next time. I won’t answer any ads that say, ‘Results matter less than the process.’ ”

  Hood and Rodgers were silent.

  The waiter came over. Herbert asked for a refill, and Hood ordered a cola.

  “Pope Paul,” Herbert muttered. “Did you know we used to call you that?”

  “Yeah,” Hood said.

  “We all thought you were righteous and clean, above corruption.” Herbert nodded. “You did a good job setting a moral tone. That’s rare in government.”

  Rodgers raised his beer. Hood acknowledged with a nod.

  “So. Any thoughts about what is next?” Hood asked.

  “Defection? Maybe Prime Minister Le Kwan Po will give me a job.”

  “Don’t joke about that,” Rodgers said, looking around.

  “Why? Is the military running the bar now?” Herbert asked.

  Rodgers did not answer. Hood felt a chill. The drinks arrived, and Herbert sat back in his chair.

  “No, Paul. I do not know what is next. I guess I’ll hit my network and try to find a job. Probably in private industry.”

  “The regimentation is worse there,” Rodgers said. “Especially if there are stockholders. Why don’t you start your own think tank?”

  “Ah, a consultancy,” Herbert said. “The face-saving fallback of the fired.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Hood told him. “You have an impressive CV. You could attract other independent thinkers. I would be able to bring you in on some of my projects.”

  “Face-saving and a mercy fuck,” Herbert said. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s not what I need, guys.”

  “What do you need?” Hood asked.

  “For that bitch in green to put me back where I belong, where I’ve served hard and well and loyally,” Herbert replied.

  The others were silent. They could not disagree with Herbert’s ambition or the sentiment.

  “If you want, I’ll talk to the pres
ident,” Hood said.

  “You couldn’t save your own ass from getting removed,” Rodgers said.

  “That was different—”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Herbert said. “I shouldn’t have asked you here. I’m gonna be pissing fire for a while.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Hood said.

  Rodgers smiled. Even Herbert chuckled.

  For a moment, it was the old days again. Three men in stark disagreement but in concert about one thing: that their unwieldy, cranky, dissimilar, and theoretically unworkable parts somehow produced something unique and important.

  The same could be said for Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin, Hood thought in a rare moment of uncritical indulgence. People could not have been much more different than the New England attorney, the Middle Atlantic diplomat, and the Southern farmer who had created a new nation.

  The reference to the past got them talking about old times, about people who had come and gone, about missions and challenges, about victories and losses. Differences notwithstanding, they all had a lot to be proud of.

  Hood took a long, mental drink of the moment. It would probably never get any better than this. But how many men were fortunate enough to have had this at all?

  The hours passed. When it was time to go, there were handshakes all around and a strong sense of camaraderie.

  As well as a big, big question mark about when and even if their paths might intercept again.

  As he crossed the park, a line from a movie flashed through Hood’s mind. He could not remember which film it was. He had watched it with the kids one rainy afternoon years ago. A young woman was leaving her father to be with her fiancé in some remote place. As the train approached, the woman wept, “God only knows when we will see each other again.”

  And her father replied with a catch in his voice, “Then we will leave it in His hands.”

  Hood felt the same as he walked toward the White House and the future.