by Tom Clancy
Sea of Fire
( op-center - 10 )
Tom Clancy
Steve Pieczenik
Jeff Rovin
A half-dead Singapore pirate is plucked from the Celebes Sea in the Western Pacific, setting off alarms halfway around the world in Washington, D.C. Traces of radiation are found on the man, causing Australian officials to call in Op-Center for a top-secret investigation of nuclear disposal sights. When an empty drum from a recent drop-off is discovered near where the pirate's ship was destroyed, the Op-Center team comes to a terrifying conclusion: a multi-national corporation that has been hired to dispose of nuclear waste is selling it instead — to a most unlikely terrorist…
A powerful profile of America's defense, intelligence, and crisis management technology, Tom Clancy's Op-Center is the creation of Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik — inspiring this and other gripping novels.
Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin
Off the Clock
Chapter One
The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:19 A.M.
There were three things that swarthy, dark-eyed Singaporean Lee Tong knew very well.
One of those was the sea. The lanky but muscular Lee was the son of the late Henry Tong, a hardworking mate on a timber carrier. The elder Tong's vessel, the 100-ton capacity Lord of the Ocean, was a container ship. It took regular runs of hardwood cargo from their home port in Singapore to India. On the return trip it would carry teak logs that had been shipped from the Ivory Coast to Bombay. These were bound for Hong Kong and Tokyo. Lee's mother had died of food poisoning when the boy was five. Rather than live with his grandparents in Keluang, on their inland farm, Lee often traveled with his father. By the time Lee was thirteen, he was working full time as a cabin boy for the first mate.
Traveling the timber route, Lee learned the different moods of the waters. The clean smell of the Andaman Sea was different than the tart, oily smell along the coast of the South China Sea. The currents of the East China Sea caused a sharper rocking than the heavier, lofting swells in the Pacific Ocean. The storms were different, too. Some were sudden and ferocious. Others came from afar with enough warning that the pilot could steer around them. Lee also learned about men on these odysseys. What pleased them, what bothered them, what bothered them enough to kill. He learned that money, undemanding women, cigarettes, drink and the camaraderie of drink, and the loyalty of friends were the only things that really mattered to him. By the time the elder Tong died of liver failure, Lee had only managed to get a lot of smoking and drinking done. He would never get much more as long as he worked on the Lord of the Ocean or a vessel like her, which was why Lee Tong took up the next profession he did.
When Lee was sixteen, several years into his own career on the timber ship, he met two other young sailors who did not want to end up like their own fathers. Who were unhappy working for three dollars a day, seven days a week. Eventually, in port, they sat down with other dissatisfied young men from other professions. That led Lee to the second thing he knew very well.
Piracy.
Lee was standing in the steep raised prow of the sampan. The vessel was not of Singaporean design. It was a squat Shanghai Harbor model, also known as a mu-chi or hen boat. The name was a result of the sampan's resemblance to the bird. Built mostly of softwood, which aged well and was extremely light, the mu-chi was eighteen feet long with four compartments, including a galley. There was an engine for rapid travel and four yulohs—thirteen-foot-long oars — for silent travel. That was how the five sampan pirates were traveling now, with Lee's crewmates rowing two men to a side. They had bought the sampan in China, legally, just over two years before. They had paid for it with cash, most of it borrowed from Lee's grandparents. The loan was repaid within a year. Buying the sampan was the last lawful act the men had done.
Early in their career the men learned how to mingle with harbor traffic to select their prey, how to track them until dark, and how to come alongside swiftly and quietly. They learned how to prowl the shipping lanes with their backs to the setting sun so that they would not be seen. Former police sergeant Koh Yu kept both a 500-channel scanner and a world band receiver on board to monitor restricted police and military communications. He had stolen them before resigning from the Special Operations Command of the Singapore Police Force. After sampling all kinds of ships, they focused on yachts and fishing charters. The take was usually good, and resistance was limited to indignant words. Since most of those words were English, Lee didn't understand what was being said. Among them, only the unflappable Koh spoke English. And Koh did not care what was being said. None of the men felt remorse about the work they did. On land, the large took advantage of the small. The fat had their way with the lean. At sea, the sharks ate the tuna. Lee Tong had tried both lives.
He preferred being a shark.
They began by waylaying small pleasure boats, tour ships, and party vessels out of Hong Kong and Taipei. The men didn't even have to board the ships to rob them. They came alongside and pressed plastic explosives low on the hull. The soft, explosive patties were homemade from concussion-ignited mercuric fulminate — a mixture of mercury, alcohol, and nitric acid — paraffin, and linseed oil to keep the wax pliant. That was a contribution of eight-fingered Clark Shunga, a former demolitions man for the lumber industry. Trees that were too difficult to cut down were blasted down. When he lost two fingers to a faulty detonator cap, he was fired with meager compensation. The Woo See Lumber Company was afraid that he would kill someone by mishandling explosives. He showed them that he could still play the guitar, but they were unimpressed. Clark put all of his severance pay — fifty dollars — toward the sampan.
The pirates would carefully place the plastic explosives fore and aft, a few feet above the waterline. That would keep them dry. It would also make it difficult for anyone to try to dislodge them with a pole or net. They would have to stand there, on the rocking deck, while the pirates shot at them. After the explosives were placed, the sampan would withdraw to a safe distance of between fifteen and twenty feet. Using a megaphone, they would order that valuables, jewels, and occasionally a female hostage be sent over the side in a rowboat or dinghy. They would enjoy the woman's company for a short while and then set her adrift. If the orders were not followed, they would turn on the laser sight and fire a bullet from one of the M8 pistols that each man carried. The shot would ignite the explosive. To date, the pirates had never found it necessary to destroy a ship.
The Celebes Sea was still relatively new territory to Lee and the others. They had been sailing this region of the Western Pacific for just two months, since the Singapore navy increased its patrols in the South China Sea. The shipping lanes were different, and the sea itself was different. The waters did not heave up and down or from side to side like other bodies of water. They pitched you back and then drew you forward, thanks to a very strong and constant undertow. It reminded Lee of something his father once said about life: that it lets you move one step ahead and then knocks you back two.
The sampan was traveling dark. The cabin lights were off, and even the phosphorescent compass was covered with a canvas cloth, so that it would not be seen when they came alongside. They were headed toward two beacons roughly a quarter mile away, the fore and aft running lights of a yacht. It was an eighty-foot two-masted sailing yacht they had spotted while heading to port the previous day. The men had tracked the low, sleek vessel as it headed southeast. It was on an easy course with just a few people on board. It was probably a weeklong charter that cost some fat Aussie or Malaysian about fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, American. It was the perfect prey. This was the third thing Lee Tong knew well: spotting perfect targets. Since
organizing the others on that hot, humid, hard-drinking night in Hong Kong, Lee had never picked a loser.
Until tonight.
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:45 P.M.
The Inn Cognito was located at 7101 Democracy Boulevard in Bethesda. Paul Hood had never been to the new hot spot, but Op-Center's attorney, Lowell Coffey III, had given it an enthusiastic recommendation. Hood and his undemanding palate were happy with something less chichi. He could do without TV monitors showing tape of blinking eyeballs and snapping fingers. But he was not here alone. He was with Daphne Connors, founder of the cutting-edge Daph-Con advertising agency. The forty-one year-old divorcee had also gotten a thumbs-up from Coffey, who knew the family of her former husband, attorney Gregory Packing, Jr.
The name of Daphne's firm appealed to Washingtonians. Especially to the military. The blond-haired Daphne also appealed to Beltway insiders. She had the stylish poise and intensity of a CNN anchorwoman. In addition to handling various Army accounts, she represented hotels and restaurants, including this one. That was how they managed to get a reservation.
Daphne was quite a contrast to Hood, whose job as the director of Op-Center demanded quiet, steady leadership. The husky-voiced woman was extremely high-energy. She reminded Hood of the late Martha Mackall, Op-Center's go-get-'em political liaison. Martha had been confident, poised, and always stalking. He didn't know what she was hunting or why. He was not sure she did, either. But she never stopped.
Maybe that's what Martha was really searching for, Hood thought. Understanding.
Tragically, terrorist bullets ended the life of the forty-nine-year-old African-American woman. Hood was sorry he had not gotten to know her better. From a strictly managerial point of view, he also wished he could have learned how to harness her intensity.
Hood tried to keep up with the hard-driving Daphne as she described how she established her agency in college with commissions she earned from selling ad space in university newspapers. She told him how it had grown to a global organization that employed over 340 people in the United States alone. In ten minutes she must have used the words push and drive a dozen times each. Hood found himself wondering how their respective organizations would fare if they switched jobs. His guess was that Daph-Con would end up being sold to some insipid conglomerate and homogenized. Op-Center would probably swallow the NSA, the CIA, and possibly Interpol.
Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting — not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.
"Paul?" Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.
"Yes?"
"I've been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone's brain is wandering," she said.
"No, I'm here," Hood replied with a smile.
She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.
"You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected."
The woman relaxed slightly. "All right, you heard me. But that still doesn't mean you were listening."
"I assure you, I was," he said. "That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts."
"I see," Daphne said. She smiled now. "I understand. Totally."
Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called "floating" lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and — yes — wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.
Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. "Paul, I have to confess something."
"Why?"
She laughed. "Funny. Most people would have asked, 'What?' "
He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.
"I haven't been on a date in seven years," Daphne said, "and I'm afraid I've turned this into something of a dog and pony show."
"If it helps, I'm enjoying what you have to say."
"You're sweet, but I don't like it," Daphne said. "I'm acting like I'm at a client pitch. I'm trying too hard to sell myself."
"No—"
"Yes," she insisted. "You've been very patient for the last half hour."
"I told you, I'm interested," he answered truthfully. "I don't meet many people who run businesses."
"No, you meet people who run countries," Daphne said.
"Most of whom are not as interesting as you are," Hood replied. "And that wasn't a line," he added.
That caught her with her guard down. "Talk to me about that."
"Most of them had to sandblast their most distinguishing features, make everything smooth to get where they are," Hood told her. "What's left is guided by constitutions or surrounded by domestic and international watch-dogs, constituents, and special interests."
"Is that a bad thing?" she asked.
"Not necessarily," Hood replied. "It prevents dictatorships. But it also slows progress to a glacial pace. The individual leader can't move without the entire system moving with him or her."
"Still, what they do affects more than the bottom line of a very minor privately held company." She sat back. "What about you?"
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"How you do it," she replied. "You don't seem to be one of those bureaucrats who's always on the make, looking for access."
Hood selected a bread stick from the basket. He dabbed it in a dish of olive oil and took a bite. He was not good at this either. When Sharon used to ask him how his day went, he never said much. There was no point starting a lengthy conversation because there were always interruptions. The phone, the kids, something on the stove or in the oven.
"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 ent
ertainment. 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.
