by Tom Clancy
Finishing the cigarette, Tam Li shut the radio off, and then he shut his eyes. A drowsy sense of contentment had come over him, and sleep followed quickly. When he woke, he could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.
His legs complained a little when he stood. He ignored them the way his father had ignored his daily aches and stiffness. The general put on his jacket and went to greet his mother. It was late, but not too late to have breakfast with her. After that, he would shower and drive to his office. He had work to do before he had his weekly meeting with the other members of the Central Military Committee.
So they could finalize their plans to do what had to be done while Chou and his old-school dinosaurs prepared to become extinct.
TWENTY-TWO
Arlington, Virginia Tuesday, 8:12 A.M.
It was the first time in a long time that Bob Herbert had not felt like getting out of bed. That was odd, considering that he was going to see his longtime friend and coworker Mike Rodgers.
Herbert had always enjoyed the general’s company, whether it was at work or over a butcher-block tray covered in sushi. He had enjoyed it more than he enjoyed being with Hood or McCaskey or any of his other colleagues. The general was openly bitter about aspects of his life, and Herbert related to that.
Now, though, it was Herbert who felt unhappy and abused by life. That was why he had called Rodgers at home the night before and asked to meet. To talk, to see if Paul Hood was seriously off target about the military or if Herbert was being uncharacteristically naive.
The men were meeting for breakfast at a diner that used to be a Hot Shoppe forty-plus years ago. They had freshsqueezed grapefruit juice and ample handicapped parking for Herbert’s large, custom-built van. The intelligence chief required two spaces for the “pig,” as he called it. The vehicle was also large enough to let him pull off the road and take a nap. He often did that when he felt like scooting home to Mississippi and did not want to be bothered looking for a wheelchair-accessible motel on the way. The van also accommodated the computers and secure uplink equipment he required when he was out of the office.
Rodgers was already there, sitting in a corner booth and reading the newspaper. The former general was one of the few people he knew who not only read several dailies but read the print versions. A pot of coffee sat beside him. If Rodgers had been there more than five minutes, it was already empty.
Herbert wheeled himself along the sun-bleached linoleum toward the booth. It was odd seeing waitresses and truckers, interns and realtors going about their business. He himself felt as though he were in a science fiction movie, one of those films from the 1950s where just one man suspected that aliens might be plotting a takeover. Back then, the science fiction aliens were a metaphor for Communists. Now, the imaginary aliens were a metaphor for the U.S. military.
Rodgers folded away his Washington Post when Herbert arrived. The intelligence chief sat at the end of the table in the aisle. They had taken the back table so he would not be in anyone’s way.
“I appreciate this, Mike,” Herbert said.
“Sure.”
“Do I look as crappy as I feel?”
“Pretty much,” Rodgers replied. “What’s wrong? The new boss or the old one?”
“Both.” Herbert laughed.
“Crunched in the middle of a sudden transition?”
“That’s not it,” Herbert said. “The work is the work. I’m more concerned about what’s behind the transition.”
The waitress came, and the men ordered. Rodgers got a fruit plate and whole wheat toast, no butter. Herbert went for the pancakes deluxe with sausage and grapefruit juice. When the waitress left, the intelligence chief hunched forward. Even though the adjoining table was empty, secrecy was a habit many people formed in and around D.C. Everyone, even Herbert, had an ear out for what other people were saying. Not just spies and reporters but everyday people. There was always someone who knew someone who would want to know such-and-such.
“Paul thinks there may be a power shift taking place,” Herbert said. “He’s concerned that the sudden appointment of General Carrie to Op-Center may be a harbinger of a military takeover of national intelligence.”
“That’s a pretty big leap.”
“That’s what I thought,” Herbert said.
“Anyway, he’s the guy close to the president, and the president is the one who made the appointment.”
“Under pressure from the Joint Chiefs, apparently,” Herbert said.
Rodgers shrugged. “Compromises happen. That doesn’t necessarily mean a seismic shift.”
“No, but as I was thinking about it last night, there was one thing that bothered me.” Herbert leaned even closer. “Debenport was the head of the CIOC. He was getting ready to run for president at the time. If he thought this was something he wanted to do, why did he put your name on top of the downsize list?”
Rodgers frowned. It was obviously still a painful memory.
“Sorry,” Herbert said. “If you don’t want to talk about this—”
“I don’t, Bob. But let’s follow it through,” Rodgers said. “Maybe Senator Debenport wanted to clear the path for a woman. General Carrie may have been on his radar as the most qualified individual. If he had just kicked me out and put her in, that might have been perceived as reverse discrimination. A lot of members of Congress and the military would not have approved, and Carrie would not have enjoyed the legitimacy that position demands.”
“Possible, although you credit Debenport with more forethought than I do,” Herbert said. He glanced around casually, then spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “She’s also got Striker back.”
“What?” That surprised him.
“She’s sending four Asian-American marines to Beijing, undercover, through the embassy.”
“For covert or intel activity?” Rodgers asked, also whispering.
“The latter,” Herbert said.
“We had people who could have done that,” Rodgers said.
“Exactly. Two well-trained Asian-Americans from your field staff,” Herbert said. “They weren’t even contacted.”
“You offered their names?”
“As part of my initial sit-down with Carrie,” Herbert said. “It was a short meeting because we had the Chinese situation to check on. But I gave her all the names, from David Battat to Falah Shibli. Our South Korean and Taiwanese associates were in there as well.”
“Has Carrie worked with these marines before?”
“Until yesterday morning she was crunching data at G2,” Herbert said.
“I see.”
Their food arrived. Herbert was silent until the waitress was through. When she left, the intelligence chief took a swallow of juice. The wonderful tartness made him wince. He took a second slug. It was odd that he craved in food what he had no patience for in people.
“Maybe this is just a realignment,” Herbert went on. “Maybe there are too many civilians in the intel business. The Joint Chiefs complain, the president capitulates. But if it was just about equilibrium, why would he create a new post for Paul, one that keeps him very close, unless it was to keep an eye on the brass intel expansion?”
“You mean the president would have just put him out to graze, as he did with me,” Rodgers said.
“Or to stud, depending on how you want to use your time,” Herbert said.
Rodgers held up his wheat toast in answer. “At my age, the penne is mightier than the sword.”
“That’s all in your head.” Herbert grinned. The smile faded quickly. “What about this stuff? Is it all in my head?”
“I don’t know,” Rodgers said as he chewed his dry toast.
“What does your gut tell you?” Herbert pressed. He could tell Rodgers was thinking about it. Thinking hard. He recognized that familiar, unfocused look in the man’s steel gray eyes. It was as though Rodgers were gazing through you, past you, at a hill his unit had to take or a town they h
ad to infiltrate.
“My instincts say there’s something to Paul’s concerns,” Rodgers said. “It’s like Patton after the war in Europe was over. He wanted to start a new conflict with the Soviet Union because the troops were already there, and he reasoned we would be facing them eventually. Most of all, though, he wanted the war because conquering territory is what generals do.”
“So what do we do?” Herbert asked. “Paul and me,” he added. This was not Mike Rodgers’s problem, and he recognized that.
“There is one way we might find out more,” Rodgers said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s been suggested that I go over for the launch,” Rodgers said. “I think I will.”
“Why were you undecided?” Herbert asked. “It’s your satellite.”
“That’s why,” Rodgers said. “As you know, there are elements of the Chinese government who do not want to be reminded of that.”
“Paul’s going over. He’s probably already en route.”
“Right. If I go, I might be able to help keep an eye on the marines. Especially if they go to the Xichang space center.”
“Apart from ticking off some of the Chinese, is there a downside for you?” Herbert asked.
“Only if the rocket blows up,” he said as he took a bite of melon.
Rodgers called his office and asked his secretary to get him on any flight bound for Beijing that afternoon. Then the men sat and talked about Unexus and its plans for the future, which included a satellite that would image the earth in three-dimensional pictures, allowing for unprecedented recon. Herbert promised to keep that one a secret.
What was no secret was how much happier Rodgers was now than even a month ago. Joy would never be a chronic condition for either man, but Rodgers seemed more alive and content than ever. Perhaps he had been steeped too long in the underground world of Op-Center, both physically and emotionally.
As they finished and the men headed back to their cars, Herbert knew one thing for certain. Despite his own great loss a quarter century before, his own journey into that heart of darkness was not nearly as close to a resolution.
If anything, it was just getting under way.
TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:48 A.M.
Before today, Morgan Carrie had only been to Andrews Air Force Base once. That was two years ago, when she was part of a receiving line for a foreign ruler who was making her first trip to the White House. Carrie had been the token two-star at the time. It was not the kind of invitation an officer turned down; it was an order. But it felt dirty to be on display.
Things had changed since then. Carrie was in charge, and others were coming to see her.
The marines, for example.
Carrie did not meet them in the NCMC headquarters but in a ready room beside Hangar 5. It was not a short walk from Op-Center, so she took the golf cart. She would have preferred to walk, but the marines were on a schedule.
The idea of bringing marines into play was hers. It was enthusiastically endorsed by Joint Chiefs Chairman General Raleigh Carew. He said that one of the failures of Op-Center had been the difficulty Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had in attracting human intelligence operatives in foreign lands. There were the historic problems: fear of repercussions among potential spies and difficulty trusting even those who agreed to help. The answer, Carew believed, was sending what the intelligence community called “passables,” outsiders who could blend in with the local population and were quick studies on customs, fads, and colloquialisms not covered in their training. They were designed to serve as both “spec-tar” units, staying long enough to hit specific targets and then leaving, or as sleeper cells. The military had been working on PITs — Passables Infiltration Teams — for several years. To date, small PITs had been fielded in Iraq and the Philippines under the auspices of G2. They were necessary because local recruits were too easily counterrecruited to spy on Americans. The idea for the PITs was inspired by the German action against Allied forces during the decisive Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Paratroopers dressed, equipped, and trained to speak like Americans were dropped behind Allied lines. Their mission was to destroy gas stores, slash truck tires, disable tanks, and send troops into ambushes; anything to slow the enemy advance while German forces attempted to retake the key port of Antwerp. Hitler also gambled that a long and bloody fight in the winter months would cause the weak alliance between American, British, and Russian soldiers to fray. That would give his newly supplied troops a chance to pick at one side while his diplomats stalled the other with insincere overtures of peace.
When Allied commanders became suspicious of the deception, sentries not only demanded passwords from soldiers but asked questions about baseball teams back home. Men who could not answer were arrested. Sufficient numbers of infiltrators were apprehended, and the push to crush Hitler was successful.
The general arrived at the hangar. The mission coordinator, Captain Tony Tallarico, saluted and showed her into the ready room. The four marines were dressed in civvies and sitting on folding chairs in the center of the small room. Beside them were nondescript backpacks. The three men and one woman had been driven over from Quantico, where they had trained. After Carrie had spoken with them, they would be taken to Dulles for an All Nippon Airways flight to Tokyo. There they would transfer to Air China for the trip to Beijing.
The marines got to their feet and saluted when the general entered. Carrie returned the salute and told them to sit back down. They were all in their early twenties but had eyes that were much, much older.
The general dismissed Tallarico. Soldiers had a formal, somewhat rote way of addressing familiar officers. She wanted to see them fresh, the way the Chinese would see them. Before coming over, she had only had a few minutes to glance at their records, both their real dossiers and the identities G2 had given them. In everyday Chinese life the marines would be posing as two history students, a bicycle repairman, and an electronics technician. She wanted to make sure she could picture them that way before sending them undercover.
“As of this morning you have all been seconded to the National Crisis Management Center,” the general said as she looked from one eager face to the other. “We are the people who stop wars so that people like us don’t get killed. The two of you posing as students — you understand what that job may entail?”
“Yes, sir,” the two replied as one.
She looked at one of them, the woman. “Second Lieutenant Yam,” she said to the woman. “A student confides that he or she is publishing an anti-Communist newspaper. What do you do?”
“I collect as many names as possible, sir, and file them with the NCMC.”
“What if we decide you need to ingratiate yourself with local party functionaries?” the general asked.
“I will provide those names to said functionaries, sir.”
“Even if it means a lengthy period of jail time for people whose politics you support?”
“Regrettably yes, sir.”
General Carrie nodded. “This is not always pleasant work, and it is rarely fair. It is a battle in which innocent lives are regularly lost. The rewards are often very difficult to see. They cannot be measured in terrain won or in an enemy’s quick surrender. This war requires ruthless patience. If you don’t have that, if the life of someone’s son or daughter will cause you to hesitate, I want you to speak now. I will replace you without prejudice. I would rather have to change a tire than drive on three.”
No one spoke.
“Very well then,” she said. “Does anyone have any questions, any last-minute requests or ideas?”
“No, sir,” they all replied.
Their voices were loud and proud, as she expected. These four had been very carefully selected and trained for the maximum-one-year mission. She was lucky to get them. Four others were being trained to back them up. If they were compromised and had to leave China suddenly, the others would be ready to go immediately.
�
�Just a few spot checks for my own peace of mind,” the general said. “You’ve all got your cover stories as well as the scientific credentials lined up to get into the launch site if that should be necessary?”
“The papers and passes have already been delivered to the embassy,” said one of the men. “One of the female diplomats will make the delivery tomorrow at noon at a popular dumpling stall. She will make a pass at me, and we’ll do the switch.”
“Tough job,” the general said.
“Well, sir, she is considerably older—”
General Carrie’s expression registered quick displeasure. Only then did the marine realize what he had done.
“Sir, I mean—”
“Exactly what you said,” the general replied. “Some older women could teach you a great deal, Lieutenant Lee.”
“Yes, sir, General, sir.”
“You are my contact, Lieutenant Kent Lee?” Carrie went on.
“Yes, sir.” Lee had recovered his go-get-’em demeanor immediately.
“The electrician.”
“Correct, General,” Lee replied. “I hope to get a position fixing cell phones and computers.”
“To facilitate recon,” the general said.
“That is the plan, sir. And also repairs to our gear, if necessary.”
The team would be communicating by text-messaging. Lee would collect and summarize reports in regular E-mails to the general. The messages would be routed through the computer at the home of Lee’s “sister” in a New York apartment. The space was actually a CIA surveillance site near the United Nations. If Lee’s computer were ever stolen or the account hacked, a pogo-mail address for one Andrea Lee is all the thief would find. Nor would there be anything suspicious about the contents of the E-mails to or from Ms. Lee. The computer would be employing a HIPS program to encode the messages. The hide-in-plain-sight encryptions took all the words of the message and earmarked them, then dropped them into longer messages. The longer message was deleted at the other end. Anyone reading them would see nothing unusual, nor were there any patterns to look for.
