by Tom Clancy
"That sounds reasonable," said National Security Adviser Burkow, "but— if you'll forgive me— I think you're missing an important point. If the Chinese do increase their support, and the President has relied on our paper, we'll all have egg on our faces. If, however, we urge him to move substantial manpower into the Yellow Sea— poised to strike at North Korea, but obviously keeping an eye on China— then he'll be greatly relieved when Beijing does nothing."
"Unless they perceive our sea power as a threat," said Defense Secretary Colon. "Then they might be forced to become involved."
Hood thought for several seconds. "I suggest we downplay the China role."
"I agree," said Colon. "I can see almost no circumstance that would cause us to attack supply routes in China, so there's no reason to move guns into their neighborhood."
Hood was glad, but hardly surprised, that Colon agreed. Hood had never served in the military— he lucked out on the draft lottery in 1969— and one of the first things he learned about officers was how they're typically the last advisers to advocate the use of force. If they did, they wanted to know very clearly and explicitly the exit strategies for their troops.
"I'm with you on that, Ernie," said Av. "The Chinese have lived with our military presence in Korea for nearly half a century: they'll look the other way if war erupts and we use it. They don't want to lose favored nation trade status, not with their economy starting to percolate. And anyway, it will suit them to play the role of Great White Father and try to settle this thing for us."
Hood pushed F6 on the keyboard, then Control/F1 to see the current document. As the transcription had scrolled by Bugs Benet, he had merged the pertinent data with a blank Options Paper file. When the meeting was over, Hood would be able to go over the rough draft of the form, add or detract as necessary, and get it right over to the President.
His quick scan of the document revealed that they had everything they needed— save for military options and the Task Force's opinion as to whether or not they'd be necessary.
"All right," he said. "Good work. Now let's hammer out the rest."
Relying mostly on Defense Secretary Colon and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Parker, and referring to on-file policy papers, the team recommended a measured approach to full battlefield integration: continued slow deployment of troops, tanks, artillery, and Patriots, with nuclear, chemical, and biological depots on alert and ready to move.
Without new information from the KCIA and McCaskey's incomplete check on international terrorists, the Task Force recommended in addition that the President work through diplomatic channels to contain and resolve the crisis.
Hood gave the team members thirty minutes to look over the rough Options Paper and insert additional thoughts before he got to work on the final draft. As he finished up, Bugs cleared his throat.
"Sir, Deputy Director Rodgers would like to speak with you."
Hood looked up at the countdown clock; Rodgers had been out of touch for nearly three hours. Hood hoped he had a good explanation.
"Send him right in, Bugs."
Bugs looked like he wanted to loosen his collar; his round face grew red.
"I can't do that, sir."
"Why? Where is he?"
"On the phone."
Hood was reminded of the funny feeling he'd had when Rodgers quoted Lord Nelson. His features darkened. "Where is he?"
"Sir— somewhere over the Virginia-Kentucky border."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tuesday, 9:00 P.M., Seoul
Gregory Donald walked for a while after leaving the Embassy. He was anxious to get to the base, to look after his wife, and to call her parents with the awful news. But he needed time to compose himself for that. To reflect. Her poor father and younger brother would be devastated.
He also had an idea he needed to mull over.
He made his way slowly down old Chongjin Way, past the markets with their brightly colored lanterns, banners, and awnings, all of them alive under the streetlights. The area was more crowded than usual, packed with the curious who had come to look at the blast site, to take pictures and videos and collect mementoes of scrap metal or shards of brick.
He bought fresh tobacco at an open-air stand, a Korean blend; he wanted a taste and smell to associate with this moment, one that would always bring back the aching love he felt for Soonji.
His poor Soonji. She gave up a college professorship in political science here to marry him, to help expatriate Koreans in the U.S. He had never doubted his wife's affection for him, but he had always wondered how much she was moved to marry him by love and how much because it was easier for her to come to the U.S. in his company. He didn't feel guilty thinking that, even now. If anything, her willingness to sacrifice a career that was important to her, to take a husband she barely knew, just to help others made her seem more precious in his eyes. If he had come to realize anything about people in his sixty-two years, it was that relationships between them shouldn't be defined by society, but by the people involved. And he and Soonji had surely done that.
He lit the pipe as he walked, the glow of the flame playing off his tear-filled eyes. It seemed like he should be able to turn around, pick up the phone at the Embassy, and call her, ask her what she was reading or what she'd eaten as he did every night they weren't together. It was inconceivable to him that he couldn't do that— unnatural. He wept as he waited to cross the street.
Would anything matter again?
Right now, he didn't see how. Whatever the level of love they shared, they were also a genuine mutual admiration society. He and Soonji knew that even when no one else appreciated what they were doing or trying to do, they themselves did. They laughed and wept together, debated and fought and kissed and made up together, and hurt together for the hardworking Koreans who were being brutalized in American cities. He could carry on alone, though he no longer seemed to have the desire. It would be his mind and not his heart that drove him. His heart died at a little past six this evening.
Yet, there was still a part of him that burned, that flamed hotter as he thought about the act itself. The explosion. He had known tragedy and loss in his life, had lost so many friends and colleagues through car accidents, plane crashes, and even assassination. But that was random or it was targeted: it was fate or it was an act aimed at a specific figure for a particular deed or philosophy. He simply couldn't comprehend the shocking impunity that drove someone to commit a blind act like this, to snuff out Soonji's life along with the lives of so many others. What cause was so urgent that the death of innocents was the best way to get attention? Whose ego or ambition or singular world view was so strong that it had to be satisfied in this way?
Donald didn't know, but he cared. He wanted the perpetrators captured and executed. In ancient days, the Koreans decapitated murderers and left their heads on poles for birds to feed on, their souls blind, deaf, and speechless as they wandered through eternity. That was what he wanted for these people. That, and for them not to run into Soonji in the afterlife: in her boundless charity, she was liable to take them by the hand and lead them to a place where it was safe and comfortable.
He stopped walking in front of a movie theater and stood for a minute, thinking again about the footprints and the water bottle. He found himself wishing that he could be a part of Hwan's team, not just to bring the bombers to justice but to give himself something to focus on other than his grief.
Yet maybe there was a job for him, one that could get to the bottom of this quicker than men at the KCIA. He would need General Norbom's help and confidence to succeed, and he would have to know, somehow, that she would have approved, his Soonji.
Thinking about Soonji again brought tears spilling onto his cheeks. Stepping to the curb, Donald hailed a taxi and headed for the U.S. base.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tuesday, 7:08 A.M., Virginia-Kentucky Border
Rodgers pressed the radio headset to his ear and, though the volume was turned way up, he
was still having a tough time hearing what Paul Hood had to say. Which was just as well: when he'd pulled out his yellow earplugs to take the call, he'd known it wouldn't be warm and fuzzy— and it wasn't.
It would be better if he were screaming, because then he could have heard. But Hood wasn't a screamer. When he got angry he talked slowly, measuring his words with care as though afraid a wrong one might slip in on his wrath. For some reason, Rodgers had this image of Hood wearing an apron and holding a large pallet, feeding his words gingerly as though he were slipping pizzas into an oven.
" has left me dangerously understaffed," he was saying. "I've got Martha as my right-hand man."
"She's good, Paul," he yelled into the microphone. "I felt my place was with the team, first time overseas."
"That was not your decision to make! You should have cleared your itinerary with me!"
"I knew you'd have your hands full. I didn't want to bother you."
"You didn't want me to say 'no,' Mike. At least admit that. Don't jerk me off."
"Okay. I admit it."
Rodgers looked at Lt. Col. Squires, who was pretending not to listen. The General drummed the radio, hoping that Hood knew when to stop: he was as much a professional as the Director was, more so in military matters, and he didn't intend to take more than a bare-bones, there-I've-had-my-say dressing down. Especially from a guy who was busy fundraising with the likes of Julia Roberts and Tom Cruise while he was leading a mechanized brigade in the Persian Gulf.
"All right, Mike," Hood said, "you're there. How do we maximize your effectiveness?"
Good. He did know when to stop.
"For now," Rodgers said, "just keep me apprised of any new developments, and if we have to go into action make sure my staff runs the simulations through the computer."
"I copy on the sims, and the only new development is that the President put us in charge of the Task Force. He wants to play hardball."
"Good."
"We'll debate that over pizza and beer when it's all over. Right now, your orders are to continue to your destination. We'll radio if there are any updates or changes."
"Roger."
"And, Mike?"
"Yes?"
"Let the kids do the heavy lifting, Middle-Aged Man."
The men signed out and Rodgers sat back, chuckling over their favorite Saturday Night Live character. Yet what really got him was the pizza reference. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but Hood had an uncanny instinct for picking up people's vibes about things. Rodgers often wondered if Hood had developed those talents in politics or whether he'd been drawn to politics because of it. Whenever Rodgers felt like kicking Hood in the ass, he reminded himself that the guy got the top spot for a reason however much he wished he'd been offered it himself.
He also wished Hood would join him at the track once in a while, instead of doing the Family Man of the Year drill. They could probably make a fortune together, and some of the girls he knew might loosen Hood up a bit— make everyone's life a little less uptight.
Slipping off the headset, Rodgers lay back against the cold, vibrating aluminum rib of the transport plane. He ran a hand over his graying black hair, freshly buzz-cut the day before.
He knew that Hood couldn't help being what he was any more than Rodgers could change himself, and that probably wasn't a bad thing. What was it that Laodamas had said to Odysseus? "Enter our games, then; ease your heart of trouble." Where would any of them be without competition and rivalry to spur them on? Had Odysseus not participated in and won the discus throw, he would not have been invited to the palace of Alcinous and been given the gifts that proved so important on his journey home.
"Sir," said Squires, "do you want to start going over our playbook? We'll need a couple of hours."
"Absolutely," said Rodgers. "It'll ease my heart of trouble."
Squires shot him a puzzled look as he scooted closer on the bench and looked down at the oversize looseleaf binder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tuesday, 7:10 A.M., Op-Center
Liz Gordon was sitting in her small office, decorated only with a signed photograph of the President, a carte de visite of Freud, and, on the closet door, a Carl Jung dartboard given to her by her second ex-husband.
Across the Spartan metal desk, Associate Staff Psychologist Sheryl Shade and Assistant Psychologist James Solomon both worked on laptops that were plugged into Liz's Peer-2030 computer.
Liz used her old Marlboro to light a fresh one as she stared at her computer monitor. She blew smoke. "It would appear that our data adds up to the President of North Korea being a pretty solid citizen. What do you say?"
Sheryl nodded. "Everything is right in the middle of the chart, or toward the better adjusted. Relationship with his mother is strong long-term girlfriend remembers birthdays and anniversaries no sexual aberrations diet normal drinks very moderately. We even have that cite from Dr. Hwong about how he uses words that communicate ideas rather than trying to impress people with his vocabulary, which is extensive.
"And there's nothing in the files of any of his executive staff that suggests they'd go against him," Sheryl added. "If we're dealing with a terrorist, he or she is not a member of the President's inner circle."
"Right," Liz said. "Jimmy, what've you got?"
The young man shook his head. "We've got a flat line on aggression in Zhonghua Renmin Gonghe Guo. In private conversations monitored here and by the CIA since we did our last report— the most recent at 0700 yesterday— the President, Premier, General Secretary of the Communist Party, and other leading figures in the People's Republic of China have all expressed a desire to sit out any kind of confrontation on the peninsula."
"Which all boils down to, we were right in the first place," Liz said through a stream of smoke. "The methodology is right, the conclusions are right, you can take our findings to the goddamn bank." She took another long drag, then told Solomon to fax the names of the most militant Chinese leaders to Ambassador Rachlin in Beijing. "I don't think we have anything to worry about from them, but Hood wants to cover all his bases."
Solomon flung her a two-fingered salute, unplugged his laptop, and hurried to his office. He shut the door behind him.
"I think that just about covers what Paul wanted," Liz said. She drew hard on her cigarette while Sheryl closed her computer and unplugged the cable. Liz watched her carefully. "What've we got here, Sheryl— seventy-eight people?"
"You mean at Op-Center?"
"Yes. There are seventy-eight here, plus another forty-two support personnel we share with DOD and the CIA, and the twelve Striker team members and the people they borrow from Andrews. Figure a hundred forty in all. So why, with all those people— so many of whom are friendly and open-minded and very, very good at what they do— why do I give a fig what Paul Hood thinks about us? Why can't I just do my job, give him what he asks for, and go have a double espresso?"
"Because we seek the truth for its own sake, and he looks for ways to manage it, use it for control."
"You think so, huh?"
"That's part of it. You're also frustrated by that male mindset of his. You remember his psych profile. Atheist, hates opera, never did mind-expanding drugs in the sixties. If he can't touch it, assimilate it in his day-to-day productivity, it's not worth the effort. Though that is a saving grace in one respect."
"How's that?" Liz seemed tired as her computer beeped for attention.
"Mike Rodgers is the same way. If they didn't have that in common, they'd maul each other to death with looks and innuendo— worse than they do now."
"The Bligh and Christian of Op-Center."
The rail-thin blonde pointed a finger. "I like it."
"But you know, Dr. Shade, I think it's something else—"
Shade looked interested. "Really? What?"
Liz smiled. "Sorry, Sheryl. Thanks to the magic of E-mail, I see that I'm wanted at once by Ann Farris and Lowell Coffey II. Maybe we'll finish this later."
With tha
t, the Staff Psychologist turned the key in her computer, dropped it in her pocket, and walked out the door— leaving a confused assistant behind her.
* * *
As she walked briskly down the corridor to the press office, folding more gum, more pure chewing satisfaction, into her mouth, Liz had to suppress a smile. It wasn't fair to have done what she did to Sheryl, but it was a good exercise. Sheryl was new, fresh out of NYU and brimming with book learning— kilobytes more than Liz had had at her age, ten years before. Yet she didn't have very much life experience, and her thinking was much too linear. She needed to explore some mental territory without a roadmap, discover routes of her own. And a puzzle like Liz left her with— why does my boss care so much what her boss thinks— will help take her there, make her go through the process of "Does she have a crush on him? Is she unhappy with her husband? Does she want a promotion, and if so how will that affect me?" A trail like that could take her to any number of interesting places, all of which would be beneficial to her.
The truth was, Liz enjoyed her espressos a great deal and didn't think about Hood when she had them. His inability— or unwillingness— to grasp the clinical soundness of her work didn't bother her. They crucified Jesus and locked Galileo away, and none of that changed the truth of what they taught.
No, what frosted her was how he was the consummate politician before the shit hit the fan. He courteously and conscientiously heard her out and incorporated snippets of her findings into policy papers and strategies— albeit not because he wanted to. That was what Op-Center's charter demanded. But because he didn't trust her work, she was always the first one he called on the carpet whenever something went wrong. She hated that, and swore that one day she'd leak his godless little psych file to Pat Robertson.
No you wouldn't, she told herself as she knocked on Ann Farris's door, but fantasizing about it did keep her cool whenever he turned on the heat.
