Games Of State (1996)

by Tom - Op Center 03 Clancy

  "It says in James 2:10, 'For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it.' " Hausen removed his hand. "1 believe in the Bible, but I believe in that above all."

  "Gentlemen ... meine Herren," Stoll said. "Come hither, please."

  Hood was more curious than ever about Hausen, but he recognized that familiar something's-wrong urgency in Stoll's voice. And he saw Lang with his hand over his mouth, as if he'd just witnessed a car crash.

  Hood gave the stoic Hausen a reassuring pat on the back of the shoulder, then turned and hurried to the computer.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thursday, 9:50 A.M., Washington, D.C.

  "I thank you, General. I thank you very sincerely. But the answer is no."

  Sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair, Mike Rodgers knew very well that the voice on the other end of the secure telephone was sincere. He also knew that once the owner of that strong voice said something, he seldom retracted it. Brett August had been that way since he was six.

  But Rodgers was also sincere--sincere in his desire to land the Colonel for Striker. And Rodgers was not a man who gave up on anything, especially when he knew the subject's weaknesses as well as his strong points.

  A ten-year veteran of the Air Force's Special Operations Command, August was a childhood friend of Rodgers who loved airplanes even more than Rodgers loved action movies. On weekends, the two young boys used to bicycle five miles along Route 22 out to Bradley Field in Hartford, Connecticut. Then they'd just sit in an empty field and watch the planes take off and land. They were old enough to remember when prop planes gave way to the jet planes, and Rodgers vividly remembered getting juiced up whenever one of the new 707s would roar overhead. August used to go berserk.

  After school each day, the boys would do their home-work together, each taking alternate math problems or science questions so they could get done faster. Then they would build model airplanes, taking care that the paint jobs were accurate and that the decals were put in exactly the right place. In fact, the only fistfight they'd ever had was arguing about just where the white star went on the FH-1 Phantom. The box art had it right under the tail assembly, but Rodgers thought that was wrong. After the fight, they limped to the library to find out who was right. Rodgers was. It was halfway between the fin and the wing. August had manfully apologized.

  August also idolized the astronauts and followed every glitch and triumph of the U.S. space program. Rodgers didn't think he ever saw August as happy as when Ham, the first U.S. monkey in space, came to Hartford on a public relations visit. As August gazed upon a real space traveler, he was euphoric. Not even when the young man told Rodgers that he'd finally coerced Barb Mathias into bed did he seem so utterly content.

  When it came time to serve, Rodgers went into the Army and August went into the Air Force. Both men ended up in Vietnam. While Rodgers did his tours of duty on the ground, August flew reconnaissance missions over the north. On one such flight northwest of Hue, August's plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner. He spent over a year in a POW camp, finally escaping with another man in 1970. He spent three months making his way to the South, before finally being discovered by a Marine patrol.

  August was unembittered by his experiences. To the contrary, he was heartened by the courage he had witnessed among American POWs. He returned to the U.S., regained his strength, and went back to Vietnam and organized a spy network searching for other U.S. POWs. He remained undercover for a year after the U.S. withdrawal, then spent three years in the Philippines helping President Ferdinand Marcos battle Moro secessionists. He worked as an Air Force liaison with NASA after that, helping to organize security for spy satellite missions, after which he joined the SOC as a specialist in counterteworist activities.

  Although Rodgers and August had seen one another only intermittently in the post-Vietnam years, each time they talked or got together it was as if no time had passed. One or the other of them would bring the model airplane, the other would bring the paint and glue, and together they would have the time of their lives.

  So when Colonel August said he thanked his old friend sincerely, Rodgers believed it. What he didn't accept was the part that included "no."

  "Brett," Rodgers said, "look at it this way. Over the past quarter century, you've been out of the country more than you've been in. 'Nam, the Philippines, Cape Canaveral--"

  "That's funny, General."

  "--now Italy. And at a nowhere-near-state-of-the-art NATO base."

  "I'm moving onto the luxurious Eisenhower at sixteen hundred hours to parlay with some French and Italian hotdogs. You're lucky you caught me."

  "Have I caught you?" Rodgers asked.

  "You know what I mean," August replied. "General--"

  "Mike, Brett."

  "Mike," August said, "I like being over here. The Italians are good people."

  "But think of the great times we'll have if you come back home," Rodgers pressed. "Shit, I'll even tell you the surprise I was saving."

  "Unless it's that Revell Messerschmitt Bf 109 model kit we were never able to find, there's nothing you can offer me that--"

  "How about Barb Mathias."

  There was an ocean-deep silence on the other end.

  "1 tracked her down," said Rodgers. "She's divorced, no kids, living in Enfield, Connecticut. She sells advertising space for a newspaper and says she'd love to see you again."

  "You still know how to stack a deck, General."

  "Hell, Brett, at least come back and let's have a face-to-face about this. Or do I have to get someone over there to order you to come back?"

  "General," Brett said, "it'd be an honor to command a team like Striker. But I'd be landlocked at Quantico most of the time, and that'd drive me crazy. At least now I get to travel around Europe and put my two cents in on various projects."

  "Two cents?" Rodgers said. "Brett, you've got a million goddamn bucks in your head and I want that working for me. How often does anyone there even listen to what you have to say?"

  "Rarely," August admitted.

  "Damn right. You've got a better mind for tactics and strategy than anyone in uniform. You should be listened to."

  "Maybe," August admitted, "but that's the Air Force. Besides, I'm forty-five years old. I don't know if I can go running around the Diamond Mountains in North Korea shooting down Nodong missiles, or chasing a train through Siberia."

  "Horseshit," Rodgers repeated. "I'll bet you can still do those one-armed pushups you used to practice while we waited for planes at Bradley. Your own little astronaut training program."

  "I can still do 'em," August said, "though not as many as I used to."

  "Maybe not, but they're a whole lot more than I can do," Rodgers said. "And they're probably a lot more than the kids of Striker can do." Rodgers leaned forward on his desk. "Brett, come back and let's talk. I need you here. Christ, we haven't worked together since the day we enlisted."

  "We built that model of the F-14A Tomcat two years ago."

  "You know what I mean. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we'd be a good fit. Look, you've wanted to have time to write a book about Vietnam. I'll give you the time. You wanted to learn to play the piano. When are you going to do that?"

  "Eventually. I'm only forty-five."

  Rodgers frowned. "Funny how the age thing cuts both ways for you."

  "Isn't it?"

  Rodgers drummed his desktop. He only had one more card to play, and he intended to make this one work. "You're also homesick," he said. "You told me so the last time you were here. What if I promise that you won't be landlocked. I've been wanting to send Striker on maneuvers with other special forces teams around the world. Let's do it. We're also working on a Regional Op-Center facility. When that's up and running we'll move you and Striker around. You can spend a month in Italy with all your Italian pals, then in Germany, in Norway--"

  "I'm doing that now."

  "But for the wrong team," Rodgers said. "Just come bac
k for a few days. Talk to me. Look over the team. You bring the glue, and I'll bring the airplane."

  August was quiet.

  "All right," he said after a long time, "I'll work out leave with General DiFate. But I'm only coming back to talk and build the kit. No promises."

  "No promises," Rodgers agreed.

  "And set up the dinner with Barb. You figure out how to get her to Washington."

  "Done," said Rodgers.

  August thanked him and hung up.

  Rodgers sat back. He smiled a big, comfortable smile. After the run-in with Senator Fox and Martha, the General had felt like taking the Striker command job himself. Anything to get out of this building, away from the political bullshit, to do something more than just sit on his ass. The prospect of working with August lifted him up. Rodgers didn't know if he should be glad or ashamed at how easy it was to get in touch with the little boy in him.

  The phone beeped.

  He decided that as long as he was happy and doing his job, it didn't matter whether he felt five years old or forty-five. Because as he reached for the phone, Rodgers knew that the happiness wouldn't last.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Thursday, 3:51 P.M., Hanover, Germany

  Bob Herbert huffed a little as he wheeled himself away from his car.

  Herbert didn't have a motor on his wheelchair, and he never would. If he was ninety and frail, unable to wheel very far, he simply wouldn't go very far. He felt that being unable to walk didn't mean being incapacitated. While he was too old to try to do wheelies, like some of the kids in the rehabilitation center all those years ago, he didn't like the idea of puttering around when he could wheel himself. Liz Gordon once told him that he was using that to flagellate himself because he had lived while his wife had died. But Herbert didn't buy that. He liked moving under his own steam and he loved the endorphin rush he got from turning the millstone weight of the wheels. He had never been one to work out before the 1983 explosion, and this sure beat hell out of the biphetamines they used to take in Lebanon to stay awake in times of crisis. Which in Beirut was all the time.

  As he guided himself up the slightly inclined street, Herbert decided against going to the registration desk and trying to sign up. He didn't know a helluva lot about German law, but he guessed he didn't have the right to harass these people. He did, however, have the right to go to a bar and order something to drink, which was what he intended to do. That, plus find out what he could about the whereabouts of Karin Doring. He didn't expect to wrest information from anyone, but loose lips really did sink ships. Outsiders were always amazed at how much intelligence one picked up simply by eavesdropping.

  Of course, he thought, first you've got to get under the eaves to catch the drops. The crowd ahead might try to stop him. Not because he was in a wheelchair: he wasn't born that way, he'd earned his disability serving his country. They'd try to stop him because he wasn't a German and he wasn't a Nazi. But however much these hotshots wished it weren't so, Germany was still a free nation. They'd let him into the Beer-Hall or they'd have an international incident.

  The intelligence chief wheeled himself up the street behind the Beer-Hall and came at it from the opposite side. That way, he didn't even have to pass the registration area and see any more stiff-armed salutes.

  Herbert turned the corner and rolled toward the Beer-Hall, toward those two hundred or so men drinking and singing out front. The men nearest him turned to look at him. Nudges brought other heads around, a sea of youthful devils with contemptuous eyes and hard laughs.

  "Fellows, look who is here! It is Franklin Roosevelt and he is searching for Yalta."

  So much for no one making a comment about my disability, Herbert thought. Then again, there was always one clown in every group. It puzzled him, though, that the man had spoken in English. Then Herbert remembered what was written on his sweatshirt.

  Another man raised his beer stein. "Herr Roosevelt, you are just in time! The new war has begun!"

  "Ja," said the first man. "Though this one will end differently."

  Herbert kept wheeling toward them. In order to reach the Beer-Hall, he was going to have to go through these natty Hitler Youths. Less than twenty yards separated him from the nearest men.

  Herbert glanced to the left. The police officer was in the middle of the street, some two hundred yards past them. He was looking the other way, working hard to keep the traffic from stopping.

  Did he hear what these cretins were saying, Herbert wondered, or was he also working hard to stay the hell out of whatever happened?

  The men in front of him had been facing in various directions. When Herbert was just five yards away, they turned and faced him. He was two yards away. One yard. Some of them were already drunk, and their body language suggested that many were enjoying their pack mentality. Herbert guessed that only a quarter or so of the faces he saw had the intensity of people with convictions, warped as they were. The rest were the faces of followers. That was something a spy satellite couldn't tell you.

  The neo-Nazis didn't move. Herbert rolled to within inches of their loafers and expensive running shoes, then stopped. In standoffs in Lebanon and other trouble spots, Herbert had always taken a low-keyed approach. There was an element of mutual assured destruction when standoffs ended prematurely: storm an airplane and you would get the hijackers but you might also lose some hostages. But no one could hold a hostage or stand in your way forever. If you waited long enough, a compromise could usually be reached.

  "Excuse me," Herbert said.

  One of the men glanced down at him. "No. This street is closed. It's a private party."

  Herbert could smell the alcohol on his breath. He wasn't going to be able to reason with him. He looked at another man. "I've seen other people walking through. Will you excuse me?"

  The first man said, "You are correct. You have seen other people walking through. But you are not walking so you may not pass."

  Herbert fought the urge to run over this man's foot. All that would have done was bring a sea of steins and fists raining down on him.

  "I don't want problems," Herbert said. "I'm just thirsty and I'd like to get a drink."

  Several men laughed. Herbert felt like Deputy Chester Goode trying to enforce the law with Marshal Dillon out of town.

  A man with a beer stein shouldered through the wall of men. He stood in front of them and held the beer straight out, over Herbert's head.

  "You're thirsty?" the man said. "Would you like some of my beer?"

  "Thanks," Herbert said, "but I don't drink alcoholic beverages."

  "Then you are not a man!"

  "Bravely spoken," Herbert said. He was listening to his own voice and was surprised at how calm it sounded. This guy was a chicken-shit with an army two or three hundred strong behind him. What Herbert really wanted to do was challenge him to a duel, like his daddy once did to someone who'd insulted him back in Mississippi.

  The Germans were still looking down at him. The man with the stein was smiling but he wasn't happy. Herbert could see it in his eyes.

  That's because you just realized you don't gain much by pouring it on me, Herbert thought. You've already said I'm not a man. Attacking me is beneath you. On the other hand, this man had a beery brashness about him. He might just bring the heavy bottom of the stein down on his head. The Gestapo consider Jews to be subhuman. Yet they used to stop Jewish men on the street and pull out their beards with pliers.

  After a moment, the man with the stein brought it to his lips. He took a sip and held it in his cheeks for a moment as though contemplating whether or not to spit. Then he swallowed.

  The man stepped next to the wheelchair, on the right side. Then he leaned heavily with one hand on the telephone armrest.

  "You were told that this is very private party," the youth said. "You are not invited."

  Herbert had had it. He'd come here to reconnoiter, to gather intelligence, to do his job. But these guys had presented him with the "unexpected" whic
h was very much a part of HUMINT operations. Now he had a choice. He could leave, in which case he wouldn't be able to do his job and he would lose all self-respect. Or he could stay, in which case he would probably get beaten all to hell. But he might--might--convince some of these punks that the forces which had defied them once were alive and well.

  He chose to stay.

  Herbert looked into the man's eyes. "Y'know, if I had been invited to your party," he said, "I wouldn't attend. I enjoy socializing with leaders, not followers."

  The German continued to lean on the armrest with one hand, holding his stein in the other. But looking into the German's blue-gray eyes, Herbert could see him deflating inside, his hubris leaking away like air hissing from a balloon.

  Herbert knew what was coming. He slipped his right hand under the armrest.

  The only weapon the German had left was his beer. With a look of contempt, he tipped the stein over and slowly poured the contents into Herbert's lap.

  Herbert took the insult. It was important to show that he could. When the neo-Nazi was finished and stood to only scattered applause, Herbert yanked his sawed-off broom handle from under the armrest. With a turn of the wrist, he pointed the stick at the neo-Nazi and jabbed him in the groin. The German cried out, doubled over, and staggered back against his colleagues. He was still holding the stein, clutching it reflexively, as though it were a rabbit's foot.

  The crowd yelled and surged forward, threatening to become a mob. Herbert had seen that happen before, outside of American embassies abroad, and it was a frightening thing to behold. It was a microcosm of civilization unraveling, of humans regressing to territorial carnivores. He began to wheel back. He wanted to get to a wall, protect his flank, be able to bat at these Philistines like Samson with the jawbone of an ass.

  But as he rolled away, he felt a tug on the back of his wheelchair. He scooted back faster than he was wheeling.

  "Halt!" shouted a raspy voice from behind.