Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  Hood continued to stare at the dark image on the monitor. This was one of his worst nightmares. All of their planning, all of their technology had been undermined by what Rodgers called "street fighters." People who fought without rules and without fear. People, who weren't afraid to die or to kill. As Hood had learned from the legitimate strikes and bitter riots Los Angeles had endured during his mayoralty, desperation made enemies deadly.

  But Hood reminded himself that adversity made strong leaders stronger. He would have to swallow his guilt and disappointment, put aside his sudden desire to kick things, including himself. He was going to have to lead his team.

  "Bob," Hood said, "there's a strike force at the Incirlik Air Base, correct?"

  "A small one," Herbert said, "but we can only use it inside Turkey."

  "Why?"

  "Because there are Turks on the team. If U.S. and Turkish troops go into an Arab nation together, that will be considered a NATO action. It'll create a firestorm with our European allies and turn even friendly Arab nations against us."

  "Great," Hood said. He cleared the screen and brought up a form document. He began typing. "In that case," he said, "I'm ordering Striker into the region."

  "Without prior Congressional approval?"

  "Unless Martha can get it for me within the next ninety minutes, yes. Without approval. I can't wait while they diddle."

  "Good man," Herbert said. "I'll order the C-141B packed for a desert operation."

  "We can put Striker down at the Incirlik if the ROC stays in Turkey or northern or eastern Syria," Hood said. "If the ROC goes into southern or western Syria or Lebanon, we'll have to see about getting them into Israel."

  "The Israelis would welcome anyone wanting to kick terrorist butt," Herbert replied. "And I know just the place to base our team there."

  Hood picked up a light-pen and signed the screen. His signature appeared on the Striker Deployment Order No. 9. He saved the document on the hard drive, and then Emailed it to both Martha Mackall and to Colonel Brett August, the new Striker commander. He put the pen down. Then he rapped the edge of the desk slowly with his knuckles.

  "Are you okay?" Herbert asked.

  "Sure," Hood said. "I'm probably a hell of a lot better than Mike and those poor devils in the ROC."

  "Mike will get them through this," Herbert said. "Listen, Chief. Would it make you feel any better to piggyback to the Middle East with Striker? They'll actually be getting there before you."

  "No," Hood said. "I need to talk with Nasr about the Syrian strategies. Besides, you and Mike and all the Strikers have worn uniforms. I haven't. I wouldn't feel right planting myself in a seat of honor I haven't earned."

  "Take my word for it," Herbert said. "A ride in a C-141B ain't no day at Disneyland. Besides, it's not like you ran from a uniform. You stayed 1A during the draft. You just weren't called. You think I would've gone if the Selective Service Board hadn't grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and said, 'Mr. Herbert, Uncle Sam wants you?' "

  "Look," Hood said, "I'd be uneasy about it and that's that. Please brief Colonel August and work out the details with him. Fax the finished mission profile to our embassy in London and have them bring it to me at Heathrow. Bugs has my flight schedule."

  "All right, Paul," Herbert said. "But I still think you're overreacting about the C-141B."

  "I can't help that," Hood said. "You're to call me directly with any news. I also want you to get us some on-site help. Does it make any sense to bring in some Kurdish resources?"

  "Not to me it doesn't," Herbert said. "If our Kurdish resources were all that goddamn super reliable, we'd have known about the Ataturk blast. We'd know who these terrorists are."

  "Good point. Whoever you get, go into the black budget to pay them. And pay them well."

  "I planned to," Herbert said. "We're talking to some informants now to try and find out exactly where the dam-busters might be headed. I've also got a lead on someone to go in there with Striker."

  "Excellent," Hood said. "I'll call Martha from the car and explain the situation to her. She'll have to go to Senator Fox and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee."

  "You know that Martha's not going to be happy about any of this," Herbert warned. "We're getting ready to mount a covert operation without prior Congressional approval; we're giving money to the Kurdish enemies of her friends in Damascus and Ankara."

  "Friends who aren't going to do a damn thing to help us," Hood pointed out. "She's going to have to live with that."

  "With that," Herbert said, "plus the fact that we planned this without her."

  "Like I said, I'll call her from the car and explain. She's our political officer, for God's sake, not a lobbyist for Turkey or Syria." Hood rose. "Is there anything I'm forgetting?"

  "Just one thing," Herbert said.

  Hood asked what that was.

  "I hope you don't think I'm out of line," Herbert said, "but you've got to try and calm down."

  "Thanks, Bob," Hood replied. "Six of my people are in terrorist hands, along with a key to undermining U.S. intelligence efforts. I think I'm pretty calm, all things considered."

  "Pretty calm, yes," Herbert said, "but that may not be calm enough. You're not the only one who's on the hot seat. I had supper with Donn Worby of the General Accounting Office last night. He told me that last year, over sixty-five percent of the estimated quarter-million hacker attacks on Department of Defense computer files were successful. You know how much classified data is floating around out there? The ROC is just one front of a large battle."

  "Yes," Hood replied, "but it's the one that fell on my watch. Don't tell me there's safety in numbers. Not on this."

  "All right," Herbert said, "But I've been through more than a couple of these hostage situations, Paul. You've got the emotional pressure, which is awful, and then you've got additional disorientation. You're forced to work outside our structured environment. There are no checklists, no established procedures. For the next few days or weeks or months or however long this takes, you're going to be a hostage along with Mike — a hostage to the crisis, to every whim of the terrorists."

  "I understand," Hood said. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

  "No," Herbert replied. "But you have to accept the process. You also have to accept your part in it. It's the same with Mike. He knows what he has to do. If he can get his people out, he will. If not he'll have them play word games, make up limericks about God knows what, force them to talk about their families. He'll get them through. That terrible burden's on him. You've got to handle the rest. You've come out of the gate with the right ideas. Now you've got to keep yourself and everyone on this end cool. And that maybe pretty rough. We may get intelligence that our people are being mistreated. No food, no water, physical abuse. There are two women in the group. They may be assaulted. If you're not loose, fluid, you're going to crack. If you start to feel vengeful or angry or self-reproachful, you'll become distracted. And then you're going to make mistakes."

  Hood removed the diskettes from his computer. Herbert was right. He was already primed to lash out at Martha, at himself, even at Mike. Who would benefit from that except for the terrorists?

  "Go on," Hood said. "What am I supposed to do? How did you deal in these situations?"

  "Hell, Paul," Herbert said, "I never had to lead a team. I was a loner. I only had to give advice. That was relatively easy. I was never attached to the people I worked with. Not like we are to Mike. All I know is, people who lead operations like this effectively have got to empty themselves of emotion. Compassion as well as anger. I mean, suppose you find but that one of the terrorists has a sister or a kid somewhere. Suppose you can get to them. Are you prepared to play the same kind of ball they're playing with us?"

  "I honestly don't know," Hood said. "I don't want to stoop to their level."

  "Which is something that people like these always count on," Herbert replied. "Remember Eagle Claw in 1980 when the Delta rescue force at
tempted to get our hostages out of Tehran?"

  "Yes."

  "Mission parameters forced our guys to set up the Desert I refuel site in a moderately well-traveled area. Minutes after landing, the guys captured a bus with forty-four Iranian civilians. Before the whole operation blew up on them, the plan was to hold the captured Iranians for a day while the commandos went in, then release them from Manzariyeh Air Base, which we intended to capture. Sorry if I sound a little Burkowesque," Herbert said, "but I think we should've held those Iranians and given 'em the same shit treatment our people were getting."

  "You would've made martyrs of them," Hood said.

  "No," Herbert replied. "Just broken-down prisoners. No press coverage, no burning Iranian flags. Just an eye for an eye. And when word spread among terrorists worldwide that we were prepared to play their game, they would've thought twice before picking on us. You think Israel's still around because they play by the rules? Uhuh. I've seen the view from the high road and it ain't always pretty. If you let compassion affect your judgment, you may end up jeopardizing, our own people."

  Hood breathed deeply. "If I don't let compassion affect my judgment, then we aren't people."

  "I understand," Herbert said. "That's one reason I never wanted a bigger office in this town. You pay for every square inch of it with soul as well as blood."

  Hood slipped the diskettes into his jacket pocket. "Anyway," he said, "you weren't out of line, Bob. Thanks."

  "You're welcome," Herbert said. "Oh, and one more thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Whatever you have to face," Herbert said, "you won't face it alone. Don't ever forget that, Chief."

  "I won't," Hood said. He smiled. "Thank God. I've got a team that won't let me."

  TWENTY

  Monday, 9:17 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  Mike Rodgers was tied uncomfortably to the front of the motorcycle. His arms were above and behind him, tied to the handlebars and dead asleep. His back was pressed against the twisted metal of the fender, and his legs were tied at the ankles and stretched in front of him.

  But the discomfort he felt inside was far greater than what he felt outside. Rodgers didn't know for certain what the terrorists had been up to. He knew that one of the men, Ibrahim, had gone up the road and over the rise. His own erstwhile interpreter, Hasan, had walked off to the east, perhaps four or five hundred yards. The pair were probably setting up a two-gun cross fire. One person stayed close to the route of the target, slightly ahead of it. The other went off-road well ahead of the vehicle. There was nowhere the driver could run except to turn around. And if the snipers were good, there usually wasn't enough time for that.

  The van was coming and Rodgers hadn't heard any gunfire. Were the terrorists simply hiding, covering their base in case the ROC opened fire?

  The fan stopped and Ibrahim got out. A few seconds later Hasan came running from the plain and hugged him. The third man, Mahmoud, rose and embraced them both. He had remained behind, and it was clear now that he was their leader. The ROC was facing Rodgers and he couldn't see inside. But it was obvious that the terrorists were in charge. Rodgers only hoped that the Strikers had gotten out and were flanking the terrorists, which is what he would have had them do.

  Ibrahim and Hasan entered the van, and Mahmoud hurried over to Rodgers. The Syrian held the submachine gun in his right hand and a hunting knife in his left. Mahmoud sliced away the cord which held him to the handlebars, but left Rodgers's legs tied. Then he motioned for his prisoner to go to the van. Rodgers got into a squatting position, stood, and hopped ahead. It would have been easier to crawl, but that was not something Rodgers did. Though the earth seemed anxious to reject his feet, he managed to keep his balance.

  As he approached the van, Rodgers saw Coffey, Mary Rose, and Katzen. The three were splayed groggily on the floor of the ROC. They were tied to the column beneath the passenger's seat, their ankles bound. While Ibrahim left to drag Colonel Seden over, Rodgers hopped up the step. As he looked to the left, toward the back of the van, his flesh went cold.

  Pupshaw and DeVonne were draped over the chairs of the computer stations. The Strikers were tied hand and foot to the legs of the chairs and were just beginning to stir. Rodgers felt his bowels tighten. They looked more like hunting trophies than like soldiers.

  Whatever had gone wrong didn't matter right now. The fact was that they were all captives. And to determine how they would be treated for however long they were held was going to require a long, complex dance.

  The first thing Rodgers had to do was try to help the Strikers. When they woke and found themselves tied like this, not only would their heart and fight be extinguished, but their dignity as well. Though wounded and physically abused, they both could survive this. But without pride, they would have nothing even after they were set free. In training for terrorist situations and in talking to the new Striker commander, Brett August, a former Vietnam POW, Rodgers had learned that more hostages took their own lives a year or two after being released than died in captivity. The feeling that they had been degraded and dishonored left them feeling ashamed. That sense was heightened if the victims were in the military. Rank and medals were the outward recognition of courage and honor, which were the blood and breath of the soldier. When those qualities were compromised in hostage situations, only death could reclaim them. It could be death like a Viking, facing an enemy or presumed enemy with a sword in one's hand, or it could be death like a dishonored samurai, alone with a self-inflicted cut to the viscera. But there was no facing life any longer.

  Rodgers also had to run the first of his four remaining military assets up the flagpole for the sake of the Strikers. He had to risk his life. When he was stationed in Cam Ranh Bay in southeast Vietnam, there were always casualties. The physical ones were written in blood. The psychological ones were written in the faces of the soldiers. After soldiers had cradled a friend whose legs or hands or face had been blasted off by a mine, or comforted a buddy dying from a bullet wound in the chest or throat or belly, there were only two ways to motivate them. One was to send them out for revenge. That was what the military psychologists now called a "spike high." Rooted in anger rather than purpose, it was good for quick strikes or fast fixes in tough situations. The second way, which Rodgers had always preferred, was for the leader to put his own life in danger. That created a moral imperative for the platoon to get back on its feet and support him. It didn't heal the scars, but it built a bond, a camaraderie which was greater than the sum of the parts.

  All of this Rodgers considered in the time it took him to glance at the Strikers, give the faster recovering Private Pupshaw a supportive little smile, then look back at the front of the van.

  While Hasan checked the crew for concealed weapons, Rodgers felt a gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Mahmoud pushed him to the left. He wanted him to go into the back of the van.

  Rodgers stood where he was and hip-butted the gun aside.

  The terrorist spat something in Arabic and used his free hand to push Rodgers through the narrow opening. His legs still bound, the general stumbled and fell into the back. He immediately started to get up again. Mahmoud strode over and aimed the gun barrel at his head. He pointed for Rodgers to stay.

  Rodgers started to rise. Even in the dark he could see Mahmoud's eyes go wide.

  This was the moment which would define their relationship or end Rodgers's life. As the American struggled to get his feet under him, he continued to stare into his captor's eyes. Many terrorists found it easy to plant bombs, but not so easy to shoot a person they were looking in the eye.

  Before Rodgers could get all the way up, Mahmoud raised his foot. He put his heel on Rodgers's chest and angrily pushed him down. Then the terrorist kicked Rodgers in the side and shouted at him again.

  The blow forced the air from Rodgers's lungs, but it told him what he needed to know. The man didn't want to kill him. That didn't mean he wouldn't, but it meant that Rodgers co
uld probably push him a little more. Rolling onto his side, Rodgers sat up and got his feet under him again. Once more he tried to stand.

  Muttering angrily, Mahmoud swung a roundhouse punch at Rodgers's head. The general hadn't quite gotten up, and simply dropped back onto the floor. The fist flew over him.

  "Bahstahd!" Mahmoud screamed in crude English. He stepped back and aimed the gun at Rodgers's midsection.

  Rodgers turned his head around. He did not take his eyes off the Arab.

  "Mahmoud, la!" Ibrahim yelled. "Stop!"

  Ibrahim ran over and positioned himself between Rodgers and Mahmoud. They conferred in whispers, the newcomer pointing at Rodgers, at the computers, and then at the ROC crew. After a long silence, Mahmoud threw up his hand and walked away. Ibrahim joined him at the door and helped him carry Colonel Seden inside. He sent Hasan over to talk to Rodgers.

  Rodgers had recovered from the kick, and climbed back onto his feet. He stood with his shoulders erect and his chin up. He was not looking at Hasan. In circumstances like these a prisoner tried to avoid the eyes of the interrogator. It created an aloofness, a detachment which the inquisitor had to try to breach. It also helped to prevent the prisoner from seeing the captor as a human being. However benign or compassionate he appeared to be, the man asking the questions was still an enemy.

  "You were very close to death," Hasan said to Rodgers.

  It wouldn't be the first time," Rodgers said.

  "Ah," Hasan replied, "but it might have be the last. Mahmoud was ready to shoot you."

  "To kill a human being is the least injury you can do him," Rodgers replied. He spoke slowly, wanting to make sure that Hasan understood.

  Hasan regarded Rodgers curiously as Mahmoud and Ibrahim finished loading Colonel Seden onto the van. They tied him together with the others. Then Mahmoud walked over to Hasan. They spoke briefly, after which Hasan turned to Rodgers.