Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  Tuesday, 6:03 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  A convoy of presidential security force cars pulled up at the American Embassy in Damascus at 5:45 p.m. Ambassador Haveles was escorted to the gates, where he was met by two United States Marine guards. A hearse took the bodies of the dead DSA operatives around to the back of the embassy. Haveles went directly to his office, composed despite the fright still in his eyes, and telephoned the Turkish Ambassador in Damascus. He explained to him his first-hand knowledge of what had happened in the palace, and also told him that it had been PKK soldiers, not Syrians, who had been behind the theft of the border patrol helicopter, the attack on the Ataturk Dam, and the incident at the Syrian border. He urged the ambassador to brief the military and ask them to stand down. The ambassador said he would pass along the information.

  Paul Hood arrived a few minutes later. He, Warner Bicking, and Professor Nasr had been dressed in kaffiyehs and sunglasses and escorted to a bus stop. Hood had always found the idea of disguises a theatrical extravagance when they appeared in movies and novels. In real life, he walked the third of a mile as if he were born and raised on Ibn Assaker Street. He had to. If he were recognized by a journalist or foreign official, it would jeopardize the two women who had come with him.

  But he wasn't spotted. Though buses were being diverted around the Old City, the three men reached the embassy in just a half hour. Stopped by two Marine guards, Hood felt like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man as he unwrapped his disguise to show the sentries that he was who he said he was. Watching the front gate on closed-circuit camera, a DSA agent hurried out to usher the three men inside.

  Hood went directly to the nearest office to telephone Bob Herbert. He shut the door of Deputy Ambassador John LeCoz's chambers and stood alone beside the old mahogany desk. The heavy, drawn drapes cloaked the small office in deep dark and muted silence. Hood felt safe. As he punched in the number of Herbert's wheelchair phone, it flashed through his mind that Sharon and the kids might have heard about events in Damascus. They might be worried. He hesitated, then decided he'd call them next. He didn't want to rush them off the phone, but he had to know about the ROC.

  Herbert answered on the first ring. He was uncharacteristically subdued as he told Hood the good news. The Tomahawk had been aborted. Striker had gone in, rescued the ROC and its crew, and all were now safely back at Tel Nef. Syrian Army forces had been alerted about the wounded Kurds and had gone to collect them. In a short interview with CNN, the leader of the SAA force had ascribed the explosion at the cave to PKK mishandling of munitions — but only after the U.S. had agreed to allow Syrian security officials to interrogate the survivors while insisting there weren't any. They wanted to know everything about how Syrian security had been breached in Damascus and at Qamishli. Haveles's deputy ambassador had agreed to that after consulting with General Vanzandt.

  Hood was elated until Herbert informed him of Mike Rodgers's torture and his execution of the Kurdish leader who ordered it.

  Hood was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Who witnessed the killing?"

  "That's not going to fly," Herbert said. "Mike wants people to know what he did and why he did it."

  "He's been through Hell," Hood said dismissively. "We'll talk to him after he's rested."

  "Paul—"

  "He'll budge on this," Hood said. "He has to. If Mike is court-martialed, he'll be forced to talk about what he was doing in Turkey and why. He'll have to reveal contacts, methods, talk about other operations we've mounted."

  "In situations involving national security, the records of the court-martial can be sealed."

  "The press will still cover it," Hood said, "and they'll be all over us. This could literally bring down American intelligence operations in the Middle East. What about Colonel August? He's Mike's oldest friend. Can't he do anything?"

  "Don't you think he tried?" Herbert asked. "Mike told him that terrorism is a greater threat than anything else America is facing today. He says it's time we fought fire with fire."

  "He's got to be in shock," Hood concluded.

  "He was checked at Tel Nef," Herbert replied. "He's sound."

  "After what the Kurds did to him?" Hood said.

  "Mike's been to Hell a whole lotta times and made it back okay," Herbert replied. "Anyway, the Israeli medics say he's mentally fit and Mike himself says he's thought this through."

  Hood reached for a pen and pad. "What's the telephone number at the base? I want to talk to him before he does anything he'll regret."

  "You can't talk to him," Herbert said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because he's already done the 'anything,' " Herbert said.

  Hood felt his insides tighten. "What did he do, Bob?"

  "He phoned General Thomas Esposito, the Commander in Chief, U.S. Special Operations Command, and confessed to the killing," Herbert said. "Mike's now under armed guard at the infirmary in Tel Nef waiting for military police and legal counsel to arrive from the Incirlik Air Base."

  Hood suddenly became aware of the mustiness of the drapes. The room no longer seemed safe. It was suffocating. "All right," Hood said calmly. "Give me some options. There have got to be options."

  "Only one that I can think of," Herbert said, "and it's a long shot. We can try to get Mike a Presidential pardon."

  Hood perked up. "I like that."

  "I thought you would," Herbert said. "I already called General Vanzandt and Steve Burkow and explained the situation to them. They're with us. Especially Steve, which surprised the hell out of me."

  "What are our chances?" Hood asked.

  "If we can keep the story from breaking for a few hours, we've got a slim chance," said Herbert. "I've got Ann watching out for that. Once the press gets it, the President won't consider acting until after the case has been heard. An American general cold-bloodedly executes a wounded, unarmed Kurd — the political risks at home and abroad are just too great."

  "Sure," Hood said disgustedly. "Even though the Kurd took a blowtorch to the general."

  "The general was a spy," Herbert reminded him. "World opinion ain't gonna be with us on this one, Paul."

  "No, I guess it won't," Hood said. "Who else can we get to try and persuade the President?"

  "The Secretary of Defense is with us, and he's meeting with the Vice President in about ten minutes. We'll see what happens. So far, Ann says that reporters haven't been asking much about the seven Kurds who were injured in the Bekaa. They bought the story the SAA commander gave them. As long as the press is fixated on what they're calling the Border Buildup, that story may slip through the cracks. If it does, we may slip through with it."

  "Work the pardon, Robert," Hood said. "I want you and Martha to call in every chit you have."

  "We will," Herbert promised.

  "Christ," Hood said, "I feel completely useless being stuck out here. Is there anything I can do?"

  "Just one thing," Herbert said, "something I really don't think I'll have time to do."

  "What's that?" asked Hood.

  "Pray," Herbert said. "Pray hard."

  SIXTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 12:38 p.m.,

  Washington, D. C.

  Bob Herbert sat in his wheelchair reading an Eyes Only copy of the single-page document. It was addressed to the Attorney General of the United States and printed on White House letterhead.

  Behind his desk the President read a copy of the document as well. Scattered around the Oval Office, standing or sitting, were National Security Advisor Burkow, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Vanzandt, White House legal counsel Roland Rizzi, and Martha Mackall. Each was reading a printout of the paper. Herbert, Rizzi, Burkow, and Vanzandt knew the document well. They had spent the last ninety minutes drafting it, after hearing from Rizzi that the President would consider signing a paper which pardoned General Mike Rodgers.

  The President cleared his throat. After reading the paper once, he went back to the top to read it aloud. He always did that,
to hear how it would sound as a speech — in case he ever had to defend in public what he'd done.

  "I hereby grant a full, free, and absolute pardon to General Michael Rodgers of the United States Army. This pardon is for confessed actions which he has or may have committed while loyally serving his country in a joint intelligence effort with the Republic of Turkey.

  "The government and people of the United States have benefited immeasurably from the courage and leadership of General Rodgers throughout his long and unblemished military career. Neither this nation nor its institutions would be well or responsibly served by a further scrutiny of actions which, from all accounts, were heroic, selfless, and appropriate."

  The President nodded and tapped his index fingers absently on the paper. He looked to his left. The stout, balding Roland Rizzi was standing beside the desk.

  "This is good, Rollo."

  "Thank you, Mr. President."

  "What's more" — he smiled—"I believe it. I don't often get to say that about documents which I'm asked to sign."

  Martha and Vanzandt chuckled.

  "The dead man," said the President. "He was a Syrian citizen shot in Lebanon."

  "That's correct, sir."

  "Should they decide to pressure us, what jurisdiction do Damascus and Beirut have in this matter?"

  "Theoretically," said Rizzi, "they could demand General Rodgers's extradition. Even if they did, however, we would not accede to that."

  "Syria has given sanctuary to more international criminals than any nation on earth," said Burkow. "I, for one, would love for them to ask just so we could tell them no."

  "Could they make things rough for us in the press?" asked the President.

  "They'd need proof for that, sir," said Rizzi. "And also to push for General Rodgers's extradition."

  "And where is that proof?" the President asked. "Where is the body of the dead Kurdish leader?"

  "It's in the cave that used to be their headquarters," said Bob Herbert. "Before they left the area, Striker blew it up with the Tomahawk warhead."

  "Our press department put out the story that he was killed in an explosion at his headquarters," Martha said. "No one will question that, and it will satisfy the Kurds who followed him."

  "Very good," said the President. He picked up a black fountain pen from his blotter. He hesitated. "Do we know that General Rodgers will toe the mark? I don't have to worry about him writing a book or talking to the press?"

  "I'll vouch for General Rodgers," said Vanzandt. "He's a company man."

  "I'll hold you to that," the President said as he affixed his signature to the bottom of the document.

  Rizzi removed the pardon and the pen from the President's desk. The President rose and the group began moving to the door. As they did, Rizzi walked over to Herbert and handed the pen to him. The intelligence chief held it tightly, triumphantly, before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

  "Remind General Rodgers that whatever he does henceforth not only affects him but the lives and careers of the people who believed in him," Rizzi said.

  "Mike won't have to be told," Herbert said.

  "He went through quite an ordeal in Lebanon," Rizzi said. "Make sure he gets some rest."

  Martha walked over. "We'll see to it, of course," she said. "And thank you, Roland, for everything you've done."

  Martha and Herbert left, Herbert waving playfully at Deputy Chief of Staff Klaw, who had come to escort them out.

  As the group made their way in silence through the carpeted corridor, Herbert had confidence in what General Vanzandt had said. Mike Rodgers would never do anything to compromise or embarrass those who had fought for him today. But Rizzi was also right: Rodgers had been through a lot. Not just the torture. When Rodgers returned with Striker the next day, what was going to bother him more was the fact that the ROC had been captured on his watch. Rightly or wrongly, he would blame himself for the near-loss of the facility and the physical suffering and psychological wounds endured by the ROC crew and Colonel Seden. He would have to live with the knowledge that Striker was nearly wiped out by friendly fire because of what he hadn't anticipated. According to psychologist Liz Gordon, who had bumped into Herbert as he left Op-Center to come to the White House, those were going to be the toughest crosses to bear.

  "And there's no sure way of treating that guilt," she'd told him. "With some people you can reason it out. You can convince them that there was nothing they could have done to prevent the situation. Or at least you can make them feel good about other things they've accomplished, their positive body of work. With Mike, there's black and there's white. Either he screwed up or he didn't. Either the terrorist deserved to die or he didn't. Add to that the loss of dignity he and his people suffered — and their suffering was his suffering, you can be very sure of that — and you've got a potentially very knotty psychosis."

  Herbert understood only too well. He was intelligence point man for the CIA in Beirut when the embassy was bombed in 1983. Among the scores of dead was his wife. Not a day passed when he wasn't troubled by guilt and what-ifs. But he couldn't let them stop him. He had to use what he'd learned to try and prevent future Beiruts.

  Herbert and Martha made their way from the White House entrance to the specially equipped van in which Herbert traveled around Washington. As he rolled up the ramp into the back, he had just one hope. That a little time, a lot of distance, and a great deal of camaraderie would get Rodgers through this. As Herbert had put it to Liz, "I learned the hard way that not only is life a school, but the classes get damned difficult and more expensive as you move through it."

  Liz had agreed. Then she'd added, "Still, Bob — it does beat the hell out of matriculation."

  That was true, Herbert thought as Martha's driver maneuvered from the tight parking lot toward Pennsylvania Avenue. And over the next few days or weeks or however long it took, he would make it his mission to convince Mike Rodgers of that.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Wednesday, 11:34 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  Ibrahim al-Rashid opened his eyes and peered through the dirty window of the prison hospital ward. His nostrils filled with the smell of disinfectant.

  Ibrahim knew that he was in Damascus in the custody of Syrian security forces. He also knew that he was seriously injured, though he didn't know how seriously. He knew these things because when he drifted out of sleep he heard the male nurses and guards talking about him. He heard them distant and muffled through the bandages which covered his ears.

  During the short periods when he was awake, Ibrahim was dimly aware of other things. He was aware of being talked to by a man in a uniform but being unable to answer. His mouth seemed frozen, incapable of being moved. He was aware of being carried to a bath where parts of his body were stripped and scrubbed. His skin seemed to come off in pieces, like hardened candle wax. Then he was bandaged and brought back here again.

  When he slept, the young Kurd had much clearer visions. He had memories of being with Commander Siriner at Base Deir. Ibrahim could still hear the leader shouting, "They will not fire a shot in these headquarters!" He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with the commander and shooting at the enemy to keep them from entering. He remembered shouting defiance, waiting for the attack and then — there was the fire. A lake of it pouring down on them. He remembered fighting the flames with his arms, helping Field Commander Arkin beat a path with their own bodies so that Commander Siriner could get through. He remembered being pulled up, covered with dirt, carried somewhere, seeing the sky, and then hearing a gunshot.

  A tear formed in his eye. "Commander—?"

  Ibrahim tried to turn and look for his comrades. But he couldn't. The bandages, he realized. Not that it mattered. He sensed that he was alone in this place. And the revolution? If it had succeeded, he would not be here with the enemy.

  So many people counting on us and we failed, he thought.

  Yet did they fail? Is it failure if you plant a seed which others nurtu
re? Is it failure to have begun a thing which had daunted the best and the bravest for decades? Is it failure to have called the attention of all humanity to the plight of his people?

  Ibrahim closed his eyes. He saw Commander Siriner and Walid, Hasan and the others. And he saw his brother Mahmoud. They were alive and watching him and they seemed to be content.

  Is it failure if you are united in Paradise with your brothers-in-arms?

  With a quiet moan, Ibrahim joined them.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Wednesday, 9:37 p.m.,

  London, England

  Paul Hood spoke to Mike Rodgers while Hood was in London en route to Washington. Rodgers was about to leave the infirmary at Tel Nef to join the Strikers for the flight back to Washington.

  The men had a short, uncommonly strained conversation. Whether he was afraid of releasing rage, frustration, sadness, or whatever else he was feeling, Rodgers wasn't letting go of anything. Getting the general to answer questions about his health and the accomodations at Tel Nef took very specific questions. And even then his answers were terse, his voice flat. Hood ascribed it to exhaustion and the depression that Liz had warned them about.

  When he'd placed the call, Hood hadn't intended to tell Rodgers about the pardon. He'd felt that that was something best done when Rodgers was rested and surrounded by the people who had orchestrated the amnesty. People whose judgment he respected. People who could explain that it had been done to protect the national interest and not to bail Rodgers out.

  Ultimately, however, Hood felt that Rodgers had a right to know what had transpired. He wanted him to use the flight to plan for his future in Op-Center and not an imagined future in court.

  Rodgers took the news quietly. He asked Hood to thank Herbert and Martha for their efforts. But as he spoke, Hood had an even stronger sense that there was something else taking place, something unspoken that had come between them. It wasn't bitterness or rancor. It was something almost melancholy, as if he'd been doomed rather than saved.