Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  The senator’s office seemed no different than it had been before. Kendra Peterson was standing outside her office, talking to an assistant. When the woman saw Rodgers, she stopped what she was doing and went to him. Her slender face reflected deep concern.

  “General, did you hear about Op-Center?” Kendra asked.

  “I was there,” Rodgers told her.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “How did you find out?” Rodgers asked.

  Kendra took him by the elbow and led him to a corner, away from the intern pool. “The senator received a call from Dan Debenport at the CIOC.”

  “Why would Senator Debenport call here about that?”

  “To say that he would request emergency funding so that Op-Center could continue to function,” she replied. “Senator Orr is Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Short-Term Funding.”

  “That makes sense.” Rodgers wondered if it was also a warning to Senator Orr that the investigation of William Wilson’s death would continue. He could not understand why Debenport would be interested. Perhaps it was nothing more than backroom drama taking a turn in the foot-lights. “Is the admiral around?”

  “Actually, he is not,” she told him. “He left for a meeting with network producers about covering the convention. Do you need to talk to him? His cell phone is on.”

  “No, I’ll talk with him later,” Rodgers said. “What about Kat?”

  “She’s in. How well did you know the man who was killed?”

  “Not very,” Rodgers said. “He was a good man, a hard worker.”

  “That’s a fine enough epitaph,” Kendra said. “Do you or Director Hood have any idea who was responsible?”

  “I don’t, and if Paul Hood suspects anyone, he did not share that information with me,” Rodgers told the woman.

  “Is there a reason he would not?” Kendra asked.

  “I’m sure Paul was preoccupied,” Rodgers replied. He did not want to discuss the attack with Kendra. Not if there was a chance that she was involved. “What about you? Have you or the senator heard anything else?”

  Kendra shook her head. “This is one of those things our country is going to have to watch out for more and more,” she said solemnly. “The senator was saying that he wants to push for a new division of Homeland Security, one that would concentrate exclusively on the technology sector. He does not think he will have much trouble getting the funds after what happened today.”

  He could not tell whether Kendra had avoided the question or had instinctively and innocently slipped into stump speech mode. Just sell the preapproved ideas, nothing more. If you stick to the script, you cannot get into trouble.

  “Well, that’s always the way, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked. “Get shot first, ask questions later.”

  Kendra smiled. “I like that.”

  “By the way, what are the senator’s travel plans?”

  “He is leaving for the convention tonight on his private jet,” Kendra told him.

  “Who else is going with him?”

  “You’re just full of questions,” she observed. “I am going. Kat and the admiral will take a commercial flight tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “We had hoped you would be joining us in San Diego. Will that be possible now?”

  “I don’t know,” the general replied.

  “You’re not part of the investigation, are you?” She added after a short pause, “Of the bombing, I mean.”

  “No. I am not.”

  His answer was as specific as her question. Kendra looked at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, to say he was not part of any investigation. He did not want to lie to her so he said nothing. Yet once again, saying nothing was probably as informative as Yes. I am.

  The woman smiled tightly, knowingly, then excused herself. Rodgers went to talk to Kat. He was annoyed with himself. He felt clumsy and exposed. He wondered how Darrell or Bob would have handled that differently.

  Well, there is no turning this around, he told himself. The only thing to do is move forward.

  Kat was in her office, on the phone, when Rodgers walked up. She smiled and motioned him in. Rodgers shut the door behind him and sat on the small sofa. A moment later, Kat hung up. She exhaled loudly.

  “That was Lucy O’Connor—”

  “Let me guess,” Rodgers said. “She wanted to know if the senator had any reaction to the attack on Op-Center.”

  Kat nodded.

  “Does he?”

  “He thinks it’s awful, as we all do,” Kat said. Her warm eyes settled on his. “Were you at the NCMC at the time?”

  Rodgers nodded.

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. I lost my car and my work cell phone, and I’m guessing my credit cards got scrambled. But all of that can be replaced.”

  “I assume Hood and the others are pretty shaken.”

  “They’re on autopilot, but they’ll get through this,” Rodgers replied. “I’m more interested in who was behind this.”

  “Of course. Any thoughts on that?”

  He hunched forward. Now that Kendra was suspicious, there was no reason to be discreet. “I need to ask this, Kat, and I hope you’ll keep it between us. But is there any chance that Admiral Link was involved?”

  The woman did not seem surprised by the question. “A chance? Sure. A likelihood? No. Think what the admiral would stand to lose if he were caught.”

  “For what? Attacking Op-Center or having William Wilson killed?”

  That one came out sounding more like an accusation than a question. This time Kat was openly disapproving.

  “I surely hope you do not believe the admiral was involved in either of those,” Kat said.

  “I want to believe that,” he said truthfully.

  Kat’s phone beeped. She answered. She listened for a moment, said she would be right there, then hung up.

  “That was reception,” she said. “Your friend Mr. McCaskey is here. He insists on seeing the senator.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Rodgers said.

  “We’ll both go,” Kat replied flatly.

  Tension had descended like sleet, heavy and cold. The two walked through the office. Though it was nearly five o’clock, none of the workers was preparing to leave. Rodgers heard pizzas being ordered for dinner. There was excitement in the air, energy in the staff’s activities, a sense of purpose on youthful faces. Here he was, embarking on a new career and trying to find out who bombed his old office. Yet he felt none of what these people felt. It was not a virtue of age but of attitude. For the first time in his life, Mike Rodgers did not know which side he was on.

  McCaskey was pacing in the carpeted reception area. That was unusual. He was usually Mr. Patient.

  “Hello, Mike,” McCaskey said thickly. “I’d like to talk to you.” He regarded Kat. “I also want to see the senator.”

  “That is not possible,” she replied. “He is out.”

  “Then I’ll go wherever he is,” McCaskey told her.

  “Don’t waste your time,” she said. “Senator Orr has already said he would only speak to your superior, and then as a courtesy, nothing more.”

  “My superior had his office fried—” McCaskey said.

  “We were very sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ll pass that along when I see Paul. Meanwhile, I want to discuss the attack with the senator.”

  “In what context? And by what authority do you come here and even make a demand like that?”

  “Section 611 of the NCMC Operational Code,” McCaskey replied. “I quote, ‘If an ongoing operation is impeded by a tactical strike, the NCMC has the responsibility and the authority to investigate the person or persons who were a target of said operation.’ Said operation is the investigation into the murder of William Wilson. Said target is Senator Orr. As the chief law enforcement officer for Op-Center, it is my duty to speak with him.”

  “From the start, Mr. McCaskey, I have believed this investigation to be poli
tics, not police work,” Kat said. Her gaze shifted from the former FBI officer to Rodgers. “General, you are still this man’s superior. Would you, perhaps, suggest a less inconvenient and obvious avenue of harassment?”

  “That is not what this is about,” McCaskey insisted.

  “No, not to you,” Kat replied. “I believe you are an earnest man, a knight being moved on a chess board, convinced of his virtue but blind to the endgame. This whole thing, first the death of Wilson and now the attack on Op-Center, is clearly being hung on the senator by someone who does not want him to become president. That is what this is about. Hey, why don’t you interview Lucy O’Con-nor? Her journalistic career is going to benefit a great deal from all of this.”

  “Ms. Lockley, I don’t think I’m the one who needs a reality check—”

  “Hold on, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

  “No, Mike. Someone hit us. I have the obligation and the right to question people who may have knowledge of the event.”

  “William Wilson was a guest at the senator’s party!” Kat exclaimed. “That is the extent of his involvement with this situation!”

  “Wilson was a guest just hours before he was murdered by someone who understood covert operations. That makes Admiral Link a suspect and throws a shadow on Senator Orr,” McCaskey said. “Ms. Lockley, I cannot make it any more concise than that.”

  “You’ll have to,” Kat replied. “The senator has made it clear that he will not see you.”

  “Darrell, why don’t you let me handle this?” Rodgers said.

  “Handle what? The investigation or getting me in to see the senator?”

  “There is nothing to handle,” Kat said. “This is a non-starter, Mr. McCaskey. The interview is not going to happen.” She turned to go.

  “Ms. Lockley, I am prepared to ask our attorney to seek a writ of mandamus. That will order Senator Orr to make himself available,” McCaskey said. “If the writ is granted, and it will be, the senator will not be permitted to leave the District of Columbia until I see him.”

  “We have attorneys, too,” Kat said over her shoulder.

  “Darrell, I said I’ll take care of this,” Rodgers told him.

  “Really? If you had helped before, we might have nailed the perps before Op-Center was tagged.”

  Rodgers moved McCaskey toward a corner, away from the receptionist. “That isn’t fair,” the general said.

  “Like hell. You were off licking your thorny paw because Paul Hood hurt your feelings.”

  “Darrell, you’re stressed. This is battle fatigue talking—”

  “No. This is what I should have been doing from the start. Pushing. Maybe then the attack would not have happened.”

  “We’ll never know. Look,” Rodgers said. “I will go to San Diego with the senator and his staff. If they are involved, I will find out.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, maybe,” Rodgers agreed. “But pushing like this, in Washington, may not get you anything. Lowell is very good, but the senator has friends and influence. That’s better.”

  McCaskey exhaled through his nose. “I’ve never played good cop, bad cop, Mike. I don’t like manipulating people, or the law.”

  “That isn’t what we’re doing,” Rodgers told him. “We’re playing by the rules of the system.”

  McCaskey leaned closer. “Do you think they’re involved?”

  “I don’t know. I belong to the school of innocent until proven guilty,” Rodgers said.

  “Your gut, Mike. Mine says yes. What does yours tell you?”

  Rodgers looked into the main office. Kat was helping Kendra organize computer files for the trip. He could not tell if she was watching him. That was the great thing about the military. He knew who the enemy was.

  “My gut tells me the same thing it told me before,” Rodgers said. “To proceed with care, but definitely to proceed. I want the guys who hurt Op-Center as much as you do, Darrell. If they were responsible, I’ll find out. I give you my word.”

  “What if I went with you?” McCaskey asked.

  “That would be overkill,” Rodgers said. “This needs to be finessed.”

  McCaskey sighed again. He seemed a little more temperate now. “You could have ordered me off. You didn’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Kendra is leaving tonight with the senator and wants me to go with Link and his group tomorrow morning,” Rodgers told him. “That should work. It will give me a chance to smooth things over with Kat.”

  “All right, Mike,” McCaskey said. “I should probably get over to Op-Center anyway. Do you know exactly how bad it was?”

  Rodgers told him. McCaskey was sorry to hear about Mac but relieved and also surprised that there were no other casualties.

  McCaskey left, and Rodgers went to make a phone call. He would use a pay phone, not one in the senator’s office. He did not want the call to be logged. He no longer felt like the Man Without a Country. He felt worse, like a wayward apostle.

  “No man can serve two masters,” Rodgers reminded himself. Yet here he was, the man who prized loyalty above all, preparing to spy on his future colleagues to help his former teammates. Fortunately, there was another biblical quote that gave the general comfort: “The righteous man escapes trouble, and the wicked man falls into it in his stead.”

  Rodgers chose to believe that one. It was easy.

  There was no other choice.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Camp Pendleton, California Tuesday, 2:21 P.M.

  Two-star Marine General Jack Breen was listening to his voice mail when a name from the past appeared. Breen smiled. He remembered the name, all right. He remembered the day he first heard the name. It was February 18, 1991.

  And he sure as hell remembered where he was when he first heard the name.

  Their initial meeting was the result of a very unusual multiservice action in the first Iraq war. Then-Colonel Breen was the commander of a ten-man SWEAT “hogs” unit—Special Warfare, Elite Advance Troops. The men had been air-dropped into Iraq six days in advance of the planned main Marine invasion. An Iraqi transmission tower was located in a mountain four thousand feet northeast of the city of Ad Najaf. Breen’s mission was to set up a satellite interface that would intercept Iraqi communications. Before the 2nd Marine Division moved in, Central Command wanted to know in which villages or underground tunnels enemy troops might be hidden. Those sites would be bombed ahead of time or avoided, if possible.

  The SWEAT unit found one of those enemy bands. Or rather, the Iraqi band found them.

  It happened in the foothills, at midnight, shortly after the Marines had landed. It was a cool night, in the mid-fifties, with a dry wind blowing down from the mountaintop. Because of the wind howling through their helmets, it was difficult to hear but not to see. All of the men were wearing khaki-and-green mountain camouflage uniforms and night-vision goggles. Four Marines were on parachute detail, burying the shrouds. The other six had formed a perimeter secure line. The PSL, which was actually a circle, sought to establish the outward parameters of the safe zone. They had landed on a gently sloping hill, with clear visibility below and short bluffs and boulders above. The high sites would need to be examined and secured before the group could proceed. Their target was on the opposite side of the mountain. Access was along a narrow dirt path, two thousand feet up, which girdled the peak. Satellite reconnaissance had revealed a cave toward the end of the route, near the tower. The men had until sunrise to reach it. The plan was to wait there until dark, then go out and set up the compact satellite dish. When the men were finished, they would retrace their steps, radio their base in Kuwait, and wait for an Apache to extract them.

  The plan was changed by the United States Air Force.

  The men had secured the area by 0027 hours. They were able to walk up the peak rather than climb, and moved in a relatively tight formation known as the flying geese. The point man of the wedge watched the ground for mines,
the next two watched the terrain ahead, the next two watched the sides, and the next pair kept an eye on the skies. The two who followed covered the group, and the last man hung back to protect their flank. If they were attacked, they would drop and crawl in opposite directions to widen the wedge. It would be easier for the enemy to pick them off if they stayed in their close ascent phalanx.

  The hogs were on the dirt path when Breen heard a whistle. It sounded like the wind. In fact, the noise was coming from a Sukhoi Su-7, a single-seat ground attack aircraft that was a standard tactical fighter-bomber in the Soviet Air Force for nearly forty years. Saddam had thirty of them in his air force, each armed with two 30 mm NR-30 guns, seventy rounds per gun. Pylons under the wings carried two 742 kg or two 495 kg bombs or rocket pods.

  This particular aircraft had been on patrol in what would later be known as the southern no-fly zone. The fighter was screaming toward the ground, illuminated by its own flames after taking a hit from a United States Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle. The F-15E had been searching for mobile Scud missile launchers and had not been informed about the Marine presence. Breen ordered the hogs to drop and cover, which was all they could do before the fireball ripped into the mountainside. It impacted well north of the Marines, about a quarter of a mile, but it sent flaming debris and rock in their path. Worse, the crash was sure to attract Iraqi troops.

  Breen sent two men ahead to check the route, to see if there was some way to get around the wreckage. There was, but they would have to go back down the mountain and around the base. According to the topographic map, that would take them twice as long. They would be moving around in daylight.

  Breen decided to try to complete the mission.

  The mountain was steep in their present location, so they backtracked a half mile to a point where the map said they could walk down. Breen double-timed the unit, keeping the wedge formation as they descended. They slowed as they reached the base of the foothills, partly to conserve energy and partly to watch for shepherds or farmers who might be up early. Unfortunately, they were stopped by something they did not anticipate: the hogs found the mobile Scud for which the F-15E had been searching. It was sitting under an outcropping of rock, about three hundred yards below them. The tractor was hidden beneath a camouflage tarp. Iraqi soldiers were busy covering it with brush before sunrise.