"I have tortured no one."
"You're torturing me. You tortured my man."
"I had nothing to do with that."
Masters shifted in the bed. "Are you familiar with the concept of tacit consent, Doctor?"
Igor turned away.
"Maybe not. Tacit consent means that if you don't stop an evil, then you, by your inaction, agree with the evil."
"So."
"So, Doctor, if you did nothing to stop what they did to my man, then you agreed with what they did."
"It's not my place—"
"YOU'RE A DOCTOR!" Masters was surprised by the volume of his own voice. "Of course it is your place."
"You don't understand."
"Yes, I do. You're afraid, terrified of Egonov and whatever thugs he surrounds himself with. You are a coward."
"And you, sir, are a man with deep infections that will soon attack the vital organs."
"I'm prepared to die."
Igor tipped his head. "We'll see." He started for the door.
"Doc?"
He stopped. "Yes?"
"How is Sergeant Chaddick?"
"He's alive for now. Burns are difficult to treat and require medications and tools we do not have here." He paused and seemed embarrassed. "Just so you know, he told Egonov what he wanted to know. The sergeant slipped into unconsciousness shortly after. That is probably a good thing."
The doctor turned to the door, placed his hand on the knob, then stopped. "I'm going to ask that you be allowed to have the antibiotics."
"Do me a favor, Doc: Give them to Chaddick. He needs them more than I do."
"Perhaps, but your man is going to die from his injures."
Masters turned his gaze away, choosing to look at the ceiling instead of the man by the door. "I've got a feeling I won't be far behind him."
"I will see if Egonov will allow it."
Masters heard the doorknob turn and the door squeak on its hinges.
"Before you go, Doctor, one more question."
"What is it?"
"If your father were alive today, would he be proud of you?"
Igor said nothing.
Masters heard the door shut.
COLONEL MAC DIDN'T WANT this meeting. Most Spec Ops happened without reading the president in. He needed the deniability and no president could keep track of the details of every mission. That's why there were generals, admirals, and—in his case—colonels. This, however, was no ordinary mission. The vice president's son was involved and that fact alone kicked it up the pucker chart.
Mac left Fort Jackson at o-dark-thirty. In the few hours he had between Chaplain Bartley's call and the time he boarded the Army's VC-20 Gulf Stream IV, he called his assistant Master Sergeant Alan Kinkaid, dragging him out of the sack. They met in the Concrete Palace, in Mac's Spartan office.
For seventy minutes, they discussed the pros and cons of the decision before them, then at five that morning, Mac called General Ian "the Borg" Bourg, head of Special Operations. General Bourg was scheduled to fly to Europe and wouldn't be able to attend the meeting. "It's all on you, Mac. Don't screw up."
The president's personal secretary ushered Mac and Kinkaid into the Oval Office, the president, former Vice President Andrew Bacliff, and Chief of Staff—soon to be VP—Helen Brown were already waiting, coffee cups on the table between the facing sofas. In full uniform, Admiral Gary Gaughan, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sat in one of the wingback chairs in the seating area. President Ted Huffington sat in a matching chair.
As the president and Admiral Gaughan stood, Mac and Kinkaid stood at attention. "As you were, gentlemen." The president shook their hands. "You already know everyone in the room . . . or have you met Gary?" He motioned to Admiral Gaughan.
"I've not had the pleasure, sir." Mac shook the chairman's hand.
"I've heard a great deal about you and your men, Colonel. General Bourg brags on your team all the time."
"Thank you, sir."
"Have a seat, gentlemen." The president motioned to the empty sofa. "Coffee?"
"Always, sir."
The president poured two cups from a silver pot, then set it back on the table. "Good flight?"
"Yes, sir," Mac said. It was the idle talk men engaged in before getting down to business.
The president let the men have a sip, then, "Okay Mac, let's have it. Bullet points, if you don't mind."
Mac set his cup down. "At about 2300 last night, Eric Moyer's daughter went missing. Abduction is suspected. The local cops are on the case. An Army chaplain is present with the family. I've also received word a representative from Army CID is present. There has been no contact from the kidnappers."
"CID is already in place?" the admiral said.
Mac hesitated. "As I understand it, one special agent is there. Jerry Zinsser—"
"Sergeant Zinsser? The man on your team?"
"Formally on the team. You're aware of his unique situation, sir."
"I'm the one who made CID break the rules to bring him on board."
"I don't know the details," Admiral Gaughan said.
"Jerry Zinsser is an Army hero. He's been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor in Somalia. Unfortunately, he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. He received treatment and is back on the level, but he's not field eligible anymore."
"So he's doing police work now?" The admiral narrowed his gaze.
"Yes, sir. I hear he's doing a great job."
"But he's not leading the investigation, right?"
"CID is not officially on the case yet. He's there because it's Eric Moyer's family that's involved."
"Still—"
"The man saved my life, Gary. Let it go." The president thought for a moment. "Okay, let's talk about the gorilla in the room. You think this has to do with the mission? Someone trying to get to Moyer through his daughter?"
Helen Brown spoke up. "I think we have to assume that's the case."
Andrew Bacliff groaned and brought his hands to his face.
"You okay, Andy?" Concern covered the president's face.
"Let me see if I have this right." Bacliff lowered his hands. "Moyer is risking his life, partly to save my son, if my son can be saved, and it may cost him his daughter?"
"We can't assume that, sir. It might not be related to the mission at all. It could be a simple abduction for—"
"We get the idea, Brownie." The president's gaze bored into Mac. "What do you suggest, Colonel?"
"We are in the bind that every commanding officer dreads. Moyer has a right to know. His family needs him, but he's on the other side of the world, deep in the mountains and valleys of Magadan region of Russia."
"Can you make contact with him?" President Huffington reached for his coffee cup.
"Yes, sir. Contact is no problem. We can use satellite phones or a new device we're using in the field. It delivers messages in short bursts."
"Like submarine flash messages," the admiral said.
"Exactly, sir. We've been following them in real time by satellite, so contact is the easy part."
"Then what's the hard part?" Helen Brown asked.
"The most difficult part is whether or not we should tell him. Knowing might change his focus. It sure would change mine. If we do tell him, then how do we extract him? It's not like he can take a bus out of the region. We're not supposed to be there."
"That's an understatement," Huffington said. "What are our options?"
Mac didn't hesitate. "Option one: We recall the whole team."
"That's not much of an option," Brown said. "There's too much at stake."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm just giving a range of options. I'm not saying that's the way to go."
"Carry on, Mac." Mac sensed impatience in his commander in chief.
"Option two: We keep the info to ourselves, telling him when the team is on the way home. Option three: we tell him the truth and let him carry on with his mission."
"Which he will do?" Bacliff whispered.<
br />
"I've known Moyer for a very long time. He'll finish his mission. I'd stake my career on it."
The admiral pressed his fingertips together. "That's what you'd be doing, Colonel."
"Tell him," Bacliff said. "We ask the man to risk his life time and time again. We owe him honesty."
"With all due respect," Brown said, "I think that's a bad idea. He and his team can do a better job if they don't know."
President Huffington stared at Mac. Mac returned the honor. "He's your man, Colonel, what should we do?"
"Tell him."
"You don't want to think about that?"
"I've been thinking about it since two this morning, sir."
The president rose and paced his office. No one interrupted him. A full minute later he said, "Do it."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, what can we do to help find Moyer's daughter?"
MAJOR SCALON WATCHED THE large monitor in the satellite control center. Radar verified their calculations. Angel-12 was headed home. The Army insertion team was less than three miles from the expected impact area.
"Godspeed, gentlemen. It's all up to you now."
VITALY EGONOV SWITCHED OFF the satellite phone on his desk and leaned back in a 1950s desk chair. It creaked. The young soldier's information was correct, and his man in Moscow confirmed it. He smiled. The heavens were about to give him a gift, something he could use in negotiating with the reigning government or could sell to the highest bidder. Although negotiation was several items down his wants list. Mostly he wanted to overthrow it and return things to their proper standing, just as they were in the great days of Khrushchev and Brezhnev; back when the Russian Federation was Soyuz Sovetskikh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublik. Things were tough back then, but the current global economy made the current system worse.
A third of the government was influenced by criminal elements and corrupt businesses. To Egonov, the country didn't need a new direction; it needed to return to an old one.
He sprang from the seat and marched to the door. They had more than one hundred kilometers to cover in short order. It was time to leave.
In the hall, the same large man he sent to install a speaker in Captain Masters's room strolled by, cigarette in hand.
"Nikolay, gather the men and vehicles. We're going on a mission."
"How many men?" His voice sounded as if he spent his mornings gargling sand.
"A small team. Make it six. All armed. Well armed. Also, I want a team to prepare a truck, a flatbed."
"We will be transporting something, sir?"
"Yes, my friend, we will. Now go, do as I say."
Egonov's heart picked up a few beats. If all went well, they would have the satellite without opposition. If things went really well, they might be able to kill a few people along the way.
CHAPTER 21
EVERYTHING ABOUT GINA'S BEDROOM reminded Stacy of her daughter. The wee hours of the morning became the walking hours. Sounds of cars on the street in front of their house seeped through the wall and window; noises made by people going about the same business they went about the day before: work, shopping, taking children to school. Yesterday, she took no notice of the sounds; today they were laden with irony: the tragic happened and the world remained unchanged.
Gina was gone and the world kept spinning. Business would open, transactions would occur, airlines would take wing as if nothing so soul crushing as an abduction had happened.
In the living room sat three girls, the friends with whom Gina studied the night before. Each received word, most likely from Pauline's mother. The police interviewed the family. The girls—Pauline, Beth, and Sharon—refused to go to school. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, they could not pretend nothing had happened.
At first, Stacy didn't want them in the house, not because she blamed them, but because she didn't want to be distracted with guests. Still, when the tears in their eyes and terror on their faces appeared, she couldn't close the door. For the last few hours the trio sat in stunned silence, staring at the floor, or the walls, or out the window as if Gina might stroll up the walk any moment.
Stacy pulled a tissue from a box by Gina's bed and blew her nose. It was one of the few things she was able to do: cry and blow her nose.
Pink tissue paper. Gina always wanted pink tissue paper. "Blue is for boys," she often said. She was five when she first said that, but she kept the preference as she grew.
Rob once said, "Insisting on pink tissue means you're psychotic."
Gina had replied, "I think you mean neurotic. There's a difference, you know."
On most days, Stacy was certain Gina was the smartest person in the house.
Stacy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelled of Gina; the air was charged with the essence of Gina; and if she listened carefully, she could hear her daughter humming.
The tears came again. Stacy, seated on Gina's bed, pulled a pillow to her chest and buried her face. More Gina. The smell of her shampoo.
Tears turned to deep, body-racking sobs.
She felt a presence and looked up. Chaplain Bartley entered the room. He pulled Gina's desk chair within reach of Stacy and sat. He said nothing. Tears streaked his face.
"You don't have to stay, Chaplain."
"I know, but I'm staying out of a sense of self-preservation and to uphold an old family tradition."
"I don't understand." She continued to hug the pillow.
"My brother is on your husband's team. You know that. What you may not know is how much he admires your husband and your family. A few weeks ago, he told me he hopes to have a family like yours. If I'm not here for you, J. J. will make sure I get a weeklong butt kicking."
"Our family isn't perfect."
"No family is, Stacy. Perfection isn't the goal. Love is."
She took another tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "What's the family tradition?"
"No one gets to cry alone."
The words made her cry more. The weeping faded. "Chaplain, why would God do this to us? Is He punishing us for not going to church?"
He shook his head. "I don't think God is that small or vindictive. I've been a Christian for a long time and I've seen good come to bad people and bad to good people. The rain falls on the just and the unjust. No, I don't think God is doing this to you."
"But He allowed it."
Bartley folded his hands. "That's some thick theology, but in a nutshell, you're right. He did allow it."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I believe God is all powerful and all knowing, which means things do not happen without His knowledge. I also know He loves us and wants the best for us."
"How do you reconcile the two?"
Bartley shrugged. "I don't. Oh, I used to try to explain the whole thing away. I tried to defend God's honor, but I came to realize He didn't need my help. Bad things happen. They always have. Disease, poverty, greed, violence, and war. I became a soldier to help stop some of that; I became a chaplain to help those affected by such things."
"I still don't know how a loving God could let my little girl be snatched from the street."
"I know you don't. I don't either, but my not knowing the why doesn't overpower my belief in the Who."
"I'm sorry, Chaplain. I guess I'm not at my best." She looked past Bartley at the photos Gina kept on her desk. One was of the family taken in an in-mall photo business; the other was of Gina with her friends at a school function. Her gaze traveled back to the family photo and fixed on Eric.
Never before had she needed her husband more and he was somewhere in the world cleaning up other people's messes. He should be here. It wasn't a rational thought; it was emotion. Still, it was no less real. She was mad at Eric. Mad at the world. Mad at herself. She was especially angry with God.
"Tell Him."
Stacy looked at the man sitting in her daughter's chair. "Tell who, what?"
"If you're angry with God, then tell Him."
"Right now, Chaplain, I'm not sure I be
lieve in God."
"I understand and I think He does too."
She didn't know how to respond and was too tired to try. "Do you know where he is?"
"God? Sorry, you mean Eric."
"Yes."
"No. Unless I'm deployed with a unit, I never know. It's not necessary for me to know, and as I'm sure Eric has mentioned, the fewer people who know what's going on, the better."
"Doesn't seem to be working this time, does it?" The words were prickly. If they bothered Bartley, he didn't let on.
"No, it doesn't. If Gina was abducted and the kidnapping is related to your husband's mission, then there's a serious problem in security."
"Will they tell him?"
Bartley's face went blank. "I don't know, Stacy. It's one of those things mission leaders debate and never resolve. I've seen it go both ways. Since I have no idea where the team is or what its mission is, I can't hazard a guess. I do know this: You remember the problem Lucy Medina had with her pregnancy a couple of years ago? You were a big help to her."
"I remember. She almost lost the baby and her own life."
"Colonel Mac made sure Jose knew of the problem and offered to extract him from the mission. That doesn't mean he'll do the same this time. Every mission is different and—"
"And Eric is team leader." She sighed. There was so much she didn't know. "I hate not knowing."
"I understand. Worry is the hardest work any of us will ever do." Bartley stood. "I'm going to give you some privacy. Just know that I'm here if you need me."
"Thank you, Chaplain."
He walked from the room and it seemed he took all her hope with him.
JERRY ZINSSER WALKED THE area around the Moyer home. It was the tenth time he did so. Each time he covered a slightly different path. Rob Moyer had been by his side the whole time.
"You've been up all night, son. Don't you think you oughta head back and rest a bit?"
"No."
"It's no disgrace—"
"Forget it."
Zinsser studied Rob for a moment. He looked beat, worn by fear and impotence. He guessed the teenager matured fifteen years in the last few hours. His hair was disheveled, his eyes red, and the peach fuzz that passed for a beard was turning into a vague shadow on his face.
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