Thanks to the Yankees, Rodgers associated the idea of wearing a uniform with belonging to an elite team. Since the Yankees did not need a sharpshooter-except when Boston fans came to town-Rodgers turned his sights on that other great team with uniforms, the United States military. Rodgers's extended tours of Vietnam and his devotion to the service had kept him from having any long-term relationships. Except for that, the forty-seven-year-old general never regretted a day of the life he had chosen.
Until four months ago.
Rodgers finished his coffee. He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before he had to be at Op-Center. He went to the counter to order another ultratall cup.
As Rodgers waited patiently in the short line, he looked around at the young faces. They were mostly college faces with journalists and members of Congress here and there. He could tell them all at a glance. The politicians were the ones lost in newspapers, looking for their names. The reporters were the ones watching the politicians to see who they sat with or who they ignored. The students were the ones who were actually discussing world events.
Rodgers did not see any future soldiers among the many students. Their eyes were too lively, too full of questions or answers. A soldier needed to be committed to just one thing: following orders. The way Striker had done.
Striker was the elite rapid response military arm of the National Crisis Management Center. Rodgers was the deputy director of the NCMC, familiarly known as Op-Center. Upon joining Op-Center shortly after its inception, Rodgers had formed and trained the unit.
A little over four months ago, while parachuting into the Himalayan mountains, General Rodgers and Colonel August
had watched as all but one other member of Striker was shot from the sky. In Vietnam, Rodgers had lost close friends and fellow soldiers. On Striker's first foreign mission, he had helped them through the death of Private Bass Moore. Shortly after that, he had seen them through the loss of their original field commander, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires. But Rodgers had never experienced anything like this.
Even worse than the scope of the slaughter was the helplessness Rodgers felt watching it happen. These young soldiers had trusted his judgment and his leadership. They had followed him without hesitation out the hatch of the Indian Air Force AN-12. And he had led them into an ambush. Rodgers was seasoned enough to know that nothing was guaranteed in life and war. But that did not stop him from feeling as if he had let the Strikers down.
Op-Center's staff psychologist Liz Gordon told Rodgers that he was suffering from trauma survivors' syndrome, a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. The condition manifested itself as lethargy and depression resulting from escaping death that took others.
Clinically, that might be true. What Rodgers really suffered from was a crisis of faith. He had screwed up. Being a soldier was about risking your life. But Rodgers had gone into a situation without being aware of an obvious potential danger. In so doing, he had disgraced the qualities his uniform meant to him.
But Liz Gordon had told him one thing that was certainly true. If Rodgers continued to dwell on what had gone wrong, he would be no good to Op-Center or its director, Paul Hood. And both needed him now. Striker had to be rebuilt, and Hood had to deal with ongoing budget cuts.
Enough, thought the general. It was time to get out of the past.
Mike Rodgers turned from the back wall. He sat down, unfolded the newspaper, and scanned the front page. Rodgers was one of the few people at Op-Center who still read a printed newspaper. Paul Hood, intelligence chief Bob Herbert, FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey, and attorney Lowell Coffey III all got their news on-line. To Rodgers, that was like engaging in cybersex. It was a result without an interactive process. He would rather have the real thing.
Ironically, the New York Yankees were mentioned in an article below the fold. The piece described some megatrade with the Baltimore Orioles. It sounded to Rodgers as if the Birds were getting the better end of the deal. Even the Yankees were not as sharp as they used to be.
Of course, no one dies when the Yankees make a bad call, Rodgers reflected. He looked at the other headlines.
The one that caught his attention was beside the baseball article. It was about an apparent paramilitary action in Botswana. The nation rarely showed up on the morning intelligence reports. The government in Gaborone was stable, and the people were relatively content.
What was most surprising were the eyewitness accounts of the action. At least four dozen armed men entered a tourist compound. After firing a few warning shots, they abducted a Catholic priest who ministered at the adjoining church. The priest was well liked and had no known enemies. The kidnappers had not demanded a ransom.
Rodgers's immediate thought was that the priest had heard someone's confession, and the men wanted the information. But why send a small army to grab a single individual? And why attack in daylight instead of at night? To make sure the army was seen?
Rodgers would have to see if Bob Herbert had any information about the kidnapping. Even when he was down on his abilities, Mike Rodgers could not help but ruminate about military issues. The army was not just his profession but his avocation.
He read the rest of the front page while he finished his coffee. Then he refolded the newspaper and slid it protectively under his arm. Rodgers made his way through the pinball array of tables to the front door. He pulled on his hat and stepped onto the slick pavement.
The rain was heavy, but Rodgers did not mind. The gray tones of the morning suited his mood. And though the dampness did not feel comfortable, he was surprised to find that it made him feel good. The pictures reminded him of what he had dreamed. Each droplet reminded him of what he had. Something that his former teammates did not possess: life.
As long as Mike Rodgers had that, he would continue to do the one thing that had ever really mattered.
He would strive to be worthy of his uniform.
FOUR
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:33 AM.
The National Crisis Management Center was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, this nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDsNuclear Rapid-Response Divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation's capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials. Ranking members of Congress, the entire cabinet, and both officers and logistics experts from the Pentagon would have been flown to secret bunkers built deep in Maryland's Blue Ridge Mountains. Their task would be to keep food and supplies flowing to soldiers, police officers, and civilians, in that order. They would also have worked to keep open as many routes of communication as possible. Other leaders, including the president, vice-president, their top military advisers, and medical personnel, would have been kept aloft aboard Air Force One and Air Force Two. Both planes would have flown at least five hundred miles apart. They would have been refueled in-flight and protected by an escort of NuRRD fighter jets. This would have allowed the commander in chief and his successor to remain separate moving targets.
With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the Air Force's NuRRDs, evacuation operations were consolidated at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. The newly vacated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered National Crisis Management Center.
The two floors of upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as finance, human resources, and monitoring the mainstream press for possible hot buttons. These were seem-
ingly innocent events that could trigger potential crises. They included the failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, accidents such as a U.S. submarine ramming a foreign fishing vessel or yacht, the seizure of a large cache of drugs, and other seemingly isolated activities. But nothing was ever isolated. A disgruntled military could stage a coup. A sunken ship may have been an attack on intelligence-gathering capabilities. And the drug bust might lead to violent clashes as other dealers moved in to fill a void. All of t
hese were events that fell within Op-Center's sphere of activity.
The basement of the former NuRRD building had been entirely refurbished. It no longer housed living quarters for flight crews. It was where the tactical decisions and intelligence crunching of Op-Center took place. The executive level was accessible by a single elevator that was guarded on top 24/7. Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and the rest of the executives had their offices down here. The small offices were arranged in a ring along the outer wall of the basement. Inside the circle were cubicles that housed the executive assistants as well as Op-Center's intelligence gathering and processing personnel. On the opposite side of the room from the elevator was a conference room known as the Tank. The conference room was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.
Bob Herbert pushed his wheelchair down the oval corridor. His coat was damp, and his ears were cold, but he was glad to be here. This was an important day.
Herbert had nicknamed this hallway the Indy 600. According to his wheelchair odometer, it was exactly 600 yards around. There were no windows down here, and the rooms were not spacious. The facility reminded Herbert more of a submarine than the headquarters of an agency. But the building was secure. Anyway, Herbert never believed all that crap about people needing sunshine to brighten their mood. The thirtynine-year-old intelligence head only needed two things to make him happy. One was his motorized wheelchair. The balding intelligence expert had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Only the quick work of physician Dr. Alison Carter, a visiting foreign service officer, had prevented him from losing his life. The wheelchair did not just keep Herbert mobile. It had a foldaway arm, like an airplane seat, that housed his computer with a wireless Modern. Everything Herbert needed, including E-mail addresses to order pizza, were literally in his lap. Op-Center's technical expert, Matt Stoll, had even installed a jack for a satellite dish. At times, Herbert felt like the Bionic Man.
The other thing that made Herbert happy was when outsiders left him and his coworkers alone to do their jobs. When Op-Center first began operations, no one paid them much attention. Whether they were saving the space shuttle from saboteurs or Japan from nuclear annihilation, everything they did was covert. It passed under the radar of the press and most foreign intelligence services. The relationships they established were ones they chose to establish. They did so quietly with Interpol, the Russian Op-Center, and other groups.
Unfortunately, the dynamics changed drastically after Paul Hood personally resolved a highly public hostage standoff at the United Nations. Foreign governments complained to the White House about Hood's unsanctioned military activity on international territory. The Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, and even the State Department complained to the Congressional Intelligence Oversight committee. They accused Paul Hood of usurping personnel and chartered responsibilities from both agencies. The Pentagon said that Op-Center had monopolized the spy satellite capabilities of the National Reconnaissance Office.
All of that was true. But the truth did not always tell the whole story. None of these activities were done for the aggrandizement of Paul Hood or the NCMC. Under Hood, OpCenter functioned without the bureaucracy, infighting, and egos that undermined the effectiveness of those other agencies. That helped Op-Center to achieve its chartered goal: to save lives and protect American interests.
Because of politics, not effectiveness or cost-efficiency, the CIOC had ordered Paul Hood to cut his operating budget. He had done so. This morning, Hood was supposed to learn the results of the quarterly follow-up conducted by the CIOC finance subcommittee. Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert hoped that tempers had cooled somewhat in four months. The previous day, the men had submitted their written petition to get some of the cuts rescinded. Among other things, training a new Striker team was going to take additional funds. Hood had been optimistic. Rodgers had been pessimistic. Herbert had declared himself neutral.
"Neutral like Sweden," Alison Carter had joked. The night before, Dr. Carter and her former patient had gone to dinner. Carter had just completed a secret assignment for the State Department. Though she did not say so, Herbert took that to mean she had participated in an assassination. Officially, the United States government did not sanction such killings. Unofficially, with the help of medical specialists, they executed them brilliantly.
During the course of the mission, Carter had exposed extensive collaboration between supposedly neutral Sweden and Nazi Germany during World War II. She was proud of that fact. She said that she had never believed any nation or individual could be completely impartial about anything.
Herbert disagreed. He insisted he had to be neutral. As he pointed out to Dr. Carter after one glass of wine too many, "It takes an Optimist, Pessimist, and Centrist to spell Op-Center."
She had groaned and made him pay for dinner. Then she left him with this thought: "Tell me," Carter asked. "Do you ever use the neutral gear on your wheelchair?"
Herbert informed her that there was no neutral gear on his chair. Just forward and backward.
"Exactly," she replied.
Herbert passed Paul Hood's office. The door was open. Since Hood's separation from his wife Sharon, he had been getting to the office earlier and earlier. For all Herbert knew, his boss had slept here instead of going back to his new apartment.
Not that it mattered. Staying busy had helped keep Hood's spirits from sinking. The intelligence chief certainly understood that. His own wife was killed in the blast that had cost him the use of his legs. After her death, all Herbert wanted to do was work. He needed to keep his mind moving forward, engaged in something constructive. If he had dwelt on the loss, his mind would have stayed in place, idling angrily, digging downward.
That was probably why psychologists called the result the pits of depression, now that Herbert thought about it.
Hood was gazing at his computer monitor. Herbert rapped lightly on the doorjamb.
"Good morning," Herbert said.
Hood glanced toward the door. He looked tired. "Good morning, Bob," Hood replied.
The director's voice was low and flat. The day had just begun, and already something was not right.
"Is Mike in yet?" Hood asked.
"I haven't seen him," Herbert replied. He swung into the doorway. "What's up?"
Hood hesitated. "The usual," he said quietly.
That told Herbert a lot.
"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," Herbert said.
"There will be," Hood assured him. He did not elaborate.
Herbert smiled tightly. He lingered a moment. He thought about trying to get Hood to talk but decided against it.
Herbert backed his wheelchair from the doorway and continued down the hallway. Psychologist Liz Gordon was already at work. So was Director of Electronic Communications Kevin Custer. Herbert waved good morning to each of them as he passed. They waved back. It was a welcome touch of normalcy.
He did not bother trying to guess what Hood had to say to Rodgers. Herbert was an intelligence man. And right now, he had very little intelligence to go on.
But he did know two things. One was that the news was grave.
Paul Hood had been mayor of Los Angeles before coming to Op-Center. He was a politician. Hood's silence a moment
ago was not about keeping secrets. It was about protocol. His tone had told Herbert that the news was bad. The fact that Hood did not want to tell Herbert, his trusted number-three man, meant that Mike Rodgers was entitled to hear it first. That told Herbert it was personal.
The other thing Herbert knew was that Alison Carter was right: Neutrality was a myth.
Herbert was an optimist. Whatever this was and whatever it took, he would help his teammates beat it.
FIVE
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 4:35 P.M.
The Okavango River is the fourth longest river system in southern Africa. The wide
river runs southeasterly for over
1,000 miles, from central Angola to northern Botswana. There, it ends in a vast delta known as the Okavango Swamp. In 1849, the Scottish explorer David Livingstone was the first European to visit the region. He described the swamp as "vast, humid, and unpleasant with all manner of biting insects."
"Vast" is an understatement.
The great, triangular delta covers an area of some 6,500 miles. Much of the region is under three feet of water during the rainy season. For the rest of the year, just over half the swamp is as dry as the surrounding plains. Amphibians such as frogs and salamanders breed in cycles that produce offspring who are air breathers by the time the rains stop. Other animals, such as lungfish and tortoises, burrow into the mud and estivate to survive.
The Moremi Wildlife Reserve is located beyond the northeastern corner of the Okavango Swamp. The reserve's 1,500 square miles are a strikingly different world from the marshland, a self-sustaining ecosystem of lions and cheetahs, wild pigs and wildebeests, hippopotamuses and crocodiles, storks and egrets, geese and quail, and rivers filled with pike and tiger fish.
There is only one animal that dwells in both regions. And right now, a force of them was making its way from one area to the other.
After leaving the Maun tourist center, Leon Seronga had led his four-vehicle caravan north through the reserve. The unit
was riding Mercedes Sprinters that had been given to them by the Belgian. "The Necessary Evil," as Seronga referred to him in private, among his men. Each van held fourteen passengers. The vehicles had been flown to the Belgian's private airfield in Lehutu in the Kalahari. That was where they had been painted the green and khaki of Moremi Ranger Patrol vans. Before crossing the reserve with their prisoner, the men had all donned the olive-green uniforms of rangers. If any real rangers or army patrols stopped the RPVs, or if they were spotted by tour groups or Botswana field forces, they would claim to be searching for the paramilitary unit that had kidnapped the priest. Depending upon who approached, Leon's team was equipped with the proper documentation. The Belgian had provided that as well.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 3