by Tom Clancy
The General studied the map. They were really out in the boondocks. And if Herbert could hear the pursuers, it was unlikely a car or even chopper could get to them in time.
Rodgers looked over at McCaskey. "Have we got anything on that police officer yet?" "Working." Working. Rodgers always had a visceral reaction to that word: he hated it. He liked things to be done.
He also hated giving bad news to people in the field.
But bad news was better than ignorance, so he got back on the line.
"Bob, NRO is trying to spot you. Maybe we can keep you moving away from the enemy. Meanwhile, we're still looking for the officer. Thing is, even if we find him it doesn't look like you're any place easy to get to." "Tell me about it," Herbert said. "Goddamn trees and hills everywhere." "Would it be better if you tried to flank the enemy?" "Negative," Herbert said. "The terrain is rough here, but it looks rockier on either side. We'd literally be crawling." He was silent for a moment. "But General? If you can at least find Rosenlocher, there is one thing you can try." Rodgers listened while Herbert extemporized. What the intelligence chief proposed was creative, ghoulish, and unlikely to succeed. But in the absence of anything else, it became their marching orders.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Thursday, 11:28 P.M., Toulouse, France
There were ten closed-circuit surveillance cameras tucked two-atop-two in a closet in Dominique's office. Before the building had begun to rumble, he was sitting in his leather chair, calmly watching the activity in the corridor and in the computer room.
The stupidity of these people, he'd been thinking as he watched them break into his system and find themselves cornered. Dominique would have been content to let them go if they hadn't gotten pushy and broken into his secret files. Ms. Bosworth didn't have that degree of skill, so it had to have been the other man who did it. Dominique hoped that man lived. He wanted to hire him.
Even when the French commandos closed in on the New Jacobins in the corridor, Dominique wasn't concerned.
He had sent word for other men to surround them. He had made certain that fully half of his hundred New Jacobins would be on the premises tonight. Nothing must go wrong with the downloading of his games.
Dominique wasn't concerned about anything until the building began to shake. Then his high forehead wrinkled and his dark eyes blinked, batting away the reflection of the TV screens. Using the control panel built into his top desk drawer, he switched to external views of the compound. On the river side the black-and-white screen was awash with white light. Dominique turned down the contrast and watched as an aircraft settled down, its navigation lights burning brightly. It was an airplane whose engines had tilted into the vertical so it could descend like a helicopter. The parking lot had cars scattered here and there so the aircraft was unable to land. As it hovered fifteen feet up the hatch opened. A pair of rope ladders were unwound and troops climbed down. NATO troops.
Dominique's mouth tensed. What is NATO doing here?
he roared inside, though he knew the answer. It was a newly defined mission designed to get him.
As twenty soldiers fell in on the asphalt of the parking lot, Dominique rang Alain Boulez. The former Paris police chief was waiting in the underground training area with the reserve force of New Jacobins.
"Alain, have you been watching your monitors?" "Yes, sir." "It appears NATO has nothing better to do than to attack member nations. See that they are turned back and notify me aboard Boldness." "Absolutely." Dominique called his Operations Director. "Etienne, what is the status of the uploading?" "Concentration Camp is finished, M. Dominique. Hangin' with the Crowd will be out there by midnight." "I need it faster," Dominique said.
"Sir, this was preset when we hid the program in—" "Faster," Dominique said. He switched off and punched up the pilot of his LongRanger helicopter. "Andre? I'm coming down. Ready Boldness." "At once, sir." Dominique clicked off. He stood and looked out at his collection of guillotines. They appeared ghostly in the glow of the TV screens. He heard one gunshot, then others.
He thought of Danton about to be beheaded, saying to his executioners, "Thou wilt show my head to the people: it is worth showing." Yet even if the plant fell, the games would be uploaded and he would be free. He would fall back to one of the many national and international facilities he'd designated as backup sites. His plastics firm in Taiwan. His bank in Paris. His CD-pressing plant in Madrid.
He shut down the TV screens, donned leather gloves, and walked briskly from his office toward the elevator. He was not retreating, he told himself. He was simply moving his headquarters. What a waste, he thought, if this first wild skirmish should claim him as a victim.
The elevator took him to an underground passage which led to the landing field behind the factory. He entered the code in the door at the end. When it popped open, he snatched a New Jacobin pistol from the gun rack, then climbed the steep steps. The LongRanger helicopter was already warming up. Dominique walked along the tail boom assembly, ducked under the spinning rotor blades, and was greeted by one of his official Demain guards, who came running over.
"Dominique, your factory guards are still not involved in this action. What do you want us to do?" Dominique replied, "Disassociate me from the New Jacobins. Make it seem as if they've come here uninvited to send the foreigners back home." The guard asked, "How can I do that, monsieur?" Dominique raised his pistol and shot the guard in the forehead. "By making it seem as if you resisted them," he said as he dropped the pistol and hopped from the boarding step into the cabin.
"Let's go!" he said to the pilot as he entered the spacious cabin. He pulled the door shut.
The flight deck was to his left. The copilot's seat was empty. In the main cabin, there were two rows of thickly cushioned seats. Dominique sat in the first one in front, beside the door. He didn't bother to buckle himself in as the helicopter rose.
The pounding drone of the chopper seemed to rattle away his facade of equanimity. Dominique scowled angrily as he looked back at the bastide. The VTOL had begun to move toward the field from which he'd just taken off. The craft took up a large section of the field as it set down. The NATO soldiers were no longer in the parking lot. Dominique could see flashes of gunfire through the windows and in the compound.
He felt violated. The soldiers were like Visigoths amok in an English church, destroying wantonly. He wanted to scream at them, "This is more than you understand! I am the manifest destiny of civilization!" The helicopter crossed the river. Then it circled back toward the bastide.
Dominique yelled to be heard over the rotor. "Andre, what are you doing?" The pilot didn't answer. The chopper began to descend.
"Andre? Andre!" The pilot said, "You told me over the phone that you followed all my moves. But you missed one. The one where I came up to your pilot and hit the poor fellow with twentyfive years of anger." Richard Hausen turned and regarded Dominique. The Frenchman felt ice shoot down his back.
"I took off to make room for the other craft," Hausen said. "Now you're going back, Gerard. Back twenty-five years, in fact." For a moment, Dominique considered an appropriate response. But only for a moment. As in Paris those many years ago, the idea of debate was pushed aside by the stench of Hausen's sanctimony. Dominique hated it. Just as he had hated it when Hansen had defended those girls.
Losing control of the delicate balance between danger and need, between reason and desire, Dominique threw himself at Hausen with an inarticulate cry. He grabbed the German's hair from behind and pulled his head back, over the seat.
Hausen screamed as Dominique yanked down hard, trying to break his neck. The German released the control stick and began clawing at the Frenchman's wrist. The chopper nosed down instantly and Dominique fell against the back of the pilot's seat. He released Hausen, who was thrown against the systems display.
Groggy, his forehead bloodied, the German struggled to get his bearings. Pushing off the windshield, he managed to find the control stick.
The choppe
r came out of its dive. As it did, Dominique slid around the pilot's seat. The headphones had fallen to the floor and he picked them up. With an eye on the control stick, Dominique slipped the cord around Hausen's neck and pulled tightly.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Thursday, 5:41 P.M., Washington, D.C.
Mike Rodgers was studying a map of Germany on the computer when Darrell McCaskey looked over with a thumbs-up.
"Got him!" said McCaskey. "Hauptmann Rosenlocher's on the line!" Rodgers picked up his phone. "Hauptmann Rosenlocher," Rodgers said, "do you speak English?" "Yes. Who is this?" "General Mike Rodgers in Washington, D.C. Sir, I'm sorry to be calling so late. It's about the attack on the movie set, the kidnapping." "Ja?" he said impatiently. "We've been following clues all day. I've only just arrived—" "We have the girl," Rodgers said.
"Was?" "One of my men found her," Rodgers said. "They're in the woods near Wunstorf." "There's a rally in those woods," said Rosenlocher.
"Karin Doring and her group. We believe Felix Richter may have gone there as well. My investigators were looking into it." "Your investigation was compromised," Rodgers said.
"How do you know that?" "They tried to kill my man and the girl," Rodgers relied.
"Hauptmann, they've been running for hours and there isn't time to get help to them. A large group of neo-Nazis is closing in on my man. If we're going to save them, I need you to do something for me." "What?" Rodgers told him. The Hauptanann agreed. A minute later, Op-Center's communications expert Rosalind Green was making the arrangements.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Thursday, 11:49 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany
The phone beeped in the dark.
The man nearest it, young Rolf Murnau, stopped and listened. When he heard the muffled beep a second time, he turned his flashlight to the left. Then he walked several paces, through closely knit branches. His flashlight beam formed a cone of light on top of a body. From the broad shoulders, he could tell the body was that of Manfred Piper.
Beyond it lay Karin Doring's body.
"Come here!" Rolf shouted. "My God, come quickly!" Several men and women ran over at once, their flashlight beams crisscrossing as they approached. Several gathered around Manfred's body and looked down as the phone rang a third time, then a fourth. Several others ran over to Karin Doring.
Rolf had already bent beside the body. The blood had formed a large, dark blot on the back of Manfred's jacket, with tendrils reaching down the sides. Rolf turned the body over slowly. Manfred's eyes were shut, his mouth open and lopsided.
"She's dead," a man said from Karin's side. "Damn them, dead!" The phone rang again and then again. Rolf looked up into the beams. "What should I do?" he asked.
Footsteps crunched toward him. "Answer it," Felix Richter said.
"Yes, sir," Rolf said. He was numb from the loss of his leaders, his heroes, as he reached into Manfred's jacket. He removed the phone. After a moment of feeling invasive, then ghoulish, he flipped open the unit and answered.
"Ja?" he said tentatively.
"This is Hauptmann Karl Rosenlocher," said the caller.
"I want to speak with whoever is in command of you animals." Rolf looked up at the light. "Herr Richter? He wants to speak with the commander." "Who does?" Richter asked.
Rolf said, "Hauptmann Karl Rosenlocher." Even in the dark Rolf saw Richter stiffen. More and more of the neo-Nazis were gathering as word spread of the deaths. Groups formed around Karin and Manfred as Richter stood there.
Jean-Michel arrived as Richter took the phone. Slowly, the German brought it to his mouth.
"This is Felix Richter." "You know my voice," said Rosenlocher. "I want you to hear this voice." A moment later a young woman said in English, "I told you you didn't beat me. You'll never win, any of you." Richter said, "Child, we will come after you." Rosenlocher came back on. "No you won't, Herr Richter. She's safe with me, along with the American who got her out. He called for me to collect them. As for you, this is one fire you won't be escaping." Richter's eyes peered through the dark woods as he motioned several men over. He covered the mouthpiece.
"Guns," he said. "Get ready with your guns!" The men raised their weapons.
Richter said, "I'll meet force with force of my own." "It won't do you any good," Rosenlocher said slowly, confidently. "This fire is from within." "What are you talking about?" "How do you think the American got to your camp tonight?" Rosenlocher asked. "He's one man in a wheelchair.
Or is he?" Richter peered into the dark.
"You were infiltrated, Herr Richter," said Rosenlocher.
"My people are with you now. They helped him.
"You're lying," Richter said tensely.
"They've been with you all day," said Rosenlocher: "Watching. Preparing. Helping the American. You've lost key personnel tonight, haven't you, Herr Richter?" Richter wasn't able to see very far in the thick night. "I don't believe this, and I don't believe you." "Come after me. Perhaps a firelight will ensue. People will be firing into the dark. Who knows who will fall, Herr Richter? From which site will the bullet come?" "You wouldn't dare murder me," said the neo-Nazi.
"The truth will be discovered. You'll be ruined. There are laws." Rosenlocher said, "Karin ignored them when she attacked the movie set. Do you think the public will care, Herr Richter? Will they really care when they learn that coldblooded murderers were slain?" Richer said, "You won't win, Hauptmann. If I terminate this chase or leave now, you can do nothing!" "It's out of my hands," said Rosenlocher. "I'm only calling to say good-bye. That, and to let you know I will not be among those who mourn." The Hauptmann hung up. Richter threw down the telephone. "Damn his blood!" "What is it?" someone asked.
Richter shook a fist and glared at his accomplices.
"Hauptmann Rosenlocher says that we have been infiltrated by members of the Hamburg Landespolizei." Rolf said, "Here?" "Here," Richter said. He looked around. "Of course he's lying. It's idiotic, insane!" He thought aloud, "But why lie?
He has the girl and the American. What does he gain?" "Maybe he wasn't lying," one man said nervously.
Richter looked at him. "Do you want me to call off the pursuit? Maybe you are one of his men!" "Herr Richter!" shouted another. "I have known Jorgen for years. He is true to the cause." "Maybe the policeman is lying," said another man.
"Why?" Richter asked. "What does he gain? Fear?
Dissent? Indecision? Panic?" He roared gutturally, "What does he gain?" Jean-Michel said from behind him, "Time." Richter spun on him. "What are you talking about?" "The Hauptmann gains time," Jean-Michel said smoothly. "We find the bodies, stop to take care of them, then stand around trying to figure out who may or may not be a traitor. And as we do, Rosenlocher puts more distance between himself and us." "To what end?" Richter asked. "He has what he came for." "Does he?" asked Jean-Michel. "I don't think the American and the girl have had enough time to reach the Autobahn. Perhaps the cripple had a phone with him and called the Hauptmann." The Frenchman came closer. "You did, after all, give a speech in which you named your worst enemy." Richter glared at him.
Jean-Michel asked, "It isn't difficult to generate a conference call, to make it seem as if Rosenlocher, the American, and the girl are all together." Richter shut his eyes.
"You made the kind of mistake a leader cannot afford to make," said Jean-Michel. "You told the American how to beat you, provided him with the name of the one man he could trust. And now you may be giving that enemy the chance to weaken you with an old psychological game." Richter bent slowly at the knees. Then he shook his fists at the sky and screamed, "Get them!" The Germans hesitated.
"We should take care of the bodies," said one man.
"That's what the Hauptmann wants you to do!" Richter screamed.
"I don't care," said the man. "It's the right thing." Rolf was in turmoil, buffeted by grief and rage. But above all, there was duty. He turned his flashlight around and started out. "I'm going after the Americans," he said.
"That's what Karin D
oring and Manfred Piper would have wanted, and that's what I'm going to do." Several others followed wordlessly, then more and more of them joined in. They moved quickly to make up for lost time and also to bum off their anger.
But as Rolf picked his way through the woods, tears rolled down his cheeks. The tears of a little boy who was still very close to the surface of the young man. The tears of someone whose dreams of a future with Feuer had just turned to ash.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Thursday, 11:15 P.M., Toulouse, France
Colonel Brett August's primary job with NATO was to help plan maneuvers. Though his specialty was infantry assaults, he had been fortunate to work with experts in aerial and nautical attacks as well. One of the men with him, Airman Boisard, had worked on aerial extractions in Bosnia.
August enjoyed working with men like him to see which maneuvers could be transplanted, mixed, and mutated to surprise the enemy.
For the bastide, however, he had decided to go with a simple, proven two-by-two assault. Two men advance while two men cover, then the two covering men move in while the forward pair covers them. Even if eight or ten or twenty men were going in, four men were always responsible for each other. It enabled the assault to remain tight, focused, and to strike with laser accuracy. If a man fell, the squad switched to a double-leapfrog assault. The rear man moves to the middle while the front man covers, then moves to the front while the rear man covers. That way, he isn't accidentally shot by his own teammate. If two men fell, the remaining two went in leapfrog. If three men fell, the last man hunkered down and tried to keep the enemy pinned down.
Twenty-two NATO troops entered the Demain factory under August's command. One man caught a slug in the hand, another in the knee. Among the Gendarmerie personnel, only Colonel Ballon was hurt with a bullet in the shoulder. Three of the twenty-eight New Jacobin terrorists died and fourteen were wounded.