War of Eagles o-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Can you go to work for Paul?”

  “He has not asked,” Benet said.

  “Maybe he will,” Rodgers said. “If not, I will talk with the people in my organization.”

  “I appreciate that, sir,” Benet said.

  Rodgers put away his cell phone and went back to studying the documents. He bent low over them in case the room had video surveillance. Whenever he walked away, he folded them over. Rodgers used a grease pencil to mark spots on the rocket that his scientists had told him were not just vulnerable but relatively invisible. Bombs in these locations would weigh the rocket down without necessarily destabilizing it. Even five pounds of explosives, positioned off-center — on a stabilizing fin, for example — would pull the rocket quickly off course. That would only help an attacker if the goal were a near-site explosion. Then he folded the blueprints and turned to studying the plans of the launch complex. He had four marines to cover 1,200 square kilometers of terrain. If they ruled out a possible attack from a rocket-propelled grenade, they could limit the patrol area to just the launch pad. Could they afford to make that assumption?

  We might have to, he thought.

  Besides, a rocket-propelled grenade was not the modus operandi of either man. There was also a chance that a oneor two-man team would be spotted by Chinese security forces. They had to assume that any attack would be executed as close to the rocket as possible.

  Working on these scenarios, Rodgers felt less like an officer of Unexus and more like an officer of Op-Center. Despite the risks to his employer, he liked the excitement. He also liked the fact that he was in this with a military professional and not Paul Hood. General Carrie may not have liked what he requested, but she asked the right questions and reached the right decision.

  Now he had to do the same thing.

  Rodgers ordered room service as he worked on the map. He circled several points around the pad and gantry where virtually all the personnel would be visible going about their activities. An explosive device might be placed late in the countdown to avoid detection. If so, they might be able to spot it from these positions.

  Exactly an hour after Benet’s call, the front desk called. There was a visitor to see Mr. Rodgers. The former general asked who it was.

  “A messenger with a package from a man named Herbert,” the caller informed him.

  Rodgers asked to have the messenger sent up. He took a bite of seared tuna from his neglected dinner tray, then walked over to the TV and turned it on. He did not know whether the rooms of foreigners were still bugged in Beijing. He did not intend to take the risk.

  The young man who appeared at his door was exactly what Rodgers had expected. Dressed in an olive green jacket with a reflective orange stripe down the back, he was a somber young man with hard eyes, full shoulders, and a ramrod-straight posture. He looked like someone who rode a motor scooter around town and then bench-pressed it. He handed the general a package and a clipboard.

  “I require a signature, sir,” the messenger said.

  Rodgers invited him in. The young man entered, and Rodgers looked down the hall.

  The messenger pointed to his own eyes then made a zero with his fingers. That meant he had checked, and no one was there. He also understood that the room might be bugged.

  Rodgers nodded and shut the door. He went to the television.

  The messenger followed. He looked down at the papers as they walked past the bed. They were unfolded now, but shielded by Rodgers and the new arrival. His eyes were like little machines, stopping on each for a moment before moving on. It was a standard reconnoitering process: floating data. If the marine saw anything important, he would keep it in his head until he could mention it or write it in a secure place.

  The former general did not ask the marine his name or any other personal information about himself or the team.

  “What do you know of this situation?” Rodgers asked.

  “We were told you would brief us,” the young marine said.

  “The plan is still evolving,” Rodgers said quietly. He threw a glance at the papers. “I will be working on it for at least another few hours. There’s a map. I want to pick a spot to meet you before we go in—”

  “Sir, General Carrie has ordered that there be no civilian component to our mission,” the marine told him.

  Rodgers did not know quite what to say. He said nothing.

  “I am sorry, sir. I assumed you understood,” the marine added.

  “No,” Rodgers said.

  The marine had spoken without emotion or apology. Rodgers expected no less. Marines regarded themselves as representatives of their commanders. As such, they were unfailingly proud and loyal. For his part, though, Rodgers was anything but unemotional. He did not like being left out or outsmarted. He had already agreed that Hood could represent them in the viewing area. If Rodgers did not go to Xichang with the marines as one of the new “technical advisers,” he had no way of getting in. And if he tried that, Carrie might pull her team.

  “Wait here,” Rodgers said and went to get his cell phone. “And help yourself to some dinner. I don’t feel like eating at the moment.”

  Rodgers grabbed the phone from the bed and went into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower so he would not be heard. Then he called General Carrie’s office. Benet put her on the line.

  “I understand my messenger is there. Have you got all the answers I asked for?” Carrie asked.

  “Nearly,” Rodgers informed her. “First I have one more question. Why was I excluded?”

  “You were not excluded. You were never included. This has always been members only,” she said. She was still being vague, thus reminding Rodgers that they could still be overhead.

  “I would like to change that.”

  “No,” Carrie replied.

  “Ten eyes are better than eight. They are better for the work and for security,” Rodgers insisted.

  “My view is that two or more eyes will be on you, making sure you are all right. That is a net loss, not a gain.”

  “You act like I’ve never gone into business with new partners,” Rodgers said through his teeth.

  “I am not in a position to rate your performance, which is why I am denying your request.”

  “Talk to August,” Rodgers said.

  Colonel Brett August was the head of Striker, the former military detachment at the NCMC. When Striker was disbanded, he went to work at the Pentagon.

  “I have my plate full reviewing current personnel,” she said. “Talking to a former employee about another former employee is not at the top of my to-do list. Do we have an understanding or not? I have a lot to do.”

  “Of course we do,” Rodgers said. The security of the rocket had to come first. “But I can help them.”

  “I believe that is why the messenger is there—”

  “Would you leave this up to him?” Rodgers asked suddenly.

  “No,” she answered.

  General Carrie hung up. Rodgers closed the phone and slowly tucked it in his pocket. He had a hand on the white porcelain sink. His fingertips were white. He had not realized how tightly he was squeezing the rim. He released it and flexed his fingers. He glanced at the door. He thought he saw a shadow move on the highly polished parquet floor. Rodgers did not know if the marine had been listening. Nor did it matter. There was nothing to hear. Rodgers considered calling Hood to try to rescind their agreement. But he had probably already told the prime minister. In any case, Rodgers was unsure of his own motives. At this moment he did not know whether he wanted to protect the rocket or whether he wanted to go just to shout a big “screw you” at General Carrie. He turned off the shower and went back into the room. Rodgers stood beside the TV, facing the marine. The former general’s eyes were on the floor.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” the marine asked.

  Not entirely, Rodgers decided. He wanted to be there to look after the Unexus payload, and he wanted to teach Carrie manners. He under
stood her protectiveness but not her intransigence. Military protocol gave leeway for civilian involvement. At Op-Center he had often worked with outsiders on missions. In Vietnam, he had helped to recruit them as guides. Even though Rodgers no longer wore the uniform of his country, he had served it with his life and his blood, his mind and his soul, for decades. He deserved better than Carrie’s cool dismissal.

  What was worse, he needed a place to put the increasing anger he felt about it. But that was not this marine’s problem.

  “Let me go over the data with you,” Rodgers said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And let me ask you something,” Rodgers said. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six, sir.”

  “I was a soldier for more years than that.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “They gave you a file on me?”

  “Yes, sir,” the marine said.

  “What was your impression?”

  “Sir, it’s not my place—”

  “I asked,” Rodgers said.

  “Sir, I’m humbled by your question,” the young marine replied. “If I serve half as well as you did, I will consider my life very well spent.”

  That was a surprise. “You’re not just blowing sunshine?”

  “I took your request as if it were an order, General. May I add, sir, that for someone who wasn’t a marine, you surely kicked some tail.”

  Rodgers could not help but smile at that. He felt the sword leave his hand. It was not yet sheathed, but he did not feel the need to lop heads.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some food, a beverage?” Rodgers asked.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Then let’s go to my command center,” Rodgers said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked to the papers that lay on the bed and floor.

  FORTY

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 12:00 P.M.

  Liz Gordon left General Carrie’s office to check her E-mail and her voice mail. She had her PowerBook under one arm and her coffee mug in the other hand. Between them was a heart that was drumming just a little more than she would have liked, and a shortness of breath that alarmed her.

  Liz did not know whether the cause of her anxiety was the topic of her own employment or something else. Liz knew that she would have to undergo the same kind of scrutiny the others were getting. What the psychologist did not know was whether she would be part of that selfevaluation process or not. It would be interesting to see how the general handled that.

  Interesting and possibly humiliating, she thought.

  Liz had never seen her own dossier. The file was only available to the director of the NCMC and to the head of Human Resources. But Liz knew one thing that had to be there. Because of the potential one-strike nature of the offense, Paul Hood would have been obligated to record it.

  Liz swung into her sparse office. The safe, familiar surroundings allowed her to relax a little. Liz did not have, nor require, nor want a human assistant. The Chips Family did everything for her. That was how she anthropomorphized her computers. Her former roommate, an artist, drew little Post-it faces for her to affix to her office equipment. The blue pen drawings were the various foodlike avatars of the microprocessor. Potato Chip stored her audio messages, Corn Chip stored her E-mails, Paint Chip managed her calendar, and the infamous Buffalo Chip held sway over her personnel files. Blue Chip kept track of her budget here, which was easy. Except for occasional outside consultants, there was no budget beyond her salary. Black ops files, including profiles of foreign and domestic leaders, were the province of Chocolate Chip. Those files were comaintained by her and Bob Herbert.

  The Chip Family did their work without prompting and without taking time off. They even replied with a variety of messages, spoken and typed, when Liz was away from her desk.

  For a psychologist it was a mixed blessing. There were never any disputes, just an occasional ailment that Matt Stoll and his team could easily repair. But there was also no human interaction, no laboratory experiment she could follow day after day. When she was a student coming to terms with her own nontraditional life, Liz would turn outward and watch others as if they were a living soap opera. The drama was satisfying, and her prediction rate for how people would react and how situations would evolve was exceptionally high.

  Liz would be returning to General Carrie’s office for a working lunch. She was happy for this respite, not because she needed a break from the profiling and reviews, but because she needed more coffee and her nicotine gum.

  She also needed a short break from Morgan Carrie. Thinking about the general caused her breath to shorten again. And this time it had nothing to do with whatever was in Liz’s dossier.

  Damn that, she thought.

  The thirty-five-year-old woman put the PowerBook and mug on the desk and plopped into her swivel chair. She landed harder than she expected and nearly fell backwards. Her arms shot out in front of her.

  Balance, the woman thought as she sat up. She pulled a square of gum from its wrapper and pushed it into her mouth. She did not have equilibrium at the moment. She took a breath, brushed curly brown hair from her forehead, and tried to distract herself by scanning her E-mail. The words flashed by without registering. Her heart began to speed again.

  The general was an impressive woman. After Paul Hood and his dull consensus management style, Carrie’s ability to make a strong decision, whether informed or intuitive, was refreshing.

  Is that all it is? Liz asked. Refreshing?

  Liz stopped going through the E-mail. She would only have to do it again later. She poured black coffee from the pot behind her. The morning brew was bitter. She did not care. She winced as she took a sip, then resumed chewing her nicotine gum. Feeding one habit while crushing another.

  Shit, Liz thought angrily. Her life made no sense. She had ended one relationship because it was too much to handle. Now her imagination was flashdancing into another that would never be. And even if it could, it would be a professional disaster. As a psychologist, she knew she was being reckless. Unfortunately, she was also a human being. Understanding the problem and being able to do something about it were very different things.

  Liz grabbed her mug and went back to the general’s office. The only way through this was straight ahead. She once had a fast crush on a teacher at college. She would deal with this as she dealt with that: as long as she did not think about anything but her job, she should be all right.

  Bugs had sent out for sandwiches. Liz sat back down and opened her egg salad. Carrie had selected roast beef. Liz’s heart had slowed, but not much. The general was looking at the computer monitor when Liz arrived. Liz poked her gum on the edge of the wrapper before she ate.

  “There is only one person we have not talked about,” Carrie said.

  “I know,” Liz said. Her heart was at maximum. She felt exposed, not just because of whatever Hood had written but where the questions might lead. She had to trust that Carrie would recognize and respect the boundary between the professional and the personal.

  “Paul Hood had very little to say about you,” Carrie pointed out.

  “As I said, Paul did not think much about what I had to contribute,” Liz replied. But “very little” was not “nothing.” The psychologist was anxious as she waited for what had to be coming.

  “He does mention a conflict between you and the late Martha Mackall,” Carrie said.

  There it is, she thought with an anxiety that settled in the small of her back. “What did Paul say?”

  “That Ms. Mackall formally requested you and she attend separate briefings,” Carrie said. “She rescinded the request the same day.”

  “There was a little accidental tension between us.”

  “Paul wrote that Ms. Mackall initially found your presence a ‘complete and irreconcilable distraction,’ ” the general replied. “Those are strong words for a little accident.”

  “Martha was a strong woman.”

  “Paul writes that h
e denied her request, which resulted in her withdrawing it,” Carrie said. She looked at Liz. “Do you want to tell me what that was about? It’s your call.”

  “I believe in full disclosure,” Liz said. She set her sandwich down and hunched forward. “Martha was convinced that I had made an amorous advance toward her.” The word amorous snagged in her throat, a lump of truth she could not easily get around.

  “Did you?”

  “No. But there was a moment, General — it was stupid, I admit,” Liz said, “and it was completely inadvertent. We were all about to go upstairs to Andrews to greet Striker’s plane from North Korea. Martha and I had been working very closely for — Christ, it was about thirty-six hours straight. What happened was that I forgot myself. I blanked, literally. There was a woman standing next to me, I was tired, and I thought she was my roommate. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her toward me the way I do—did—with Monica. Martha freaked.”

  “Did you explain?”

  “Of course, and I apologized. But we were with Bob and Darrell and others, and Martha was very image conscious.”

  “Was Paul there?”

  “No. She went to him when we got back. Paul smoothed it over, but Martha still wanted it recorded as a one-strike situation. Paul refused.”

  “Kind of him. He could have used it to close down your position.”

  “I know. I always appreciated that,” Liz said.

  “But I understand Martha’s point of view, too,” Carrie acknowledged. “Her complaint was her form of cover your ass. The glass ceiling for women is tough enough. For gay women, it’s worse.”

  “Yes,” Liz said. She wanted desperately to ask how Carrie knew that. Maybe another time.

  Carrie closed the file and took a bite of sandwich. “Okay. HR says there has been no change in your personnel file for seven months.”

  “Correct.”

  “That was when you changed your insurance form from a domestic partnership to a single.”

  “Right,” Liz replied quietly. The alarm in her back was now a small tickle.