by Tom Clancy
"How've you been?" Lincoln asked, extending his hand.
"Passing fair, Av."
"That was a good job your people did at Independence Hall on the Fourth. Very impressive."
"Thanks, but it's never really a good job when hostages are hurt."
Lincoln waved a hand with disgust. "No one was killed. That's what matters. Hell, when you've got to coordinate efforts between local police, the FBI, and your own Striker personnel, with the media looking over your shoulder, that's a goddamn miracle." He poured himself a cup of coffee. "It's like this situation, Paul. Already on TV, experts flapping their lips in the media— there'll be opinion polls before breakfast telling us why seventy-seven percent of the American public doesn't think we should even be in Korea or anywhere else."
Hood looked at his watch.
"Burkow rang down, said they were running late," Lincoln said. "The President's on the phone with Ambassador Hall. He doesn't want Americans moving into or being turned away from the Embassy unless he okays it, or any statements or actions that show any kind of panic."
"Of course."
"You know it's easy for these things to become self-fulfilling prophesies."
Hood nodded. "Any word yet on who did it?"
"None. Everyone's condemned it, including the North Koreans. But the government doesn't talk for the extreme hard-liners, so who knows?"
The Defense Secretary said from across the room, "The North Koreans always condemn terrorism, even their own. When they shot down that stray KAL jet, they condemned it even as they were combing the wreckage for spy cameras."
"And they found them," Lincoln said behind his hand as he wandered back toward the others.
Hood reflected on the shoot-first policy of the North Koreans as he poured himself coffee. The last time he was here was when the Russians shot down a Lithuanian spy plane and the President decided not to press them hard on it. He would never forget the way Lincoln literally stood up and said, "What do you think world leaders would say if we ever shot down a foreign aircraft? We'd be crucified!"
He was right. For some reason, the rules were different for the U.S.
Hood took a seat at the northwest side of the table, as far from the President as possible. He liked to watch as the others jockeyed for authority, and this was the best seat in the house. Op-Center's Staff Psychologist, Liz Gordon, had told him what to look for in body language: hands folded on the table was submissive, sitting erect showed confidence while sitting forward was insecurity— "Look at me, look at me!" — and the head angled was patronizing. "It's like a fighter showing you his chin," she said, "daring you to hit it because he thinks you can't."
No sooner had he sat down than Hood heard the outside door pop open, followed by the resonant voice of the President of the United States. During the campaign two years before, one columnist had said that that voice was what won over the crucial undecideds: it seemed to start from somewhere around the knees, and by the time it reached his mouth it was full of Olympian grandeur and power. That, plus his six-foot-four-inch height, made him look and sound presidential, though he had spent a lot of that capital explaining two foreign policy fiascos. The first was sending food and arms to Bhutanese rebels opposing an oppressive regime, a revolt that ended with thousands of arrests and executions and left the regime stronger than ever. The second was kid-gloving a border dispute between Russia and Lithuania, which ended with Moscow not only taking land from the small republic but placing soldiers there as well. That forced a massive exodus to the city of Kaunas, which resulted in food riots and hundreds of deaths.
His credibility in Europe was damaged, his clout on the Hill was hobbled, and he couldn't afford another misstep— especially with a longtime ally.
National Security Adviser Burkow did everything but pull out the President's chair for him as they walked in. He poured coffee for them both as they sat down, the President speaking even before everyone else was seated.
"Gentlemen," he said, "as you know, an hour and fifteen minutes ago a sound truck exploded in front of Kyongbok Palace in Seoul. Several dozen spectators and politicians were killed, and so far the KCIA hasn't a clue as to who, what, and why. There was no advance warning, and no one's called to take credit. Ambassador Hall has made no request other than that we reiterate our support for the government and people of South Korea, and I have authorized Press Secretary Tracy to do just that. Ambassador Hall will immediately issue a statement condemning the act in general." He sat back. "Ernie, in the event that it is North Korea, our standard operating policy would be what?"
The Defense Secretary turned to one of the secretaries and said, "File NK-AS." By the time he turned back to the table, the NORTH KOREA-ALERT SITUATION file was on the screen. He folded his hands.
"To summarize, Mr. President, our policy is to go to Defcon 5. We put our bases in the South and in Japan on High Alert and begin flying over troops from Ft. Pendleton and Ft. Ord. If intelligence picks up any sign that Korean troops are mobilizing, we go immediately to Defcon 4 and start moving in our ships from the Indian Ocean, so the Rapid Deployment Forces will be in position. If the North Koreans match our movements with further deployments of their own, the dominos fall fast and we move quickly through the accelerated deployment of Defcon 3, 2, and 1." He glanced at the screen and touched his finger to the chapter heading WAR GAMES. "When we reach the point of no return, we have three possible scenarios."
Hood looked from face to face. Everyone was calm, save for Lincoln who was leaning forward and tapping his right foot quickly. This was his kind of situation, his kind of big stick response. At the opposite end of the spectrum was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Melvin Parker. His face and posture were subdued, like Ernie Colon's. In situations like these, it was never the military men who advocated force. They understood the price of even a successful operation. It was always the politicians and appointees who were frustrated or impatient and wanted to get themselves a victory, however quick and dirty.
The Secretary of Defense pulled on reading glasses and studied the monitor. He ran his finger down the menu and touched the screen where it said DEFENSE WHITE PAPER UPDATE.
"If there's a war and the U.S. assumes a support role only, South Korea falls to the North in a matter of two or three weeks. You can see the matchup between the North and ROKA for yourself."
Hood studied the figures. They looked as bad for the Republic of Korea Army as Colon had said.
Military Balance of the North and South is as follows:
After a few seconds, Colon brought up the menu again and touched U.S. 8TH ARMY UPDATE.
"The second scenario has our forces in the South becoming involved. Even then, the odds are not in our favor."
Hood looked at the new screen.
United States Forces in South Korea, Number of Personnel
Army: 25,000
Navy: 400
Air Force: 9,500
Tanks: 200
Armored Vehicles: 500
Tactical Aircraft: 100
"The only value of us joining the South Koreans on the battlefield is the deterrent factor: does North Korea really want a war with the United States?"
CIA Director Kidd asked, "Isn't that same deterrent present if we're in a strictly support mode?"
"Unfortunately, no. If Pyongyang thinks we haven't got the belly for a scrap, he'll push to Seoul the same way Baghdad went after Kuwait when they thought we'd sit on the sidelines."
"And wasn't he surprised," Lincoln muttered.
The President said impatiently, "And the third scenario is a preemptive strike?"
"Right," Colon said. "We and the South Koreans together take out communications centers, supply lines, and nuclear reprocessing plants with conventional weapons. If the war games simulations are correct, the North Koreans go to the negotiating table."
"Why wouldn't they turn to China and retaliate?" asked CIA Director Kidd.
Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Parker said, "Because they kno
w that since the aid cutbacks of 1968, and the inability since 1970 of the twelve ROK and two U.S. divisions to successfully stave off an attack, our defense plans have been keyed almost entirely to the early use of nuclear weapons."
"Did we leak that information?" the President asked.
"No, sir. They read it in military journals. Christ, in 1974, Time or Rolling Stone or someone who hated Nixon did an article on our nuclear plans for Korea."
Kidd leaned back. "That still doesn't give us any kind of assurance they won't turn to China, and that Beijing won't support them with nuclear weapons."
"We just don't see that as happening." Colon went to the menu and touched the heading CHINA OPTION. "Mel, the CONEX games are your area—"
"Right." Despite the comfortable air-conditioning in the room, the diminutive Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was perspiring. "We ran a Conflict Exercise of a scenario similar to this a while back, after Jimmy Carter went to North Korea for his little chat with Kim Il Sung. Given the military situation in China and psychological profiles of its leaders— which your people provided, Paul— we found that if we loosened restrictions on business investments in China, and concurrently authorized the shipment of arms to anti-Chinese factions in Nepal through India, the Chinese would be unlikely to become involved."
"How unlikely?" the President asked.
"Eighty-seven percent chance of sitting on the sidelines."
"We came up with a slightly different percentage in our own SAGA simulations," Colon said, "about seventy percent. But the Studies, Analysis, and Gaming Agency didn't have up-to-date psych profiles, so I'm inclined to go with Mel's findings."
Though Hood was listening intently, his expression impassive, he found himself somewhat anxious about Liz's findings. He had a great deal of respect for his Staff Psychologist, just as he held his Operations Support Officer Matt Stoll in high regard. But he put computer analyses and psychology in the place and show slots, respectively, after good old-fashioned intuition. His Press Officer Ann Farris joked that he never met a gut feeling he didn't like, and she was right.
The President glanced at the clock on the bottom of the monitor, then steepled his hands. Colon motioned to the secretary to clear the screen, and Hood watched as screen saver missiles flew left and right across the monitor.
"Gentlemen," the President said after a long silence, "I would like all of you to serve on the Korean Task Force for the duration, and Paul" — he looked squarely at Hood— "I want you to head it up."
He caught the Op-Center Director off-guard— as well as everyone else in the room.
"You'll bring me an Options Paper in four hours. Barring further acts of terrorism or aggression, you'll proceed under the assumption that there will be some level of graduated deployment but no military action for the first twenty-four hours. That should give your people and the rest of the Task Force time to evaluate intelligence and write me an addendum." The President rose. "Thank you all. Av— meet me in the Oval Office at six so we can discuss the situation with our allies. Ernie, Mel— we'll brief the cabinet and members of the Armed Services Committee at seven. And, Paul, I'll see you at nine-thirty."
The President left, trailed by the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Av Lincoln walked over to Hood.
"Congratulations, Paul. I sense an ass-kicking." He leaned close. "Just make sure it isn't your ass that gets kicked."
He was right. The President had never given Op-Center a foreign crisis, and doing so now meant that he intended to strike hard and decisively, if given the chance. Should anything go wrong, he could pin it on the new kids on the block, shut down the agency, and suffer only minimal political damage. Then Hood could take a low-paying position at the Carter Center or the United States Institute of Peace, a convert to pacifism, a reformed sinner trotted out for public scourgings at dinners and symposia.
Av gave him a thumbs-up as he left, and after collecting his thoughts, Hood followed him to the elevator. In addition to having to take the fall for any failure, Hood wasn't keen on having to spend the next four hours playing ringmaster to a bureaucratic turf war as he teleconferenced with everyone who had been in attendance, formulating a cohesive strategy from six people with six very different agendas. It was part of the job, and he did it well, but he hated the way people did what was best for party and agency first and second, and for the country a distant third.
Still, there was the bright side to look at, the chance that he might just pull all this off. And as he contemplated that, the adrenaline began to flow. If the President was willing to take risks with Op-Center, Hood had to be willing to take greater risks to make sure that Op-Center earned its international credentials once and for all. Like one of his heroes, Babe Ruth, when you got your turn at bat you swung for the home run, not the double, and you didn't think about striking out. Even if, like the Babe, you did that sixty percent of the time you stepped to the plate
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday, 5:25 A.M., Quantico
Marine Corps Air Station, VA
The battle was long and hard-fought, bodies falling everywhere, faces twisting in anguish, commands and cries shattering the early morning silence.
"They're such assholes," Melissa Squires said to the other wives around the picnic table. She tapped the back of her husband's pager. "You'd think they could just have fun with this."
"The kids are," said one woman, wincing as she watched her daughter fall from her father's shoulders in the middle of the in-ground pool. "Oooh that'll leave David in a bad mood today. He and Veronica were out there at four forty-five practicing their moves."
The eight women watched and picked at the bacon, eggs, and muffins that were fast becoming cold. The daily pool war had run over, but they knew better than to call their husbands to the table before it was through. They'd only get pissed off, and they wouldn't come anyway: not with their honor at stake.
There were just two chicken fighters left: lean Lt. Col. Charlie Squires and his spindly son Billy and pumped Private David George and his son Clark. The kids pushed hair from their eyes as their fathers circled each other slowly, each watching for an opening, for a kid who lost his balance, made a clumsy offensive maneuver, shivered and broke his concentration.
Sgt. Grey's wife Lydia said, "Last week, when we were visiting my folks in Alaska, Chick and I got stuck in a snowbank and he refused to call for a tow. He told me to put the car in neutral, then he got behind and lifted it out. He walked bent over for two days after, but he wouldn't admit he was sore. Not Hercules."
There was a shout from the pool as Clark lunged at Billy. Instead of stepping back, as he usually did, Lt. Col. Squires moved in: while Clark was leaning forward, Billy grabbed his outstretched arm, pulled down, and the boy flopped back-first into the water. Private George stood there, aghast, as he looked from his son to Squires. There was a smattering applause from the side of the pool, where the other defeated chicken fighters had been watching the showdown.
"That's it, sir?" George said to Squires. "Lor-dee, that was shorter than the first Clay-Liston fight."
"Sorry, Sonny," Squires winked. He reached up and high-fived his son.
"And when did you work that one out, sir?"
"While we were suiting up. Made sense, don't you think? Guy expects a retreat, gets an advance— he's gotta be surprised."
"He was, sir," George mumbled, wading toward the shallow end of the pool, his son in his wake.
"Nice fight," Clark said to Billy as he dog-paddled after his father.
"Don't talk like that," George muttered as he lumbered up the steps with the bearing and disposition of Gorgo. "You'll lose your edge for tomorrow."
Squires followed him out, his eyes drawn to headlights shining through the living-room window of his home in the base family quarters. He snatched a towel from a chaise lounge as the lights snapped off, then watched as a lone figure walked around the one-story cottage, silhouetted by the light blue horizon. No one could have
gotten to this quarter without passing through the gate that separated his crew from the FBI Academy, and no one could have gotten through the gate without a call to him directly.
Unless they were from Op-Center.
Draping the towel over his shoulders and slipping on his sandals, the Lieutenant Colonel walked quickly toward the house.
"Charlie, your eggs are getting cold!"
"Be right there, Missy. Set 'em next to George, they'll stay warm."
Squires's Striker team of twelve full-time men and their support crews was established six months before, the same time as Op-Center. They were the so-called "black" side of the agency, their existence a secret from outsiders except those who needed to know: the heads of the other military and spy agencies, and the President and Vice President themselves. Their charter was simple: they were sent onto the field when offense was needed. They were an elite squad that could be counted on to strike hard and fast. Though all the Striker members belonged to the military and drew pay from their respective branches, they worked in nondescript camouflage pants and shirts without markings of any kind. If they screwed up, there was no way for anyone to trace them or place blame.
Squires smiled as Mike Rodgers came around the side of the building. The tall man's arched nose— broken four times in college basketball— high, intelligent forehead, and light brown eyes that seemed almost golden were a welcome sight.
"I hope I'm glad to see you," Squires said, saluting the two-star General. When Rodgers returned the salute, the men shook hands.
"That depends on whether or not you were getting bored."
"Does diet Coke fizz? Yes, sir, we're ready for action."
"Good. Because I radioed the chopper: get one through eleven ready and have Krebs bring an extra grip. We leave in five minutes."