by Tom Clancy
Unknown to him, Liz Gordon had noted the comment in his psych profile. Sexual frustration could impair his effectiveness on the job.
Martha entered her access code on the keypad of his office door.
Poor Pope Paul, she thought, reflecting on the latest nickname Ann Farris had given him. Martha wondered if the Director realized that all he had to do was crook his finger at his sexy Press Officer, and she'd do more to him than shower him with epithets. And he would have a reason to change office.
The door clicked open and Martha walked into the wood-paneled office. She perched herself on the corner of the desk and snatched up one of the two phones on the desk, the secure line; the LED ID at the bottom of the unit read 07-029-77, telling her that the caller was in the U.S. Embassy in Seoul. The prefix "1" instead of "0" would have indicated that the call was from the Ambassador. A third line, for teleconferencing, also secure, was integrated in the computer system.
Before she spoke, she switched on the digital tape recorder that translated words to type with amazing speed and accuracy. An almost simultaneous transcript of their talk appeared on a monitor on the desk beside the phone.
"Director Hood is unavailable. This is Martha Mackall."
"Hello, Martha. Gregory Donald."
At first she didn't recognize the slow, soft voice on the other end. "Sir, yes— Director Hood isn't in yet, but he's been anxious to hear from you."
There was a short silence. "I was there, of course. Then we were looking at the blast site, Kim and I."
"Kim—?"
"Hwan. Deputy Director of the KCIA."
"Did you find anything?"
"A water bottle. Some boot prints, North Korean military issue." His voice cracked. "Excuse me."
There was a much longer silence. "Sir, are you all right? You weren't injured, were you?"
"I fell— nothing broken. It was my wife she was the one that was hurt."
"Not seriously, I hope."
His voice broke again as he said, "They murdered her, Martha."
Martha's hand shot to her mouth. She had only met Soonji once, at Op-Center's first Christmas party, but her charm and quick mind had made an impression.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Donald. Why don't we talk later—"
"No. They're taking her to the army base, and I'm going over when I finish here. It's best we talk now."
"I understand."
He took a moment to collect himself and then continued, his voice stronger. "There were footprints in an alley, made by a North Korean army boot or boots. But neither Kim nor I believe that North Koreans were wearing them. Or if they were, that they were operating with the sanction of their government."
"Why do you think that?"
"The clues were out in the open, no effort made to conceal them. A professional wouldn't have done that. And the North Koreans have never attacked blindly like this."
As he was speaking, Hood walked into his office; Martha touched a button on the screen, scrolled the transcription back several lines, and pointed for Hood to see. After he read the passage about Soonji, he nodded gravely, then sat quietly behind the desk and rubbed two fingers against his forehead.
"Then you feel that someone wants to make this look like a North Korean attack," Martha said. "They've denied having had a hand in it."
"I'm saying it's an option we must explore before rattling any sabers at Pyongyang. For once, they may be telling the truth."
"Thank you, sir. Is— is there anything we can do for you?"
"I know General Norbom at the base, and Ambassador Hall has promised to do whatever she can here. I appear to be in good hands."
"All right. But if you need help—"
"I'll call." His voice became stronger as he said, "Give Paul my best, and tell him— tell him that however Op-Center becomes involved in this, I want a part of it. I want to find the animals who did this."
"I'll tell him," she said as Donald hung up.
As soon as it heard the dial tone, the computer filed the conversation, marked the time, and cleared itself for the next call.
Martha placed the receiver in the cradle and slid off the desk. "Shall I call Ambassador Hall and make sure they give Donald whatever he needs?"
Hood nodded.
"You've got eye bags. Rough night?"
"Alex had a bad asthma attack. He's in the hospital."
"Ooo— sorry to hear that." She took a step forward. "You want to go to him? I'll watch things here."
"No. The President wants us to prepare the Options Paper on this thing, and I need you to get me the latest data on North Korea's financial ties to Japan, China, and Russia— black market as well as legitimate. If we've got a real situation, my feeling is that the President may want a military solution, but let's see what we can do with sanctions."
"Will do. And don't worry about Alex. He'll be fine. Kids are tough."
"They've got to be to survive us," Hood said, reaching for the intercom. Buzzing his aide Bugs, he told him to have Liz Gordon report to the Tank.
As she left, Martha hoped that she hadn't been too forward by offering to sit in for Hood. She felt bad for the way she jumped on Alexander's misfortune to improve her résumé, and made a mental note to have her secretary send him some balloons; but while Ann Farris had her heart set on the Director, Martha had her heart set on the directorship. She liked and respected Hood, but she didn't want to be Op-Center's Political Officer forever. Her fluency in ten languages and understanding of world economies made her more valuable than that. Co-managing an international crisis like this would have been a major notch in her portfolio, setting her up for advancement here or, if she were lucky, a move to the State Department.
There's always tomorrow, she told herself as she traversed the narrow corridor between the bullpen and the executive offices, passing Liz Gordon who looked like she had a serious head of steam and was in desperate need of a place to vent it
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, 6:03 A.M., Andrews Air Force Base
"You really don't care if the boss blows a gasket, do you, sir?"
Lt. Col. Squires and Mike Rodgers were jogging across the field. It was less than a minute since the Jet-ranger had touched down and already it was airborne again, headed back to Quantico. The two officers were leading the line of Striker men toward the C-141B, which was revving up on the airstrip ahead. In addition to his gear, Squires was carrying a Toshiba Satellite portable computer with a specially designed side-mounted laserjet printer, which contained flight plans for 237 different locations, along with detailed maps and possible mission profiles.
"Now what would Hood blow a gasket about?" Rodgers asked. "I'm a quiet sort of guy listen a lot. I voice my opinions politely and deferentially."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but Krebs is your size, and you had him bring an extra set of togs. Our playbooks are all designed for a twelve-man squad. You're taking George's place, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"And I'll bet a month's pay that Mr. Hood hasn't okayed it."
"Why trouble him with details? He's got a lot on his mind."
"Well, sir— right there are two very good reasons why gaskets blow. Pressure, and a piece o'something where it doesn't belong. In this case, you here."
Rodgers shrugged a shoulder. "Sure, he'll be pissed. But Hood won't stay that way. He's got a perfectly capable team back at Op-Center and, hell, we don't agree on much anyway. He won't miss me."
"Which brings up another point, sir. Permission to speak freely?"
"Shoot."
"I've got a perfectly capable team here too. Are you going to be running the show, or are you taking Private George's place?"
"I won't be wearing my stars, Charlie. You're in command, and I'll do whatever job needs to be done. You and your little laptop will have twelve hours to bring me up to speed."
"So this jaunt is just your idea of a good way to start the week. A chance to get out from behind the desk."
"Somethin
g like that," Rodgers said as they reached the huge, black transport plane. "You know how it is, Charlie. If you don't use the equipment, it gets rusty."
Squires laughed. "You, sir? Rusty? I don't think so. This kind of action is in the Rodgers's genes way back to— was it the Spanish-American War?"
"That's the one," Rodgers said. "Great-great-granddad Captain Malachai T. Rodgers."
The officers stopped on either side of the hatch, and as Squires shouted, "Go! Go! Go!" the men climbed through without breaking stride.
Rodgers's heart swelled as the men went aboard, beat as proudly as it always did when he saw American soldiers running to do their duty. Young, afraid, and varying shades of green they went anyway, it was a sight that never failed to stir him. He was one of them during his first tour in Viet Nam and, after getting his Ph.D. in history from Temple University while he was stationed at Ft. Dix, he went back and led battalions of them in the Persian Gulf War.
Tennyson once wrote that Lady Godiva was a sight to make an old man young, and women did do that to him. But so did this. Twenty-six years slipped away in less than a minute, and he felt nineteen again as he followed the last enlisted man into the plane, allowing Squires to bring up the rear.
Despite his own somewhat glib assessment, Rodgers knew that the Lieutenant Colonel was right. Hood definitely would not be happy that he was going. For all his smarts and his often astounding skills as a mediator, Hood hated letting anything out of his control. And by going into the field, half a world away, Rodgers would effectively be out of his control. But above all, Hood was a team player: if it was necessary for the Striker team to go in and perform any covert actions, the Director wouldn't let ego stop him from letting the team— and Rodgers— do the job and grab the glory or play the goat.
As soon as they were aboard, the men took their seats along the sides of the bare cabin while the ground crew finished prepping the massive plane. First introduced in 1982, the Lockheed C-141B Starlifter, with its 159-foot 11-inch top-mounted wings, was heir to the laurels of the earlier C-141A, introduced in 1964. That plane distinguished itself with year after year of daily nonstops to Viet Nam— its performance record one of the many unheralded benefits to come from the war. No other army had a troop transport that reliable, and that gave the U.S. an edge.
At 168 feet 4 inches in length, the C-141B— longer than its predecessor by 23 feet 4 inches— could accommodate 154 troops, 123 paratroops, 80 stretchers, and 16 sitting casualties or cargo. Flight refueling equipment located in the back added 50 percent to its normal range of 4,080 miles— longer if, like now, it was carrying less than its 70,847-pound payload. The jet would make it to Hawaii without any trouble, where it would be met and refueled in flight by a KC-135 tanker. From there, it was an easy run to Japan, and then a rapid half-hour chopper ride to North Korea.
While the crew finished up their preflight checklist, the Striker men went through their own inventory. In addition to his own gear— camouflage uniform, otherwise unmarked, a nine-inch knife, and one Beretta 92-F 9-mm automatic pistol, also unmarked— each man was responsible for bringing items the team would require, from the cardboard-box meals of ham sandwiches and candy bars to the field phones to the all-important TAC SAT radio with a parabolic antenna that unfolds for a satellite uplink.
Leaving the men, Squires and Rodgers headed for the cockpit followed by Sgt. Chick Grey. The Striker team had no special needs for the flight, but it was up to the Sergeant to find out if the flight crew required anything of the men, from weight distribution— not a problem on this mission, where they'd be rattling around the cabin— to the use of electronic equipment.
"You want to brief him?" Squires asked Rodgers— with a bit of an edge, the General thought. Or maybe he was just yelling to be heard over the four loud 21,000-pound st Pratt & Whitney TF33-P7 turbofan engines.
"Charlie, I told you— you're the head chef. I'm just here for dinner."
Squires smirked as they made their way down the ribbed cabin to the open door of the flight deck and introduced themselves to the pilot, copilot, first officer, navigator, and communications officer.
"Captain Harryhausen?" Sgt. Grey repeated the name as the Lieutenant Colonel booted the computer, the navigator looking over his shoulder. "Sir, are you by any chance the same Captain Harryhausen who flew a United DC10 to Alaska last week?"
"I'm that very same Captain Harryhausen, U.S. Air Force Reserves."
A grin tore across the Sergeant's beefy face. "Now if that ain't one for Robert Ripley. My family and me were on that plane, sir! Jeez— what were the chances?"
"Actually very good, Sergeant," said the Captain. "I've had the Seattle-to-Nome route for seven months now. I put in for this assignment so I could finally fly into someplace with warm sunshine and no ice, unless it was in iced tea."
As the Captain proceeded to tell Sgt. Grey what he already knew— that his men should refrain from using Disc-mans and Game Boys until he gave the word— Squires pulled a cable from the laptop, plugged it into the navigator's console, pushed a button on his keyboard, and dumped the data into the C-141B's navigation computer. The process took six seconds; even before he'd closed the Toshiba, the onboard computer had begun matching the flight path with weather reports that would come in every fifteen minutes from U.S. bases along the route.
Squires faced the Captain and patted the computer. "Sir, I'd appreciate your letting me know the minute we can fire this up again."
The Captain nodded and returned the Lieutenant Colonel's salute.
Five minutes later they were taxiing down the runway, and two minutes after that they were banking away from the rising sun, heading southwest.
As he sat beneath the swinging light bulbs inside the wide, nearly empty cabin, Rodgers found himself reluctantly contemplating the downside of what he was doing. Op-Center was just half a year old, its modest twenty-million-dollar annual budget skimmed from CIA and Department of Defense budgets. On the books they didn't exist, and it would be an easy matter for the President to erase them if they ever screwed up big-time. Lawrence had been satisfied, if not impressed, with the way they handled their first job, finding and defusing a bomb onboard the space shuttle Atlantis. Their technoweenie, Matt Stoll, had really come through on that one— much to the pride and frustration of Director Hood, who had a deep and abiding distrust of technology. Probably because his kid was always whipping him at Nintendo.
But the President had been furious that two hostages had been shot in Philadelphia— even if the gunfire did come from the local police, who mistook them for terrorists. The President saw that as a failure of Op-Center to completely control the situation, and he was right.
Now they had a new mission, though how much of it would be theirs remained to be seen. He'd have to wait for Hood to brief him on that. But this much he knew was true: if the Striker team veered so much as one step past their orders, and the number two man at Op-Center was there, the agency's plug would be pulled so fast Hood wouldn't have time to get pissed off.
Cracking his knuckles, Rodgers was reminded of the immortal words of Mercury astronaut Alan B. Shepard as he waited to be launched into space: "Dear God, please don't let me fuck up."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tuesday, 8:19 P.M., Seoul
The U.S. Army base in Seoul was a source of annoyance to many of the locals.
Sitting on twenty acres of prime real estate in the heart of the city, it housed two thousand troops on four acres, with ordnance and equipment stored in another two. The remaining fourteen acres existed for the amusement of the troops: PX's, two first-run movie theaters, and more bowling alleys than most large U.S. cities. With most of its effective military strength at the DMZ, thirty-five miles to the north, where a total of one million soldiers stood toe-to-toe, the base was a modest support system at best. Its role was part political, part ceremonial: it signified enduring friendship with the Republic of Korea, and it provided the U.S. with a base from which to keep an eye on Japan. A
DOD long-term study indicated that remilitarization of Japan was inevitable by the year 2010; if the U.S. ever lost its bases there, the base in Seoul would become the most important in the Asia-Pacific region.
But the South Koreans were more concerned about trade with Japan, and many felt that a few hotels and upscale stores on that site would serve them better than a sprawling U.S. base.
Major Kim Lee of the ROK was not among those who wanted the land returned to South Korea. A patriot whose late father was a top general during the war, whose mother was executed as a spy, Kim would have been happy to see more U.S. troops in South Korea, more bases and airstrips between the capital and the DMZ. He was suspicious of North Korean overtures over the past four months, in particular their sudden willingness to allow inspections by the International Atomic Energy Agency and a willingness to abide by the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty. In 1992, they had allowed six inspections of nuclear facilities, then threatened to withdraw from their obligations under the NPT when IAEA asked to inspect their nuclear waste disposal sites. Investigators believed that the Democratic People's Republic of Korea had accumulated at least ninety grams of plutonium through the reprocessing of irradiated reactor fuel, with the goal of using them to produce weapons. The North Koreans were using a small, twenty-five-megawatt thermal graphite-moderated reactor for this purpose.
The DPRK denied that, pointing out the U.S. wouldn't need IAEA to tell them whether the North had tested nuclear weapons; the U.S. said it wasn't necessary to conduct such tests to determine if a payload was in a deliverable state. Denials and accusations flew back and forth as the DPRK suspended its withdrawal, but the standoff continued for years.