by Tom Clancy
"How?" asked Burkow.
"Whoever is behind this probably feels they don't have to watch us closely," Rodgers said. "Just like the Russians felt about Hitler after signing the Nonaggression Pact."
"They were wrong," said Lincoln. "He attacked them anyway."
"Exactly," said Rodgers. He looked at the President. "Sir, let's do the same. Let me send Striker to St. Petersburg. As promised, we don't do anything in Eastern Europe. In fact, we let Europe tremble a little at our isolationism."
"That'll certainly tie in with American sentiments these days," said Lincoln.
"Meanwhile," said Rodgers, "we let Striker take these people apart from the brain down."
The President looked at each man's face in turn. Rodgers felt the mood in the room shift.
"I like it," said Burkow. "A lot."
The President stopped at Rodgers's face. "Do it," he said. "Bring me the head of the Big Bad Wolf."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunday, 8:00 P.M., Los Angeles
Paul Hood was sitting in a lounge beside the hotel pool. He had his pager and cellular phone by his side, and his Panama hat pulled low so that he wouldn't be recognized. He didn't feel like chewing the fat with old constituents just now. Except for the conspicuously absent tan, he probably looked the part of the modern, self-absorbed, independent film producer.
The truth was, even with Sharon and the kids frolicking a few yards away, in the deep end of the pool, he felt melancholy and strangely alone. He had his Walkman on, listening to an all-news channel as he waited for the President's address to the nation. It had been a long time since he'd followed a breaking news story as a citizen and not a public official, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the sense of helplessness, at not being able to share his grief with the press, with other officials. He wanted to contribute to the healing or the sense of outrage or even the vengeance.
He was just a man on a rubber chair waiting for news like everyone else.
No, not quite like everyone else, he knew. He was waiting for Mike Rodgers to call. Even though the line wasn't secure, Rodgers would find a way to tell him something. Assuming there was something to be told.
As he waited, his thoughts returned to the bombing. The target didn't have to be the tunnel. It could just as well have been this hotel's lobby, with its Asian tourists and businesspeople, filmmakers from Italy, Spain, South America, and even Russia. Scare them away and damage the local economy, from limousine services to restaurants. When Hood was the Mayor of Los Angeles, he had participated in a number of seminars about terrorists. Though they'd all had their own methods and reasons for doing what they did, they also had one thing in common. They struck at places people had to use, whether it was a military command center or a means of transportation or an office building. That was how they brought governments to the bargaining table, despite public posturing to the contrary.
He also thought about Bob Herbert, who had lost his legs and his wife in a terrorist bombing. He couldn't imagine how this was affecting him.
A bleached-blond young waiter stopped by Hood's chair and asked him if he wanted a beverage. He ordered a club soda. When the waiter returned, he looked at Hood for a moment.
"You're him, aren't you?"
Hood unhooked his Walkman. "Excuse me?"
"You're Mayor Hood."
"Yes," he smiled up, and nodded.
"Cool," said the young man. "I had Boris Karloff's daughter here yesterday." He set the glass on a wobbly metal table. "Pretty unbelievable about New York, isn't it? It's the kind of thing you don't want to think about, yet you can't not think about."
"True," said Hood.
The waiter leaned closer as he poured the sparkling water. "You'll appreciate this. Or maybe you won't. I heard Manager Mosura tell the house detective that our insurance company wants us to offer daily evacuation drills, like they do on luxury liners. Just so people can't sue the chain if we get blown up."
"Protect your guests and your assets," Hood said.
"Exactamundo," said the waiter.
Hood signed the bill and thanked the waiter as his phone chirped. He answered quickly.
"How are you, Mike?" he asked. He picked up the phone and began walking toward a shady corner, where there were no other guests.
"Same as everyone," Rodgers said. "Sick and mad."
"What can you tell me?" Hood asked.
"I'm heading to the office after meeting with the boss," he said. "A lot's happened. For one thing, the perpetrator called. Gave up. We've got him."
"Just like that?" Hood asked.
"There were some strings attached," Rodgers said. "We have to stay out of some business he says is going down overseas. Old Red zone. Otherwise, we get more of the same."
"Is this big business?" Hood asked.
"We're not sure. Army business, it appears.
"From the new President?" Hood asked.
"We don't think so," Rodgers said. "It appears to be a reaction to him and not necessarily his doing."
"I see," said Hood.
"In fact, we think the okay for all this came from that TV studio we've been tuned in to. Got a pretty solid paper trail. The boss has authorized us to have a look see, pending all the paperwork. I've put Lowell on it."
Hood stopped walking under a palm tree. The President had authorized a Striker excursion into St. Petersburg, and Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II was going to seek approval from the Congressional Oversight Intelligence Committee. That was heavy-duty.
Hood looked at his watch. "Mike, I'm going to try and catch a red-eye back there."
"Don't," said Rodgers. "We've got some time on this. When things start to hop, I can chopper you up to Sacramento and you can hitch a ride from March."
Hood looked back at the kids. They were all supposed to take the Magna Studio tour in the morning. And Rodgers had a point. It would be a half-hour hop up to the Air Force base, then less than a five-hour ride back to D.C. But he had taken an oath to do a job, and it was a job— more accurately, a burden, a responsibility, which he didn't want to put on anyone else's shoulders.
His heart was beating fast. Hood knew what it wanted to do. It was already getting the blood to his legs so he could make the plane.
"Let me talk to Sharon," he said to Rodgers.
She's going to kill you," Rodgers said. "Take a deep breath and a jog around the parking lot. We can handle this."
"Thanks," Hood said, "but I'll let you know what I'm doing. I appreciate the update. I'll talk to you later."
"Sure," Rodgers said glumly.
Hood clicked off and folded up the phone. He swatted it gently in his open palm.
Sharon would kill him, and the kids would be crushed. Alexander had been looking forward to doing the virtual reality Teknophage attraction with him.
Jesus, why can't anything ever be simple? he asked himself as he walked toward the pool. "Because then there would be no dynamics between people," he said under his breath, "and life would be boring."
Though he had to admit that a little boredom would be good right now. It was what he'd come back to Los Angeles in the hopes of finding.
"Dad, you comin' in?" his daughter, Harleigh, yelled as he approached.
"No, cheesehead," said Alexander. "Can't you see he's got his phone?"
"I can't see that far without my glasses, dorko," she replied.
Sharon had stopped squirt-gunning their son and was swimming in place. From her expression, he could tell that she knew what was coming.
"Gather round," Sharon said as her husband squatted by the side of the pool. "I think Dad's got something to tell us."
Hood said simply, "I have to go back. What happened today— we have to respond."
"They need Dad to kick ass," Alexander said.
"Hush," Hood said. "Remember, loose lips—"
"Sink ships," said the ten-year-old. "Ex-squeeze me," he said as he went under.
His twelve-year-old sister went to hold him there, but Al
exander darted away.
Sharon just glared at her husband. "This response," she asked quietly. "It can't possibly be made without you?"
"It can."
"Then let it."
"I can't," Hood said. He looked down, then off to the side. Anywhere but in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll call you later."
Hood got up and called out to the kids, who interrupted their chase long enough to wave. "Get me a T-shirt at Teknophage," he said.
"We will!" Alexander said.
He turned to walk away.
"Paul?" Sharon said.
He stopped and looked back.
"I know this is difficult," she said, "and I'm not making it any easier. But we need you too. Especially Alexander. He's going to be, 'Oh, Dad would have loved this' and 'Dad would have loved that' all day tomorrow. Sometime real soon, you're going to have to start 'responding' to not being around enough."
"You don't think this kills me?" Hood asked.
"Not enough," Sharon said as she pushed off the side. "Not as much as being away from your electric trains in D.C. Think about it, Paul."
He would, he promised himself.
In the meantime, he had a plane to catch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Monday, 3:35 A.M., Washington D.C.
Lieutenant Colonel W. Charles Squires stood on the dark airstrip at Quantico. He was dressed in civilian clothes and a leather jacket, his laptop computer standing on the tarmac between his legs as he hustled the six other members of the Striker team into the two Bell JetRangers that would shuttle them to Andrews Air Force Base. There, they would transfer to Striker's private C-141B StarLifter for the eleven-hour flight to Helsinki.
The night was crisp and invigorating, though, as always, it was the work itself that exhilarated him the most. When he was a kid growing up in Jamaica, he had never experienced anything more exciting than running onto the soccer field before a game, especially when the odds were against his team; that was how he felt each time Striker kicked into action. It was because of Squires's passion for soccer that Hood allowed him to name the team after the position he had played.
Squires had been sleeping in his small home on the base when Rodgers called, giving him his orders for the trip to Finland. Rodgers apologized that they were only able to get congressional approval for a seven-person team, rather than the usual twelve. Congress had to mess with everything they were given, and this time it was the roster that was pared. The thinking was, if caught, they could always explain to the Russians that they hadn't sent over a full force. In the world of international politics, distinctions like that apparently meant something. Fortunately, after the last mission, Squires had adapted Strikers' playbook to work with almost any number of team members.
Squires didn't kiss his wife goodbye: farewells were easier if she stayed asleep through them. Instead, he took the secure phone into the bathroom and talked to Rodgers while he dressed. The tentative plan was for them to pose as tourists once they arrived. Once the team was airborne, Rodgers would be in contact with Squires with additions or embellishments to the plan. As it stood, three operatives would go into St. Petersburg, four would wait in Helsinki as backup.
The Striker members who stayed behind would be disappointed, and they wouldn't be alone. Striker didn't go into action often, but Squires kept them ready and finely tuned with drills, sports, and simulations; the four who remained in Helsinki would be especially frustrated to get so close and not be part of the action. But like any good, experienced military man, Rodgers insisted on having people ready to help with a retreat if one was necessary.
After the team had boarded the JetRangers, Squires climbed into the second chopper. Even before it was airborne, he pulled the portable computer onto his lap, plugged in a diskette handed to him by the pilot, and began checking the equipment that was already on the StarLifter, from the weapons to clothing and uniforms of what were considered powder-keg foreign nations, countries where on-site intelligence might be necessary on short notice: China, Russia, and several Middle Eastern and Latin American nations. There was also enough underwater and cold-weather gear for the entire team, though the inventory did not yet contain the still and video cameras, guidebooks, dictionaries, and commercial airline tickets they'd need if they were to pose as tourists. But Mike Rodgers prided himself on his attention to detail, and Squires knew that the items would be waiting for him at Andrews.
He glanced around the cabin at the Strikers who had come with him. He looked from blond, beaming David George, who had gotten bumped from their last mission when Mike Rodgers took his place, to new recruit Sondra DeVonne, who had begun SEAL training and was recently seconded to Striker to replace the man they'd lost in North Korea.
As always, he felt a rush of pride as he looked at their faces and the keen sense of responsibility that came from knowing not all of them might be coming back. Though he worked hard at what he did, he was somewhat more fatalistic than Rodgers, whose motto was, "My fate's not in God's hands as long as there's a weapon in mine."
Squires shifted his gaze to the computer and smiled as he pictured his wife and their young son, Billy, blissfully asleep. And he felt that sense of pride again as he thought of them secure in their beds because of more than two hundred years of men and women who had wrestled with the same thoughts as he did, experienced the same fears as they galloped or sailed, drove or flew off to protect the democracy in which they all passionately believed
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday, 8:20 A.M., Washington D.C.
The small executive cafeteria was located on the ground floor of Op-Center, a secure room located behind the employees' cafeteria. The walls were soundproof, the blinds were perpetually drawn, and a microwave transmitter just outside, on an unused landing strip, kept up a drone that would sound deafening to an eavesdropper.
When he came aboard, Paul Hood had insisted that both cafeterias offer full, fast-food-style menus, from dry eggs on a muffin to personal pizzas. This wasn't just for the convenience of Op-Center employees, it was a matter of national security: during Desert Storm, the enemy had been tipped off that something was brewing by spies who kept track of the amount of take-out pizza and Chinese food that suddenly went into the Pentagon. If Op-Center was put on alert for any reason, Hood didn't want a spy or journalist or anyone else finding out from a kid who delivered Big Macs on a motorbike.
The executive cafeteria was always busiest between eight and nine in the morning. The day shift took over from the night shift at six, and day staff spent the next two hours reviewing intelligence that had come in from around the world. By eight, when the data had been assimilated and filed or discarded, and barring a crisis, the Directors of each division came to have breakfast and compare notes. Today, Rodgers had posted E-mail about a full staff meeting at nine, so the room would empty a few minutes before the hour to give everyone time to make it to the Tank.
When Press Officer Ann Farris walked into the room, her smartly tailored red pantsuit drew an admiring nod from Lowell Coffey II. She could tell right then that he'd had an exhausting night. When Lowell was alert, he had constructive criticism about everything from fashion to literature.
"Busy night?" she asked.
"I was with the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee," he said, turning back to a crisply folded copy of the Washington Post.
"Ah," she said. "Long night. What happened?"
Coffey said, "Mike thinks he's got a bead on the Russians who were really behind the tunnel bombing. He sent Striker in to get them."
"So that little Eival Ekdol man they picked up wasn't working alone."
"Not at all," said Lowell.
Ann stopped by the coffee vending machine. She fed in a dollar bill. "Does Paul know?"
"Paul's back," he said.
Ann brightened. "Really?"
"Really and truly," said Lowell. "Caught the red-eye out of L.A., said he'll be in this morning. Mike's going to brief the entire team in the Tank at nine."
The seats around the six round tables were occupied by executives doing surprisingly little. Psychologist Liz Gordon was chewing nicotine gum in the smoke-free room, nervously twirling a lock of short brown hair, sipping her dark coffee with three sugars and reading the new week's supermarket tabloids.
Operations Support Officer Matt Stoll was playing poker with Environmental Officer Phil Katzen. There was a small mound of quarters between the men and, instead of cards, both of them were using laptops linked by a cable. As she walked past them, Ann could tell Stoll was losing. He freely admitted that he had the worst poker face on the planet. Whenever things weren't going well, whether he was playing cards or trying to fix a computer responsible for the defense of the free world, sweat collected on every pore of his round, cherubic face.
Stoll surrendered a six of spades and a four of clubs. Phil dealt him a five of spades and a seven of hearts in return.
"Well, at least I've got a higher card now," Matt said, folding. "One more hand," he said. "Too bad this isn't like quantum computing. You confine ions in webs of magnetic and electric fields, hit a trapped particle with a burst of laser light to send it into an excited energy state, then hit it again to ground it. That's your switch. Rows of ions in a quantum logical gate, giving you the smallest, fastest computer on earth. Neat, clean, perfect."
"Yeah," Phil said, "too bad this isn't like that."
"Don't be sarcastic," Stoll said as he popped the last of a chocolate-covered doughnut in his mouth, then washed it down with black coffee. "Next time we'll play baccarat and things will be different."
"No they won't," Katzen said, sitting back as he raked in the pot. "You always lose at that too."
"I know," Stoll said, "but I always feel bad when I get beat playing poker. I don't know what it is."