Tom Clancy - Op Center 12

by War of Eagles

  Anita regarded him for a moment. “All right,” she replied, then said something to the guard. The uniformed woman removed her hand from the keypad. She glared at Hood as she sat back down.

  “One brief call,” Anita cautioned him.

  “Thank you,” Hood said to them both.

  He get an operator and gave him the number of Rodgers’s cell phone. Because this phone was a land line, and because Rodgers was outside the base, Hood hoped the call would get through the satellite dish interference.

  It did not. After a long, discouraging silence, Hood disconnected the call and stood there.

  “Is there no answer?” Anita asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let’s go downstairs now—”

  “Not yet,” Hood said quickly. He punched in a second number. “I need to try again.”

  Anita was clearly unhappy, but she did not protest. Not with words, at least. Her expression said it all.

  This time he did not call Mike Rodgers. He called someone else he hoped could help him.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 11:11 P.M.

  Intelligence work and patience have a long history together. Whether it was breaking codes in World War II or reconnaissance against the Persians by the warriors of Sparta before the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 B.C., this was not work that could be rushed.

  Bob Herbert weathered patience impatiently. That was both a strength and a curse. He looked for fresh leads while he waited for old searches to bring results. He had a problem, though, when those new leads took him nowhere. When every road he studied was a dead end. When there was simply not enough information to go off road, or enough lift to hoist him aloft so he could study a bigger picture.

  It was then that Herbert felt trapped. And when he felt trapped, Bob Herbert kept hurling himself at the problem until his head hurt, until his heart raced, until he wanted to scream. Until he sat in his chair and wept from frustration and blamed his wheelchair and, by extension, the fact that the U.S. embassy had been bombed in Beirut and he was there at all. But most of all he blamed himself for choosing this life instead of opening a tavern in Mississippi and playing guitar on open-mike night and never worrying about anything that happened beyond the confines of the small Southern town where the air was muggy and close, and you were safe because absolutely no one came there who did not belong there.

  Herbert had always imagined he would go back to Philadelphia, Mississippi, when he retired. He wished he could go now, but to do so meant to acknowledge defeat. Under those conditions his retirement would be a trap and not a release.

  The intelligence chief sat behind his desk at Op-Center. He did not want to go home and be useless. It was better to stay here with the night crew and at least have the potential to do something. But that still did not make him feel like the hub of a wheel around which activity turned. He was helpless and he was desperate, and not just to prevent a possible explosion in Xichang. Motion defined him. Without it, he had no idea who or what he was.

  It was worse because Rodgers and Hood were not there. They were always pitching ideas. Even if Rodgers was knocking them foul, he was still swinging the bat. It was action.

  There had been virtually none of that since Viens had come to his office the day before. Herbert had asked for more information about the blips on the Pacific Rim. Unfortunately, when the photo recon officer compared current satellite images to past photographs, nothing stood out. The process was called ODA: overlay dissonance analysis. It was similar to what astronomers did when they compared celestial photographs from different nights. If something were out of place in the heavens—such as an asteroid approaching the earth—ODA let them know it. The process was a little more complex with intelligence work. Past military maneuvers were compared to current maneuvers, along with the responses of surrounding nations. Computers sounded an alarm if there were anything out of the ordinary. So far, the Pacific Rim activity had not caused anything like that. The NRO had picked up the explosion on the Zhuhai airstrip, and that obviously had a place in the overall picture. But no one knew how or why or when. Certainly no one knew whether it was somehow related to the launch.

  However many times Herbert reviewed the existing data about troop movements or the explosions in Charleston, Durban, and Taipei, he could not extrapolate what might happen with the rocket. He did not see how they related.

  And then Paul Hood called.

  “Bob, I’m glad you’re there,” Hood said urgently. “I assume Mike has a way of staying in touch with his people?”

  “By text alert,” Herbert said. “They are all wearing—”

  “I don’t need to know that,” Hood interrupted. “The uplinks here are messing with the cell phones. Can you get him a message?”

  “Yes,” Herbert replied. Because it was text rather than more sophisticated audio, the watches worked on a lower frequency that would not be affected by satellite communications.

  “Tell him that Tam Li had a crew working on booster security.”

  “The fox watching the chickens?”

  “Possibly. The team said they were returning to their posts,” Hood went on. “If they do, great. If they try to leave the complex, we’ll know why. Mike has got to stop them, make them talk.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Herbert said. “Do you have a description of the men?”

  “No. I didn’t meet with them.”

  “Do they speak English?”

  “Doubtful,” Hood said. “Mike can have them draw a diagram. In blood, if they have to.”

  “Got it,” Herbert replied.

  Hood clicked off, and Herbert swung over to his computer monitor. The thin, flat screen was attached to a boom on the left armrest of his wheelchair. Herbert accessed Rodgers’s text address and quickly drafted a message. He then reduced it to as few words as possible.

  Tam Li detail had access to boosters. May flee before ignition. Stop them and assess.

  As Herbert typed, ideas began to form. A direction had been indicated. Tam Li blowing up the rocket—his own rocket, effectively—to solidify opposition to Chou Shin was a reason, but not strong enough. Besides, with the intelligence director dead, there would be no reason to continue that operation. However, there was a more compelling notion: it could be blamed on Taiwan as a counterstrike to the attack on their city. And who better to reply to such an attack than Tam Li, who was sitting across the strait with an army?

  The scenario quickly acquired weight and detail. All it had taken was a phone call from someone with whom he had enjoyed an often hostile but very symbiotic relationship.

  That was all.

  But that was a lot.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Xichang, China Thursday, 11:20 A.M.

  Mike Rodgers was sitting in his rental car in a field of high grasses roughly a quarter mile from the front gate of the space complex. The dark, asphalt road was to his left. It was a two-lane road that had simply been asphalted through the plain on a straight line from point A to point B. Cynically, Rodgers did not imagine that any environmental studies had been done to protect whatever wildlife may have lived upon, under, or in its way. There were several other cars parked in this area, along with motorbikes and even a horse. Obviously, a few hardy space buffs knew about the launch and were eager to witness it.

  The amber grasses came nearly to the side window of the small car. They caused Rodgers’s eyes to itch. He had taken off his sunglasses to rub them. He did not bother to put them back on. In a way, that was helpful. Rubbing his eyes and squinting into the bright daylight made it seem as though he had roused himself from a distant bed to get here in time for the launch. It added to the look of casual inattentiveness a spy tried to achieve. He slumped in his seat to enhance the sense of insouciance, just in case security guards were watching from inside the complex or from a quartet of helicopters that circled the perimeter of the space center. They had gone up at around the one-hour mark, probably to keep unauthori
zed planes from entering the Xichang airspace.

  Rodgers reached for a bottle sitting beside him. It was a Chinese concession to American sensibilities, the sudden cultural need to suckle on an ever-present water bottle. Rodgers had bought it at the airport, not knowing how hot it might get out here. Unlike bottles in the United States, this one was made of glass. Someone somewhere in China probably had a lucrative recycling contract. For all Rodgers knew, the same guys who made the new bottles filled them with tap water. It tasted like it.

  The text-message-capable cell phone sat beside him, plugged into the dashboard. Rodgers watched it for messages from his team.

  It is not really your team, the former general reminded himself. They were on loan. He was out of the military business, downsized from the spy game. Sure you are, he thought. That is why you are in the middle of a field in China waiting to hear from marines who are conducting emergency recon on a PLA rocket. The irony was, all of that no longer defined a spy. It accurately described private enterprise in twenty-first century Asia.

  Rodgers did not want to hear from the marines. He wanted everything to go as planned, and he was tired of his old life. It was not just the constant shuttling from one place to another but the sense of fighting a holding action instead of moving toward victory. For every overzealous general or corrupt politician he stopped, there was always another and another to fill his iron boots.

  That was when his phone beeped. He looked down. There was a message. Rodgers input his code to retrieve it. He sat up straight and was instantly in action mode. He glanced outside for just a moment, immediately reacquainting himself with the surroundings. That gave his brain a chance to process the details. Years of experience had made his subconscious mind a very powerful tool.

  The message was not from the marines. It was from Bob Herbert. Rodgers read it quickly, then again. If he understood it correctly, some of Tam Li’s people had been inside with access to the boosters. He was supposed to stop them if they tried to leave, find out what they knew.

  Rodgers did not waste time responding, asking for further details. Herbert was good about packing everything he knew into small communiqués. The former general assumed the command center simply did not delay the launch because Tam Li’s plan might be time sensitive.

  Rodgers pulled his sunglasses on and looked toward the main gate. He knew from having studied the maps that even if the men exited one of the other gates, this was the only road from the complex. And chances were good that if anyone did come this way, it would be them. Though vehicles were continuing to arrive now and then, none was leaving the space center. Everyone who was inside either had a job to do or was watching the liftoff. He knew from experience that seeing a launch, any launch, was a thrill that did not get old.

  Which was why the dark green vehicle immediately grabbed his attention. It looked like a van or minivan, and it disappeared into a small dip in the road about one mile away. When it reemerged, Rodgers could tell it was in a hurry. He looked to his left. The road was too wide to block, even if he parked sideways. The van would just swerve around him. If this were his quarry, Rodgers would have to find some other way of delaying them.

  He had about thirty seconds before the van reached him. The retired general took a few of those moments to type a message into his cell phone. He considered his options as he typed. There were only two. One was to ram the oncoming van. Even though the compact might not actually stop the men, it would slow them. But if these were not Tam Li’s men and Rodgers totaled his car—and possibly himself—he would have trouble mounting a second assault.

  That left the chancier second plan. Rodgers finished the message but did not send it. He switched on the ignition and turned the car around so it was facing away from the complex. As he did, he removed his cell phone jack from the dashboard. He replaced the lighter, pushing it in hard. Then he uncapped the water bottle, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and stuffed it into the neck. He left a lot of fabric on top. He needed a big flame. The lighter popped out, and he touched it to the end of the handkerchief. It flared quickly. Leaving the car, Rodgers hurried through the high grass to the middle of the road. The speeding van was just seconds away. Rodgers held the flaming bottle high in his right hand, Mr. Statue of Liberty prepared to play a high stakes, high noon game of chicken with a gang of Chinese soldiers.

  It was inelegant, but it felt right. The “Molotov cocktail” would not do much, but it did what he needed it to do: it got the attention of the men inside. He could see their surprised, worried faces as the van approached.

  But they did not stop. They did not veer. They sped up. They intended to run him down before he could attack.

  Rodgers hurled his little missile at the onrushing vehicle. He needed it to do just one thing, and it did. The flaming bottle hit the windshield hard, transforming it into a fragile webwork of glass. The concussion also extinguished the burning handkerchief with its own water. The men must have felt very lucky. The vehicle did not stop. As Rodgers jumped back toward the grasses, he could see someone in the passenger’s seat trying to push the shattered glass outward.

  He had learned what he needed to know. These soldiers wanted to get away from the complex as quickly as possible.

  Rodgers got back in his car and floored the gas pedal. Dirt and grass spat from the tires as he ripped his way to the road. Now he intended to catch the bastards and force them to stop.

  As he gave chase, Rodgers hit Reply/cc to send the message he had typed. The same text was simultaneously sent to the marine team leader:

  IDs confirmed. Am in pursuit. Boosters likely target.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Xichang, China Thursday, 11:33 A.M.

  Prime Minister Le Kwan Po felt anxious as he left the car and entered the Technical Center. On the short drive from the command center he had received word from the security office that one of the helicopters circling the complex spotted what appeared to be a chase along the main road from the complex. Military police from the space center had been dispatched on motorcycles, and the information had been radioed ahead to Xichang City. Several constables were driving out to intercept the two vehicles.

  A call to the main gate revealed that no one had left by that route. The other gates were card-activated, with patrols on the inside but no checkpoints. Security cameras revealed that a dark green van had left nine minutes earlier. The card used for egress was a temporary pass issued to one of the security teams.

  The unit Le Kwan Po had just spoken with.

  The men reporting to General Tam Li.

  The prime minister called the command center. The countdown was finally put on hold—a humiliating delay for the vaunted launch—and technicians were en route to the boosters to search for explosives. What worried Le was whether an explosive had been placed somewhere that would detonate regardless of the launch status. The result would be the same, a massive rain of radioactive dust across the complex.

  The first thing Le had to do was find out what those renegade soldiers knew. The second thing was to get his daughter out of here. That was why he had not sent a helicopter to chase the soldiers. If they were used for anything, it would be an evacuation.

  Paul Hood and Anita were waiting in the upstairs lobby of the Technical Center. Anita was conversing quietly but angrily with Hood, who was pacing in front of the security desk. Upon Le’s arrival, his daughter stared at him for a long moment. She did not brighten as she typically did when he entered a room. No doubt she was surprised by the look of concern on his normally impassive face.

  She did not ask what was wrong. She knew he would tell her when he was ready. He regarded Hood, who had stopped pacing.

  “The soldiers I interviewed have fled,” Le told Hood through Anita. “Someone is chasing them toward Xichang City. Would that be one of your associates?”

  “Most likely,” Hood replied.

  “Is he equipped to stop them?”

  “If you’re asking whether he is armed, I do not believe so,
” Hood replied.

  “The pursuit has been joined by agents from both the space center and the city,” the prime minister informed him. “But that may not help us.”

  “Not enough time?” Hood asked.

  “Scientists are on the way to the boosters. They know the rocket, but they may not be able to find and defuse explosives.”

  Le noticed his daughter start when he said that. He was sorry she had to be here. He would get her out as soon as possible.

  “I may be able to help,” Hood told him.

  “Please,” Le said. He did not ask how. He did not at this moment care. His daughter would have to be evacuated in just a few minutes. There was not a lot of time to talk.

  Hood made a call and spoke for several seconds. Anita discreetely translated his end of the conversation. Le’s daughter was a thorough professional again. It was a sad irony that he had to be so frightened for her to be so proud of her. Like her mother, she was quite a woman.

  Hood was talking to someone named Bob. He needed to meet the “team” as soon as possible. While Hood was still on the telephone, he turned to Le.

  “I need a landmark by the boosters,” Hood said.

  Le shook his head helplessly.

  “Sir?” said the guard.

  “Go ahead,” Le told her.

  “There is a large holding clamp on the northeast corner of the pad,” she said. “I have been there. It is painted red, and it is very easy to see.”

  The prime minister nodded once. Anita translated for Hood. The American finished his conversation, hung up, then turned to Le.

  “I am going to meet some people there, people who have been briefed by Mike Rodgers,” Hood said. “I will meet them alone.”

  There was no time to debate this. Le nodded. He indicated for Anita to go with him to his car and explain to the driver.

  “You leave him and come back here immediately,” her father said.

  “I will,” she promised.