Acts of war

In exactly .8955 seconds, the monitors filled with the same green-tinted photograph showing the site described by Rodgers. Op-Center and the ROC were still voice-linked.

"There they are," Herbert said.

Rodgers was sitting against the motorcycle. It looked as if his hands were tied to the handlebars. His feet were so bound. The TSF officer was lying on his belly, his hands lashed behind him. A third man was sitting on the side of the hill, smoking. There was a submachine gun in his lap.

"They're still alive," Hood said. "Thank God for that."

Katzen, Private Pupshaw, and Private DeVonne entered then. They stood between the two stations and had a look at the photograph.

Coffey leaned toward the screen. "I only see three people."

"Maybe Mike meant that there were only three people altogether," Hood suggested.

"No," Coffey said. "He told me there were three perps. I can play back the tape if you want, but that's what he said."

"The other two could be out on stakeout," Herbert said. "It would make sense for them to have gone ahead and see who comes in. Make sure Mike didn't send for the cavalry or something."

"Even if they're out watching the road," Hood said, "we've got two Strikers they may not know about. If the captors think that Mike was a run-of-the-mill spook, they may not expect an armed escort to come for him. Especially one that knows exactly what they're riding into."

"Which brings us back to whether you take the ROC," Herbert said. "I still think you should leave everything active. Paul?"

Hood thought for a moment. "Phil, you're against it."

"If anything happens to us, we'd be giving them the key to the candy store," Katzen said.

"Lowell?" Hood asked.

"Legally, Paul, we might have problems," Coffey said. "Our geographical playing field was pretty carefully delineated to both the Turks and Congress."

"Jesus!" Herbert yelled. "Mike's being held hostage and you're talking about our legal limitations!"

"There's something else," Katzen said. "The Strikers. If someone's watching the van, they may see them. If we dismantle some of the equipment, we can hide them in the battery compartment."

"The battery compartment," Herbert said. "Privates, how do you feel about that?"

"I like it, sir," Pupshaw said. "We go in completely unseen."

Hood asked if everyone was finished with the photograph. They were. He had the face-to-face visuals restored.

"Okay," Hood said. "We go in and we take the lobotomized ROC. Who runs the operation?"

"We can't call it a military rescue," Coffey said. "We need Congressional approval for that and it'll never come in time. So on the books at least it has to be a civilian pperation."

"Agreed," said Hood. "The Strikers dress-down, weapons handy but hidden: Who runs the operation?"

No one answered. Coffey looked at the three faces on the green-lit screen. "I guess I'm elected," he said unenthusiastically. "I've got seniority."

"By two days over Phil," Herbert said. "Shit, Lowell, you've never fired a gun. At least Phil has."

"To scare away nesting harp seals," Coffey said. "He never shot at anybody. That makes us both virgins."

"Not me," said Mary Rose. "When I was at Columbia I shot once a week at a pistol club on Murray Street in Manhattan. And I once pulled a gun on an intruder who busted into my dorm room. I don't care who goes and who runs this, but I'm going with them."

"Thanks, M.R.," Hood said. "Phil, you did lead some pseudo-military Greenpeace escapades; didn't you?"

"Very pseudo." Katzen grinned. "Shotguns with blanks. I did three in Washington State, two in Florida, two in Canada."

"You feel up to running this?"

"If it has to be done, I'll do it."

"That isn't what I wanted to hear," Hood snapped. "Can you take command of this operation?"

Katzen flushed. "Yes," he said. He looked at the determined faces of Mary Rose and the two Strikers. "Hell, yes, I can do it."

"Good," Hood said. "Lowell, I'd prefer it if you stayed behind. Whatever happens, somebody's going to have to be on-site to smooth things with the Turkish government. You're the best man for that job."

"I won't try to change your mind," Lowell said. He looked at his companions and then looked down. Even though he'd offered to go and been ordered to stay, he felt like a coward. "But in fairness to the mission, let's see how things look when we're ready to roll."

"All right," Hood said. "It'll be your call."

"Thanks ever so much." Coffey frowned.

"You realize, Paul," Herbert said, "that by running even a civilian operation covertly, both Turkey and Congress will be up our butts for a very long time. And that's just if things go right. If they go wrong, we'll all be making license plates for the government."

"I understand," Hood said. "But getting Mike out is my only concern."

"And there's something else," Herbert said. "Our sources in Ankara tell us that the Turkish Presidential Council and Cabinet are meeting now to mobilize the military. They want to prevent any further attacks. The ROC may run into some pretty skittish patrols."

"Once we pull the batteries we'll be limited to eyes and ears," Katzen said. "But we'll keep them open."

"I'll see if Viens can keep a satellite eye on things too," Herbert said.

"Thanks, all of you," Hood said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to phone Senator Fox so she doesn't find out about it from someone in the Ankara bureau of the Washington Post."

Hood clicked off. After saying that he was going to find out what other intelligence agencies had on the dam attack, Herbert also excused himself.

When the ROC team was alone, Katzen rubbed his hands together.

"All right, then," he said. "Mary Rose, would you kindly print out the map? You're going to drive. Sondra, Walter---we three are going to have a strategy session with input from the NRO." He turned and offered Coffey his hand. "As for you, wish us luck and then go finish my chicken for me."

Coffey looked at the four and smiled. "Good luck," he said. "You're really, really going to need it."

"Why is that?" Katzen said.

"Because I can deal with the Turks just as well by phone." He took a long, anxious breath. "I'm coming with you."

SIXTEEN

Monday, 12:01 p.m., Washington, D. C.

Paul Hood was preoccupied with Mike Rodgers's plight when he received a call from Deputy Chief of Staff Stephanie Klaw at the White House. Hood was being ordered to report to the Situation Room by one o'clock to discuss the crisis on the Euphrates. He left at once, telling his assistant Bugs Benet to notify him immediately if there were any developments in Turkey. In the absence of both Hood and Mike Rodgers, Martha Mackall would be in charge of Op-Center. Bob Herbert wouldn't be happy about that. She was the kind of career politician he disliked and distrusted. But he'd have to live with it. Martha knew her way around the corridors of power both domestically and abroad.

At this time of day it would take an hour for him to drive from Op-Center headquarters at Andrews Air Force Base to the White House. Op-Center usually had a helicopter at its disposal for quick, fifteen minute trips into the capital. However, there had been trouble with the rotor heads in other Sikorsky CH53E Super Stallions and the entire government fleet had been grounded. That was fine with Hood. He preferred to drive.

Hood hopped right onto Pennsylvania Avenue, which was located just a short distance northeast of the base. Though most government officials had private cars and drivers to take them around the city, Hood eschewed the privilege. He'd also refused it when he was Mayor of Los Angeles. The idea of being chauffeured was just too ostentatious for him. Security didn't concern Hood. No one wanted to kill him. Or if they did, he'd rather have someone try to do him harm instead of going after his wife or children or mother. Besides, driving himself, he could still conduct business by phone. He also had the opportunity to listen to music and think. And what he was thinking about now was Mike Rodgers.

Hood and his second-in-command were very different types of men. Mike was a benevolent autocrat. Hood was a thinking-man's bureaucrat. Mike was a career soldier. Hood had never even fired a gun. Mike was a fighter by nature. Hood was a diplomat by temperament. Mike quoted Lord Byron and Erich Fromm and William Tecumseh Sherman. Hood occasionally remembered lyrics from Hal David and Alfred E. Neuman's quotes from his son's copies of Mad magazine. Mike was an intense introvert. Hood was a guarded extrovert. The two men often disagreed, sometimes passionately. But it was because they disagreed, it was because Mike Rodgers had the courage to say what was on his mind, that Hood trusted and respected him. Hood also liked the man. He truly did.

Hood maneuvered patiently through the thick lunch-time traffic. His suit jacket was folded across the seat and his cellular phone lay on top of it. He wanted it to ring. God, how he wanted to know what was going on. At the same time, he dreaded finding out.

Hood stayed in his lane in the slow-moving traffic. As he did, he ruminated over the fact that death was an inescapable part of intelligence work. This was something Bob Herbert had pounded into him during the early days of Op-Center. Undercover operatives in domestic as well as foreign situations were frequently discovered, tortured, and killed. And sometimes the reverse was true. Often, operatives had to kill to keep from being discovered.

Then there was Striker, the military wing of Op-Center. Elite teams lost members on secret missions. Op-Center's own Striker had lost two so far. Bass Moore in North Korea and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires in Russia. Sometimes officers were murdered at home and sometimes they were ambushed abroad. Hood's own life had been in jeopardy recently when he and French undercover operatives had helped to break up a ring of neo-Nazis in Europe.

But while death was an understood risk, it was brutal on the survivors. Several Strikers had suffered serious reactive depression due to the death of Commander Squires. For several weeks they had been unable to perform even simple duties. Not only had the survivors shared the lives and dreams of their dead coworkers, they also felt that they'd failed the victims in some way. Was the intelligence as reliable as it should have been? Were our backup plans and exit strategy sufficiently well thought out? Did we take reasonable precautions? Merciless, unforgiving guilt was also the price of doing business.

Hood reached the White House at exactly 12:55, though it took him a few minutes to park and get through the security check. Upon finally being admitted, he was met by the slender, gray-haired Stephanie Klaw. Side by side, they walked briskly down the corridor.

"They've just started the meeting," Stephanie said, her voice as soft as the green carpet underfoot. "I gather, Mr. Hood, that you're still motoring around Washington by yourself?"

"I am."

"You really ought to get a driver," she said. "I assure you, the General Accounting Office will not think that you're taking advantage of your position."

"You know I don't believe in them, Mrs. Klaw."

"I am very much aware of that," she said. "And part of me thinks that's charming. But you know, Mr. Hood, those drivers know the traffic patterns and how to maneuver through them. They also have these really loud sirens to help them get around. Besides, using drivers helps keep the unemployment statistics down. And we like it here when those figures look good."

Hood looked at her. The handsome, wrinkled face was deadpan. He could tell that Mrs. Klaw wasn't making fun of him, but of everyone else who took government limousines.

"How would you like to become my driver?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she replied. "I'm Type A when I get behind a wheel. I'd abuse the siren."

Paul smiled slightly. "Mrs. Kiaw, you've been the one bright spot in my morning. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said. "Your lack of pretension is always a bright spot in mine."

They stopped at an elevator. Mrs. Klaw wore a card on a chain around her neck. It had a magnetic stripe on the back and a photo ID on the front. She inserted it into a slot to the left of the door. The door opened and Hood stepped in. Mrs. Klaw leaned in and pressed a red button. The button read her thumbprint and turned green. She kept her finger on the button.

"Please don't make the President cross," she said.

"I'll try not to."

"And do your best to keep the others from fighting with Mr. Burkow," she added. "He's in a mood over all of this and you know how that affects the President." She leaned closer to Hood. "He's got to defend his man."

"I'm all for loyalty," Hood said noncommittally as she lifted her thumb and the door shut. The ultra-hawkish National Security Advisor was not an easy man with whom to keep the peace.

The only noise in the wood-paneled elevator was the soft whir of the ceiling ventilator. Hood turned his face up to the cool air. After a quick ride he reached the White House sublevel. This was the technological heart of the White House where conferences were held and grounds security was maintained. The door opened on a small office. An armed Marine was waiting for him. Hood presented his ID to the guard. After examining it, the Marine thanked him and stepped aside. Hood walked over to the room's only other occupant, the President's Executive Secretary. She was seated at a small desk outside the Situation Room. She E-mailed the President that Hood had arrived, and he was told to go right in.

The brightly lighted Situation Room consisted of a long mahogany table in the center with comfortable leather-cushioned chairs around it. There was a new STU-5 secure phone, a pitcher of water, and a computer monitor at each station, with slide-out keyboards underneath. On the walls were detailed video maps showing the location of U.S. and foreign troops, as well as flags indicating trouble spots. Red flags marked present armed conflict, while green flags marked latent danger spots. Hood noticed that there was already a red flag on the Turkey-Syria border. Tucked in the far corner of the room was a table with two male secretaries. One took minutes on a Powerbook. The other sat by a computer and was responsible for bringing up any maps or data which might be required.

The heavy, six-paneled door clicked shut by itself. Above the highly polished table, two gold ceiling fans with brown blades turned slowly. Hood gave a general nod to everyone around the table as he arrived, saving a fast smile for his friend Secretary of State Av Lincoln. Lincoln winked back. Then Hood nodded directly at President Michael Lawrence.

"Good afternoon, sir," Hood said.

"Afternoon, Paul," the tall former Minnesota Governor said. "Av was just bringing us up to date."

The President was clearly in a high-energy state. During his three years in office, the President had not enjoyed any headline-making foreign policy successes. Though that would not be enough to lose him the next election, he was a born competitor who was frustrated at not having found the right combination of military strength, economic muscle, and charisma to dominate international affairs.

"Before you continue, Av," the President said, holding up a hand, "Paul---what's the latest on General Rodgers?"

"There's been no change in the situation," Hood said as he made his way to the empty leather chair in the middle of the table. "The Regional Op-Center is headed deeper into Turkey, to the spot from which General Rodgers telephoned." He glanced at his watch. "They should be arriving within the half hour."

"Will the ROC mount a rescue attempt?" asked National Security Advisor Burkow.

Hood sat down. "We're empowered to evacuate our personnel from unstable situations," he said carefully. "However, we have no idea whether that's feasible at this point."

"Anything's feasible if you want to pay the price," Burkow remarked. "Your people are authorized to use deadly force to rescue hostages. We've got thirty-seven hundred troops at the Incirlik Air-Base, which is right around the corner."

"There are two Strikers onboard," Hood replied. "But as I said, I have no idea what's feasible at this point."

"I want to be notified personally of any developments," the President said, "wherever you are."

"Of course, sir," Hood said. He wondered what the President meant by that last comment.

"Av," the President went on, "would you please continue your briefing?"

"Yes, sir," said Secretary of State Av Lincoln.

The powerfully built former major league baseball star looked at his notepad. He had made a successful transition into politics, and had been one of the earliest supporters of the candidacy of Michael Lawrence. He was one of the few insiders Paul Hood trusted completely.

"Paul," said Lincoln, "I was just telling the others about the Turkish mobilization. My office has been in constant contact with Ambassador Robert Macaluso at our embassy in Ankara, as well as with the U.S. Consulates General in Istanbul and Izmir and the consulate in Adana. We've also been talking with Ambassador Kande at the Turkish Chancery in Washington. All of them have confirmed the following information.

"At 12:30 p.m. our time, Turkey mobilized over a half-million men in their Land Forces and Air Force and put one hundred thousand men on high alert in the Naval Forces, which includes the Naval Air and Naval Infantry. That's nearly all of their total military power."

"Including reserves?" the President asked.

"No, sir," said Defense Secretary Colon. "They can dig up another twenty thousand troops if they have to, then dip into the nineteen-to-forty-nine-year-old work force for another fifty thousand trainees if necessary."

"We've been told that the land and air forces are going to take up positions down the Euphrates. and along the Syrian border," Lincoln went on. "The sea forces are being concentrated on the Aegean and the Mediterranean. We've been assured by Ankara that the naval troops in the Mediterranean will go no further south than the southern tip of the Gulf of Alexandretta."

Hood looked at the map on his computer screen. The gulf ended about twenty-five miles north of Syria.

"The Turkish forces in the Aegean are to make sure the Greeks stay out of this," Lincoln said. "We haven't heard anything definitive yet from Damascus, though the President, his three Vice Presidents, and the Council of Ministers are meeting right now. Ambassador Moualem at the chancery here in Washington says there will be an appropriate response from Syria."

"Meaning?" asked the President.