As Hasan and Mahmoud both looked over his shoulder, Rodgers opened the NRO software. He followed the on-screen prompts, typed in the coordinates, and asked for a visual of the site. He held his breath when the computer indicated that his request was "already working."
Dammit, Rodgers thought. Godammit. The Syrian could also read English.
"Already working," Hasan said. He translated for Mahmoud, then said, "This means that someone else has already asked for this information. Who?"
"It could be any military or intelligence office in Washington," Rodgers answered truthfully.
Less than twenty seconds later they were looking down at themselves from space. The image was a quarter mile across, standard surveillance distance.
Mahmoud seemed pleased. He said something to Hasan.
"Mahmoud wishes you to find out who else is looking at us."
There was no point in lying anymore. They'd only beat Sondra to death, then turn on someone else. Rodgers hit a flashing satellite icon, and a short list of image-share outlets appeared. The National Reconnaissance Office and Op-Center were the only names on it.
Hasan explained what they said, and then Mahmoud Spoke.
"You are to shut the eye of the satellite," Hasan said.
Rodgers didn't hesitate. One of the keys to the hostage game was knowing when to up the ante and knowing when to fold. It was time to fold this hand.
The ROC could not shut down the 30-45-3. That command would have to come from the NRO. However, he could send up a steady stream of digital noise which would cover an area some ten miles across. That would make the ROC invisible to every form of electronic reconnaissance, from normal light to electromagnetic.
Rodgers accessed the software which had been designed to protect the ROC from being seen by enemy satellites. After loading it and removing the safeguards built into the system, all that remained was for him to push "Enter."
"It's ready," Rodgers said.
Hasan translated. Mahmoud nodded. Rodgers pressed the button.
The three men watched as the monitor grew thick with color static until the image broke up. Hasan leaned over Rodgers and clicked the satellite icon. The NRO and Op-Center both disappeared from the image-share list.
Mahmoud stood back and smiled. He spoke to Hasan at length, then turned and pulled his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.
Hasan regarded Rodgers. "Mahmoud wishes me to make certain that you have done what you promised."
"I have," said Rodgers. "You can see that."
"I saw an image vanish," Hasan said. He pointed toward Rodgers's shirt pocket. "Use your telephone. Call your headquarters. I will speak with them."
Rodgers felt nervous, but he had to appear calm. Maybe Hasan had just been pointing at him, not at the pocket where he'd placed the phone. Rodgers nodded and casually reached for the telephone on the side of the computer. He lifted it from the cradle and immediately tried to work his thumb onto the stop button. The last thing he wanted was for the Syrians to hear the pulsing of the numbers he'd sent out.
Hasan's hand flashed out. He grabbed Rodgers's wrist. He hadn't hit the button yet.
"What are you doing?" Hasan asked. "Where is your telephone?"
"I lost it somewhere," Rodgers said.
"Lost it where?" Hasan asked.
"I don't know," Rodgers replied. "Outside, I suppose. Or on the floor here. It could have happened any one of the times I was tripped or pushed or knocked around."
Hasan's brows came together. "What's that?"
"What?" Rodgers asked.
Hasan looked at the phone. "It is dialing."
"No, it isn't." Rodgers smiled benignly. He had to make Hasan feel foolish if he continued this line of questioning. "It's clicking because of the static we're sending up to the satellite. If it were a number, someone would have picked up. Watch. When we put in a new number, it will be fine."
Hasan didn't appear to be buying that. But he was distracted when Mahmoud spoke sharply. It sounded to Rodgers as if he were pressing Hasan, and Hasan answered testily.
Hasan exhaled loudly, then glared at Rodgers. "Dial the number and then introduce me," he said. "I will do the rest."
Rodgers waited while Hasan released his wrist. Then he clicked the stop button, waited for the dial tone, and punched in Bob Herbert's number. Since the main dish on the driver's side of the van was being used to create the digital noise, the "mirror" dish on the passenger's side would create the uplink with the communications satellite Op-Center used.
Within ten seconds, Bob Herbert's startled assistant was summoning the intelligence chief to the phone.
TWENTY-SIX
Martha Mackall had been conferring with Op-Center Press Officer Ann Farris about how best to present Paul Hood's mission in the media. Martha was seated behind her desk and Ann was working on a leather couch, her laptop resting back near her knees. Together, the women plugged phrases like "exploratory intercession" and "interpositive mediation" into Ann's rough-draft press release. The trick was to position the post-flood mission as a diplomatic one rather than as intelligence-oriented, Hood's directorship of Op-Center notwithstanding.
Suddenly, it seemed as if a second flood had washed over Martha's office. First came Bob Herbert, who wheeled in with word that they had broken the repeating phone code from the ROC.
"We broke the pulse signal," he said proudly. "The beeps represent the numbers 722528573. That has to stand for RC2BKVKRD, which appears to translate as 'ROC to Bekaa Valley Kurds.' Our people are being taken to the Syrian Kurd stronghold in the Bekaa."
Even as Herbert was explaining the code, his wheelchair phone rang. He snatched it up. It was Chingmy Yau, one of his assistants, informing him that they'd lost the ROC on every one of their satellites.
"How can that be?" Herbert demanded. "Are you sure there isn't an equipment failure on this end?"
"Positive," said Chingmy. "It's as if someone nuked an area ten miles across. There's nothing but static."
"What about the Rhyolite?" Herbert asked. The Rhyolite was a small, orbiting radio telescope in a 22,300-mile-high geostationary orbit. Guiding a high-gain beam to earth, it was able to detect even the faintest electronic signals. The most common of these signals was side-lobe energy, radio beam energy which spilled at angles from the main beam. Sigint specialists were usually able to decipher the primary messages from the contents of this leakage.
"The Rhyolite's gone out too," Chingmy replied.
"It's got to be interference from the ROC," Herbert said.
"That's what we decided," Chingmy said. "We're working on reestablishing contact. But it's as if someone threw a blocking program into the ROC computers. They just don't want to let us in."
Herbert told his assistant to update him one way or the other. Less than a minute later, before he could return to discussing the Bekaa Valley message with Martha, his phone rang again.
"Yes, Ching?" he said. Only it wasn't his assistant this time.
"I have someone who wishes to speak with you," said the caller.
Herbert slapped the speaker button and fired a look at Martha. "Mike," he mouthed.
Martha turned to her computer keyboard and typed:
Priority One: Triangulate call on Bob Herbert's cell phone. Expedite.
She E-mailed the message to Radio Reconnaissance Director John Quirk, then listened to Herbert's conversation.
"What do you see when you look for your van?" asked the caller.
"First tell me," said Herbert, "with whom have I the pleasure of speaking."
"One who holds your van and its crew of six," the caller replied. "If you wish it to remain a crew of six instead of five, please answer."