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
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."
Poor Paul, Ann thought as she picked up her double espresso and collected her change. Out and back in less than twenty-four hours. How Sharon must have loved that.
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."
"Loss of manhood," Liz Gordon piped in without looking up from her National Enquirer.
Stoll glanced over. "Come again?"
"Consider the elements," Liz said. "Strong hands, stone-faced bluffs, the size of the ante the whole cigar-smoking, Wild West, backroom, night-with-the-boys thing."
Stoll and Katzen both looked at her.
"Trust me," she said, turning the page. "I know what I'm talking about."
"Trust someone who gets their news from the tabloids?" Katzen said.
"Not news," Liz said. "Fruitcakes. Celebrities live in a rarefied atmosphere that makes them fascinating to study. As for gamblers, I used to treat chronic cases in Atlantic City. Poker and pool are two games men hate to lose. Try Go Fish or Ping-Pong— they're much less damaging to the ego."
Ann sat at Liz's table. "What about intellectual games like chess or Scrabble?" she asked.