"I'm saying it's an option we must explore before rattling any sabers at Pyongyang. For once, they may be telling the truth."
"Thank you, sir. Is— is there anything we can do for you?"
"I know General Norbom at the base, and Ambassador Hall has promised to do whatever she can here. I appear to be in good hands."
"All right. But if you need help—"
"I'll call." His voice became stronger as he said, "Give Paul my best, and tell him— tell him that however Op-Center becomes involved in this, I want a part of it. I want to find the animals who did this."
"I'll tell him," she said as Donald hung up.
As soon as it heard the dial tone, the computer filed the conversation, marked the time, and cleared itself for the next call.
Martha placed the receiver in the cradle and slid off the desk. "Shall I call Ambassador Hall and make sure they give Donald whatever he needs?"
Hood nodded.
"You've got eye bags. Rough night?"
"Alex had a bad asthma attack. He's in the hospital."
"Ooo— sorry to hear that." She took a step forward. "You want to go to him? I'll watch things here."
"No. The President wants us to prepare the Options Paper on this thing, and I need you to get me the latest data on North Korea's financial ties to Japan, China, and Russia— black market as well as legitimate. If we've got a real situation, my feeling is that the President may want a military solution, but let's see what we can do with sanctions."
"Will do. And don't worry about Alex. He'll be fine. Kids are tough."
"They've got to be to survive us," Hood said, reaching for the intercom. Buzzing his aide Bugs, he told him to have Liz Gordon report to the Tank.
As she left, Martha hoped that she hadn't been too forward by offering to sit in for Hood. She felt bad for the way she jumped on Alexander's misfortune to improve her résumé, and made a mental note to have her secretary send him some balloons; but while Ann Farris had her heart set on the Director, Martha had her heart set on the directorship. She liked and respected Hood, but she didn't want to be Op-Center's Political Officer forever. Her fluency in ten languages and understanding of world economies made her more valuable than that. Co-managing an international crisis like this would have been a major notch in her portfolio, setting her up for advancement here or, if she were lucky, a move to the State Department.
There's always tomorrow, she told herself as she traversed the narrow corridor between the bullpen and the executive offices, passing Liz Gordon who looked like she had a serious head of steam and was in desperate need of a place to vent it
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"You really don't care if the boss blows a gasket, do you, sir?"
Lt. Col. Squires and Mike Rodgers were jogging across the field. It was less than a minute since the Jet-ranger had touched down and already it was airborne again, headed back to Quantico. The two officers were leading the line of Striker men toward the C-141B, which was revving up on the airstrip ahead. In addition to his gear, Squires was carrying a Toshiba Satellite portable computer with a specially designed side-mounted laserjet printer, which contained flight plans for 237 different locations, along with detailed maps and possible mission profiles.
"Now what would Hood blow a gasket about?" Rodgers asked. "I'm a quiet sort of guy listen a lot. I voice my opinions politely and deferentially."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but Krebs is your size, and you had him bring an extra set of togs. Our playbooks are all designed for a twelve-man squad. You're taking George's place, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"And I'll bet a month's pay that Mr. Hood hasn't okayed it."
"Why trouble him with details? He's got a lot on his mind."
"Well, sir— right there are two very good reasons why gaskets blow. Pressure, and a piece o'something where it doesn't belong. In this case, you here."
Rodgers shrugged a shoulder. "Sure, he'll be pissed. But Hood won't stay that way. He's got a perfectly capable team back at Op-Center and, hell, we don't agree on much anyway. He won't miss me."
"Which brings up another point, sir. Permission to speak freely?"
"Shoot."
"I've got a perfectly capable team here too. Are you going to be running the show, or are you taking Private George's place?"
"I won't be wearing my stars, Charlie. You're in command, and I'll do whatever job needs to be done. You and your little laptop will have twelve hours to bring me up to speed."
"So this jaunt is just your idea of a good way to start the week. A chance to get out from behind the desk."
"Something like that," Rodgers said as they reached the huge, black transport plane. "You know how it is, Charlie. If you don't use the equipment, it gets rusty."
Squires laughed. "You, sir? Rusty? I don't think so. This kind of action is in the Rodgers's genes way back to— was it the Spanish-American War?"
"That's the one," Rodgers said. "Great-great-granddad Captain Malachai T. Rodgers."
The officers stopped on either side of the hatch, and as Squires shouted, "Go! Go! Go!" the men climbed through without breaking stride.
Rodgers's heart swelled as the men went aboard, beat as proudly as it always did when he saw American soldiers running to do their duty. Young, afraid, and varying shades of green they went anyway, it was a sight that never failed to stir him. He was one of them during his first tour in Viet Nam and, after getting his Ph.D. in history from Temple University while he was stationed at Ft. Dix, he went back and led battalions of them in the Persian Gulf War.
Tennyson once wrote that Lady Godiva was a sight to make an old man young, and women did do that to him. But so did this. Twenty-six years slipped away in less than a minute, and he felt nineteen again as he followed the last enlisted man into the plane, allowing Squires to bring up the rear.
Despite his own somewhat glib assessment, Rodgers knew that the Lieutenant Colonel was right. Hood definitely would not be happy that he was going. For all his smarts and his often astounding skills as a mediator, Hood hated letting anything out of his control. And by going into the field, half a world away, Rodgers would effectively be out of his control. But above all, Hood was a team player: if it was necessary for the Striker team to go in and perform any covert actions, the Director wouldn't let ego stop him from letting the team— and Rodgers— do the job and grab the glory or play the goat.
As soon as they were aboard, the men took their seats along the sides of the bare cabin while the ground crew finished prepping the massive plane. First introduced in 1982, the Lockheed C-141B Starlifter, with its 159-foot 11-inch top-mounted wings, was heir to the laurels of the earlier C-141A, introduced in 1964. That plane distinguished itself with year after year of daily nonstops to Viet Nam— its performance record one of the many unheralded benefits to come from the war. No other army had a troop transport that reliable, and that gave the U.S. an edge.
At 168 feet 4 inches in length, the C-141B— longer than its predecessor by 23 feet 4 inches— could accommodate 154 troops, 123 paratroops, 80 stretchers, and 16 sitting casualties or cargo. Flight refueling equipment located in the back added 50 percent to its normal range of 4,080 miles— longer if, like now, it was carrying less than its 70,847-pound payload. The jet would make it to Hawaii without any trouble, where it would be met and refueled in flight by a KC-135 tanker. From there, it was an easy run to Japan, and then a rapid half-hour chopper ride to North Korea.
While the crew finished up their preflight checklist, the Striker men went through their own inventory. In addition to his own gear— camouflage uniform, otherwise unmarked, a nine-inch knife, and one Beretta 92-F 9-mm automatic pistol, also unmarked— each man was responsible for bringing items the team would require, from the cardboard-box meals of ham sandwiches and candy bars to the field phones to the all-important TAC SAT radio with a parabolic antenna that unfolds for a satellite uplink.