“As of this morning you have all been seconded to the National Crisis Management Center,” the general said as she looked from one eager face to the other. “We are the people who stop wars so that people like us don’t get killed. The two of you posing as students — you understand what that job may entail?”
“Yes, sir,” the two replied as one.
She looked at one of them, the woman. “Second Lieutenant Yam,” she said to the woman. “A student confides that he or she is publishing an anti-Communist newspaper. What do you do?”
“I collect as many names as possible, sir, and file them with the NCMC.”
“What if we decide you need to ingratiate yourself with local party functionaries?” the general asked.
“I will provide those names to said functionaries, sir.”
“Even if it means a lengthy period of jail time for people whose politics you support?”
“Regrettably yes, sir.”
General Carrie nodded. “This is not always pleasant work, and it is rarely fair. It is a battle in which innocent lives are regularly lost. The rewards are often very difficult to see. They cannot be measured in terrain won or in an enemy’s quick surrender. This war requires ruthless patience. If you don’t have that, if the life of someone’s son or daughter will cause you to hesitate, I want you to speak now. I will replace you without prejudice. I would rather have to change a tire than drive on three.”
No one spoke.
“Very well then,” she said. “Does anyone have any questions, any last-minute requests or ideas?”
“No, sir,” they all replied.
Their voices were loud and proud, as she expected. These four had been very carefully selected and trained for the maximum-one-year mission. She was lucky to get them. Four others were being trained to back them up. If they were compromised and had to leave China suddenly, the others would be ready to go immediately.
“Just a few spot checks for my own peace of mind,” the general said. “You’ve all got your cover stories as well as the scientific credentials lined up to get into the launch site if that should be necessary?”
“The papers and passes have already been delivered to the embassy,” said one of the men. “One of the female diplomats will make the delivery tomorrow at noon at a popular dumpling stall. She will make a pass at me, and we’ll do the switch.”
“Tough job,” the general said.
“Well, sir, she is considerably older—”
General Carrie’s expression registered quick displeasure. Only then did the marine realize what he had done.
“Sir, I mean—”
“Exactly what you said,” the general replied. “Some older women could teach you a great deal, Lieutenant Lee.”
“Yes, sir, General, sir.”
“You are my contact, Lieutenant Kent Lee?” Carrie went on.
“Yes, sir.” Lee had recovered his go-get-’em demeanor immediately.
“The electrician.”
“Correct, General,” Lee replied. “I hope to get a position fixing cell phones and computers.”
“To facilitate recon,” the general said.
“That is the plan, sir. And also repairs to our gear, if necessary.”
The team would be communicating by text-messaging. Lee would collect and summarize reports in regular E-mails to the general. The messages would be routed through the computer at the home of Lee’s “sister” in a New York apartment. The space was actually a CIA surveillance site near the United Nations. If Lee’s computer were ever stolen or the account hacked, a pogo-mail address for one Andrea Lee is all the thief would find. Nor would there be anything suspicious about the contents of the E-mails to or from Ms. Lee. The computer would be employing a HIPS program to encode the messages. The hide-in-plain-sight encryptions took all the words of the message and earmarked them, then dropped them into longer messages. The longer message was deleted at the other end. Anyone reading them would see nothing unusual, nor were there any patterns to look for.
“You have all got your exit strategies if that becomes necessary?” the general asked. She knew the details from her years at G2 when the routes and plans were established.
“We fall back to the embassy or to the safe house behind the North Train Station near the Beijing zoo,” said Lee.
“Apartment?” she asked the woman.
“Basement, sir,” the marine replied. “Seven steps down, door to the right, three knocks, then two knocks.”
“And you’ve all studied the space center if you’re asked to go there?” the general asked. Carrie had looked at the map before leaving the office. A key to maintaining morale among subordinates was for a superior to know as much as possible about a mission. It made operatives feel as though there was a vetting process, a careful and knowledgeable eye watching over them.
“We’ve gone through it in virtual sims, General,” Lee said. “We know that place better than we know our own barracks.”
“Where is the launch center relative to the technical center?” the general asked, pointing to the shortest man in the group.
“North, sir. Three point four kilometers,” he added.
“And the tracking station relative to the tech center?” she asked the only marine who had not spoken.
“Four kilometers to the southeast, sir,” he told her.
She looked at Second Lieutenant Yam. It was odd. The general did not see herself as a new recruit. This woman projected a fearlessness that Carrie had not possessed. Maybe the new generation of women was openly competing with men, not bracing themselves for impact with the glass ceiling.
“Latitude of the launch tower?” she asked Yam. She had saved the toughest question for the young woman. Despite what Yam might think, the playing field was not a level one.
“It is twenty-eight degrees fifteen minutes north, sir,” the second lieutenant replied.
“Elevation?”
“Eighteen hundred feet, sir,” Yam replied.
General Carrie smiled and nodded. That felt good.
There was no time to chat further, nor any need. Carrie had seen all she needed to see. They were four sharp, enthusiastic marines. A little young, but that was all right. Youth had energy and clarity uncorrupted by cynicism. They would need that as reality started peeling away the layers of idealism.
Wishing them well and saluting them proudly, the general brought Captain Tallarico back into the room. She congratulated him for his work, then returned to her golf cart.
As she headed back to the NCMC, General Carrie was confident in the group but a little uneasy about their inexperience. There was no way to get it, other than by being in the field. But she was suddenly much more aware of the fragility of the four tires than she had been driving over.
TWENTY-FOUR
Hood reached Beijing surprisingly refreshed and exhilarated. He had slept for most of the flight, and he had left having done something that made him feel good. Something that had nothing to do with work. Not directly, anyway.
Whether he was the mayor of Los Angeles or the director of Op-Center, Hood had always tried to spend time with his kids before traveling anywhere. This was especially true on Op-Center business, when he usually went away for more than just an overnight visit. Hood used that time to plug tightly into his family. He craved it, and the kids seemed to enjoy it. Sharon Hood had never really been a part of that. She allowed her husband to give his attention to the kids.
As he thought back on it, that was how they did everything after Harleigh was born. Their love was funneled to their daughter and then their son. They never gave any to each other. Maybe Sharon was doing what she thought the kids needed. Hood’s time at home was limited, and she wanted the kids to have full access to their father. Whatever the cause, over time their life became all about kids and career, with Sharon spending her free time working on her cable TV cooking show. The events that subsequently rocked their personal lives simply accelerated the sad, lonely drift.