The young man who appeared at his door was exactly what Rodgers had expected. Dressed in an olive green jacket with a reflective orange stripe down the back, he was a somber young man with hard eyes, full shoulders, and a ramrod-straight posture. He looked like someone who rode a motor scooter around town and then bench-pressed it. He handed the general a package and a clipboard.
“I require a signature, sir,” the messenger said.
Rodgers invited him in. The young man entered, and Rodgers looked down the hall.
The messenger pointed to his own eyes then made a zero with his fingers. That meant he had checked, and no one was there. He also understood that the room might be bugged.
Rodgers nodded and shut the door. He went to the television.
The messenger followed. He looked down at the papers as they walked past the bed. They were unfolded now, but shielded by Rodgers and the new arrival. His eyes were like little machines, stopping on each for a moment before moving on. It was a standard reconnoitering process: floating data. If the marine saw anything important, he would keep it in his head until he could mention it or write it in a secure place.
The former general did not ask the marine his name or any other personal information about himself or the team.
“What do you know of this situation?” Rodgers asked.
“We were told you would brief us,” the young marine said.
“The plan is still evolving,” Rodgers said quietly. He threw a glance at the papers. “I will be working on it for at least another few hours. There’s a map. I want to pick a spot to meet you before we go in—”
“Sir, General Carrie has ordered that there be no civilian component to our mission,” the marine told him.
Rodgers did not know quite what to say. He said nothing.
“I am sorry, sir. I assumed you understood,” the marine added.
“No,” Rodgers said.
The marine had spoken without emotion or apology. Rodgers expected no less. Marines regarded themselves as representatives of their commanders. As such, they were unfailingly proud and loyal. For his part, though, Rodgers was anything but unemotional. He did not like being left out or outsmarted. He had already agreed that Hood could represent them in the viewing area. If Rodgers did not go to Xichang with the marines as one of the new “technical advisers,” he had no way of getting in. And if he tried that, Carrie might pull her team.
“Wait here,” Rodgers said and went to get his cell phone. “And help yourself to some dinner. I don’t feel like eating at the moment.”
Rodgers grabbed the phone from the bed and went into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower so he would not be heard. Then he called General Carrie’s office. Benet put her on the line.
“I understand my messenger is there. Have you got all the answers I asked for?” Carrie asked.
“Nearly,” Rodgers informed her. “First I have one more question. Why was I excluded?”
“You were not excluded. You were never included. This has always been members only,” she said. She was still being vague, thus reminding Rodgers that they could still be overhead.
“I would like to change that.”
“No,” Carrie replied.
“Ten eyes are better than eight. They are better for the work and for security,” Rodgers insisted.
“My view is that two or more eyes will be on you, making sure you are all right. That is a net loss, not a gain.”
“You act like I’ve never gone into business with new partners,” Rodgers said through his teeth.
“I am not in a position to rate your performance, which is why I am denying your request.”
“Talk to August,” Rodgers said.
Colonel Brett August was the head of Striker, the former military detachment at the NCMC. When Striker was disbanded, he went to work at the Pentagon.
“I have my plate full reviewing current personnel,” she said. “Talking to a former employee about another former employee is not at the top of my to-do list. Do we have an understanding or not? I have a lot to do.”
“Of course we do,” Rodgers said. The security of the rocket had to come first. “But I can help them.”
“I believe that is why the messenger is there—”
“Would you leave this up to him?” Rodgers asked suddenly.
“No,” she answered.
General Carrie hung up. Rodgers closed the phone and slowly tucked it in his pocket. He had a hand on the white porcelain sink. His fingertips were white. He had not realized how tightly he was squeezing the rim. He released it and flexed his fingers. He glanced at the door. He thought he saw a shadow move on the highly polished parquet floor. Rodgers did not know if the marine had been listening. Nor did it matter. There was nothing to hear. Rodgers considered calling Hood to try to rescind their agreement. But he had probably already told the prime minister. In any case, Rodgers was unsure of his own motives. At this moment he did not know whether he wanted to protect the rocket or whether he wanted to go just to shout a big “screw you” at General Carrie. He turned off the shower and went back into the room. Rodgers stood beside the TV, facing the marine. The former general’s eyes were on the floor.
“Is everything all right, sir?” the marine asked.
Not entirely, Rodgers decided. He wanted to be there to look after the Unexus payload, and he wanted to teach Carrie manners. He understood her protectiveness but not her intransigence. Military protocol gave leeway for civilian involvement. At Op-Center he had often worked with outsiders on missions. In Vietnam, he had helped to recruit them as guides. Even though Rodgers no longer wore the uniform of his country, he had served it with his life and his blood, his mind and his soul, for decades. He deserved better than Carrie’s cool dismissal.
What was worse, he needed a place to put the increasing anger he felt about it. But that was not this marine’s problem.
“Let me go over the data with you,” Rodgers said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And let me ask you something,” Rodgers said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“I was a soldier for more years than that.”
“I know, sir.”
“They gave you a file on me?”
“Yes, sir,” the marine said.
“What was your impression?”
“Sir, it’s not my place—”
“I asked,” Rodgers said.
“Sir, I’m humbled by your question,” the young marine replied. “If I serve half as well as you did, I will consider my life very well spent.”
That was a surprise. “You’re not just blowing sunshine?”
“I took your request as if it were an order, General. May I add, sir, that for someone who wasn’t a marine, you surely kicked some tail.”
Rodgers could not help but smile at that. He felt the sword leave his hand. It was not yet sheathed, but he did not feel the need to lop heads.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some food, a beverage?” Rodgers asked.
“Thank you, no.”
“Then let’s go to my command center,” Rodgers said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked to the papers that lay on the bed and floor.
FORTY
Liz Gordon left General Carrie’s office to check her E-mail and her voice mail. She had her PowerBook under one arm and her coffee mug in the other hand. Between them was a heart that was drumming just a little more than she would have liked, and a shortness of breath that alarmed her.
Liz did not know whether the cause of her anxiety was the topic of her own employment or something else. Liz knew that she would have to undergo the same kind of scrutiny the others were getting. What the psychologist did not know was whether she would be part of that selfevaluation process or not. It would be interesting to see how the general handled that.