Acts of War

NINETEEN Monday, 2:01 p.m., Washington, D. C

There was a ping from the side-mounted speakers of Paul Hood's computer. Hood looked at the monitor and saw Bob Herbert's code on the bottom of the screen. He pushed Ctrl/Ent.

"Yes, Bob."

"Chief, I know you're in a rush," Herbert said, "but there's something you've got to take a look at."

"Something bad?" Hood asked. "Is Mike okay?"

"It may involve Mike directly," Herbert said, "and I'm sorry. Yeah, it does look pretty bad."

"Send it over," Hood said.

"Right away," Herbert replied.

Hood sat back and waited. He'd been busy downloading classified data onto diskettes to take with him on the airplane. The diskettes were specially designed for use on government flights. The jackets became superheated in a fire, though they, could not burn. In the event of a crash, the disks as well as their data. would be reduced to slag.

The White House was sending a chopper to Andrews and putting him and Assistant Deputy Director Warner Bicking on a three p.m. State Department flight to London. Hood was scheduled to meet Dr. Nasr at Heathrow Airport and catch a British Airways flight to Syria an hour later. Hood watched as the computer finished copying files onto diskettes. When the hard drive stopped humming, Hood continued to stare at the blank screen.

"Hold on a second," Herbert said. "I want the computer to animate the stuff for you."

"I'm holding on," Hood said, a trace of impatience in his voice. He tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than Mike Rodgers having been captured by terrorists.

Mike Rodgers a hostage, he thought bitterly. Your wife disappointed in you. A new problem will give you a hat trick. Still, it was a record he didn't feel like shooting for.

Less than two minutes ago Hood had phoned his wife to tell her he wouldn't be able to make daughter Harleigh's piccolo solo at school that night, and almost certainly son Alexander's championship soccer game on Thursday. Sharon had reacted the way she always did when work came before family. She immediately grew cold and distant. And Hood knew she would stay that way until he came back. Part of her reaction was concern for her husband's safety. American government and business leaders abroad, particularly in the Middle East, were neither low-profile nor particularly well liked. And after her husband's experiences with the New Jacobin terrorists in France, Sharon was less complacent than ever about his safety.

Another, possibly larger, part of her reaction was Sharon's oft-voiced concern that time was passing and they weren't spending enough of it together. They weren't building the memories that helped make marriages rich and durable. Ironically, long hours was one of the reasons he'd gotten out of politics and then out of banking. The directorship of Op-Center was supposed to have been about managing a modest staff which managed domestic crises. But after being drawn into a near-disaster in North Korea, Op-Center suddenly found itself an international player, a streamlined counterpart to the bureaucracy-heavy CIA. As a result, Hood's own responsibilities had increased dramatically.

Working hard certainly didn't make him a bad person. It provided a very comfortable life for his family and it exposed their two children to interesting people and events. But on top of everything else, he had to deal with the fact that his freedom to work, and to work hard, made Sharon jealous. She'd been forced to cut back her "healthy cooking" appearances on Andy McDonnell's cable food show to twice a week. There simply wasn't enough time to do a daily segment and shuttle the kids to where they had to go and run the house. Though Hood felt bad for his wife, there was nothing he could do.

Except get home on time, he thought, which sounds great on the surface but isn't practical. Not in a city that operates on international time.

"Here it is," Herbert said. "Watch the left side of the screen."

Hood leaned forward. He saw an extremely jerky motion picture of what looked like the ROC sitting in darkness. From the ID numbers in the lower left corner of the picture, he knew that these were successive NRO photographs being flashed together sequentially, flipbook style. There was approximately a one-second delay between each image.

"Am I looking for anything in particular?" Hood asked. "Is that Phil?"

"Yes," said Herbert. "He's pulling a dead something off the road. It looks like a sheep or dog. But that's not what I want you to see. Watch the back of the Regional Op-Center."

Hood did. The darkness seemed to shift slightly behind the ROC, though that could have been caused by atmospheric conditions between the satellite and the target. Suddenly, there was a tiny flash which lasted for just one image. A few seconds later there was another flash in a slightly different spot.

"What was that?" Hood asked.

"I've run it through computer enhancement," Herbert said. "We thought at first that it might have been a moth or an artifact in the image. But it was definitely a reflection, slightly concave and probably coming from a watch crystal. Keep looking, though."

Hood did. He saw Phil Katzen return to the van. He watched it start to move ahead. Then he saw it stop. The van remained parked for several images. Hood leaned closer to the screen. Then the door opened, the light came on inside the ROC, and someone got in.

"Oh, no," Hood said. "God, no."

Herbert froze the image on the monitor. "As you can see," he said, "whoever it is, he's armed. Looks like a.38 in the holster and a Czech Parabellum over his shoulder. According to Darrell, the Syrian Kurds bought crate loads of those from Slovakia in 1994."

Herbert started up the moving image again. For a moment Hood couldn't see anything else because the image had been taken from almost directly overhead. But as he waited, he felt his guilt and every other priority evaporate in the face of what he was watching.

"In about four minutes real time," Herbert said, "the ROC headlights are going to flash three times. Obviously, whoever is at the controls is signaling someone up ahead."

"How did this happen?" Hood asked. "Mike wouldn't have told them about the ROC."

"We don't think his captors knew about the Regional Op-Center ahead of time," Herbert said. "They were probably just waiting for Mike's wheels to arrive and lucked out."

"How was it done?" Hood asked.

"My guess is the carjackers set up a watch alongside the road. As a precaution, they must have gassed the ROC as it passed. The way the van slowed seems to indicate that the crew was overcome quickly, although not immediately. The driver had enough time to brake. The good news is that the intruder didn't shoot our people once he got inside."

"How do you know?"

"We would've seen flashes," Herbert said.

"Yes, of course," Hood replied. That was a stupid question. Pay attention to what the hell's going on. And then he said, "Unless they were already dead from the gas."

"That's unlikely," Herbert replied. "The crew would be no help if they were dead. Alive they can serve as hostages. Perhaps they can help the Kurds get out of the country. Or," Herbert added gravely, "maybe they can tell the Kurds how to work the ROC."

Hood knew that Mike Rodgers and the two Strikers would die before they helped their kidnappers work the ROC. But Hood did not know whether Katzen, Coffey, or Mary Rose would sacrifice their lives to protect it. Nor did he believe that Rodgers would let them.

"We don't have too many options here, do we?" Hood asked.

"We do not," said Herbert.

According to prescribed Regional Op-Center procedures established by Rodgers, Coffey, Herbert, and their advisors, if the ROC were ever captured, the immediate response would be for someone to hit the "Fry" buttons. Simultaneously pressing Control, Alt, Del, and Cap "F" on either keyboard would cause a surge from the ROC engine batteries. The current generated by the command would be sufficient to burn out the major circuits in the computers and batteries. For all intents and purposes, the fried ROC would cease to be anything but a gas-powered van. If for some reason the procedure failed, the crew or Op-Center itself was required to destroy the ROC by any means at its disposal. If an enemy were to obtain access to communciations links and codes, national security and the activities and lives of dozens of undercover operatives would be compromised.

Having designed all of that, however, even Rodgers admitted there was no way of knowing what he or anyone would do if the ROC were ever taken. As an experienced hostage negotiator, Herbert had said that it might be worth preserving the operations if some of them could be bartered to keep hostages alive.

But all of that was speculative, Hood thought. We never thought it was ever going to happen.

Hood watched as the ROC's headlights flashed three times. Then the screen went blank.

"Whatever is happening now," Herbert said, "is anybody's guess. It's taking place in darkness. Viens gave this situation Priority A-1, and is trying to get us some infrared reconnaissance. But it'll take at least ninety minutes to reprogram the nearest satellite and turn it around."

Hood continued to stare at the dark image on the monitor. This was one of his worst nightmares. All of their planning, all of their technology had been undermined by what Rodgers called "street fighters." People who fought without rules and without fear. People, who weren't afraid to die or to kill. As Hood had learned from the legitimate strikes and bitter riots Los Angeles had endured during his mayoralty, desperation made enemies deadly.

But Hood reminded himself that adversity made strong leaders stronger. He would have to swallow his guilt and disappointment, put aside his sudden desire to kick things, including himself. He was going to have to lead his team.

"Bob," Hood said, "there's a strike force at the Incirlik Air Base, correct?"

"A small one," Herbert said, "but we can only use it inside Turkey."

"Why?"

"Because there are Turks on the team. If U.S. and Turkish troops go into an Arab nation together, that will be considered a NATO action. It'll create a firestorm with our European allies and turn even friendly Arab nations against us."

"Great," Hood said. He cleared the screen and brought up a form document. He began typing. "In that case," he said, "I'm ordering Striker into the region."

"Without prior Congressional approval?"

"Unless Martha can get it for me within the next ninety minutes, yes. Without approval. I can't wait while they diddle."

"Good man," Herbert said. "I'll order the C-141B packed for a desert operation."

"We can put Striker down at the Incirlik if the ROC stays in Turkey or northern or eastern Syria," Hood said. "If the ROC goes into southern or western Syria or Lebanon, we'll have to see about getting them into Israel."

"The Israelis would welcome anyone wanting to kick terrorist butt," Herbert replied. "And I know just the place to base our team there."

Hood picked up a light-pen and signed the screen. His signature appeared on the Striker Deployment Order No. 9. He saved the document on the hard drive, and then Emailed it to both Martha Mackall and to Colonel Brett August, the new Striker commander. He put the pen down. Then he rapped the edge of the desk slowly with his knuckles.

"Are you okay?" Herbert asked.

"Sure," Hood said. "I'm probably a hell of a lot better than Mike and those poor devils in the ROC."

"Mike will get them through this," Herbert said. "Listen, Chief. Would it make you feel any better to piggyback to the Middle East with Striker? They'll actually be getting there before you."

"No," Hood said. "I need to talk with Nasr about the Syrian strategies. Besides, you and Mike and all the Strikers have worn uniforms. I haven't. I wouldn't feel right planting myself in a seat of honor I haven't earned."

"Take my word for it," Herbert said. "A ride in a C-141B ain't no day at Disneyland. Besides, it's not like you ran from a uniform. You stayed 1A during the draft. You just weren't called. You think I would've gone if the Selective Service Board hadn't grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and said, 'Mr. Herbert, Uncle Sam wants you?' "

"Look," Hood said, "I'd be uneasy about it and that's that. Please brief Colonel August and work out the details with him. Fax the finished mission profile to our embassy in London and have them bring it to me at Heathrow. Bugs has my flight schedule."

"All right, Paul," Herbert said. "But I still think you're overreacting about the C-141B."

"I can't help that," Hood said. "You're to call me directly with any news. I also want you to get us some on-site help. Does it make any sense to bring in some Kurdish resources?"

"Not to me it doesn't," Herbert said. "If our Kurdish resources were all that goddamn super reliable, we'd have known about the Ataturk blast. We'd know who these terrorists are."

"Good point. Whoever you get, go into the black budget to pay them. And pay them well."

"I planned to," Herbert said. "We're talking to some informants now to try and find out exactly where the dam-busters might be headed. I've also got a lead on someone to go in there with Striker."

"Excellent," Hood said. "I'll call Martha from the car and explain the situation to her. She'll have to go to Senator Fox and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee."

"You know that Martha's not going to be happy about any of this," Herbert warned. "We're getting ready to mount a covert operation without prior Congressional approval; we're giving money to the Kurdish enemies of her friends in Damascus and Ankara."

"Friends who aren't going to do a damn thing to help us," Hood pointed out. "She's going to have to live with that."

"With that," Herbert said, "plus the fact that we planned this without her."

"Like I said, I'll call her from the car and explain. She's our political officer, for God's sake, not a lobbyist for Turkey or Syria." Hood rose. "Is there anything I'm forgetting?"

"Just one thing," Herbert said.

Hood asked what that was.

"I hope you don't think I'm out of line," Herbert said, "but you've got to try and calm down."

"Thanks, Bob," Hood replied. "Six of my people are in terrorist hands, along with a key to undermining U.S. intelligence efforts. I think I'm pretty calm, all things considered."

"Pretty calm, yes," Herbert said, "but that may not be calm enough. You're not the only one who's on the hot seat. I had supper with Donn Worby of the General Accounting Office last night. He told me that last year, over sixty-five percent of the estimated quarter-million hacker attacks on Department of Defense computer files were successful. You know how much classified data is floating around out there? The ROC is just one front of a large battle."

"Yes," Hood replied, "but it's the one that fell on my watch. Don't tell me there's safety in numbers. Not on this."

"All right," Herbert said, "But I've been through more than a couple of these hostage situations, Paul. You've got the emotional pressure, which is awful, and then you've got additional disorientation. You're forced to work outside our structured environment. There are no checklists, no established procedures. For the next few days or weeks or months or however long this takes, you're going to be a hostage along with Mike — a hostage to the crisis, to every whim of the terrorists."

"I understand," Hood said. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No," Herbert replied. "But you have to accept the process. You also have to accept your part in it. It's the same with Mike. He knows what he has to do. If he can get his people out, he will. If not he'll have them play word games, make up limericks about God knows what, force them to talk about their families. He'll get them through. That terrible burden's on him. You've got to handle the rest. You've come out of the gate with the right ideas. Now you've got to keep yourself and everyone on this end cool. And that maybe pretty rough. We may get intelligence that our people are being mistreated. No food, no water, physical abuse. There are two women in the group. They may be assaulted. If you're not loose, fluid, you're going to crack. If you start to feel vengeful or angry or self-reproachful, you'll become distracted. And then you're going to make mistakes."

Hood removed the diskettes from his computer. Herbert was right. He was already primed to lash out at Martha, at himself, even at Mike. Who would benefit from that except for the terrorists?

"Go on," Hood said. "What am I supposed to do? How did you deal in these situations?"

"Hell, Paul," Herbert said, "I never had to lead a team. I was a loner. I only had to give advice. That was relatively easy. I was never attached to the people I worked with. Not like we are to Mike. All I know is, people who lead operations like this effectively have got to empty themselves of emotion. Compassion as well as anger. I mean, suppose you find but that one of the terrorists has a sister or a kid somewhere. Suppose you can get to them. Are you prepared to play the same kind of ball they're playing with us?"

"I honestly don't know," Hood said. "I don't want to stoop to their level."

"Which is something that people like these always count on," Herbert replied. "Remember Eagle Claw in 1980 when the Delta rescue force attempted to get our hostages out of Tehran?"

"Yes."

"Mission parameters forced our guys to set up the Desert I refuel site in a moderately well-traveled area. Minutes after landing, the guys captured a bus with forty-four Iranian civilians. Before the whole operation blew up on them, the plan was to hold the captured Iranians for a day while the commandos went in, then release them from Manzariyeh Air Base, which we intended to capture. Sorry if I sound a little Burkowesque," Herbert said, "but I think we should've held those Iranians and given 'em the same shit treatment our people were getting."

"You would've made martyrs of them," Hood said.

"No," Herbert replied. "Just broken-down prisoners. No press coverage, no burning Iranian flags. Just an eye for an eye. And when word spread among terrorists worldwide that we were prepared to play their game, they would've thought twice before picking on us. You think Israel's still around because they play by the rules? Uhuh. I've seen the view from the high road and it ain't always pretty. If you let compassion affect your judgment, you may end up jeopardizing, our own people."

Hood breathed deeply. "If I don't let compassion affect my judgment, then we aren't people."

"I understand," Herbert said. "That's one reason I never wanted a bigger office in this town. You pay for every square inch of it with soul as well as blood."

Hood slipped the diskettes into his jacket pocket. "Anyway," he said, "you weren't out of line, Bob. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Herbert said. "Oh, and one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Whatever you have to face," Herbert said, "you won't face it alone. Don't ever forget that, Chief."

"I won't," Hood said. He smiled. "Thank God. I've got a team that won't let me."