Acts of War

TWENTY-ONE

Colonel Brett August had been giving his Strikers a lecture in military science when his pager sounded. He looked down at the number: It was Bob Herbert. August's cool blue eyes shifted back to the seventeen Strikers in the room. They were all sitting tall at their old wooden desks. Their khaki uniforms were clean and crisply pressed, their Powerbooks open in front of them.

The beeper had interrupted a lecture on a bloody attempt by Japanese officers in February 1936 to set up a military dictatorship.

"You're in command of the rebel force in Tokyo that day," August said as he headed for the door. "When I come back, I want each of you to present an alternate plan for staging the coup. This time, however, I want it to succeed. You can retain or jettison the assassination of former Prime Minister Saito and Finance Minister Takahashi if you like. You can also think about taking them hostage. Holding them could have been used very effectively to manipulate public opinion and official reaction. Honda, you're to charge until I return."

PFC Ishi Honda, the Striker communications expert, rose and saluted as the officer left the classroom.

As the colonel strode down the dark corridor of the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Virginia, he didn't bother to wonder what Herbert wanted. August was not a man given to speculation. His habit was self-evaluation. Do your best, look back, then see how you can do better next time.

He thought about the class and wondered if he should have given them the hint about hostage-taking. Probably not. It would have been interesting to see if anyone had come up with that.

Overall, he was pleased with the progress Striker had made since his arrival. His philosophy on running a military outfit was simple. Get them up in the morning and push the body to the limit. Have them work with free weights, climb ropes, and run. Do knuckle-push-ups on a wood floor and one-arm chin-ups. Take a good, long swim, followed by breakfast. A four-mile hike in full gear, jogging the first and third miles. Then a shower, a coffee break, and classes. The topics there ranged from military strategy to infiltration techniques he'd learned from a colleague in the Mista'aravim, the Israeli Defense Force commandos who masqueraded as Arabs. By the time the soldiers got to their classes, they were glad to sit down and their minds were remarkaby alert. August ended the day with a baseball, basketball, or volleyball game, depending upon the weather and disposition. of the team.

Striker had come a long way in just a few weeks. Physically, he'd pit them against any crisis, against any strike force in the world. Psychologically, they were healing from the death of Lieutenant Colonel Squires. August had been working closely with Op-Center psychologist Liz Gordon to help them deal with the trauma. Liz had focused on two avenues of therapy. First, she'd helped them to accept the truth: that-the mission in Russia had been a success. The Strikers had saved tens of thousands of lives. Second, based on computer projections for the mission-type, she'd showed them that their losses were well under what the military considered "an acceptable range." That kind of cold, behind-the-lines assessment couldn't cure the hurt. But Liz hoped that it would soothe some of the guilt the team felt and restore their confidence. So far, it appeared to be working. In the last week, he'd noticed that the soldiers were more focused during training, and were also laughing more during downtime.

The tall, lean colonel moved quickly without appearing to hurry. Though his eyes were gentle, his gaze was fixed straight ahead. He didn't acknowledge the FBI officials who passed him. In the short time since he'd taken command of Striker, August had sought to isolate himself and his team from outside influences. More than the late Lieutenant Colonel Squires, August believed that a strike force must not only be better than other personnel, it must think it's better. He didn't want to be hanging from a cliff with a superior force closing in and his people wondering whether they were good enough to shut the enemy down. Fraternizing with outsiders diluted the focus, the sense of unity and purpose.

August's office was located in the FBI's executive corridor. He entered his code on the keypad on the jamb and entered. He always felt a whole lot better when he closed the door on what he called the White Shirts. It wasn't that he didn't like or respect them. The opposite was true. They were smart, brave, and dedicated. They loved their country no less than he. But their fate scared him. To August, they were like Scrooge's visions of Christmas Yet to Come. The colonel never wanted to become desk-bound and comfortable, which was why he'd resisted Mike Rodgers's suggestion that he leave his post as a NATO officer and come to Washington. Yet because Mike Rodgers was a childhood friend, and because Striker was a singularly sharp and aggressive unit, August had agreed to check them out.

He'd been drawn to the greatest challenge of rebuilding and leading a team that had been demoralized by the death of their commanding officer. And of course there'd been the appeal of being with Rodgers himself. Since they were kids, they'd shared a passion for building model airplanes and reminiscing about old girlfriends. Rodgers had gone so far as to find one of August's childhood sweethearts as an inducement for him to return to the U.S.

It had worked. When August had gotten together with Barb Mathias, the elementary school princess who'd been his first serious crush, he'd known he wasn't returning to NATO. He'd bought a Ford for driving and a Rambler for fixing up on weekends, moved into the Quantico barracks, and become a bonafide man-at-arms for the first time since Vietnam. The Striker team was young but enthusiastic, and the high-tech gear was awe-inspiring.

August shut the door behind him. He walked to the gunmetal desk and hit the autodial on his secure telephone. Bob Herbert picked up.

"Afternoon, Colonel," Herbert said.

"Good afternoon, Bob."

"Turn on your computer," Herbert said. "There's a signed directive. Countersign and E-mail it back."

August's belly burned with anticipation as he booted up the HP Pavilion and input his identification code. He still wasn't speculating, but he was eager and damned curious. In just a few seconds Paul Hood's order appeared on the screen. August read it. Striker Deployment Order No. 9 simply ordered him and his full Striker team to chopper from Quantico to Andrews Air Force Base and board the waiting C-141B. August picked up the electronic pen on the desk and signed the screen. He saved the document and returned it to Herbert.

"Thanks," Herbert said. "Lieutenant Essex of General Rodgers's staff will meet you at the field at fifteen hundred hours. He'll have the mission overview. We'll download the details once you're airborne. However, I can tell you this much, Colonel, and it isn't pretty. Mike and the Regional Op-Center have been captured by what appear to be Kurdish terrorists."

The burning sensation rose in August's throat.

"Either you retrieve the facility," Herbert continued, "or according to the playbook, we close up shop. It may be necessary for us to do that before you get there, but obviously we're going to try and avoid that. Understood?"

Close up shop, August thought. Destroy the ROC regardless of where it is or who's inside. "Yes," the colonel said. "I understand."

"I don't go way back with General Rodgers like you do," Herbert went on, "but I enjoy and respect the hell out of him. He's the only guy I know who can quote Arnold Toynbee in one breath and lines from Burt Lancaster movies in the next. I want him back. I want them all back."

"So do I," August replied. "And we're ready to go get them."

"Good man," Herbert said. "And good luck."

"Thank You," August said.

The colonel hung up the phone. After a moment, he drew breath slowly through his nose. He let himself fill with air from the belly up, like a bottle. The "big belly'' was a trick a sympathetic prison guard had taught August when he was a POW in Vietnam. August had been sent into North Vietnam to find a Scorpion team which the CIA had recruited from among persecuted North Vietnamese Catholics in 1964. The thirteen commandos had been presumed dead. Years later, word reached Saigon that they were still alive. August and five others were sent out to find them. They discovered the ten surviving Scorpions in a prison camp near Haiphong and joined them. The Viet Cong guard, Kiet, had to do what he was doing in order to feed his wife and daughter. But he was a humanist and a Taoist who secretly taught his creed of "effortless survival" to the captives. It was as much Kiet's quietistic outlook as August's own determination which had enabled him to survive.

August exhaled, stood quietly for a moment, then left the office. His step was quicker than before, his eyes more intense.

As August tried to assimilate the shock of what had happened, he didn't think of Mike Rodgers or the ROC. He thought only about getting his team airborne. That was another trick he'd learned as a POW. It was easier to deal with a crisis if you bit it off in digestible chunks. Suspended by your wrists nose-deep in a rank, fly-covered cesspool, or baking in a coffin-sized cage under the noon sun, you didn't wonder when you were going to get out. That kind of thinking would drive you mad. You tried to last as long as it took for a cloud to travel from one treetop to another, or until a five-inch-long spider crossed an open patch of earth, or until you counted off one hundred slow Buddah Belly breaths.

He was ready, he told himself. And so was his team. At least they'd better be. Because in about half a minute he was going to start kicking Striker ass as it had never been kicked before.