Acts of War

TWENTY-NINE

"You don't have to tell me," Martha Mackall said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. "The ROC has gone into Syria."

Herbert's wheelchair was reflected over and over in the framed, hanging gold records Martha's father Mack Mackall had earned during his long singing career. He parked, frowning, in front of her desk. "We picked up the description from a radio broadcast by the Turkish border patrol. My expression tell you that?"

"No." She tapped a pencil eraser against her computer monitor. "This did. I've been watching the computer lines we hacked in Turkey and elsewhere. It reminds me of when the stock market started to fall in '87, all that computerized trading kicking in and making it worse."

"It is like computerized trading," Herbert said. "Only it's computerized warfare. CARfare, they're calling it."

"That's a new one on me," Martha said. She rubbed her tired eyes. "Care to translate?"

"It's Computerized Armed Response," Herbert said. "Every government is choosing the appropriate response based on its own simulation programs."

Martha made a face. "If that's CARfare, then I've got bumper-to-bumper traffic up here. The Turkish Security Forces say their border patrol crossed into Syria, lost the target, and retreated. As a result of the crossing, Syria's calling up its reserves and Turkey is mobilizing more troops and sending them toward the border. Israel has gone on maximum alert, Jordan is about to begin moving tanks toward its borders, and Iraq is shifting troops possessively toward Kuwait."

"Possessively?"

"They're geared for a long camp-out," Martha said, "just like before Desert Shield. And to top it off, Colon just notified us that the Department of Defense has ordered the U.S. carrier battle group into the Red Sea."

"Defcon?"

"Two," she said.

Herbert seemed relieved.

"Supply lines have already begun forming from the Indian Ocean, just in case they're needed. Publicly, we're showing support for our NATO ally. Privately, we're prepared to kick whatever ass is necessary to try and contain the whole damn thing in case it blows up. The President is determined not to let this spread into Turkey and Russia."

"Probably as determined as Syria and Iran will be to see it spread there," Herbert replied.

"They are an opportunistic bunch," Martha said, "but they don't want to see the region turned into a war zone. Don't forget, Syria sided with us during Desert Storm."

"They gave us a couple of jets and permission to get ourselves killed defending their water supplies," Herbert said. "Never mind them. What's so damn frustrating is that no one else wants to see this happen. And most of the players realize they've been snookered by a small band of Kurds."

"It's The House That Jack Built," Martha replied.

"What do you mean?"

"That's a little epigram from my side of the fence," she said. "These are the rats who tweaked the cat, who crossed the border and woke the dog, who engaged the cat and woke the menagerie that sent the fur flying in the House That Jack Built."

Herbert sighed. "It's more like The House on Haunted Hill," he said. "One nightmare after another."

"We move in very different cultural circles," Martha replied with an arched brow.

"Life would be boring otherwise," Herbert said. "Anyway, the good news is that my friend Captain Gunni Eliaz of the First Golani Infantry Brigade in Israel put me in touch with an operative who knows the Bekaa just about as well as anyone. He's already on his way there, posing as a Kurdish freedom fighter, to see what he can find out. I've got Matt working on geographical surveys of the region, looking for possible destinations for the ROC."

"What is he checking for?"

"Caves, mostly," Herbert said. "Ironically, in blacking out our satellite view, the Syrians left us with a clue to where the ROC is. We always know that it's within the ten-mile-wide window we can't see through. We'll collate all of that information with known PKK bases of operation and see if we can select the most likely spot. And we may still pick up some stray remark in a telephone or radio communication."

"Then it will be up to this Israeli of yours and Striker to get them out," Martha said. "Or it will be up to a Tomahawk to take them out."

As she was speaking, Herbert's phone beeped. He scooped it up. After a moment, he poked a finger in his other ear. "There's what?" he demanded. His eyes shifted absently from the floor to Martha to the ceiling. "What else? Did they find anything else there?" His eyes moved around again. "Nothing at all? Okay, Ahmet. Tessekur. Thanks very much." He hung up. "Shit."

"What?" Martha asked.

"There's a narrow zone between two barbed wire fences at the Turkish-Syrian border," Herbert said. "The Turkish border patrol heard a shot there and raced over. That was where the ROC crossed into Syria. The patrol found fresh blood beside six deep tire fans."

"Tire fans?"

"A tire rut with dirt blown out behind it like a paper fan," Herbert said. "It's caused by a fast, sudden start."

"I see," Martha said. "Six tires. So it was the ROC."

Herbert nodded.

"And it was running from something."

"They weren't being chased yet," Herbert said. "The Turks say the ROC got past an electrified fence by setting up a diversionary arc. They were already through before the Turks heard a gunshot and realized that they were there. The ROC took off long before the border patrol arrived. Something else caused the ROC to bolt."

"Bob, I'm totally confused," Martha said impatiently. "First, who do they think was shot and why?"

"They don't know," Herbert said. He shut his eyes. "I don't know. I've got to think. Why would the ROC take off? Because they were afraid someone heard the gunshot? That's possible. That isn't what's important. The question is, who was shot? If one of the hostages had been killed, the Syrians probably would have dumped the body behind."

"And if they were wounded?" Martha asked.

"Unlikely," Herbert said.

"How can you be sure?"

"The Turks say the shot echoed," Herbert said. "The ROC is soundproofed. It would have swallowed most of the blast. In order to be wounded, a hostage probably would have been trying to run away in the dark. The gun would have fired, the hostage would have fallen, and the ROC would have driven to where he or she was. It didn't. It was right by the fence. No," Herbert said. "I know Mike Rodgers. My guess is that they were about to cross into Syria, so he decided to try and stop them."

"And failed," she stated flatly.

Herbert fired her a look. "Don't say it like he screwed up. The fact that he or someone else may have made the effort at all is a helluva thing. A helluva big thing."

"I didn't mean any disrespect," she said indignantly.

"Yeah, well, it sounded like that."

"Calm down, Bob," Martha said. "I'm sorry."

"Sure," he said. "The sideline generals are always sorry. I lost my wife and my legs to a military miscalculation. It's bad, but it's like everything else. Real easy to quarterback when you're watching the game tapes, not so easy when you're on the field."

"I never said any of this was easy," Martha said. She drummed her long, rounded nails on the desk. "Want to see if we can get back to fighting the enemy?"

"Yeah, okay." Herbert sucked down a breath. "I've gotta think this whole thing through."

"Let's start with some hypotheses," Martha said. "Suppose Mike hurt or killed one of his captors. There will be repercussions."

"Correct," Herbert said. "The question is, against who?"

"Would it be against one of the hostages?"

"Not necessarily," Herbert said. "There are three options. First of all, they won't kill Mike. Even if they don't know his military rank, they've got to know he's the leader. He's a valuable hostage and they'll want to hold onto him. Though they may torture him as an example to the others not to try to escape. That rarely works, though. You watch someone beat a fellow prisoner, it scares you into wanting to get away." Herbert laid his neck back on the barbershop-style headrest. "That leaves two other possibilities. If a terrorist was killed in the exchange, they may execute one of the hostages. They'd select the person by lot, the short straw drawing the bullet in the back of the head. Mike would be forbidden from participating, though he'd be forced to watch the murder."

"Jesus," Martha said.

"Yeah, that's a rough one," Herbert said. "But it also breeds a sense of resistance among hostages. Terrorists tend to use it only when they want to send a body back to someone, to show that they mean business. So far, no one but us has been notified that anyone's taken our team hostage."

"Then scenario number two is unlikely," Martha said hopefully.

Herbert nodded. "But the terrorists can't let an escape attempt go unpunished. So what do they do? They go to option three, which is an old favorite of Middle Eastern terrorists. They hit a target of equal importance to the hit they took. In other words, if a lieutenant was killed, they take out a lieutenant somewhere else. If a nonmilitary leader was killed, they go after a political figure."

Martha stopped drumming. "If the Kurds are behind this whole operation, they don't have many quick-strike options."

"Correct again," said Herbert. "We don't think they've infiltrated any of our bases overseas, and even if they had, they wouldn't show their hand. for something like this. They'd probably hit an embassy."

"They've got the greatest numbers of followers in Turkey, Syria, Germany, and Switzerland," Martha said. She looked sharply at Herbert. "Would they know about Paul's trip?"

"Damascus has been informed," Herbert said, "but it won't be announced publicly until he lands in London." Herbert began wheeling toward the door. "If Damascus knows, the Kurds may also know. I'm going to inform Paul and also warn our embassies in Europe and the Middle East."

"I'll handle the Middle Eastern embassies," Martha said. "And Bob? I'm sorry about before. I really didn't mean any disrespect to Mike."

"I know," Herbert said. "But that isn't the same as showing him respect."

He left, leaving Martha wondering why she'd bothered.

Because they put you in charge here, that's why, she told herself. Diplomacy wasn't supposed to be pleasant, just effective.

Calling her assistant Aurora, Martha put everything but the safety of American diplomats from her mind as she had the young woman begin placing overseas calls, beginning with Ankara and Istanbul.