Call to Treason

THIRTY-THREE

Mike Rodgers knew that he had already made a complete mental break from Op-Center. Since the Monday-morning meeting with Hood about budget cuts, Rodgers had not worried about unfinished NCMC business, about future activities, or about the operational status of his field agents.

After the blast, however, Rodgers suspected something else: that he had also divorced himself from Op-Center emotionally. He felt sad for the team members, who were hardworking and diligent, and for Mac’s family, of course. But the carnage itself had not affected Rodgers. At least, not yet. Perhaps his brain had gone into survival mode. Ignore the pain, deal with the problem. Maybe, though, the blast was an outward expression of what he had already done inside. He had trashed Op-Center in his mind, angrily and violently. He had used a blowtorch to burn the place from every crease in his brain that might have cared. That was how Mike Rodgers had learned to deal with loss. It was cold, but it worked.

That did not mean Rodgers condoned this abhorrent attack. Therein lay the problem for him. If it were executed by a member of the Op-Center staff, the bombing was a repugnant way to manipulate policy. Rodgers did not believe Hood or any of his team were capable of doing that. If the bombing had been committed from without for political reasons, either by a domestic or foreign agency, the perpetrator would be uncovered. Someone would talk. Washington, D.C., had the most fertile grapevines this side of Northern California. Secrets were kept with the same care and sacred diligence as marriage vows.

And if Rodgers found out that anyone associated with Admiral Link or the USF Party had been responsible?

The general did not want to believe that. But if it turned out to be the case, Rodgers would make sure the perpetrators learned that truth and justice could not be suppressed. Not on his watch.

Rodgers did not remain in the parking lot with Paul Hood and the others. He spoke briefly with the base commander and Hood, then borrowed a Jeep to go into Washington. His own car had been one of those destroyed by the pulse. Rodgers felt a chill when he contemplated what had happened here. Electromagnetic pulse weapons were still in their infancy. The bombs were small, with a limited range. The problem developers faced was to generate a sufficiently wide-ranging pulse before the explosive trigger destroyed the weapon itself. But the impasse was nearly beaten, and within a year the Pentagon expected to deploy the first EMP devices. The navy would use the powerful microwave pulses of e-bombs to knock down antiship missiles; the army would pack pulse generators into artillery shells to neutralize the mechanized forces, field headquarters, and telecommunication capabilities of enemy troops; and the air force would load pulse weapons in bombers, fighters, missiles, and unmanned drones to shut down the infrastructure of enemy cities and take out aircraft. The latter could be particularly devastating. Unlike conventional explosives, which destroyed a plane in the air, an e-bomb would simply shut the engine off and drop the plane, its fuel, and its bombs on whatever was below. An enemy bomber taking off could be used to cripple its own air base. Tactical e-bombs could be fired air-to-air. A single fighter would be able to destroy entire enemy squadrons and their payload. Mini e-bombs, smaller than the one used against Op-Center, could become effective antiterrorist tools. In a properly shielded nuclear power plant, dam, or passenger aircraft, an electromagnetic pulse could be employed to shut down timers and thereby defuse bombs.

Of course, the reverse was also true. E-bombs could be used against American military assets and domestic infrastructure, just as it was today in Op-Center. Nuclear war had never really been an option. An EMP conflict, a war against binary digits, was probably inevitable.

And we may have just fought the first battle against ourselves, Rodgers thought. There was something unpleasantly biblical about that. It was a new world, and not necessarily brave. Combat would be waged via monitors and grids, not face-to-face or vehicle-to-vehicle. Maybe that was better for the psyche, and soldiers would be better adjusted. Post-traumatic stress would be reduced to a level of disappointment equal to losing a video game.

Rodgers wondered whether the senator’s office had already heard what happened. Not that it mattered. A first reaction would not tell him whether or not they had been involved. He was more interested in going there, integrating himself in the activities of the late afternoon, and watching the people. Rodgers would be looking for exchanged glances when something about the attack was mentioned, or whispered phone conversations. Then there was the best information-gathering technique at all: the direct question. What was said was often less revealing than what was not said. His last talk with Paul Hood was evidence of that. The director of Op-Center knew exactly where Rodgers was going but did not offer advice. There was trust, caution, hope, and even gratitude in Hood’s silence.

The senator’s office seemed no different than it had been before. Kendra Peterson was standing outside her office, talking to an assistant. When the woman saw Rodgers, she stopped what she was doing and went to him. Her slender face reflected deep concern.

“General, did you hear about Op-Center?” Kendra asked.

“I was there,” Rodgers told her.

“Sweet Jesus.”

“How did you find out?” Rodgers asked.

Kendra took him by the elbow and led him to a corner, away from the intern pool. “The senator received a call from Dan Debenport at the CIOC.”

“Why would Senator Debenport call here about that?”

“To say that he would request emergency funding so that Op-Center could continue to function,” she replied. “Senator Orr is Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Short-Term Funding.”

“That makes sense.” Rodgers wondered if it was also a warning to Senator Orr that the investigation of William Wilson’s death would continue. He could not understand why Debenport would be interested. Perhaps it was nothing more than backroom drama taking a turn in the foot-lights. “Is the admiral around?”

“Actually, he is not,” she told him. “He left for a meeting with network producers about covering the convention. Do you need to talk to him? His cell phone is on.”

“No, I’ll talk with him later,” Rodgers said. “What about Kat?”

“She’s in. How well did you know the man who was killed?”

“Not very,” Rodgers said. “He was a good man, a hard worker.”

“That’s a fine enough epitaph,” Kendra said. “Do you or Director Hood have any idea who was responsible?”

“I don’t, and if Paul Hood suspects anyone, he did not share that information with me,” Rodgers told the woman.

“Is there a reason he would not?” Kendra asked.

“I’m sure Paul was preoccupied,” Rodgers replied. He did not want to discuss the attack with Kendra. Not if there was a chance that she was involved. “What about you? Have you or the senator heard anything else?”

Kendra shook her head. “This is one of those things our country is going to have to watch out for more and more,” she said solemnly. “The senator was saying that he wants to push for a new division of Homeland Security, one that would concentrate exclusively on the technology sector. He does not think he will have much trouble getting the funds after what happened today.”

He could not tell whether Kendra had avoided the question or had instinctively and innocently slipped into stump speech mode. Just sell the preapproved ideas, nothing more. If you stick to the script, you cannot get into trouble.

“Well, that’s always the way, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked. “Get shot first, ask questions later.”

Kendra smiled. “I like that.”

“By the way, what are the senator’s travel plans?”

“He is leaving for the convention tonight on his private jet,” Kendra told him.

“Who else is going with him?”

“You’re just full of questions,” she observed. “I am going. Kat and the admiral will take a commercial flight tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “We had hoped you would be joining us in San Diego. Will that be possible now?”

“I don’t know,” the general replied.

“You’re not part of the investigation, are you?” She added after a short pause, “Of the bombing, I mean.”

“No. I am not.”

His answer was as specific as her question. Kendra looked at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, to say he was not part of any investigation. He did not want to lie to her so he said nothing. Yet once again, saying nothing was probably as informative as Yes. I am.

The woman smiled tightly, knowingly, then excused herself. Rodgers went to talk to Kat. He was annoyed with himself. He felt clumsy and exposed. He wondered how Darrell or Bob would have handled that differently.

Well, there is no turning this around, he told himself. The only thing to do is move forward.

Kat was in her office, on the phone, when Rodgers walked up. She smiled and motioned him in. Rodgers shut the door behind him and sat on the small sofa. A moment later, Kat hung up. She exhaled loudly.

“That was Lucy O’Connor—”

“Let me guess,” Rodgers said. “She wanted to know if the senator had any reaction to the attack on Op-Center.”

Kat nodded.

“Does he?”

“He thinks it’s awful, as we all do,” Kat said. Her warm eyes settled on his. “Were you at the NCMC at the time?”

Rodgers nodded.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I lost my car and my work cell phone, and I’m guessing my credit cards got scrambled. But all of that can be replaced.”

“I assume Hood and the others are pretty shaken.”

“They’re on autopilot, but they’ll get through this,” Rodgers replied. “I’m more interested in who was behind this.”

“Of course. Any thoughts on that?”

He hunched forward. Now that Kendra was suspicious, there was no reason to be discreet. “I need to ask this, Kat, and I hope you’ll keep it between us. But is there any chance that Admiral Link was involved?”

The woman did not seem surprised by the question. “A chance? Sure. A likelihood? No. Think what the admiral would stand to lose if he were caught.”

“For what? Attacking Op-Center or having William Wilson killed?”

That one came out sounding more like an accusation than a question. This time Kat was openly disapproving.

“I surely hope you do not believe the admiral was involved in either of those,” Kat said.

“I want to believe that,” he said truthfully.

Kat’s phone beeped. She answered. She listened for a moment, said she would be right there, then hung up.

“That was reception,” she said. “Your friend Mr. McCaskey is here. He insists on seeing the senator.”

“Let me talk to him,” Rodgers said.

“We’ll both go,” Kat replied flatly.

Tension had descended like sleet, heavy and cold. The two walked through the office. Though it was nearly five o’clock, none of the workers was preparing to leave. Rodgers heard pizzas being ordered for dinner. There was excitement in the air, energy in the staff’s activities, a sense of purpose on youthful faces. Here he was, embarking on a new career and trying to find out who bombed his old office. Yet he felt none of what these people felt. It was not a virtue of age but of attitude. For the first time in his life, Mike Rodgers did not know which side he was on.

McCaskey was pacing in the carpeted reception area. That was unusual. He was usually Mr. Patient.

“Hello, Mike,” McCaskey said thickly. “I’d like to talk to you.” He regarded Kat. “I also want to see the senator.”

“That is not possible,” she replied. “He is out.”

“Then I’ll go wherever he is,” McCaskey told her.

“Don’t waste your time,” she said. “Senator Orr has already said he would only speak to your superior, and then as a courtesy, nothing more.”

“My superior had his office fried—” McCaskey said.

“We were very sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll pass that along when I see Paul. Meanwhile, I want to discuss the attack with the senator.”

“In what context? And by what authority do you come here and even make a demand like that?”

“Section 611 of the NCMC Operational Code,” McCaskey replied. “I quote, ‘If an ongoing operation is impeded by a tactical strike, the NCMC has the responsibility and the authority to investigate the person or persons who were a target of said operation.’ Said operation is the investigation into the murder of William Wilson. Said target is Senator Orr. As the chief law enforcement officer for Op-Center, it is my duty to speak with him.”

“From the start, Mr. McCaskey, I have believed this investigation to be politics, not police work,” Kat said. Her gaze shifted from the former FBI officer to Rodgers. “General, you are still this man’s superior. Would you, perhaps, suggest a less inconvenient and obvious avenue of harassment?”

“That is not what this is about,” McCaskey insisted.

“No, not to you,” Kat replied. “I believe you are an earnest man, a knight being moved on a chess board, convinced of his virtue but blind to the endgame. This whole thing, first the death of Wilson and now the attack on Op-Center, is clearly being hung on the senator by someone who does not want him to become president. That is what this is about. Hey, why don’t you interview Lucy O’Con-nor? Her journalistic career is going to benefit a great deal from all of this.”

“Ms. Lockley, I don’t think I’m the one who needs a reality check—”

“Hold on, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

“No, Mike. Someone hit us. I have the obligation and the right to question people who may have knowledge of the event.”

“William Wilson was a guest at the senator’s party!” Kat exclaimed. “That is the extent of his involvement with this situation!”

“Wilson was a guest just hours before he was murdered by someone who understood covert operations. That makes Admiral Link a suspect and throws a shadow on Senator Orr,” McCaskey said. “Ms. Lockley, I cannot make it any more concise than that.”

“You’ll have to,” Kat replied. “The senator has made it clear that he will not see you.”

“Darrell, why don’t you let me handle this?” Rodgers said.

“Handle what? The investigation or getting me in to see the senator?”

“There is nothing to handle,” Kat said. “This is a non-starter, Mr. McCaskey. The interview is not going to happen.” She turned to go.

“Ms. Lockley, I am prepared to ask our attorney to seek a writ of mandamus. That will order Senator Orr to make himself available,” McCaskey said. “If the writ is granted, and it will be, the senator will not be permitted to leave the District of Columbia until I see him.”

“We have attorneys, too,” Kat said over her shoulder.

“Darrell, I said I’ll take care of this,” Rodgers told him.

“Really? If you had helped before, we might have nailed the perps before Op-Center was tagged.”

Rodgers moved McCaskey toward a corner, away from the receptionist. “That isn’t fair,” the general said.

“Like hell. You were off licking your thorny paw because Paul Hood hurt your feelings.”

“Darrell, you’re stressed. This is battle fatigue talking—”

“No. This is what I should have been doing from the start. Pushing. Maybe then the attack would not have happened.”

“We’ll never know. Look,” Rodgers said. “I will go to San Diego with the senator and his staff. If they are involved, I will find out.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, maybe,” Rodgers agreed. “But pushing like this, in Washington, may not get you anything. Lowell is very good, but the senator has friends and influence. That’s better.”

McCaskey exhaled through his nose. “I’ve never played good cop, bad cop, Mike. I don’t like manipulating people, or the law.”

“That isn’t what we’re doing,” Rodgers told him. “We’re playing by the rules of the system.”

McCaskey leaned closer. “Do you think they’re involved?”

“I don’t know. I belong to the school of innocent until proven guilty,” Rodgers said.

“Your gut, Mike. Mine says yes. What does yours tell you?”

Rodgers looked into the main office. Kat was helping Kendra organize computer files for the trip. He could not tell if she was watching him. That was the great thing about the military. He knew who the enemy was.

“My gut tells me the same thing it told me before,” Rodgers said. “To proceed with care, but definitely to proceed. I want the guys who hurt Op-Center as much as you do, Darrell. If they were responsible, I’ll find out. I give you my word.”

“What if I went with you?” McCaskey asked.

“That would be overkill,” Rodgers said. “This needs to be finessed.”

McCaskey sighed again. He seemed a little more temperate now. “You could have ordered me off. You didn’t.”

“I won’t.”

“When will you leave?”

“Kendra is leaving tonight with the senator and wants me to go with Link and his group tomorrow morning,” Rodgers told him. “That should work. It will give me a chance to smooth things over with Kat.”

“All right, Mike,” McCaskey said. “I should probably get over to Op-Center anyway. Do you know exactly how bad it was?”

Rodgers told him. McCaskey was sorry to hear about Mac but relieved and also surprised that there were no other casualties.

McCaskey left, and Rodgers went to make a phone call. He would use a pay phone, not one in the senator’s office. He did not want the call to be logged. He no longer felt like the Man Without a Country. He felt worse, like a wayward apostle.

“No man can serve two masters,” Rodgers reminded himself. Yet here he was, the man who prized loyalty above all, preparing to spy on his future colleagues to help his former teammates. Fortunately, there was another biblical quote that gave the general comfort: “The righteous man escapes trouble, and the wicked man falls into it in his stead.”

Rodgers chose to believe that one. It was easy.

There was no other choice.