Games of State

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"I thank you, General. I thank you very sincerely. But the answer is no." Sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair, Mike Rodgers knew very well that the voice on the other end of the secure telephone was sincere. He also knew that once the owner of that strong voice said something, he seldom retracted it. Brett August had been that way since he was six.

But Rodgers was also sincere— sincere in his desire to land the Colonel for Striker. And Rodgers was not a man who gave up on anything, especially when he knew the subject's weaknesses as well as his strong points.

A ten-year veteran of the Air Force's Special Operations Command, August was a childhood friend of Rodgers who loved airplanes even more than Rodgers loved action movies. On weekends, the two young boys used to bicycle five miles along Route 22 out to Bradley Field in Hartford, Connecticut. Then they'd just sit in an empty field and watch the planes take off and land. They were old enough to remember when prop planes gave way to the jet planes, and Rodgers vividly remembered getting juiced up whenever one of the new 707s would roar overhead. August used to go berserk.

After school each day, the boys would do their homework together, each taking alternate math problems or science questions so they could get done faster. Then they would build model airplanes, taking care that the paint jobs were accurate and that the decals were put in exactly the right place. In fact, the only fistfight they'd ever had was arguing about just where the white star went on the FH-1 Phantom. The box art had it right under the tail assembly, but Rodgers thought that was wrong. After the fight, they limped to the library to find out who was right. Rodgers was.

It was halfway between the fin and the wing. August had manfully apologized.

August also idolized the astronauts and followed every glitch and triumph of the U.S. space program. Rodgers didn't think he ever saw August as happy as when Ham, the first U.S. monkey in space, came to Hartford on a public relations visit. As August gazed upon a real space traveler, he was euphoric. Not even when the young man told Rodgers that he'd finally coerced Barb Mathias into bed did he seem so utterly content.

When it came time to serve, Rodgers went into the Army and August went into the Air Force. Both men ended up in Vietnam. While Rodgers did his tours of duty on the ground, August flew reconnaissance missions over the north.

On one such flight northwest of Hue, August's plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner. He spent over a year in a POW camp, finally escaping with another man in 1970.

He spent three months making his way to the South, before finally being discovered by a Marine patrol.

August was unembittered by his experiences. To the contrary, he was heartened by the courage he had witnessed among American POWs. He returned to the U.S., regained his strength, and went back to Vietnam and organized a spy network searching for other U.S. POWs. He remained undercover for a year after the U.S. withdrawal, then spent three years in the Philippines helping President Ferdinand Marcos battle Moro secessionists. He worked as an Air Force liaison with NASA after that, helping to organize security for spy satellite missions, after which he joined the SOC as a specialist in counterterrorist activities.

Although Rodgers and August had seen one another only intermittently in the post-Vietnam years, each time they talked or got together it was as if no time had passed.

One or the other of them would bring the model airplane, the other would bring the paint and glue, and together they would have the time of their lives.

So when Colonel August said he thanked his old friend sincerely, Rodgers believed it. What he didn't accept was the part that included "no." "Brett," Rodgers said, "look at it this way. Over the past quarter century, you've been out of the country more than you've been in. 'Nam, the Philippines, Cape Canaveral— " "That's funny, General." " — now Italy. And at a nowhere-near-state-of-the-art NATO base." "I'm moving onto the luxurious Eisenhower at sixteen hundred hours to parlay with some French and Italian hotdogs. You're lucky you caught me." "Have I caught you?" Rodgers asked.

"You know what I mean," August replied. "General—" "Mike, Brett." "Mike," August said, "I like being over here. The Italians are good people." "But think of the great times we'll have if you come back home," Rodgers pressed. "Shit, I'll even tell you the surprise I was saving." "Unless it's that Revell Messerschmitt Bf 109 model kit we were never able to find, there's nothing you can offer me that—" "How about Barb Mathias." There was an ocean-deep silence on the other end.

"I tracked her down," said Rodgers. "She's divorced, no kids, living in Enfield, Connecticut. She sells advertising space for a newspaper and says she'd love to see you again." "You still know how to stack a deck, General." "Hell, Brett, at least come back and let's have a face- to-face about this. Or do I have to get someone over there to order you to come back?" "General," Brett said, "it'd be an honor to command a team like Striker. But I'd be landlocked at Quantico most of the time, and that'd drive me crazy. At least now I get to travel around Europe and put my two cents in on various projects." "Two cents?" Rodgers said. "Brett, you've got a million goddamn bucks in your head and I want that working for me. How often does anyone there even listen to what you have to say?" "Rarely," August admitted.

"Damn right. You've got a better mind for tactics and strategy than anyone in uniform. You should be listened to." "Maybe," August admitted, "but that's the Air Force.

Besides, I'm forty-five years old. I don't know if I can go running around the Diamond Mountains in North Korea shooting down Nodong missiles, or chasing a train through Siberia." "Horseshit," Rodgers repeated. "I'll bet you can still do those one-armed pushups you used to practice while we waited for planes at Bradley. Your own little astronaut training program." "I can still do 'em," August said, "though not as many as I used to." "Maybe not, but they're a whole lot more than I can do," Rodgers said. "And they're probably a lot more than the kids of Striker can do." Rodgers leaned forward on his desk.

"Brett, come back and let's talk. I need you here. Christ, we haven't worked together since the day we enlisted." "We built that model of the F-14A Tomcat two years ago." "You know what I mean. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we'd be a good fit. Look, you've wanted to have time to write a book about Vietnam. I'll give you the time. You wanted to learn to play the piano. When are you going to do that?" "Eventually. I'm only forty-five." Rodgers frowned. "Funny how the age thing cuts both ways for you." "Isn't it?" Rodgers drummed his desktop. He only had one more card to play, and he intended to make this one work. "You're also homesick," he said. "You told me so the last time you were here. What if I promise that you won't be landlocked.

I've been wanting to send Striker on maneuvers with other special forces teams around the world. Let's do it. We're also working on a Regional Op-Center facility. When that's up and running we'll move you and Striker around. You can spend a month in Italy with all your Italian pals, then in Germany, in Norway—" "I'm doing that now." "But for the wrong team," Rodgers said. " Just come back for a few days. Talk to me. Look over the team. You bring the glue, and I'll bring the airplane." August was quiet.

"All right," he said after a long time, "I'll work out leave with General DiFate. But I'm only coming back to talk and build the kit. No promises." "No promises," Rodgers agreed.

"And set up the dinner with Barb. You figure out how to get her to Washington." "Done," said Rodgers.

August thanked him and hung up.

Rodgers sat back. He smiled a big, comfortable smile.

After the run-in with Senator Fox and Martha, the General had felt like taking the Striker command job himself.

Anything to get out of this building, away from the political bullshit, to do something more than just sit on his ass. The prospect of working with August lifted him up. Rodgers didn't know if he should be glad or ashamed at how easy it was to get in touch with the little boy in him.

The phone beeped.

He decided that as long as he was happy and doing his job, it didn't matter whether he felt five years old or fortyfive.

Because as he reached for the phone, Rodgers knew that the happiness wouldn't last.