Op-Center

CHAPTER EIGHT

Quietly shutting the bedroom door, Paul Hood walked over to his son's bed, lay a hand over his eyes, and switched on the lamp beside his bed.

"Dad—" the boy wheezed.

"I know," Hood said softly. He cracked his fingers to admit the light slowly, then reached under the night-stand and took out the Pulmo Aide. Flipping the lid of the lunchbox-sized unit, Hood uncoiled the tube and handed it to Alexander. The boy put one end in his mouth while his father eyedropped the Ventolin solution into the slot on top.

"I suppose you'll want to kick my butt while you do this?"

The boy nodded gravely.

"I'm going to teach you chess, you know."

Alexander shrugged.

"It's a game where you can kick mental butt. That's a lot more satisfying."

Alexander made a face.

After switching on the unit, Hood walked over to the small Trinitron in the corner of the room, turned on the Genesis unit, then returned with a pair of joysticks as the Mortal Kombat logo blazed onto the screen.

"And don't put in the password for the bloody version," Hood said before handing one to the boy. "I don't want my heart being torn out tonight."

His son's eyes went wide.

"That's right. I know all about the A, B, A, C, A, B, B sequence on the Code of Honor screen. I watched you do it last time, and I had Matt Stoll tell me what it was all about."

The boy's eyes were still saucers as his father sat on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah… you don't mess with Op-Center techno-weenies, kid. Or their boss."

With the nebulizer mouthpiece held firmly between his lips, Alexander made a point of pressing just the Start button. Soon, the room was filled with grunts and sharp slaps as Liu Kang and Johnny Cage battled for supremacy on the video screen.

For the first time, the elder Hood was beginning to hold his own when the phone rang. At this hour, it could only be a wrong number or a crisis.

He heard the floorboards creak, and a moment later Sharon poked her head in.

"It's Steve Burkow."

Hood was instantly energized. At this hour, it had to be something big.

Alexander had used the distraction to hit his father's proxy with two quick flying kicks, and as Hood rose Johnny Cage fell backward, dead.

"At least you don't get to rip out my heart," Hood said as he set the joystick down and headed toward the door.

Now his wife's eyes were wide.

"Guy talk." Hood said as he hurried past her, giving her a loving pat on the behind when he was behind the door.

The bedroom phone was a secure line, not a portable. Hood was on it for only as long as it took for the National Security Adviser to tell him about the explosion and to come to the meeting in the Situation Room.

Sharon sauntered in. From the bedroom, Hood heard the sounds of combat as Alexander battled the computer.

"Sorry I didn't hear him," she said.

Hood stepped from his pajama bottoms and pulled on his pants. "It's okay. I was up anyway."

She cocked her head toward the phone. "Is it big?"

"Terrorism in Seoul, a bomb blast. That's all I know."

She rubbed her bare arms. "By any chance, were you touching me in bed?"

Hood snatched a white shirt from the closet doorknob and half smiled. "I was thinking about it."

"Mmmm… must've come through in my dream. I could swear you did."

Sitting on the bed, Hood slid into his Thorn McCanns.

Sharon sat down beside him and stroked his back as he tied his shoes. "Paul, do you know what we need?"

"A vacation," he said.

"Not just a vacation. Time away— alone."

He stood and grabbed his watch, wallet, keys, and security pass from the nightstand. "I was just lying here, thinking that."

Sharon didn't say anything; her twisted mouth said it all.

"I promise, we'll have it," he said, gently kissing her on the head. "I love you, and as soon as I save the world, we'll go and explore some part of it."

"Call me?" Sharon said, following him out the door.

"I will," he said as he jogged down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and flew out the front door.

As he backed the Volvo from the driveway, Hood punched in Mike Rodgers's number and put him on speaker.

The phone barely rang once. There was silence on the other end.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Paul," Rodgers said. "I heard."

He heard? Hood scowled. He liked Rodgers, he admired him a great deal, and he depended on him even more. But Hood promised himself that if the day ever came that he caught the two-star General off-guard, he would retire. Because his professional life just wouldn't get any better than that.

"Who told you?" Hood asked. "Someone at the base in Seoul?"

"No," said Rodgers. "I saw it on CNN."

The scowl deepened. Hood himself couldn't sleep, but he was beginning to think Rodgers didn't require sleep. Maybe bachelors had more energy, or maybe he'd made a deal with the devil. He'd have his answer if one of his twenty-year-old girlfriends ever landed him, or when another six and a half years passed, whichever came first.

Since the car phone wasn't secure, Hood had to couch his instructions with care.

"Mike, I'm on my way to see the boss. I don't know what he's going to say, but I want you to get a Striker team on the field."

"Good idea. Any reason to think he'll finally let us play abroad?"

"None," Hood said. "But if he decides he wants to play hardball with someone, at least we've got a head start."

"I like it," Rodgers said. "As Lord Nelson put it at the Battle of Copenhagen, 'Mark you! I would not be elsewhere for thousands.' "

Hood hung up, feeling strangely uneasy about Rodgers's remark. But he put it from his mind as he called night-shift Assistant Director Curt Hardaway and instructed him to have the prime team in the office by five-thirty. He also asked him to track down Gregory Donald, who had been invited to the celebration— and who he hoped was all right.