War of Eagles

TWENTY-TWO

It was the first time in a long time that Bob Herbert had not felt like getting out of bed. That was odd, considering that he was going to see his longtime friend and coworker Mike Rodgers.

Herbert had always enjoyed the general’s company, whether it was at work or over a butcher-block tray covered in sushi. He had enjoyed it more than he enjoyed being with Hood or McCaskey or any of his other colleagues. The general was openly bitter about aspects of his life, and Herbert related to that.

Now, though, it was Herbert who felt unhappy and abused by life. That was why he had called Rodgers at home the night before and asked to meet. To talk, to see if Paul Hood was seriously off target about the military or if Herbert was being uncharacteristically naive.

The men were meeting for breakfast at a diner that used to be a Hot Shoppe forty-plus years ago. They had freshsqueezed grapefruit juice and ample handicapped parking for Herbert’s large, custom-built van. The intelligence chief required two spaces for the “pig,” as he called it. The vehicle was also large enough to let him pull off the road and take a nap. He often did that when he felt like scooting home to Mississippi and did not want to be bothered looking for a wheelchair-accessible motel on the way. The van also accommodated the computers and secure uplink equipment he required when he was out of the office.

Rodgers was already there, sitting in a corner booth and reading the newspaper. The former general was one of the few people he knew who not only read several dailies but read the print versions. A pot of coffee sat beside him. If Rodgers had been there more than five minutes, it was already empty.

Herbert wheeled himself along the sun-bleached linoleum toward the booth. It was odd seeing waitresses and truckers, interns and realtors going about their business. He himself felt as though he were in a science fiction movie, one of those films from the 1950s where just one man suspected that aliens might be plotting a takeover. Back then, the science fiction aliens were a metaphor for Communists. Now, the imaginary aliens were a metaphor for the U.S. military.

Rodgers folded away his Washington Post when Herbert arrived. The intelligence chief sat at the end of the table in the aisle. They had taken the back table so he would not be in anyone’s way.

“I appreciate this, Mike,” Herbert said.

“Sure.”

“Do I look as crappy as I feel?”

“Pretty much,” Rodgers replied. “What’s wrong? The new boss or the old one?”

“Both.” Herbert laughed.

“Crunched in the middle of a sudden transition?”

“That’s not it,” Herbert said. “The work is the work. I’m more concerned about what’s behind the transition.”

The waitress came, and the men ordered. Rodgers got a fruit plate and whole wheat toast, no butter. Herbert went for the pancakes deluxe with sausage and grapefruit juice. When the waitress left, the intelligence chief hunched forward. Even though the adjoining table was empty, secrecy was a habit many people formed in and around D.C. Everyone, even Herbert, had an ear out for what other people were saying. Not just spies and reporters but everyday people. There was always someone who knew someone who would want to know such-and-such.

“Paul thinks there may be a power shift taking place,” Herbert said. “He’s concerned that the sudden appointment of General Carrie to Op-Center may be a harbinger of a military takeover of national intelligence.”

“That’s a pretty big leap.”

“That’s what I thought,” Herbert said.

“Anyway, he’s the guy close to the president, and the president is the one who made the appointment.”

“Under pressure from the Joint Chiefs, apparently,” Herbert said.

Rodgers shrugged. “Compromises happen. That doesn’t necessarily mean a seismic shift.”

“No, but as I was thinking about it last night, there was one thing that bothered me.” Herbert leaned even closer. “Debenport was the head of the CIOC. He was getting ready to run for president at the time. If he thought this was something he wanted to do, why did he put your name on top of the downsize list?”

Rodgers frowned. It was obviously still a painful memory.

“Sorry,” Herbert said. “If you don’t want to talk about this—”

“I don’t, Bob. But let’s follow it through,” Rodgers said. “Maybe Senator Debenport wanted to clear the path for a woman. General Carrie may have been on his radar as the most qualified individual. If he had just kicked me out and put her in, that might have been perceived as reverse discrimination. A lot of members of Congress and the military would not have approved, and Carrie would not have enjoyed the legitimacy that position demands.”

“Possible, although you credit Debenport with more forethought than I do,” Herbert said. He glanced around casually, then spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “She’s also got Striker back.”

“What?” That surprised him.

“She’s sending four Asian-American marines to Beijing, undercover, through the embassy.”

“For covert or intel activity?” Rodgers asked, also whispering.

“The latter,” Herbert said.

“We had people who could have done that,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly. Two well-trained Asian-Americans from your field staff,” Herbert said. “They weren’t even contacted.”

“You offered their names?”

“As part of my initial sit-down with Carrie,” Herbert said. “It was a short meeting because we had the Chinese situation to check on. But I gave her all the names, from David Battat to Falah Shibli. Our South Korean and Taiwanese associates were in there as well.”

“Has Carrie worked with these marines before?”

“Until yesterday morning she was crunching data at G2,” Herbert said.

“I see.”

Their food arrived. Herbert was silent until the waitress was through. When she left, the intelligence chief took a swallow of juice. The wonderful tartness made him wince. He took a second slug. It was odd that he craved in food what he had no patience for in people.

“Maybe this is just a realignment,” Herbert went on. “Maybe there are too many civilians in the intel business. The Joint Chiefs complain, the president capitulates. But if it was just about equilibrium, why would he create a new post for Paul, one that keeps him very close, unless it was to keep an eye on the brass intel expansion?”

“You mean the president would have just put him out to graze, as he did with me,” Rodgers said.

“Or to stud, depending on how you want to use your time,” Herbert said.

Rodgers held up his wheat toast in answer. “At my age, the penne is mightier than the sword.”

“That’s all in your head.” Herbert grinned. The smile faded quickly. “What about this stuff? Is it all in my head?”

“I don’t know,” Rodgers said as he chewed his dry toast.

“What does your gut tell you?” Herbert pressed. He could tell Rodgers was thinking about it. Thinking hard. He recognized that familiar, unfocused look in the man’s steel gray eyes. It was as though Rodgers were gazing through you, past you, at a hill his unit had to take or a town they had to infiltrate.

“My instincts say there’s something to Paul’s concerns,” Rodgers said. “It’s like Patton after the war in Europe was over. He wanted to start a new conflict with the Soviet Union because the troops were already there, and he reasoned we would be facing them eventually. Most of all, though, he wanted the war because conquering territory is what generals do.”

“So what do we do?” Herbert asked. “Paul and me,” he added. This was not Mike Rodgers’s problem, and he recognized that.

“There is one way we might find out more,” Rodgers said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s been suggested that I go over for the launch,” Rodgers said. “I think I will.”

“Why were you undecided?” Herbert asked. “It’s your satellite.”

“That’s why,” Rodgers said. “As you know, there are elements of the Chinese government who do not want to be reminded of that.”

“Paul’s going over. He’s probably already en route.”

“Right. If I go, I might be able to help keep an eye on the marines. Especially if they go to the Xichang space center.”

“Apart from ticking off some of the Chinese, is there a downside for you?” Herbert asked.

“Only if the rocket blows up,” he said as he took a bite of melon.

Rodgers called his office and asked his secretary to get him on any flight bound for Beijing that afternoon. Then the men sat and talked about Unexus and its plans for the future, which included a satellite that would image the earth in three-dimensional pictures, allowing for unprecedented recon. Herbert promised to keep that one a secret.

What was no secret was how much happier Rodgers was now than even a month ago. Joy would never be a chronic condition for either man, but Rodgers seemed more alive and content than ever. Perhaps he had been steeped too long in the underground world of Op-Center, both physically and emotionally.

As they finished and the men headed back to their cars, Herbert knew one thing for certain. Despite his own great loss a quarter century before, his own journey into that heart of darkness was not nearly as close to a resolution.

If anything, it was just getting under way.