War of Eagles

FORTY-FOUR

Paul Hood woke early.

The car to take him to the airport was arriving at six. From there, he would fly to Xichang. He lay in bed for a while, hoping to get back to sleep. But his mind was instantly on patrol, marching toward problems on the near and far horizon.

He did not want to think right now. There was no new information and no way to get it. He grabbed a book he had packed, a biography of the explorer Richard Francis Burton. It had arrived at his apartment shortly before he left. It was in a box of books his former wife had sent him. Sharon was still packing up his things and shipping them out when she had the time. Presumably, to make room for the stuff her boyfriend was leaving at the house, like his videotape collection of the Washington Redskins’ greatest games.

He stopped reading when Burton took an African spear through both cheeks. The graphic attack by tribesmen did not induce sleep. Hood set the book aside and just sat there. He was jet-lagged but overstimulated by his frustrating lack of information. He was used to having people to turn to, a team, specialists. None of that had been set up before his departure. Hood was in the midst of the evolving situation, yet he knew very little about the scenario or the dynamics between the different players.

He thought about Anita instead. She was completely devoted to her work and to her father. There did not appear to be room or need for anything else. Men at the party did not seem to notice her. Most probably knew who she was. Perhaps they had tried talking to her before and were put off.

Not everyone is a professional small-talker, Hood reminded himself.

Anita apparently stayed in the two worlds where she felt comfortable: ivory-tower politics and academia. If anyone wanted to be with her, it had to be within those two disciplines. There was something to be said for that. Although it made her a poor spy, as she had demonstrated, it would be very difficult for anyone to take her by surprise, intellectually or emotionally.

The secure cell phone was set on Silent, so the light flashed without ringing. Hood reached over and picked it up. It was Bob Herbert.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Herbert said.

“No. What’s up?”

“An unusual Chinese military buildup in response to a traditional Taiwanese military exercise,” Herbert said. “Have you heard anything about that?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone you have met who might know about it?” Herbert asked.

“I can ask the prime minister later, with the caveat that it probably won’t do any good,” Hood said. “If he does know anything, he might not be inclined to share the information with me. Have you talked to Mike?”

“Not yet,” Herbert said. “I’m frankly at a loss here.”

“You sound like it.”

“Is it that bad?”

“You sound winded.”

“Maybe. I feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines, though I don’t know if I’m catching my breath or scratching my butt,” Herbert admitted.

“It’s that dry out there?”

“Arid,” Herbert said. “You know how Chinese politics are. No one says anything to anybody.”

“Yes. I experienced that firsthand,” Hood admitted.

“All we see are the shadow results of conflicts, the explosions in Charleston and South Africa. Our associates in D.C. and Interpol have no more information than we do about what is behind this or what might be next. Sergei Orlov had some background on the key players. Chou Shin was considered a moderate because he was trying to reconcile the ‘brother’ Communists of China and the Soviet Union. When the S.U. fell, he turned on Moscow with a series of pretty riled-up speeches.”

“The spurned lover,” Hood said.

“Yeah. Communism is a religion to him, and he will die for it,” Herbert said. “According to Orlov, the other nutcase — General Tam Li — is not a martyr. But he is an aggressive bastard who will risk his life or the lives of others to increase his power base. All of which tells us what we already know: these guys are dangerous. We need to try to find out if the Chinese action is related to the Taiwanese drill, the rocket launch, or something else.”

Herbert’s frustration came through the phone. It sucked hope from the room, from Hood.

“There is not much we can do about the armies,” Hood said. “We should concentrate on the rocket.”

“I figured Mike would be all over that with his marines,” Herbert said. “I got General Carrie to lend them to him.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He’s not in command, but they’ll listen to him.”

“Of course.” Hood felt marginalized. But the generalto-general sympatics was inevitable.

“What about you?” Herbert asked.

“I did not get anywhere with the prime minister or his daughter, and I’m frankly at a loss what to do next.”

“Hence being awake at a few minutes after five in the morning.”

“Exactly,” Hood replied.

“What was the daughter like?” Herbert asked. “Businesslike and severe?”

“Businesslike yes, but very feminine.”

“Is there something there you can work?”

“I don’t think so,” Hood said. “Her father comes first. Everyone else comes a very distant second. I’m stumped, Bob.”

“Didn’t this sort of thing play out differently once upon a time?” Herbert asked plaintively.

“You mean, ‘Remember when we used to win these things?’ ” Hood asked.

“Well, I’m not willing to write this one off—”

“Nor am I,” Hood assured him. “But we did seem to have more control hunkered in the Tank with Striker in the field.”

“That was the hub. Now we’re in the fringes.”

“Not by choice,” Hood pointed out. “We’ve been pushed out by younger or more aggressive individuals with stronger beliefs. Or if not stronger, they put more muscle behind what they do believe.”

“Christ, Paul. You sound like an old soldier.”

“Bob, I am—we are,” Hood insisted. “We have been marginalized by people of passion, by people who want to build a career or an army or an ideology, or else destroy one.”

“I never thought I would hear you call me a moderate,” Herbert joked.

“You are devoted to your people,” Hood said. “Loudly, fiercely, but completely. That keeps you from watching your own ass, from elbowing your way to the front of the line.”

“I like where I am. And I do not see anything wrong with being one of the guys who holds it all together from the middle.”

“Which is exactly what I’m talking about,” Hood replied. “No one is a centrist anymore.” Hood was starting to get annoyed. Not with the vague, imagined usurpers but with himself. There was resignation in his voice, and he did not like that. “Look, I’ve got to get ready to go. The government car will be here soon.”

“And I have to take another walk around the intel we have collected,” Herbert said. “Have you thought about your own safety at the launch?”

“Not really. We’ll be in a bunker—”

“The concrete will protect you from an explosion, not from radiation,” Herbert cautioned.

“I guess we will just have to make sure that nothing happens,” Hood said.

“That’s a goal, not a plan,” Herbert said.

“I know.”

Hood’s conversation with Bob Herbert was different, too. There was a time when the men would have been discussing very specific options about evolving situations. Ideas would be on the table, intelligence would be in the data stream, and answers would emerge. Instead, they sat here complaining, like old men on a park bench reminiscing about the good old days.

Hood did not like that, either. He had always prided himself on being a professional. And for him, by definition, that was someone who did his best, even when he did not feel like it. Maybe it was post-traumatic shock about being plucked from Op-Center, but he was not doing his best. He and Herbert were like mice in a maze, moving along a route they did not know to a goal they could not see.

That had to change.

Now.

“Bob, we need to take another walk around this situation. There has to be something we’ve missed.”

“Such as? We’ve gone over the launch site, the schedule—”

“There must be something in the individuals, their personalities, their past actions that we can use.”

“Sure,” Herbert said. “Say, are you okay?”

“Why?”

“A minute ago you sounded down,” Herbert said. “Now you sound like you’re speeding.”

“It’s a new day and an important one,” Hood explained, rising. He had not intended that to be metaphorical, but it was both literally and figuratively true. “You’re right. We don’t have a plan, and we need one, something better than planting my ass in a concrete bunker and waiting for something to happen.”

Herbert was silent for a moment. “How about this,” he said. “Don’t go to the bunker. Ask to go somewhere else.”

“Where? A representative of the president of the United States will not be given an all-access pass.”

“Will Le’s daughter be there?” Herbert asked.

“Yes.”

“What if you could convince her that the prime minister is in danger?” Herbert asked.

“And use that how?”

“I am isolating potential targets at the launch site for Mike’s team,” Herbert said. “Maybe you can have a look at them as well. Between you and the marines, we can cover more territory.”

“I think Le and his daughter might go for that,” Hood said. “I’ll talk to them when I get there.”

“I like it,” Herbert said. “I’ll send the likeliest sites to your laptop. If you check it en route to the facility, I can talk to Mike about dividing the duties.”

“Absolutely,” Hood told him. “If I have any questions, I’ll give you a shout.”

“I’ll be here,” Herbert assured him. Now the intelligence chief sounded energized as well.

Hood hung up and took a quick shower. The water invigorated his body the way the ideas had invigorated his mind. Both contributed to the much-needed renewal of Hood’s spirit.

At least one thing had not changed over the years: Hood’s capacity to bootstrap himself and those around him. What the old Op-Center team may have lacked in zealousness they made up for in endurance and dedication.

That was not nothing.

At the moment, it could be everything.