Clancy, Tom – Op Center 01 – Op Center

Only it wasn’t Cho. The light from the car cast a faint yellow glow on the hat and on a face he didn’t recognize, a face that was taut and cruel.

Damn her, he thought through his pain. She had someone here all the time. . . .

His right hand was tingling and he couldn’t get his fingers to close around the gun. His right side felt damp as he slid toward the ground.

Hwan saw the nine-inch blade stained with his blood. It went back, level with his stomach. He would be unable to stop the blow to his chest, up and under the sternum, a flash of agony and then death. He had often thought about how and when he would die, but it was never like this, flat on his back in the mud.

And feeling like a fool. He felt her lean over him. He trusted her, and he hoped they put that on his headstone as a warning. Either that, or What a sucker-

Hwan’s gun slipped from its holster as he landed on the wet earth. He reached over reflexively, squeezing the wounds with his left hand, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could face death with what little defiance remained in him. He saw the assassin in Cho’s clothing grinning, and then there was a white flash like lightning, followed by a second and third. The quick bursts were just a foot or two above him and he shut his eyes as their heat rolled toward him. The thunder echoed for a moment and died, and then there was only the tapping of the rain on his face and the throbbing heat in his side.

Kim crawled over Hwan and knelt at his side. She reached past him for the knife, and for a confusing moment he didn’t understand why he hadn’t felt the shots … and why she was going to stab him instead of shoot him.

He must have been writhing because she told him to hold still. He tried to relax, and became aware of how painful it was to breathe.

Kim pulled his shirt from his belt, cut a slit up the side, then picked up the flashlight. After studying his wounds she rose and jumped over him; he craned to watch as she pulled the shoes and socks off the assassin, then undid his belt and yanked it off. Hwan collapsed, his breath now coming in gasps.

“Ch-Cho?” he said.

“I don’t know where his body is.”

His body….

“This man must have followed us. Don’t ask: I don’t know who he is.”

Not… with Kim … from the bombers….

Kim slid the belt around Hwan’s waist but didn’t fasten it; she put a sock against each of the wounds. “This may hurt,” she said as she buckled the belt tightly.

Hwan gasped as pain girdled him and shot from his right armpit to his knee. He lay back, wheezing now, as Kim moved behind him, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled him onto the backseat of the car.

As she put the radio on the floor, Hwan tried to raise himself on an elbow.

“W-wait-body.”

She eased him back and tried to secure him with the seatbelt. “I don’t know where Cho is!”

“No! Finger.. .prints.”

Kim understood. She shut the door, opened the passenger’s side in front, and pulled the dead man in. Then she hurried to the driver’s side, started to get in, and stopped.

“I’ve got to find Cho!” she said as she backed out.

Snatching up the flashlight, she turned it toward the ground and followed the killer’s footsteps. Though there was urgency in her movements, outwardly she was calm, focused. The prints led to a thickly wooded ravine some forty yards from the side of the hut, where she found a motor scooter and, beyond it, the driver. Cho was lying head down on a slope, on his back, the middle of his chest dark with blood.

Skidding down the muck to Cho’s side, Kim frantically searched his pockets until she found the keys he’d taken with him, then ran back to the car.

Hwan was lying still, holding his side. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting. When he heard the engine rumble, he opened his eyes.

“Car… radio.”

Kim eased the car into gear, then sped up quickly. “You want me to tell them what happened?”

“Yes….” The belt dug into his flesh and he tried not to move. “Need … ID … fast.”

“Of the killer. From his fingerprints.”

Hwan didn’t have the strength to speak. He nodded, wasn’t sure Kim saw, then heard her speak into the radio. He tried to remember exactly what he was thinking about her, but every little breath, each bump of the car, sent shocks through him now. He tried not to move, jabbing his right elbow into the crease behind the seat and putting his left hand against the front seatback in an effort to brace himself. He felt as though there were a strap inside of him, tightening, bending him to the right. Thoughts and images swirled through his mind as he fought the pain and tried to stay awake.

Not North Korean … she wouldn’t have shot him … but who in the South…why… ?

And then the fire spread to his brain, the pain hammering him mercifully into unconsciousness.

FIFTY-FOUR

Tuesday, 12:30 P.M., Op-Center

Dr. Orlito Trias was there when Hood phoned Alexander’s room. He had the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein, but he was a good doctor and a devoted scientist.

“Paul,” he said in his thick Philippine accent, “I’m glad you called. Your son has a virus.”

Hood felt a chill. There was a time, before AIDS, when the word suggested a problem easily treated with antibiotics.

“What kind of virus? In laymanese, Orly.”

“The boy had an acute bronchial infection two weeks ago. The infection appeared to be cured, but the ade-novirus hid in his lungs. All it took to trigger the attack were allergens in the air, which is why the steroid drugs and bronchodilator medication failed to work. This isn’t a typical asthma attack. It’s a form of obstructive lung disease.”

“How do you treat it?” Hood asked.

“Antiviral therapy. We’ve caught the infection relatively early, and there’s every reason to believe it will not spread.”

“Reason to believe-”

“He’s been weakened,” Orly said, “and these viruses are very opportunistic. One never knows.”

Jesus, Orly. “Is Sharon there?”

“Yes.”

Hood asked, “Does she know?”

“Yes. I told her what I’ve told you.”

“Let me talk to her-and thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll check back here every hour or so.”

Sharon came on a moment later.

“Paul-”

“I know. Orly’s got no future with the U.N.”

“It isn’t that,” Sharon said. “I’d rather know than not know. It’s the waiting. You know I was never good at that.”

“Alex is going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that. I worked at a hospital, Paul. I know how these things can catch fire.”

“Orly wouldn’t leave if the situation was serious.”

“Paul, there’s nothing he can do! That’s why he’s leaving.”

Ann walked in, her hands full of lunch; she stopped just inside the door when she saw Hood’s expression.

Bugs sent an E-mail message crawling across the screen: Defense Secretary Colon wanted to talk to him.

“Listen,” Sharon said, “I didn’t get on the phone because I want you to drop what you’re doing and come here. I just needed an anchor, okay?”

Hood heard the catch in her voice; she was fighting not to cry. “Of course it’s okay, Sharon. Call me if anything happens-or I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

She hung up, and Hood switched from the regular phone to the secure computer phone. He felt less than a husband, less than a father, and considerably less than a man.

“Paul,” Colon said sullenly, “we’ve just learned that your man Donald sent an unauthorized radio transmission to the North, requesting a meeting with General Hong-koo.”

“What?”

“Worse, they accepted. If it gets out, we’ll spin it that the North contacted him, but you’d better get on the blower and try to talk him out of it. General Schneider gave it his best shot, but Donald intends to be at the meeting.”

“Thanks,” Hood said, and buzzed Bugs. He told him to contact the DMZ on the secure line and get Gregory Donald on the phone. Then he rang Liz Gordon and asked her to come in.

“You want me to leave this and go?” Ann asked.

“No. I want you to stay.”

Her expression brightened.

“We may have a PR nightmare on our hands.”

Her expression darkened.

“Sure,” she said. She sat across the desk from Hood and set the lunches between them.

“What happened with Alex?” she asked.

“Trias said he’s got a lung infection. He thinks he’s got it under control, but you know Orly-doesn’t read people very well.”

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