“We heard,” a sharp female voice replied, “and I assure you, I’m not in this for revenge. I simply want to see that the job Keith started is finished.”
“No one was questioning your abilities, Agent James,” Liz said in a strong, unapologetic voice that left no room for debate. “But emotional detachment and objectivity fuel caution, and that’s what we want in our-”
“Balls,” snapped Peggy. “Either I go with you or I go in alone. But I am going.”
“That will be quite enough,” Hubbard said firmly.
Coffey cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. “Commander Hubbard, Agent James-I’m Lowell Coffey II, Op-Center’s attorney.” He looked at Hood. “Paul, you’re probably going to have my head for this, but I think you should consider their offer.”
Hood’s expression was unchanged, but Rodgers’s eyes were wide and angry. Coffey avoided them.
“Martha and I still have a few points to work out with the CIC,” Coffey said, “and if I can tell them that this is an international team, there’s a much better chance we’ll be able to bargain for things like more time, a larger geographical area, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll want me to fall on my sword too, Mike,” McCaskey said, “but having Agent James on the team will help me too. The Finnish Minister of Defense is very close to Admiral Marrow of the Royal Marines. If
we need other favors as this unfolds, he’s the man we’ll have to ask for them.”
The General said nothing for a long moment, and the silence from London was provocative. Hood finally looked at Bob Herbert. The Intelligence Chief’s lips were pursed and he was drumming the leather armrests of his wheelchair.
“Bob,” Hood asked, “what do you say?”
His soft voice tinged with remnants of his Mississippi youth, Herbert said, “I say that we can get the job done just fine, all by ourselves. If the lady wants to go in alone, that’s Commander Hubbard’s business. I don’t see why we need to toss an extra gear into a finely tuned machine.”
Martha Mackall said, “I think we’re getting dangerously territorial here. Agent James is a professional. She’ll fit into your finely tuned machine.”
“Thank you,” Peggy said, “whoever you are.”
“Martha Mackall,” she said, “Political Officer. And you’re welcome. I know what it’s like to be kept out of the boys’ club.”
“That’s bull,” Herbert waved dismissively. “This isn’t about black, white, male, female, or hands-across-the-goddamn-water. We’ve already got one first-timer on this mission: Sondra DeVonne, the lady who took Bass Moore’s place. All I’m saying is that we’d have to be crazy to take on another.”
“Another lady, you mean,” Martha said.
“Another rookie,” Herbert shot back. “My God, when did every command decision become a mandate against somebody?”
Hood said, “Thanks for the suggestions, all of you. Commander, I hope you’ll forgive us for talking about your person in front of her back.”
“I appreciate it,” Peggy said. “I’ve always liked to know where I stand.”
Hood said, “I have my reservations, but Lowell’s right. A binational group makes sense, and Peggy seems to have the right stuff.”
Herbert drove his palms into the edge of the table and whistled the first few measures of “It’s a Small World.” Rodgers returned to his seat. His neck was flushed above the collar of his uniform, and his dark brow seemed even darker.
“I’ll make sure you get the specifics as we do,” Hood said, “so that your agent can link up with Striker. Needless to say, Commander, Striker’s leader, Lieutenant Colonel Squires, has our complete trust. I expect Agent James to follow his orders.”
“Of course, General,” Commander Hubbard said, ‘,and thank you.”
Hood looked at Rodgers as the monitor winked off.
“Mike,” Hood said, “he was going to send her anyway. At least now we’ll know where she is.”
“It was your call,” Rodgers replied. “It’s just not the one I would’ve made.” He looked at Hood. “This isn’t D-Day or Desert Storm. We didn’t need an international consensus. The United States was attacked, and the United States military was responding. Period.”
“Semicolon,” Hood corrected. D16 suffered casualties as well. The information they gave us reinforced our suspicions about the target. They deserve a shot at that target. ”
“As I told you, we don’t agree on that,” Rodgers said. “Ms. James had to be disciplined by her own superior She’s certainly not going to listen to Squires. But you’re back, and you’re in command.” He looked around the table. “I’ve finished everything on my agenda. Thank you, everyone, for your attention.”
Hood also looked around. “Any other business?”
“Yes,” said Herbert. “I think Mike Rodgers and Lynne Dominick and Karen Wong deserve friggin’ medals for the silk purse they made from a sow’s ear last night. While everyone else in the country was runnin’ around wringing their hands about the explosion, those three figured out who did it and probably why. Instead of a Purple Heart, though, we just kicked Mike in the pants. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.”
“Because we disagree with him,” said Lowell Coffey, “that doesn’t mean we think any less of what he did.”
“You’re tired and p.o.’d, Bob,” said Liz Gordon. “This wasn’t about Mike. It was about living in the world of today.”
Herbert grumbled his disapproval of the world of today as he rolled away from the table.
Hood rose. “I’ll contact you all individually during the morning to check on your progress,” he said. Then he looked at Mike Rodgers. “Once again, in case anyone missed it, no one in this room could’ve done the job that Mike did last night.”
Rodgers gave him a little nod, then buzzed open the door and followed Bob Herbert from the Tank.
NINETEEN
Monday, 8:00 P.M., St. Petersburg
As the digital clock in the comer of the computer monitor rolled over from 7:59:59, a change came over the Operations Center. The blue hue that had filled the room from the more than two dozen computer screens was replaced by a flood of changing colors which were reflected on the faces and clothes of everyone in the room. The mood changed too. Though no one applauded, the release of tension was palpable as the Center came alive.
Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba looked at Orlov from his lone console on a table tucked into the front right comer. A smile broke through the young man’s neatly trimmed black beard and his dark eyes gleamed. “We have one hundred percent go, sir,” he said.
Sergei Orlov was standing in the middle of the large, low-ceilinged room, his hands locked behind his back as his eyes ranged from screen to screen. “Thank you, Mr. Buriba,” Orlov said, “and well done, everyone. All stations, double-check your data before we inform Moscow that the countdown to operations has begun.”
Orlov began walking slowly from side to side, looking over the shoulders of his staff. The twenty-four computers and monitors were arranged in a semicircle on a tightly curved, nearly horseshoe-shaped tabletop. Each monitor was manned by an operator, and he relaxed a little at 8 P.M. exactly, as the blue of each screen was replaced by a strewn of data, photographs, maps, or charts. Ten of the monitors were dedicated to satellite surveillance, four were tapped into a worldwide intelligence database that included reports legal as well as “hacked” from police departments, embassies, and government agencies, nine others were hooked to radios and cellular telephones and received reports from operatives around the world, and one was linked directly to the office of the Ministers in the Kremlin, including Dogin. This link was manned by Corporal Ivashin, who was handpicked by Colonel Rossky and reported directly to him. All but the map screens were filled with phrases in code. The words meant nothing to Orlov, to the person at the next monitor, or to anyone else in the Center. Each station had its own code so that the damage a mole might cause would be minimized. In the event that an operative was sick, a code-breaker program could be activated by both Orlov and Rossky, each of whom knew half of the twopart password.
When the screens came to life after weeks of checking and debugging, Orlov felt the same he had each time one of the huge rockets roared to life beneath him: relief that everything came on, as scheduled. Though his life wasn’t at risk the way it was every time he rode a rocket, the truth was he had never contemplated life or death as he rode into space. That wasn’t what exploration or being a fighter pilot or even living from day to day was about. His reputation was more important than his life, and Orlov’s only thought, ever, was that he do his best and not screw up.
The front wall of the room was covered with a world map. Images from any of the screens could be superimposed on it using a projector set in the ceiling. On the side walls were shelves of diskettes and backups, topsecret data, files, and records about governments, the military, and agencies from around the world. In the center of the back wall was a door that led to the hallway and the cryptanalysis center, security room, mess, lavatory, and exit. Doors to Orlov’s and Rossky’s offices were on the right and left respectively.