Bugs reappeared on the screen. “General Rodgers is not available,” he said. “He’s gone out to do field work.”
Hood’s mouth tightened. He knew the general well enough to smell a euphemism when he heard one. “Where did he go?”
“Mary Rose said he took Colonel Seden and left about ten minutes ago,” Bugs told him. “They took the Turkish officer’s motorcycle.”
“Uh-oh,” Bob Herbert said.
“What about the computer cell phone?” Hood asked. “Can you reach Mike on that?”
“The general phoned Mary Rose to check reception a few minutes after he went out into the plains,” Bugs said. “The satellite uplink worked fine, but he told her not to call unless it was an emergency. Just in case anyone was listening in.”
“Lots of cross talk in open spaces like that,” Herbert said. “Zero security.”
Hood nodded at Herbert. On military missions, Op-Center personnel typically carried secure TAC-SATs. They had their own parabolic dishes which allowed them to uplink securely with satellites, then broadcast directly to Op-Center. But those units were relatively cumbersome. Though the ROC carried one TAC-SAT, Rodgers obviously wanted to travel light.
Hood was angry with Rodgers, and deeply concerned about him being out without Striker backup. But he couldn’t pull anyone from the ROC without compromising security procedures, and he didn’t want to recall Rodgers. The general was his own man and he hadn’t broken any rules. Besides, it wasn’t Hood’s place to second-guess his Deputy Director from nine thousand miles away.
“Thanks, Bugs,” Hood said. “Stay in touch with the ROC and let me know at once if they hear anything.”
“Will do, Chief,” Bugs said.
Hood clicked Benet off and regarded Herbert. “So. It looks like Mike’s gone off to do some first-hand recon.”
Herbert absently punched the keys on the speakerphone of his armrest. “Yeah. Well, that’s Mike’s style, isn’t it?”
“Why wouldn’t he have taken the ROC?” McCaskey asked. “At least then he’d have been able to do a thorough job.”
“Because he knew he was going into a dangerous situation,” Hood said. “And you know Mike. He wouldn’t want to jeopardize the facility or the crew. That’s also his style.”
Hood looked at Herbert, who was looking at him. The intelligence chief shut his eyes and nodded.
“I’ll find him,” Herbert said. He speed-dialed the NRO on his wheelchair phone. “I’ll see if Viens can push everything else aside again and get us a nice clear satellite snapshot of Rodgers of Arabia.”
“Thanks,” Hood said. He looked at McCaskey.
“The usual?” McCaskey asked.
Hood nodded. The former G-man knew the drill. If a group claimed credit, McCaskey would have to run a check through other domestic and foreign agencies to see if they had the resources. If not, who were they covering for and why? If so, he would have to run their modus operandi through the computer to determine what their next likely move was and how long they’d wait. Then McCaskey and his advisors would have to ascertain whether diplomacy would forestall other attacks, whether the perpetrators would have to be hit militarily, and what other targets they were likely to strike.
“Put Liz in on this,” Hood said.
McCaskey nodded as he left. Psychological profiles of Middle Eastern terrorists were especially important. If the terrorists were motivated solely by politics, as most Kurds were, they were less likely to be suicidal. That being the case, security against air and ground attacks was possible. If the terrorists were motivated by religion and politics, as the larger majority of Kurds were, then they were not only happy but honored to give their lives. In that case, killers could strike anywhere. They might wear six to eight sticks of TNT in a specially designed belt supported by shoulder straps. Or they might carry a backpack loaded with fifty to sixty pounds of plastique. Wires running from the explosives through two batteries were attached to a switch. This switch was usually kept in the bomber’s pants pocket, which allowed him to trigger the blast anytime, anywhere. Those kinds of attacks were virtually impossible to protect against; those kinds of terrorists were damn near impossible to reason with. The most frustrating and ironic part was that a single terrorist was far more lethal than a group. A lone operator had total tactical flexibility and the ability to surprise.
Herbert clicked off his phone. “Viens is on the case for us. Says he can get the 30-45-3 away from the Defense Department in about ten minutes. It’s one of the older jobs, no infrared capacity, but we’ll get good daylight pictures.”
The designation 30-45-3 referred to the third satellite looking down on the longitudes thirty to forty-five degrees east of the prime meridian. That was the region which included Turkey.
“Viens’s a damn fine man,” Hood said
“The best.” Herbert turned. He snickered as he wheeled toward the door. “At least Stephen’s keeping his sense of humor about the investigation. He told me there’re so many nails in his coffin he’s thinking of nick-naming the division the Iron Maiden.”
“We won’t let Congress close the lid on him,” Hood promised.
“That’s a nice sentiment, Paul. But it’ll be real difficult to make happen.”
“I like the difficult, Bob.” Hood smiled faintly. “That’s why I’m here.”
Herbert glanced back as he opened the door. “Touché.” He winked as he rolled into the hallway.
THIRTEEN
Monday, 5:55 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
Ibrahim and the radio operator Hasan stood on the windy plain as Mahmoud knelt between them. They had Czechoslovakian Samopal submachine guns lying across their shoulders and Smith & Wesson .38s tucked into holsters on their belts. There were hunting knives sheathed on their hips.
Ibrahim held Mahmoud’s weapons as his brother bent low on the hard earth. Tears trickled down the older man’s dark cheeks and his voice cracked as he quoted the Holy Koran.
“He sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you….”
Just minutes before, Walid had deposited his three passengers and their backpacks and weapons on this dry hillside. He’d given Mahmoud a gold ring he wore, one which was topped with two silver daggers crossed beneath a star. It was the ring which identified him as a leader of the group. Then he’d taken off again and flown the helicopter back toward the flood. Racing headlong into the raging waters, he’d allowed the helicopter to be swallowed up. A geyser of spray and steam had briefly marked its death. Then the three survivors had watched in horror as the helicopter’s shattered remains were carried away by the torrent.
Walid had sacrificed himself and the chopper because it was the only way to erase the ship from Turkish radar. The only way to keep the team from being shot from the skies. The only way to protect the others so that they might continue the important work of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party.
Mahmoud finished his prayer, but he continued to bow low. His voice soft and sorrowful, he asked, “Why you, Walid? You were our leader, our soul.”
“Mahmoud,” Ibrahim said softly, “patrols will be covering this region soon. We must go.”
“You could have shown me how to fly the helicopter,” Mahmoud said. “My life was not as important as yours. Who will lead the people now?”
“Mahmoud,” Ibrahim said more insistently. “Min fadlak—please! You will lead us. He gave you the ring.”
“Yes.” Mahmoud nodded. “I will lead you. It was Walid’s dying wish. There is still a great deal to be done.”
Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger in his brother’s expression. And it occurred to him then that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his soldiers.
As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his Parabellum and a .38.
“Thank you, my brother,” Mahmoud said.
“According to Hasan,” Ibrahim said with quiet confidence, “we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall. We can stay in the foothills and hide if necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region. Perhaps we can capture a car or truck.”
Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a respectful distance away. “We do not hide,” he said. “Is that understood?”
“Aywa,” said both men. “Yes.”
“Lead us, Hasan,” Mahmoud said. “And may the Holy Prophet guide us to our home… and to the homes of our enemies.”
FOURTEEN
Monday, 6:29 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers had done what he always did. He’d read about the region. Whenever possible, he’d read what other soldiers had said about a nation or people. When he was here for Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he’d read T.E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas’s With Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the same man and the same region. This time he’d re-read the memoirs of General Charles “Chinese” Gordon of Khartoum as well as an anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence—the English author D.H., not the soldier T.E.—which had been published in the latter had stayed with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the desert was “the forever unpossessed country.” Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.