Mahmoud, however, looked at Rodgers. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then something bitter and vengeful came into Mahmoud’s eyes. Perhaps he was looking through Rodgers at some other enemy, some distant pain. His upper lip curled, and at that moment Rodgers knew he’d lost.
“Don’t!” Rodgers said as the Syrian began to press down with the knife. He was still looking at the windshield, but he nodded so Mahmoud would understand. “Don’t do it. I’ll get you on the road.”
Hasan repeated what Mahmoud already knew. Mahmoud snatched the knife away. There was no triumph in his expression as he tucked it in its sheath and Mary Rose collapsed in tears.
As Hasan squatted beside the woman and began tying her bloody hand back to the chair, Mahmoud motioned Rodgers to come forward. Rodgers walked toward the front of the van, but paused beside Mary Rose. The young woman was sobbing heavily, her head bent back against the chair.
“I’m very, very proud of you,” Rodgers said to her.
Coffey leaned his head toward Mary Rose and touched her cheek with his hair. “We’re all proud of you,” he said. “And we’re in this together.”
Mary Rose nodded weakly and thanked them.
Mahmoud was glaring at Rodgers. Rodgers ignored him.
“Hasan,” Rodgers said, “the lady is bleeding. Do you think you could bind that for her?”
Hasan looked up. “Will you make another showdown if I refuse?”
“If I have to,” Rodgers replied. “You’d take care of your mule once it moved, wouldn’t you?”
Hasan looked from Rodgers to the wound. He thought for a moment, and after the woman’s hand was securely fastened to the column, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He tucked it gently between Mary Rose’s fingers. As he did, Mahmoud stepped over and plucked it away.
“La!” Mahmoud screamed. He threw the handkerchief down, stomped once on it, and shouted at Hasan.
Hasan’s eyes were downcast. “Mahmoud says to tell you that the next time I take orders from you, he will amputate my hands and yours.”
“I’m sorry,” Rodgers said, “but what you did was right.” He regarded Mahmoud. It was time to use his third military asset: surprise. “Hasan, tell your commander that I’ll need help replacing the batteries.”
“I will help you,” Hasan said.
“You can’t,” Rodgers lied. “Only one person has that knowledge. Tell Mahmoud I’ll need Private DeVonne’s help, That’s the woman he has tied up in back. Tell him if he wants to get to Syria he’s going to have to let her go.”
Hasan cleared his throat. Rodgers couldn’t remember the last time he saw a rnan looking so alone. The Syrian informed his superior of Rodgers’s needs. Rodgers watched as Mahmoud’s eyes grew smaller and his nostrils grew larger. It had been a direct hit. Rodgers enjoyed seeing him broil in the instant it took him to reach the only decision he could make.
Mahmoud waved a finger sideways, and Hasan went into the back of the van. Then in a flash, Mahmoud kicked Rodgers down. Hasan didn’t stop to help the fallen general. He stepped over him and hurried into the back to cut Private DeVonne loose. He freed her feet first, then bound them together before releasing her hands.
The Striker tried to turn and help Rodgers, but Hasan pushed her along. While he led her to the battery compartments in the rear of the ROC, Rodgers pulled himself up. He placed both hands on the computer stations and swung his bound feet forward as though he were on parallel bars.
That was part one of the surprise. Part two would come later, when they began replacing the batteries and turning things on. The ES4 satellite would immediately read the increased electromagnetism and send a heads-up signal to Op-Center. Paul Hood would have a number of options then, which ranged from simply watching them to destroying them.
As Rogers moved to where Hasan and Private DeVonne were waiting, he could feel Mahmoud still glaring at him. That pleased him enormously for it told him that his fourth and final military asset had proved effective: He had managed to drive the first small wedge between the commander and one of his soldiers.
TWENTY-ONE
Monday, 2:23 p.m.,
Washington, D. C.
Colonel Brett August had been giving his Strikers a lecture in military science when his pager sounded. He looked down at the number: It was Bob Herbert. August’s cool blue eyes shifted back to the seventeen Strikers in the room. They were all sitting tall at their old wooden desks. Their khaki uniforms were clean and crisply pressed, their Powerbooks open in front of them.
The beeper had interrupted a lecture on a bloody attempt by Japanese officers in February 1936 to set up a military dictatorship.
“You’re in command of the rebel force in Tokyo that day,” August said as he headed for the door. “When I come back, I want each of you to present an alternate plan for staging the coup. This time, however, I want it to succeed. You can retain or jettison the assassination of former Prime Minister Saito and Finance Minister Takahashi if you like. You can also think about taking them hostage. Holding them could have been used very effectively to manipulate public opinion and official reaction. Honda, you’re to charge until I return.”
PFC Ishi Honda, the Striker communications expert, rose and saluted as the officer left the classroom.
As the colonel strode down the dark corridor of the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Virginia, he didn’t bother to wonder what Herbert wanted. August was not a man given to speculation. His habit was self-evaluation. Do your best, look back, then see how you can do better next time.
He thought about the class and wondered if he should have given them the hint about hostage-taking. Probably not. It would have been interesting to see if anyone had come up with that.
Overall, he was pleased with the progress Striker had made since his arrival. His philosophy on running a military outfit was simple. Get them up in the morning and push the body to the limit. Have them work with free weights, climb ropes, and run. Do knuckle-push-ups on a wood floor and one-arm chin-ups. Take a good, long swim, followed by breakfast. A four-mile hike in full gear, jogging the first and third miles. Then a shower, a coffee break, and classes. The topics there ranged from military strategy to infiltration techniques he’d learned from a colleague in the Mista’aravim, the Israeli Defense Force commandos who masqueraded as Arabs. By the time the soldiers got to their classes, they were glad to sit down and their minds were remarkaby alert. August ended the day with a baseball, basketball, or volleyball game, depending upon the weather and disposition. of the team.
Striker had come a long way in just a few weeks. Physically, he’d pit them against any crisis, against any strike force in the world. Psychologically, they were healing from the death of Lieutenant Colonel Squires. August had been working closely with Op-Center psychologist Liz Gordon to help them deal with the trauma. Liz had focused on two avenues of therapy. First, she’d helped them to accept the truth: that-the mission in Russia had been a success. The Strikers had saved tens of thousands of lives. Second, based on computer projections for the mission-type, she’d showed them that their losses were well under what the military considered “an acceptable range.” That kind of cold, behind-the-lines assessment couldn’t cure the hurt. But Liz hoped that it would soothe some of the guilt the team felt and restore their confidence. So far, it appeared to be working. In the last week, he’d noticed that the soldiers were more focused during training, and were also laughing more during downtime.
The tall, lean colonel moved quickly without appearing to hurry. Though his eyes were gentle, his gaze was fixed straight ahead. He didn’t acknowledge the FBI officials who passed him. In the short time since he’d taken command of Striker, August had sought to isolate himself and his team from outside influences. More than the late Lieutenant Colonel Squires, August believed that a strike force must not only be better than other personnel, it must think it’s better. He didn’t want to be hanging from a cliff with a superior force closing in and his people wondering whether they were good enough to shut the enemy down. Fraternizing with outsiders diluted the focus, the sense of unity and purpose.
August’s office was located in the FBI’s executive corridor. He entered his code on the keypad on the jamb and entered. He always felt a whole lot better when he closed the door on what he called the White Shirts. It wasn’t that he didn’t like or respect them. The opposite was true. They were smart, brave, and dedicated. They loved their country no less than he. But their fate scared him. To August, they were like Scrooge’s visions of Christmas Yet to Come. The colonel never wanted to become desk-bound and comfortable, which was why he’d resisted Mike Rodgers’s suggestion that he leave his post as a NATO officer and come to Washington. Yet because Mike Rodgers was a childhood friend, and because Striker was a singularly sharp and aggressive unit, August had agreed to check them out.