Clancy, Tom – Op Center 04 – Acts Of War

“No, General,” August answered warily. “Tell me.”

“The Kurds have a legitimate complaint.” Rodgers stood. He was still looking down at Siriner. “The problem is, a trial will give them a daily forum. Because they’ve been oppressed, the world will regard this man’s terroism as understandable or even necessary. Holding a torch to a man’s body and threatening a woman with violent abuse become acts of heroism instead of sadism. People will say he was driven to it by the suffering of his people.”

“Not all people will say that,” said August. “We’ll see to it.”

“How?” Rodgers asked. “You can’t reveal who you are.”

“You’ll testify,” August said. “You’ll talk to the press. You’re articulate, a war hero.”

“They’ll say we made things worse by spying on them. That I invited retribution by killing one of them in Turkey. They’ll say we destroyed their—what will they call this? A refuge. A bucolic retreat.”

The hum of the ROC’s eight-cylinder engine reached them as it emerged from the road-cut. August stepped between Siriner and General Rodgers.

“We’ll talk about this later, sir,” August said. “We accomplished our mission. Let’s take pride in that.”

Rodgers said nothing.

“Are you okay?”

Rodgers nodded.

August stepped away cautiously and turned on his field radio. “Sergeant Grey,” he said, “stand by to initiate countdown.”

“Yes, sir!”

August faced the Strikers. “The rest of you prepare to—”

August jumped as Rodgers’s pistol fired. The colonel looked over. Rodgers’s bare arm was extended almost straight down. Smoke twisted from the barrel and rose into Rodgers’s unblinking eyes. He was staring at Siriner as blood oozed slowly from a raw hole in the commander’s forehead.

August spun and pushed the gun up. Rodgers didn’t resist.

“Your mission was finished, Brett, not mine,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, what’ve you done?”

Rodgers looked at him. “Got my pride back.”

When August released his arm, Rodgers walked calmly toward the road. The rest of the ROC crew had stood up at the gunshot and were looking over. Rodgers was able to smile now, and he did. He was looking forward to apologizing to Phil Katzen.

His face ashen, August ordered Musicant to finish with the Kurds and treat Colonel Seden as soon as they were onboard the ROC. Then he handed the gun to Private DeVonne, who had been looking at her fellow Strikers.

“Sir,” she said urgently, “we didn’t see that. None of us did. The Kurd was killed in a firefight.”

August shook his head bitterly. “I’ve known Mike Rodgers for most of my life. He’s never told a lie. I don’t think he’s planning on starting now.”

“But they’ll break him for this!” said DeVonne.

“I know!” August snapped. “That’s what I was worried about. Mike is going to do exactly what he was afraid the Kurd would do. He’s going to use his courtmartial as a forum.”

“For what?” DeVonne asked.

August took a quick, shaky breath. “For showing America how to deal with terrorists, Private, and for telling the world that America has had it.” He headed for the road as the ROC arrived. “Let’s move it out!” he shouted. “I want to blow this goddamn cave to Hell….”

SIXTY

Tuesday, 6:03 p.m.,

Damascus, Syria

A convoy of presidential security force cars pulled up at the American Embassy in Damascus at 5:45 p.m. Ambassador Haveles was escorted to the gates, where he was met by two United States Marine guards. A hearse took the bodies of the dead DSA operatives around to the back of the embassy. Haveles went directly to his office, composed despite the fright still in his eyes, and telephoned the Turkish Ambassador in Damascus. He explained to him his first-hand knowledge of what had happened in the palace, and also told him that it had been PKK soldiers, not Syrians, who had been behind the theft of the border patrol helicopter, the attack on the Ataturk Dam, and the incident at the Syrian border. He urged the ambassador to brief the military and ask them to stand down. The ambassador said he would pass along the information.

Paul Hood arrived a few minutes later. He, Warner Bicking, and Professor Nasr had been dressed in kaffiyehs and sunglasses and escorted to a bus stop. Hood had always found the idea of disguises a theatrical extravagance when they appeared in movies and novels. In real life, he walked the third of a mile as if he were born and raised on Ibn Assaker Street. He had to. If he were recognized by a journalist or foreign official, it would jeopardize the two women who had come with him.

But he wasn’t spotted. Though buses were being diverted around the Old City, the three men reached the embassy in just a half hour. Stopped by two Marine guards, Hood felt like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man as he unwrapped his disguise to show the sentries that he was who he said he was. Watching the front gate on closed-circuit camera, a DSA agent hurried out to usher the three men inside.

Hood went directly to the nearest office to telephone Bob Herbert. He shut the door of Deputy Ambassador John LeCoz’s chambers and stood alone beside the old mahogany desk. The heavy, drawn drapes cloaked the small office in deep dark and muted silence. Hood felt safe. As he punched in the number of Herbert’s wheelchair phone, it flashed through his mind that Sharon and the kids might have heard about events in Damascus. They might be worried. He hesitated, then decided he’d call them next. He didn’t want to rush them off the phone, but he had to know about the ROC.

Herbert answered on the first ring. He was uncharacteristically subdued as he told Hood the good news. The Tomahawk had been aborted. Striker had gone in, rescued the ROC and its crew, and all were now safely back at Tel Nef. Syrian Army forces had been alerted about the wounded Kurds and had gone to collect them. In a short interview with CNN, the leader of the SAA force had ascribed the explosion at the cave to PKK mishandling of munitions—but only after the U.S. had agreed to allow Syrian security officials to interrogate the survivors while insisting there weren’t any. They wanted to know everything about how Syrian security had been breached in Damascus and at Qamishli. Haveles’s deputy ambassador had agreed to that after consulting with General Vanzandt.

Hood was elated until Herbert informed him of Mike Rodgers’s torture and his execution of the Kurdish leader who ordered it.

Hood was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Who witnessed the killing?”

“That’s not going to fly,” Herbert said. “Mike wants people to know what he did and why he did it.”

“He’s been through Hell,” Hood said dismissively. “We’ll talk to him after he’s rested.”

“Paul—”

“He’ll budge on this,” Hood said. “He has to. If Mike is court-martialed, he’ll be forced to talk about what he was doing in Turkey and why. He’ll have to reveal contacts, methods, talk about other operations we’ve mounted.”

“In situations involving national security, the records of the court-martial can be sealed.”

“The press will still cover it,” Hood said, “and they’ll be all over us. This could literally bring down American intelligence operations in the Middle East. What about Colonel August? He’s Mike’s oldest friend. Can’t he do anything?”

“Don’t you think he tried?” Herbert asked. “Mike told him that terrorism is a greater threat than anything else America is facing today. He says it’s time we fought fire with fire.”

“He’s got to be in shock,” Hood concluded.

“He was checked at Tel Nef,” Herbert replied. “He’s sound.”

“After what the Kurds did to him?” Hood said.

“Mike’s been to Hell a whole lotta times and made it back okay,” Herbert replied. “Anyway, the Israeli medics say he’s mentally fit and Mike himself says he’s thought this through.”

Hood reached for a pen and pad. “What’s the telephone number at the base? I want to talk to him before he does anything he’ll regret.”

“You can’t talk to him,” Herbert said.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s already done the ‘anything,’ ” Herbert said.

Hood felt his insides tighten. “What did he do, Bob?”

“He phoned General Thomas Esposito, the Commander in Chief, U.S. Special Operations Command, and confessed to the killing,” Herbert said. “Mike’s now under armed guard at the infirmary in Tel Nef waiting for military police and legal counsel to arrive from the Incirlik Air Base.”

Hood suddenly became aware of the mustiness of the drapes. The room no longer seemed safe. It was suffocating. “All right,” Hood said calmly. “Give me some options. There have got to be options.”

“Only one that I can think of,” Herbert said, “and it’s a long shot. We can try to get Mike a Presidential pardon.”

Hood perked up. “I like that.”

“I thought you would,” Herbert said. “I already called General Vanzandt and Steve Burkow and explained the situation to them. They’re with us. Especially Steve, which surprised the hell out of me.”

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