Hood told Stoll to proceed. The Operations Support Officer phoned his assistant, Eddie Medina, to let him know the images were coming.
Hood squeezed Hausen’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.” “Thank you, no,” Hausen replied.
“I need it,” Hood said. “This has been a strange morning for me too.” Hausen managed a small smile. “All right,” he said.
“Good. Matt— call me on the cellular if you get something.” “So let it be written, so let it be done,” said the unflappable techno-whiz.
“Herr Lang,” said Hood, “Matt may need some help with the language.” “I understand,” Lang said. “I’ll stay here with him.” Hood smiled graciously. “Thanks. We won’t be long.” With his hand still on Hausen’s shoulder, Hood and the German walked through the reception area to the elevator.
Hausen was lying, of course. Hood had encountered his kind before. He wanted very much to talk about whatever was bothering him, but his pride and dignity wouldn’t allow it.
Hood would wear him down. It was more than a coincidence that what had just happened in the office was similar to what had happened this morning on Billy Squires’s computer. And if this was happening simultaneously on two continents, then Op-Center needed to know why.
Fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Thursday, 10:02 A.M., Washington, D.C.
After his encouraging chat with Brett August, the morning sped by for Mike Rodgers. Matt Stoll’s assistant Eddie briefed him on what was happening in Germany, and told him he’d put in a call for assistance to Bernard Ballon of the Gendarmarie Nationale. Ballon was on a mission against terrorists, the New Jacobins, and had not returned the call.
Rodgers was more concerned about Herbert going to check on Chaos activities by himself. Rodgers wasn’t worried because Herbert was in a wheelchair. The man was not defenseless. He was worried because Herbert could be like a dog with a bone. He didn’t like letting go of things, especially unsolved cases. And there was only so much Op-Center could do to help him. Unlike the U.S., where they could listen in on telecommunications through local FBI, CIA, or police offices, it was difficult to mount broad surveillance immediately overseas. Satellites could focus on individual cellular telephones or even small regions, but they also picked up a lot of garbage. That was what he’d been trying to tell Senator Fox earlier. Without people on the scene, surgical operations were difficult.
Herbert was a good person to have on the scene. Part of Rodgers worried about what Herbert would do without a moderating force like Paul Hood— though another part of him was excited by the prospect of Bob Herbert unleashed.
If anyone could make the case for putting money into a crippled HUMINT program, it was Herbert.
Liz Gordon arrived shortly after Eddies call. She updated the General on the mental state of the Striker team. Major Shooter had brought his 89th MAU charm— “more accurately,” she said, “his lack thereof”— to Quantico and was drilling the squad by the book.
“But this is a good thing,” she said. “Lieutenant Colonel Squires tended to mix things up a lot. Shooter’s regimentation will help them to accept that things are different now. They’re hurting real bad and many of them are punishing themselves by drilling hard.” “Punishing themselves for thinking they failed Charlie?” Rodgers asked.
“That, plus guilt. The Survivor’s Syndrome. They’re alive, he isn’t.” “How do you convince them they did their best?” Rodgers asked.
“You can’t. They need time and perspective. It’s common in situations like these.” “Common,” Rodgers said sadly, “but brand-new to the people who are having to deal with it.” “That too,” Liz agreed.
“Practical question,” Rodgers said. “Are they fit for service if we need them?” Liz thought for a moment. “I watched them work out a little this morning. No one’s mind wandered, and except for a lot of angry energy they seemed fine. But I have to qualify that. What they were doing this morning were rote, repetitive exercises. I can’t guarantee how they’ll react under fire.” “Liz,” Rodgers said, slightly annoyed, “those are exactly the guarantees I need.” “Sorry,” she said. “The irony is, I’m not concerned that the Strikers would be afraid to act. To the contrary. I’m worried that they would overact, a classic Guilt Counterreaction Syndrome. They would put themselves at risk to make certain that someone else isn’t hurt, to ensure that what happened in Russia doesn’t happen again.” “Is there anyone you’re particularly worried about?” Rodgers asked.
Liz said, “Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw are the shakiest, I think.” Rodgers tapped a finger on the desk. “We’ve got mission plans for bare-bones, seven-person teams. Do I have seven people, Liz?” “Probably,” Liz said. “You probably have at least that.” “That still doesn’t help me.” “I know,” she said, “but right now I just can’t give you any assurances. I’m going back this afternoon for individual sessions with several of the Strikers. I’ll be able to tell you more then.” Darrell McCaskey knocked and was told to come in. He sat down and opened his power book.
“All right,” Rodgers told Liz. “If you’re unsure about anyone, give them leave. I’ll call Shooter and have him second four or five backup members from Andrews. He can bring them up to speed in several key positions and move them in if he has to.” Liz said, “I wouldn’t have him bring them to the base just yet. You don’t want to demoralize the people who are struggling to overcome guilt and grief.” Rodgers loved and respected his Strikers, but he wasn’t sure that Liz’s way was the best way. Back in the sixties, when he was in Vietnam, no one gave half a damn about sadness and syndromes and God knows what else. Your buddy died in an ambush, you made sure you got your platoon the hell out of there, had a meal, a sleep, and a cry, and were back on patrol the next morning. You might still be weeping, and you were sure as shit a bit more careful or a little angrier or burning to inflict some collateral damage, but you were still out there with your M16, ready to work.
“Fine,” Rodgers said sharply. “The backup personnel can drill at Quantico.” “One thing more,” Liz said. “It might not be a good idea for me to give anyone leave. A report ascribing AWL to even low-level bereavement like this can be pretty stigmatizing. It would be better,” she went on, “if I got Dr. Masur to find something physically wrong with them. Something they can’t check themselves, like anemia. Or maybe a bug some of them picked up in Russia.” “Jesus,” Rodgers said, “what am I running here, a kindergarten?” “In a way, that’s exactly what you’re doing,” Liz said testily. “I don’t want to get too heavy, but we relate a great deal in our adult lives to losses or hurts we suffered in our childhood. And that’s what comes out in times of stress or suffering, the lonely kid in us. Would you send a five-yearold into Russia, Mike? Or Korea?” Rodgers wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands.
First it was coddling, now he was lying and playing games with his own people. But she was the psychologist, not him.
And Rodgers wanted to do what was best for his team, not what was best for Mike Rodgers. Frankly, though, if it were up to him he’d spank a five-year-old who didn’t do what he was told, and they’d be better for it. But then, that kind of fathering went out with the sixties too.
“Whatever you say, Liz,” Rodgers said. He looked at McCaskey. “Tell me something healing, Darrell.” McCaskey said, “Well, the FBI’s pretty happy.” “The Baltic Avenue?” Rodgers asked.
McCaskey nodded. “It went off perfectly. They got the Pure Nation group and their computer. It’s got names, addresses, couple of bank accounts, right-wing subscription lists, weapons caches, and more.” “Like what?” Rodgers asked.
“The big catch was their plans to attack a Chaka Zulu Society meeting in Harlem next week. Ten men were going to take hostages and demand a separate state for black Americans.” Liz snorted.
“What’s wrong?” Rodgers asked.
“I don’t believe it. Groups like Pure Nation aren’t political activists. They’re rabid racists. They don’t demand states for minorities. They erase them.” McCaskey said, “The FBI is aware of that, and they think that Pure Nation is trying to moderate their image to gain acceptance among whites.” “By taking hostages?” “There was a draft of a press release in the computer,” McCaskey said. He accessed a file in the power book and read from the screen. “Part of it said, ” ‘Seventy-eight percent of white America does not want blacks living among them. Rather than disrupt the white world with dead on both sides, we appeal to that great majority to petition Washington, to echo our demand for a new Africa. A place where white citizens will not be subjected to rap noise, unintelligible language, clown clothes, and sacrilegious portraits of black Jesuses.’ ” McCaskey looked at Liz, “That still seems pretty rabid to me.” Liz crossed her legs and shook her foot. “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something not right about it.” “What do you mean?” Rodgers asked.