Tom Clancy – Op Center 5 – Balance Of Power

As the Strikers pulled on their backpacks, McKaskey studied Aideen to make sure that she looked like a member of a tour group. She wore Nikes, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. In addition to the backpack, she carried a guidebook and bottled water. She felt like a tourist-right down to the jet lag. As McCaskey looked at her, Aideen gazed longingly at the empty table behind him. She’d been able to sleep on the return flight from San Sebastian. But all the nap had done was take the edge off her exhaustion, and she knew it was just a matter of time before she crashed. She glanced behind her at the vending machines and contemplated a Diet Pepsi. She weighed the value of the caffeine against the risk that she’d have to find a bathroom before the mission was completed. That was something she’d learned to take inffconsideration during long, daytime stakeouts in Mexico City. Two hours could seem very, very long when you couldn’t leave your post.

She decided to forgo the beverage.

McCaskey, on the other hand, looked as though he were ready to crash now. When she’d first briefed him about Martha’s assassination, she remembered think ing how calm he sounded. She realized, now, that it wasn’t calmness: it was focus. She doubted whether he’d shut his eyes since Martha Mackall’s death. She wondered whether this reflected his determination to avenge her death, determination to punish himself, or both.

When McCaskey was finished with Aideen he turned to Colonel August. The officer was chewing gum and wearing a stubble. Sunglasses with Day-Glo green frames and reflective lenses were propped on his forehead. He was dressed in khaki-colored Massimo shorts and a wrinkled, long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just one turn.

He looked like a very different man than the quiet, conservative soldier Aideen had met a few times back in Washington. August had a radio disguised as a Walkman to communicate with McCaskey. The volume dial was actually a condenser microphone. The colonel also carried bottled water. If it were poured onto the cassette in the Walkman, the tape-which was coated with diphenylcyanoarsine-would erupt into a cloud of tear gas. The dispenser would remain operational for nearly five minutes, “All right,” McCaskey said. “You’re going to wait at the east side of the opera house. And if you get chased away?” “We go to Calle de Arenal to the north,” August replied. “We follow it east around the palace and enter the Campo del Moro. If that’s blocked off, the fallback position is the Museo de Carruajes.” “If you get shooed from there?” “We go back to the opera house,” August said.

“North side.” McCaskey nodded. “As soon as I hear from the spotters, I’ll let you know where Amadori is.

You’ll consult your map and let me know which page of the playbook you’re on.” McCaskey was referring to the Striker SIT’S and SAT’S “playbook”-Standard Infiltration Tactics and Standard Assault Tactics.

Colonel August and Corporal Prementine had adapted these plays for the palace. There were a total of ten options in each category. Which option they selected would depend upon the time they had available as well as the amount and type of resistance they expected. However, one thing was constant in each scenario: not everyone went inside. After the death of Striker leader X. Col. Squires, August retooled every play to make certain there was a crew to assist with the exit strategy.

“As you know,” McCaskey went on, “Aideen is going along solely to identify Maria and assist with her rescue. She won’t be a combatant unless it becomes necessary. We’ve got a chopper on the roof and will be ready to move in with extra police if things get out of hand. Luis tells me that once you’re inside, the only serious security problem you may face is the RSS.” “Damn,” August said softly. “How does he know Amadori’s got one of those?” “The king had the system installed in all of the palaces,” McCaskey said. “Bought it from the same American contractor who installed them up and down the Beltway. That’s probably one of the reasons Amadori chose the palace for his headquarters.” The RSS-REMOTE Surveillance System-was a goggle-like visor that tapped into the video security system of a building. There was a keypad built into the side of the goggles and a black-and-white liquidcrystal display in the eyepieces. Together, they allowed the wearer to see what any of the security cameras were seeing. Small videocameras mounted to some of the newer units also enabled guards to share audio-visual information.

“Brief your team,” McCaskey warned.

“If Amadori gets out of the throne room, pursuit’s going to be very, very risky.” August acknowledged.

The other six Strikers were lined up behind Colonel August. McCaskey looked at them as he spoke. His eyes settled on Private DeVonne, who was at the end of the line. The African-American woman was wearing tight jeans and a blue windbreaker. It suddenly struck Aideen-as it must have struck McCaskey- how much she looked like a young Martha Mackall.

McCaskey looked down. “You men and women know the mission and you know the risks. Colonel August tells me you also know the legal and moral issues involved. The President has ordered us to remove a frightening despot from power. We are to use any means at our disposal. We do not have his public support. Nor do we have the support of the lawful Spanish government, which is in chaos. If anyone is captured, he or she will not be acknowledged or assisted by either country, except through the traditional diplomatic channels. However, we do have this much: the opportunity as well as the duty to save thousands of lives. I view that as a privilege.

I hope you do as well.” Luis stepped forward. “You men and women will also have the gratitude of many Spaniards who will never know what you did for them.” He smiled. “And you already have the gratitude and thanks of the few Spaniards who do know what you’re about to undertake.” He stood beside McCaskey and saluted them all.

“Vaya con Dios, my friends. Go with God.” THIRTY Tuesday, 9:45 a.m. Madrid, Spain Father Norberto flew to Madrid in the General Superior’s private plane. It was a twenty-year-old Cessna Conquest decorated in lavender and red with darkened windows and a small sacristy in the back. The elevenseat two-prop aircraft was very noisy and very bumpy.

Like almost everything in Spain these days, Norberto thought bitterly as he squeezed the thickly padded armrests.

Yet even as he thought it, Norberto knew that that wasn’t true. Not entirely. Norberto was accompanied by five other priests from villages along the northern coast. While his own soul was in turmoil, these men were calm.

Norberto breathed deeply. He wished that their composure was enough to steady him. He wished that he could somehow turn away from his private loss and focus on the monumental task ahead. Helping to keep the spiritual peace in a city of over three million people was a challenge unlike any he had ever faced. But maybe that was what he needed now. Something to keep him from dwelling on the terrible loss he’d endured.

The elderly Father Jimenez was sitting beside Norberto in the back row. Jimenez came from the village of Laredo, which was farther west along the coast. Not long after they were airborne, Jimenez turned from the window and zvleaned close to Norberto.

“I hear that we will be meeting with prelates from other denominations,” Jimenez said. He spoke loudly in order to be heard over the growling engines. ” “There will be at least forty of us.” “Do you have any idea why he selected us?” Norberto asked. “Why not Father Iglesias in Bilbao or Father Montoya in Toledo?” Jimenez shrugged. “I suppose it’s because our parishes are very small. Our parishioners know one another and can help each other in our absence.” “That’s what I thought at first,” Father Norberto said. “But look around. We are also the oldest members of the order.”” “Therefore the most experienced,” said Jimenez. “Who better to entrust with such a mission?” “The young?” Norberto said. “The energetic?” “The young question much too much,” Jimenez said. He poked Norberto’s arm. “They’re a little like you, my old friend. Perhaps the General Superior wants men.

Men he can trust. Men whom he can tell to do a thing and it will be done, without delay or complaint.” Norberto wasn’t so sure of that. He didn’t even know why he felt this way. Maybe it was his awful grief or the overbearing manner with which he’d been ordered to Madrid. Or maybe, he thought portentously, God was poking him the same way Jimenez just had.

“Do you even know where we’ll be gathering?” Norberto asked.

“When Father Francisco telephoned,” Jimenez replied, “he said that we would be taken to Nuestra Senora de la Almudena.” The priest’s soft, white cheeks framed a gentle smile. “It feels strange, leaving a small parish for a place like that. I wonder if Our Lord felt the same way when he set out from Galilee?

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