Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 7

"Then you feel that someone wants to make this look like a North Korean attack," Martha said. "They've denied having had a hand in it."

"I'm saying it's an option we must explore before rattling any sabers at Pyongyang. For once, they may be telling the truth."

"Thank you, sir. Is-- is there anything we can do for you?"

"I know General Norbom at the base, and Amba.s.sador Hall has promised to do whatever she can here. I appear to be in good hands."

"All right. But if you need help--"

"I'll call." His voice became stronger as he said, "Give Paul my best, and tell him-- tell him that however Op-Center becomes involved in this, I want a part of it. I want to find the animals who did this."

"I'll tell him," she said as Donald hung up.

As soon as it heard the dial tone, the computer filed the conversation, marked the time, and cleared itself for the next call.

Martha placed the receiver in the cradle and slid off the desk. "Shall I call Amba.s.sador Hall and make sure they give Donald whatever he needs?"

Hood nodded.

"You've got eye bags. Rough night?"

"Alex had a bad asthma attack. He's in the hospital."

"Ooo-- sorry to hear that." She took a step forward. "You want to go to him? I'll watch things here."

"No. The President wants us to prepare the Options Paper on this thing, and I need you to get me the latest data on North Korea's financial ties to j.a.pan, China, and Russia-- black market as well as legitimate. If we've got a real situation, my feeling is that the President may want a military solution, but let's see what we can do with sanctions."

"Will do. And don't worry about Alex. He'll be fine. Kids are tough."

"They've got to be to survive us," Hood said, reaching for the intercom. Buzzing his aide Bugs, he told him to have Liz Gordon report to the Tank.

As she left, Martha hoped that she hadn't been too forward by offering to sit in for Hood. She felt bad for the way she jumped on Alexander's misfortune to improve her resume, and made a mental note to have her secretary send him some balloons; but while Ann Farris had her heart set on the Director, Martha had her heart set on the directorship. She liked and respected Hood, but she didn't want to be Op-Center's Political Officer forever. Her fluency in ten languages and understanding of world economies made her more valuable than that. Co-managing an international crisis like this would have been a major notch in her portfolio, setting her up for advancement here or, if she were lucky, a move to the State Department.

There's always tomorrow, she told herself as she traversed the narrow corridor between the bullpen and the executive offices, pa.s.sing Liz Gordon who looked like she had a serious head of steam and was in desperate need of a place to vent it

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Tuesday, 6:03 A.M., Andrews Air Force Base

"You really don't care if the boss blows a gasket, do you, sir?"

Lt. Col. Squires and Mike Rodgers were jogging across the field. It was less than a minute since the Jet-ranger had touched down and already it was airborne again, headed back to Quantico. The two officers were leading the line of Striker men toward the C-141B, which was revving up on the airstrip ahead. In addition to his gear, Squires was carrying a Toshiba Satellite portable computer with a specially designed side-mounted laserjet printer, which contained flight plans for 237 different locations, along with detailed maps and possible mission profiles.

"Now what would Hood blow a gasket about?" Rodgers asked. "I'm a quiet sort of guy listen a lot. I voice my opinions politely and deferentially."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but Krebs is your size, and you had him bring an extra set of togs. Our playbooks are all designed for a twelve-man squad. You're taking George's place, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"And I'll bet a month's pay that Mr. Hood hasn't okayed it."

"Why trouble him with details? He's got a lot on his mind."

"Well, sir-- right there are two very good reasons why gaskets blow. Pressure, and a piece o'something where it doesn't belong. In this case, you here."

Rodgers shrugged a shoulder. "Sure, he'll be p.i.s.sed. But Hood won't stay that way. He's got a perfectly capable team back at Op-Center and, h.e.l.l, we don't agree on much anyway. He won't miss me."

"Which brings up another point, sir. Permission to speak freely?"

"Shoot."

"I've got a perfectly capable team here too. Are you going to be running the show, or are you taking Private George's place?"

"I won't be wearing my stars, Charlie. You're in command, and I'll do whatever job needs to be done. You and your little laptop will have twelve hours to bring me up to speed."

"So this jaunt is just your idea of a good way to start the week. A chance to get out from behind the desk."

"Something like that," Rodgers said as they reached the huge, black transport plane. "You know how it is, Charlie. If you don't use the equipment, it gets rusty."

Squires laughed. "You, sir? Rusty? I don't think so. This kind of action is in the Rodgers's genes way back to-- was it the Spanish-American War?"

"That's the one," Rodgers said. "Great-great-granddad Captain Malachai T. Rodgers."

The officers stopped on either side of the hatch, and as Squires shouted, "Go! Go! Go!" the men climbed through without breaking stride.

Rodgers's heart swelled as the men went aboard, beat as proudly as it always did when he saw American soldiers running to do their duty. Young, afraid, and varying shades of green they went anyway, it was a sight that never failed to stir him. He was one of them during his first tour in Viet Nam and, after getting his Ph.D. in history from Temple University while he was stationed at Ft. Dix, he went back and led battalions of them in the Persian Gulf War.

Tennyson once wrote that Lady G.o.diva was a sight to make an old man young, and women did do that to him. But so did this. Twenty-six years slipped away in less than a minute, and he felt nineteen again as he followed the last enlisted man into the plane, allowing Squires to bring up the rear.

Despite his own somewhat glib a.s.sessment, Rodgers knew that the Lieutenant Colonel was right. Hood definitely would not be happy that he was going. For all his smarts and his often astounding skills as a mediator, Hood hated letting anything out of his control. And by going into the field, half a world away, Rodgers would effectively be out of his control. But above all, Hood was a team player: if it was necessary for the Striker team to go in and perform any covert actions, the Director wouldn't let ego stop him from letting the team-- and Rodgers-- do the job and grab the glory or play the goat.

As soon as they were aboard, the men took their seats along the sides of the bare cabin while the ground crew finished prepping the ma.s.sive plane. First introduced in 1982, the Lockheed C-141B Starlifter, with its 159-foot 11-inch top-mounted wings, was heir to the laurels of the earlier C-141A, introduced in 1964. That plane distinguished itself with year after year of daily nonstops to Viet Nam-- its performance record one of the many unheralded benefits to come from the war. No other army had a troop transport that reliable, and that gave the U.S. an edge.

At 168 feet 4 inches in length, the C-141B-- longer than its predecessor by 23 feet 4 inches-- could accommodate 154 troops, 123 paratroops, 80 stretchers, and 16 sitting casualties or cargo. Flight refueling equipment located in the back added 50 percent to its normal range of 4,080 miles-- longer if, like now, it was carrying less than its 70,847-pound payload. The jet would make it to Hawaii without any trouble, where it would be met and refueled in flight by a KC-135 tanker. From there, it was an easy run to j.a.pan, and then a rapid half-hour chopper ride to North Korea.

While the crew finished up their preflight checklist, the Striker men went through their own inventory. In addition to his own gear-- camouflage uniform, otherwise unmarked, a nine-inch knife, and one Beretta 92-F 9-mm automatic pistol, also unmarked-- each man was responsible for bringing items the team would require, from the cardboard-box meals of ham sandwiches and candy bars to the field phones to the all-important TAC SAT radio with a parabolic antenna that unfolds for a satellite uplink.

Leaving the men, Squires and Rodgers headed for the c.o.c.kpit followed by Sgt. Chick Grey. The Striker team had no special needs for the flight, but it was up to the Sergeant to find out if the flight crew required anything of the men, from weight distribution-- not a problem on this mission, where they'd be rattling around the cabin-- to the use of electronic equipment.

"You want to brief him?" Squires asked Rodgers-- with a bit of an edge, the General thought. Or maybe he was just yelling to be heard over the four loud 21,000-pound st Pratt & Whitney TF33-P7 turbofan engines.

"Charlie, I told you-- you're the head chef. I'm just here for dinner."

Squires smirked as they made their way down the ribbed cabin to the open door of the flight deck and introduced themselves to the pilot, copilot, first officer, navigator, and communications officer.

"Captain Harryhausen?" Sgt. Grey repeated the name as the Lieutenant Colonel booted the computer, the navigator looking over his shoulder. "Sir, are you by any chance the same Captain Harryhausen who flew a United DC10 to Alaska last week?"

"I'm that very same Captain Harryhausen, U.S. Air Force Reserves."

A grin tore across the Sergeant's beefy face. "Now if that ain't one for Robert Ripley. My family and me were on that plane, sir! Jeez-- what were the chances?"

"Actually very good, Sergeant," said the Captain. "I've had the Seattle-to-Nome route for seven months now. I put in for this a.s.signment so I could finally fly into someplace with warm sunshine and no ice, unless it was in iced tea."

As the Captain proceeded to tell Sgt. Grey what he already knew-- that his men should refrain from using Disc-mans and Game Boys until he gave the word-- Squires pulled a cable from the laptop, plugged it into the navigator's console, pushed a b.u.t.ton on his keyboard, and dumped the data into the C-141B's navigation computer. The process took six seconds; even before he'd closed the Toshiba, the onboard computer had begun matching the flight path with weather reports that would come in every fifteen minutes from U.S. bases along the route.

Squires faced the Captain and patted the computer. "Sir, I'd appreciate your letting me know the minute we can fire this up again."

The Captain nodded and returned the Lieutenant Colonel's salute.

Five minutes later they were taxiing down the runway, and two minutes after that they were banking away from the rising sun, heading southwest.

As he sat beneath the swinging light bulbs inside the wide, nearly empty cabin, Rodgers found himself reluctantly contemplating the downside of what he was doing. Op-Center was just half a year old, its modest twenty-million-dollar annual budget skimmed from CIA and Department of Defense budgets. On the books they didn't exist, and it would be an easy matter for the President to erase them if they ever screwed up big-time. Lawrence had been satisfied, if not impressed, with the way they handled their first job, finding and defusing a bomb onboard the s.p.a.ce shuttle Atlantis. Their technoweenie, Matt Stoll, had really come through on that one-- much to the pride and frustration of Director Hood, who had a deep and abiding distrust of technology. Probably because his kid was always whipping him at Nintendo.

But the President had been furious that two hostages had been shot in Philadelphia-- even if the gunfire did come from the local police, who mistook them for terrorists. The President saw that as a failure of Op-Center to completely control the situation, and he was right.

Now they had a new mission, though how much of it would be theirs remained to be seen. He'd have to wait for Hood to brief him on that. But this much he knew was true: if the Striker team veered so much as one step past their orders, and the number two man at Op-Center was there, the agency's plug would be pulled so fast Hood wouldn't have time to get p.i.s.sed off.

Cracking his knuckles, Rodgers was reminded of the immortal words of Mercury astronaut Alan B. Shepard as he waited to be launched into s.p.a.ce: "Dear G.o.d, please don't let me f.u.c.k up."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Tuesday, 8:19 P.M., Seoul

The U.S. Army base in Seoul was a source of annoyance to many of the locals.

Sitting on twenty acres of prime real estate in the heart of the city, it housed two thousand troops on four acres, with ordnance and equipment stored in another two. The remaining fourteen acres existed for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the troops: PX's, two first-run movie theaters, and more bowling alleys than most large U.S. cities. With most of its effective military strength at the DMZ, thirty-five miles to the north, where a total of one million soldiers stood toe-to-toe, the base was a modest support system at best. Its role was part political, part ceremonial: it signified enduring friendship with the Republic of Korea, and it provided the U.S. with a base from which to keep an eye on j.a.pan. A DOD long-term study indicated that remilitarization of j.a.pan was inevitable by the year 2010; if the U.S. ever lost its bases there, the base in Seoul would become the most important in the Asia-Pacific region.

But the South Koreans were more concerned about trade with j.a.pan, and many felt that a few hotels and upscale stores on that site would serve them better than a sprawling U.S. base.

Major Kim Lee of the ROK was not among those who wanted the land returned to South Korea. A patriot whose late father was a top general during the war, whose mother was executed as a spy, Kim would have been happy to see more U.S. troops in South Korea, more bases and airstrips between the capital and the DMZ. He was suspicious of North Korean overtures over the past four months, in particular their sudden willingness to allow inspections by the International Atomic Energy Agency and a willingness to abide by the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty. In 1992, they had allowed six inspections of nuclear facilities, then threatened to withdraw from their obligations under the NPT when IAEA asked to inspect their nuclear waste disposal sites. Investigators believed that the Democratic People's Republic of Korea had acc.u.mulated at least ninety grams of plutonium through the reprocessing of irradiated reactor fuel, with the goal of using them to produce weapons. The North Koreans were using a small, twenty-five-megawatt thermal graphite-moderated reactor for this purpose.

The DPRK denied that, pointing out the U.S. wouldn't need IAEA to tell them whether the North had tested nuclear weapons; the U.S. said it wasn't necessary to conduct such tests to determine if a payload was in a deliverable state. Denials and accusations flew back and forth as the DPRK suspended its withdrawal, but the standoff continued for years.

And now it was over. The North Koreans recently surprised the world by agreeing to open their nuclear reprocessing facility at Yongbyon to the long-requested "special inspections," but while Russia, China, and Europe hailed the concession as real progress, many people in Washington and Seoul took a different view: that the North had simply erected small, lead-lined "hot room" facilities elsewhere-- virtually anywhere-- and terminated all weapons research in Yongbyon. Like Saddam Hussein and his milk factory, which the U.S. bombed in the Gulf War, the North Koreans probably built them under schools or churches. IAEA officials would be blissfully unaware of their presence and unwilling to push the matter: how unfair would they seem pressing for additional "special inspections" now that North Korea had fully complied with their initial request.

Major Lee didn't care about hurt feelings in North Korea or effusive praise and vigorous handclapping that had come from Moscow, Beijing, and Paris within minutes after Pyongyang made what they called their "great concession for peace and stability." The North Koreans couldn't be trusted, and he took a perverse satisfaction from the explosion at the Palace: if the world didn't understand that before this afternoon, they did now.

The question that bothered Major Lee and the other officers in Seoul was how would the government choose to respond. They'd wag a finger and rebuke the terrorists, and the U.S. would be prepared to move more troops into the region, but that was likely to be the extent of the response.

Lee wanted more than that.

After printing out the requisition order in the South Korean command center in the northern sector of the base, the Major and two junior officers went to the U.S. supply depot, while a third officer went to collect a truck. After pa.s.sing through two checkpoints, where their IDs were examined and the day's pa.s.sword requested, they reached the HMV-- Hazardous Materials Vault. The rubber-lined room had walls eighteen inches thick, and a door that was opened by a dual key system. Inside the unmarked room, and unknown to most of those on the base, the U.S. stored the agents for chemical weapons: if the people of Seoul weren't happy about the bowling alleys and movie theaters, they'd go nuts over the chemical weapons. But the North was known to have them and, in the event of a shootout, U.S. and South Korean policy was not to be the loser who fought fair.

The Major's requisition order was marked "Eyes Only" and was shown only to the officer in charge of the HMV. Major Charlton Carter rubbed his chin as he sat behind his desk down the hall from the HMV, and read the request for four quarter-sized drums of tabun. Major Lee stood watching him, his hands clasped behind him, his aides standing a step back on either side.

"Major Lee, I confess to being surprised."

Lee tensed. "About--?"

"Do you know that in my five years sitting here, this is the first requisition I've had."

"But it's all in order."

"Perfectly. And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After what happened in town today, n.o.body wants to get caught with their jockeys around their ankles."

"Well spoken."

Major Carter read from the requisition. "There exists a state of high alert in the southwestern corner of the DMZ." He shook his head. "And I thought relationships were improving."

"That, apparently, is what the North wanted us to believe. But we have evidence that they're in the process of digging up the chemical drums they've kept buried there."

"Really? d.a.m.n. And these quarter-size drums are going to do the trick?"

"If used efficiently. You don't need to hammer the enemy with it."

"You're right about that." Major Carter rose. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I a.s.sume you've been trained to handle tabun. It's not particularly volatile in the drum--"

"But it's easy to disperse in vapor or spray form, has little smell, is highly toxic, and works quickly when absorbed through the skin and even faster when inhaled. Yes, Major Carter. I've got Grade One certification, Colonel Orlando's cla.s.s, 1993."

"And you have one of these?" He patted his chest.

Lee undid a b.u.t.ton under his tie. He reached beneath his undershirt and withdrew the key.

Carter nodded. Together, the men removed the chains from around their necks and walked to the vault. The keyholes were on opposite sides where one man couldn't possibly reach them both: when the keys were inserted and turned, the door retreated into the floor until a foot of the top remained: this impediment was designed like a speed b.u.mp, to keep soldiers from rushing off with the chemicals and having an accident.