Acts of War oc-4 Read online

  "It is our intention to drive this bus to Syria," Hasan said. His brow was wrinkled as he concentrated on expressing Mahmoud's wishes in English. "However, there are things which we do not understand about the driving of your bus. There are battery cells in the back and unusual meters in the front. Mahmoud wishes you to explain them."

  "Tell Mahmoud that these things are used to find buried foundations, ancient tools, and other artifacts," Rodgers said. "You can also tell Mahmoud that I won't discuss the matter unless he unties my two associates and sits them in those chairs." Rodgers turned when he spoke, and said it loud enough for Pupshaw and DeVonne to hear.

  The creases in Hasan's brow deepened. "Do I understand? You wish them to be freed?"

  "I insist that they be treated with respect," Rodgers replied.

  "Insist?" Hasan said. "Does that mean demand?"

  Rodgers turned around and looked at the men standing by the front window. "It means," he said, "that if you don't treat us like people, you can sit in the desert until the Turkish Army finds you. Which will be by daybreak if not sooner."

  Hasan regarded Rodgers for a moment, then turned to Mahmoud. He translated hurriedly. When Hasan finished, Mahmoud pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled. Ibrahim was sitting in the driver's seat. He didn't laugh. He was watching Mahmoud closely. After a moment, Mahmoud withdrew his hunting knife. Then he spoke to Hasan, who turned back to Rodgers.

  Rodgers knew what was coming now. The terrorists realized that they couldn't pressure him directly. Mahmoud also saw that he couldn't pressure the Strikers. Threatening to harm them would only ennoble the pair, and they'd welcome that. The terrorists also couldn't afford to kill any of the civilians. The victim might know something useful.

  The Syrians needed the team's cooperation, but Rodgers had made a demand they refused to honor. So now they would have to test his military asset: his skin. They had to discover how thick it was. How far he would let his civilian crew be tortured, physically or psychologically or both? While finding that out, they would also attempt to discover who was the weakest link and why, and how that individual might be manipulated.

  Hasan faced Rodgers. "In two minutes," he said, "Mahmoud will slice off one of the lady's fingers. He will then amputate one finger every minute until you decide to cooperate."

  "Blood won't make the van run," Rodgers said. He was still looking at the front of the ROC. Coffey and Mary Rose were nearly awake now, and Phil Katzen was coming around. Colonel Seden was still unconscious.

  Hasan translated for Mahmoud, who turned around in a huff. He walked to the front of the van and cut Mary Rose's left wrist free. Then he straddled her arm and held it against his thigh. He put the knife blade-down in the space between her pinky and ring finger. He pressed down ever so slightly to draw blood and make her jump. Then he looked down at his watch.

  Mary Rose was now fully alert. She looked up. "What's going on?" she asked as she tried to pull her hand free.

  Mahmoud held on tightly, and he never took his eyes off his watch.

  Coffey had also recovered. He was sitting to the left of Mary Rose, and appeared startled when he saw Mahmoud. "What is this?" he demanded, his face puffing with lawyerly indignation. "And who are you?"

  "Sit still," Rodgers said, his voice soft but firm.

  Mary Rose and Coffey both looked at him for the first time.

  "Just stay calm, the two of you," Rodgers said. His brow was thickly knit and his voice was a monotone. Implicit in his stern, even manner was the fact that they were in some difficulty and were going to have to trust him.

  Mary Rose seemed confused, but did as she was told. Coffey's chest began to heave, and blossoming horror had replaced the indignation in his expression. Rodgers could just imagine what he was thinking.

  "What are you doing, Mike? You know the rules for situations like this"

  Rodgers did indeed know the rules and they were simple. Military personnel were permitted to provide name, rank, and serial number. Nothing more. However, the only mandate for what Op-Center euphemistically called "civilian detainees" was to survive. That meant if the captors wanted information, the hostages were free to provide it. After they were released, the burden was on Op-Center or the military to apprehend the terrorists or else to protect, evacuate, or destroy the newly exposed assets. It was part of the government's characteristic underperform-and-then-overreact syndrome.

  Rodgers found the idea repugnant. Civilian or soldier, one's first loyalty was to the country, not to survival. Yet it wasn't his own fierce patriotism that refused to let him capitulate. It was his own little PSYOP, his "psychological operation." He had to be tougher than that. If they didn't win some respect from their captors, this imprisonment — whether it lasted for hours, days, weeks, or months — would be one of abuse and contempt.

  "Sifr dahiya," Mahmoud said.

  "You have one minute," Hasan informed Rodgers. The young Syrian turned to Mary Rose. "Perhaps the lady is not so stubborn as her leader. Perhaps she would care to show us how some of the driving apparatus operates? That is, while she still can handle it."

  "She would not," Rodgers said.

  Mary Rose's eyes grew wider with fear. She pressed her lips together and continued to look at Rodgers. He stood straight and strong, her touchstone.

  Hasan continued to stare at Mary Rose. "Does this man speak for you?" he asked "Is it he who will lose his fingers painfully one at a time? Perhaps you want to talk to me. Perhaps you do not wish to be mutilated."

  "The knives are in your hands, not ours," Rodgers pointed out.

  "Truly," said Hasan, casting a look at Rodgers. "But the farmer who whips his stubborn mule is not cruel. He is doing his work. We are merely doing ours."

  "Without imagination," Rodgers charged. "And certainly without courage."

  "We do what we must, all of us," Hasan replied.

  "Talateen," said Mahmoud.

  "Thirty seconds," Hasan said. He gazed at Coffey and Katzen. "Does someone else wish to help? If any of you cooperate with us now, you will save not just the lady, but also yourself unthinkable suffering."

  "Ishreen!" Mahmoud barked.

  "Twenty seconds," Hasan said. He looked at Coffey. "You, perhaps? Will you be the hero, the one who saves her?"

  The attorney regarded Rodgers. Rodgers's gaze was fixed on the windshield.

  Coffey took a calming breath. "If the young lady wants my help," he said, "I will give it."

  Mary Rose blinked out tears. Then she smiled weakly and shook her head with little jerks.

  "Ashara" said Mahmoud.

  "Ten seconds," said Hasan. He bent close to Mary Rose. "You indicate no, yet I do not believe that is what you mean. Think, young woman. There is not very much time."

  "Tisa"

  "Nine seconds," Hasan said to her. "Soon you will be wet with your own blood."

  "Tamanya"

  "Eight seconds," said Hasan. "Then you will scream piteously to cooperate."

  "Saba"

  "Seven seconds," Hasan said. "And with every finger that is removed, there will be more unendurable pain."

  Mary Rose was breathing heavily. There was terror in her eyes.

  "She's got more courage than you do," Rodgers said proudly.

  "Sitta khamsa"

  "We will see," Hasan said. "You have five seconds, my young woman. Then you will beg to speak."

  Hasan had been smirking slightly during the countdown. But now Rodgers noticed that his mouth had turned down. Had the insult touched him, or was he concerned that they wouldn't get the information after all? Or could it be that Hasan had no stomach for bloodshed, despite his vivid commentary?

  "Arba"

  "Four," warned Hasan.

  Part of Rodgers — a very large part of him — wanted to gamble that Mahmoud wasn't going to go through with this. The Syrians had had nearly two minutes to think about their predicament and also to see what the American team was made of. By capturing the ROC, the Syrians had lost whatever
head start they had on the Turks. If they had to leave now, patrols would be everywhere. The Syrians needed the ROC and its crew, and might well be wondering if they hadn't underestimated their captives. If maybe they should have done what Rodgers had asked.

  "Talehta"

  "Three seconds," Hasan said. "Think of the knife cutting through bone and muscle. Over and over, ten times over."

  Rodgers could hear Mary Rose panting. But she wasn't talking, Clod bless her. He'd never been prouder of his own soldiers than he was of her.

  "Itneyn"

  "Two seconds."

  "Monster!" Coffey screamed, and began to struggle against his bonds. The Syrians paid no attention to him. Katzen was awake now and clearly trying to take everything in.

  "Wehid!"

  "The time is up," Hasan said. He looked at Mary Rose.

  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.

  He'd been drawn to the greatest challenge of rebuilding and leading a team that had been demoralized by the death of their commanding officer. And of course there'd been the appeal of being with Rodgers himself. Since they were kids, they'd shared a passion for building model airplanes and reminiscing about old girlfriends. Rodgers had gone so far as to find one of August's childhood sweethearts as an inducement for him to return to the U.S.

  It had worked. When August had gotten together with Barb Mathias, the elementary school princess who'd been his first serious crush, he'd known he wasn't returning to NATO. He'd bought a Ford for driving and a Rambler for fixing up on weekends, moved into the Quantico barracks, and become a bonafide man-at-arms for the first time since Vietnam. The Striker team was young but enthusiastic, and the high-tech gear was awe-inspiring.