Acts of War oc-4 Read online

  The rest of the material on the diskette consisted of maps, possible routes to various locations, and exit strategies in the event of non-cooperation from the Turks and Syrians. It was going to take fifteen hours to reach Tel Nef. August began reviewing the maps, after which he'd look at the game plans for surround-and-rescue missions in mountainous or desert terrain.

  Because of his years with NATO, August was very familiar with most of the geography of the region and also with the various mission scenarios. Striker's tactics were culled from the same U.S. military branches from which the soldiers themselves were drawn. What was unfamiliar to August was having to evacuate someone so close to him. But as Kiet had helped to teach him in Vietnam, the unfamiliar was nothing to be afraid of. It was simply something new.

  As the colonel looked over the maps, Ishi Honda approached. August looked up. Honda was holding the TAC-SAT secure phone, which was patched into the C-141B's dish.

  "Yes, Private?" August asked.

  "Sir," he said, "I think you'd better listen to this."

  "What is it?"

  "A broadcast which came into AL four minutes ago," he said.

  AL was the active-line receiver, a phone line which automatically paged Bob Herbert and the Striker radio operator when it rang. If Striker was on a mission, the call was relayed to the TAC-SAT. Only a few people had AL's number: the White House, Senator Fox, and ten of the top people at Op-Center.

  August looked up at Honda. "Why wasn't I told about it when it came in?" he demanded sharply.

  "Sorry, sir," Honda said, "but I was hoping I could figure the message out first. I didn't want to waste your time with incomplete data."

  "Next time, waste it," August said. "I might be able to help."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

  "What've you got?" August asked.

  "A series of beeps," Honda said. "Someone dialed us and then hit more numbers which keep repeating."

  August took the receiver, then held an index finger over his open ear so he could hear. There were nine tones followed by a pause, and then the same nine tones were repeated.

  "It's not a phone number," August said.

  "No, sir," said Honda.

  August listened. It was an eerie, discordant melody.

  "I assume that each tone corresponds to letters on the telephone."

  "Yes, sir," said Honda. "I ran through the possible combinations but none of them make any sense."

  Honda handed a note paper to August. The colonel read it and then read it again: 722528573. August looked at the receiver. The possible number of combinations were damn near incalculable. The colonel looked at the message again. It was definitely a code, and there was only one person who would be sending a coded communique via AL.

  Mike Rodgers.

  "Private," August said, "is there any way this could have come from the ROC?"

  "Yes, sir," Honda said. "They could have used one of the phones built into the computer."

  "It would have to have been turned on, with someone typing the number into the keys."

  "That's right, sir," Honda said. "Or they could have patched a cell phone into the computer and pumped it out through the dish. That might have been easier to key up in private."

  August nodded. The ROC was being powered up again. One of the crew would probably have to have done that. Their hands would have to be free, which meant they might have had time to get out a message.

  "Op-Center should have gotten this message as well," August said. "See what they make of it."

  "Right away," Honda replied.

  The radio operator sat down next to August. As Private Honda phoned Bob Herbert's office, August didn't even try to concentrate on the maps,while he waited for Honda to see what Op-Center made of it. But the fact that it was in code and very, very short did not give him a good feeling about Rodgers's situation.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, 10:38 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  This time, Mike Rodgers did not have a choice.

  Mahmoud had the desire to kill. Rodgers could see it in his eyes. The general didn't even wait the full count of three. As soon as Hasan had translated the order to cooperate, Rodgers had held up his hands.

  "All right," he said firmly. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

  Hasan translated. Mahmoud hesitated. Rodgers stared into his eyes.

  Mahmoud clearly liked having his foot on Rodgers's neck. Rodgers had allowed him to enjoy it even more by capitulating at once. For the Syrian, knowing that he'd won decisively might be all that prevented him from killing Mary Rose out of vengeance or pique. And there might still be a way to stop the Kurds, especially if Op-Center received and understood Rodgers's telephone message. The general had slipped the cellular phone from his shirt pocket where Hasan had placed it earlier that evening. He'd programmed it when he was bent over the pit. A few minutes later, when he'd stood and leaned against the computer station, he'd slipped the phone into its cradle. That automatically jacked it into the uplink. The connection overrode the phone's internal battery; it wouldn't start dialing until the computer came back on.

  When Rodgers went back to the pit he connected the battery to several of the ROC's noisiest systems. When the computer snapped back to life, so did the ROC air-conditioner and the security system, which beeped unobtrusively because a window was open. The Syrians did not hear the faint click of the telephone dialing and redialing. Two minutes later all of the batteries were connected. Rodgers swung his bound legs from the battery well.

  "Hasan," Rodgers said gently, "would you tell your colleague that everything is ready and that I'm going to cooperate? Tell him I'm sorry for having misled him about the nature of the van. Promise him that it won't happen again."'

  Rodgers let his gaze slip down to Mary Rose. The poor woman was breathing slowly. She looked as if she were trying not to vomit.

  Mahmoud pulled her up by the hair.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" Private Pupshaw grunted, tugging against his bonds.

  "Stow that, Private," Rodgers warned. He was trying to ignore the knot of outrage in his own gut.

  Hasan nodded approvingly in Rodgers's direction. "I am pleased that you see this our way now."

  Rodgers didn't say anything. There was nothing to be gained by explaining how he felt about a gun-wielding man threatening a bound, unarmed civilian. All the general wanted to do right now was keep the terrorists in the front of the van, away from the computer station.

  Mahmoud handed Mary Rose to Ibrahim, who held her tightly with one arm across her chest. The Syrian leader approached Rodgers. As he did, the general hopped forward. He stopped at the computer station opposite the one to which he'd connected the telephone. He lay a reassuring hand on Pupshaw's shoulder.

  Mahmoud spoke to Hasan, who translated.

  "Mahmoud wishes you to talk," Hasan said.

  Rodgers looked at Mahmoud. Some of the anger had left his face, which was good. Rodgers wanted to keep things slow and chatty, give Op-Center time to receive and decode the message. He also wanted to buy time for them to turn a satellite on the ROC if they hadn't already. And he suspected that if he told them some of what the ROC could do, they wouldn't imagine that it could do more — such as access highly secure computers in Washington. If the terrorists learned the full capabilities of the ROC, national security and undercover lives would be compromised. And dodgers would have no choice but to get to either keyboard and hit Control, Alt, Del, and Cap "F" — fry the facility, whatever the cost.

  "This is a United States surveillance facility," Rodgers said. "We listen to radio communications."

  As Hasan explained to Mahmoud, Rodgers felt Pupshaw squirm.

  "General, let them kill us instead," the Striker whispered.

  "Quiet," Rodgers reprimanded him.

  Hasan turned back to Rodgers. "Mahmoud wishes to know if you knew about the work we did today."

  "No," Rodgers said. "This is the first time our facility has been used. We're still
working on it."

  Hasan translated. Mahmoud spoke and pointed to the small satellite dish.

  "Can you send a message from here?" Hasan asked.

  "A satellite message?" Rodgers asked hopefully.

  "Yes. Yes, we can."

  "Computer messages as well as voice messages?" Hasan inquired.

  Rodgers nodded. If Mahmoud saw the ROC as his personal megaphone, so much the better. Op-Center could keep track of them by watching or listening to them.

  Mahmoud smiled and said something to Ibrahim. Ibrahim answered confidently. Mahmoud spoke again, and this time Ibrahim put his other arm around Mary Rose's chest and pulled her from the van.

  "What are you doing?" Mary Rose asked fearfully. "General! General—"

  "Leave her alone!" Rodgers demanded. "We're doing what you want!"

  He began hopping forward. "If you want someone, take me," he said.

  Hasan held him back. Rodgers grabbed the Syrian's hair, but couldn't keep his balance. Hasan threw him down into the nearest battery well. Sondra reached out to help Rodgers, but he waved her away. If anyone was going to get knocked around, he wanted it to be him. She sat on the edge of the well.

  "I have treated you well!" Hasan shouted. He spat in the general's face. "Animal! You don't deserve it!"

  "Bring her back," Rodgers snarled at Hasan. "I'm doing what you asked."

  "Be silent!"

  "No!" Rodgers shot back. "I thought we had an agreement."

  Mahmoud walked over and pointed the gun down at Rodgers. The Syrian's face was impassive as he spoke to Hasan.

  Hasan ran his fingers through his hair. "You angered me for nothing, Mr. Rambo," he said. "Ibrahim is taking the woman to the Turk's motorcycle. He will follow us at a distance. Mahmoud has ordered that you use these computers to turn off the satellite. If we are stopped, her eyes will be cut out and she will be left in the desert."

  Rodgers swore at himself. He'd blundered into this and made an enemy of Hasan. He had to step back and try to think logically.

  Hasan pulled Rodgers up and threw him into the free chair by the computer station. As he did, Mahmoud spoke.

  "Mahmoud says you have wasted too much time," Hasan told him. "We want to see this van from a satellite."

  Rodgers shook his head. "We don't have that capaci—"

  Mahmoud turned and kicked Sondra in the face. She had seen the boot coming and rolled with it, lessening the impact. It spilled her onto her side, but she sat up again quickly, defiantly.

  Rodgers felt the kick as well. It had punted logic into a remote end zone. He looked at Hasan. "You tell Mahmoud that if he touches one of my people again, he will get nothing, ever."

  Mahmoud spoke hurriedly to Hasan.

  "Mahmoud says he will beat her to death unless you obtain the capacity we requested," Hasan replied.

  "You are on United States property," Rodgers said. "Tell Mahmoud that we don't obey dictators, whatever the price." Rodgers glared at Hasan. "Tell him, damn you."

  Hasan obliged. When he had finished, Mahmoud went to kick Sondra again. Since her hands were free, she was able to cross her forearms and block the blow. At the same time she turned her hands inward, facing one another, and caught his shin. Holding it, she pushed his leg up and he stumbled back.

  "Atta way, Private," Coffey said under his breath.

  Screaming with fury, Mahmoud stomped down on the woman's right kneecap then kicked her in the chin. She wasn't fast enough to react to the blows and sprawled back against the wall. Mahmoud walked over and stomped her belly. Her arms slipped to her sides and she gasped for breath.

  "For Christ's sake, stop!" Katzen said.

  Mahmoud kicked Sondra twice in the chest, and this time she moaned. Then he kicked her in the mouth. With each blow Katzen's eyes burned with greater anger, first at the Syrians and finally at Rodgers.

  "He's going to kill her," Katzen said. "Jesus, do something!"

  Rodgers was proud of his Striker. She was ready to give it all for her country. But he couldn't allow it. Despite what he'd said about dictators, democracy would be better served by the likes of Sondra DeVonne living, not dying.

  "All right," Rodgers said. "I'll do what you ask."

  Mahmoud stopped, and Sondra tried to pull herself into a sitting position. There was blood on her cheek and mouth. She opened her eyes and looked at Katzen, who exhaled tremulously.

  Rodgers held on to the table and swung himself into the empty chair. He put his hands on the keyboard. He hesitated again. If it were just himself and Pupshaw, maybe even Katzen and Coffey, he could tell the Syrians to go to hell. But by giving in to their first demand, he'd shown that his skin could be penetrated. By attacking Hasan, Rodgers had lost the ability to divide the terrorists. That had been stupid. But he'd been tired and afraid for Mary Rose, and it was over and done. Now he had only two assets left: his life and surprise. As long as he could work the ROC for these men, he would stay alive. And as long as he stayed alive, he could always surprise them.

  Provided you keep your wits, Rodgers reminded himself. No more temper.

  Mahmoud spoke. Hasan nodded.

  "We want to see Ibrahim in the picture," Hasan told Rodgers. "Be certain you show him."

  As Hasan and Mahmoud both looked over his shoulder, Rodgers opened the NRO software. He followed the on-screen prompts, typed in the coordinates, and asked for a visual of the site. He held his breath when the computer indicated that his request was "already working."

  Dammit, Rodgers thought. Godammit. The Syrian could also read English.

  "Already working," Hasan said. He translated for Mahmoud, then said, "This means that someone else has already asked for this information. Who?"

  "It could be any military or intelligence office in Washington," Rodgers answered truthfully.

  Less than twenty seconds later they were looking down at themselves from space. The image was a quarter mile across, standard surveillance distance.

  Mahmoud seemed pleased. He said something to Hasan.

  "Mahmoud wishes you to find out who else is looking at us."

  There was no point in lying anymore. They'd only beat Sondra to death, then turn on someone else. Rodgers hit a flashing satellite icon, and a short list of image-share outlets appeared. The National Reconnaissance Office and Op-Center were the only names on it.

  Hasan explained what they said, and then Mahmoud Spoke.

  "You are to shut the eye of the satellite," Hasan said.

  Rodgers didn't hesitate. One of the keys to the hostage game was knowing when to up the ante and knowing when to fold. It was time to fold this hand.

  The ROC could not shut down the 30-45-3. That command would have to come from the NRO. However, he could send up a steady stream of digital noise which would cover an area some ten miles across. That would make the ROC invisible to every form of electronic reconnaissance, from normal light to electromagnetic.

  Rodgers accessed the software which had been designed to protect the ROC from being seen by enemy satellites. After loading it and removing the safeguards built into the system, all that remained was for him to push "Enter."

  "It's ready," Rodgers said.

  Hasan translated. Mahmoud nodded. Rodgers pressed the button.

  The three men watched as the monitor grew thick with color static until the image broke up. Hasan leaned over Rodgers and clicked the satellite icon. The NRO and Op-Center both disappeared from the image-share list.

  Mahmoud stood back and smiled. He spoke to Hasan at length, then turned and pulled his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.

  Hasan regarded Rodgers. "Mahmoud wishes me to make certain that you have done what you promised."

  "I have," said Rodgers. "You can see that."

  "I saw an image vanish," Hasan said. He pointed toward Rodgers's shirt pocket. "Use your telephone. Call your headquarters. I will speak with them."

  Rodgers felt nervous, but he had to appear calm. Maybe Hasan had just been pointing at him, not at the
pocket where he'd placed the phone. Rodgers nodded and casually reached for the telephone on the side of the computer. He lifted it from the cradle and immediately tried to work his thumb onto the stop button. The last thing he wanted was for the Syrians to hear the pulsing of the numbers he'd sent out.

  Hasan's hand flashed out. He grabbed Rodgers's wrist. He hadn't hit the button yet.

  "What are you doing?" Hasan asked. "Where is your telephone?"

  "I lost it somewhere," Rodgers said.

  "Lost it where?" Hasan asked.

  "I don't know," Rodgers replied. "Outside, I suppose. Or on the floor here. It could have happened any one of the times I was tripped or pushed or knocked around."

  Hasan's brows came together. "What's that?"

  "What?" Rodgers asked.

  Hasan looked at the phone. "It is dialing."

  "No, it isn't." Rodgers smiled benignly. He had to make Hasan feel foolish if he continued this line of questioning. "It's clicking because of the static we're sending up to the satellite. If it were a number, someone would have picked up. Watch. When we put in a new number, it will be fine."

  Hasan didn't appear to be buying that. But he was distracted when Mahmoud spoke sharply. It sounded to Rodgers as if he were pressing Hasan, and Hasan answered testily.

  Hasan exhaled loudly, then glared at Rodgers. "Dial the number and then introduce me," he said. "I will do the rest."

  Rodgers waited while Hasan released his wrist. Then he clicked the stop button, waited for the dial tone, and punched in Bob Herbert's number. Since the main dish on the driver's side of the van was being used to create the digital noise, the "mirror" dish on the passenger's side would create the uplink with the communications satellite Op-Center used.

  Within ten seconds, Bob Herbert's startled assistant was summoning the intelligence chief to the phone.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Monday, 3:52 p.m.,

  Washington, D.C.

  Martha Mackall had been conferring with Op-Center Press Officer Ann Farris about how best to present Paul Hood's mission in the media. Martha was seated behind her desk and Ann was working on a leather couch, her laptop resting back near her knees. Together, the women plugged phrases like "exploratory intercession" and "interpositive mediation" into Ann's rough-draft press release. The trick was to position the post-flood mission as a diplomatic one rather than as intelligence-oriented, Hood's directorship of Op-Center notwithstanding.