  OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR
  By: Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
  Synopsis:
  Kurdish terrorists have attacked a dam inside
the borders of Turkey, threatening the water supply
of their very homeland. Its not insanity, but the first step
in a deceptively simple plan: force all-out
war in the Middle East, drawing in the major
players in the New World Order.
  What the terrorists don't know is that a new
regional opcenter is now on line in Turkey,
a mobile version of the permanent crisis management
facility, the ROC is a cutting edge
surveillance and information Mecca.
  And its team can see exactly what the Kurdish
rebels are trying to do.
  But the terrorists are more resourceful than anyone
thinks. They also have ways of obtaining classified
information. And the regional opcenter, the United
States" newest toy, is a prize not to be
passed up... A powerful profile of America's
defense, intelligence, and crisis management
technology.
  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should
be aware that this book is stolen property. It was
reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher,
and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."
  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF
WAR
  A Berkley Book still published by arrangement with
Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and SandR
Literary, Inc.
  PRINTING HISTORY
  Berkley edition still March 1997
  All rights reserved.
  Copyright 1997 by Jack Ryan Limited
Partnership and SandR Literary, Inc.
  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in
part, by mimeograph or any other means,
without permission.
  For information address: The Berkley Publishing
Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York,
New York 10016.
  The Putnam Berkley World Wide Web site
address is
  httpccwww.berkley.comstberkley
  ISBN: 0-dbe-aefja-X
  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley
Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue,
New York, New York 10016.
  BERKLEY and the B design are trademarks
belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.
  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA

  Acknowledgments
  We would like to thank Jeff Rovin for his creative
ideas and his invaluable contributions to the preparation of the
manuscript. We would also like to acknowledge the
assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Larry
Segriff, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Tom
Mallon, Esq., and the wonderful people at The
Putnam Berkley Group, including Phyllis
Grann, David Shanks, and Elizabeth
Beier. As always, we would like to thank Robert
Gottlieb of The William Morris Agency,
our agent and friend, without whom this book would never have
been conceived. But most important, it is for you, our
readers, to determine how successful our
collective endeavor has been.
  --Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
  OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR
  Middle East
  Monday, 11:00 a.m., Qamishli, Syria
  Ibrahim al-Rashid raised his
sunglasses. He peered through the dirty window of the
1963 Ford Galaxy.
  The young Syrian kept his eyes open, and enjoyed
the jolt of sunlight as it bounced off the golden
desert. He enjoyed the pain just as he enjoyed the
heat on his face, the hot air in his lungs, the
warm perspiration on his back. He enjoyed the
discomfort as the Prophets must have enjoyed it, the men
who came to the desert to be hammered on the anvil of
God, made ready for His great purpose.
  Anyway, he thought, enjoy it or not, most of
Syria is a furnace in the summer. The car's
struggling fan did little to relieve the heat, and the
presence of three other men raised it even
higher.
  Ibrahim's elder brother Mahmoud was beside him
in the driver's seat. Though Mahmoud was sweating
heavily, he was uncharacteristically calm, even when the
newer, faster Peugeots and Fiats passed them
on the divided highway. Mahmoud didn't want
to get into a fight, not now. But when it was time to fight,
there was no one bolder. Even when they were children,
Mahmoud had always been ready to take on larger
boys in greater numbers. Behind them, in the back
seat, Yousef and Ali played cards for a piastre
a hand. Each loss was accompanied by a mild oath.
Neither man suffered defeat graciously, which was why
they were here.
  The restored eight cylinder engine moved them
smoothly along the modern Route 7. The
Galaxy was ten years older than Ibrahim and had
been' rebuilt many times, most recently by himself.
But the trunk was spacious enough to hold what they
needed, the chassis was solid, and the car was strong. Like
this nation of Arabs, Kurds, Armenians,
Circassians, and many others, the Galaxy had
been cobbled together from many parts, some old and some new.
But still it moved forward.
  Ibrahim looked out at the blanched
landscape. It wasn't like the desert in the south,
all sand and dust clouds, shimmering mirages and
graceful twisters, the black tents of Bedouins and
occasional oases. It was an endless stretch of dried
and broken dirt, of barren hills and hundreds of
tells--mounds of ruins that marked the cites of
ancient settlements. There were a few modern
additions to the landscape, such as abandoned vehicles
and petrol stations as well as sheds where people sold
stale food and hot drink. The Syrian desert
had always been a lure for adventurers and poets,
caravans and archaeologists who embraced and then
romanticized its dangers. But this region
located between the great Tigris and Euphrates had
once been alive. Not like it was now.
  Not like it was before the Turks began to strangle the
water supply.
  Ibrahim thought back to this morning, to words his father
had said to them all before they set out.
  "Water is life. Control one and you control the
other."
  Ibrahim knew the history and geography of the
region and its water. He had put in two tours
of duty in the Air Force. Since his discharge,
he'd listened to the old hands talk about drought
and famine as he repaired tractors and other
machinery on a large farm.
  Formerly known as Mesopotamia, Greek for "the
land between the rivers," the Syrian land was now called
al-Gezira, "the island." An island without
water.
  The Tigris River was once one of the most
important transportation routes in the world. It
originates in eastern Turkey and flows nearly
1,150 miles southeast through Iraq, where it meets
the Euphrates at Basra. The equally mighty
Euphrates is formed by the confluence of the Kara and
Murad Rivers in Eastern Turkey. It flows
mostly southward and then southeast for almost 1,700
miles, surging through great canyons and jagged
gorges along its upper course, and a vast flood
plain in Syria and Iraq. Where they meet, the
Tigris and the Euphrates form the river channel
Shatt al Arab, which flows southeast into the
Persian Gulf and is part of the border between Iraq
and Iran. The two countries have long fought over
navigation rights to the 120 mile waterway.
  The Tigris and Euphrates in the east and the great
Nile River in the west once defined the Fertile
Crescent, the cradle of a number of early
civilizations stretching back as far as
B.c.
  The Cradle of Civilization, Ibrahim thought.
His homeland. One third of his great nation, now
lifeless and rotting.
  Over the centuries, warships came down the
Euphrates and tribes were forced to move west. The
water-wheels and irrigation canals in the east were
neglected as the western part of the country grew--the
line of great cities stretching from Aleppo in the
north down through Hama, Homs, and eternal
Damascus. The Euphrates was abandoned, and then
it was murdered. Its once-bright waters were turned
brown with industrial and human waste, most of it from
Turkey, and not even the melting mountain snows or
heavy rains could cleanse it. In the 1980's,
Turkey began a massive reclamation project
by constructing a series of dams along the upper
course of the Euphrates. This effort helped.
to clean the river and keep Turkey fertile. But it
caused the north of Syria and especially
al-Gezira to fall further into drought and starvation.
  And Syria did nothing to prevent it, Ibrahim
thought bitterly. There was Israel to fight in the
southwest and Iraq to watch in the southeast.
The Syrian government did not want its entire
northern border, over four hundred miles,
jeopardized by tension with the Turks.
  More recently, however, there had been other
voices.
  They had grown increasingly loud in 1996, after
repeated, vicious attacks against the Kurds.
Thousands of Kurds died in clashes with the Turks in
the Hakkari Province near the border with Iraq.
Thousands more died when Sadam Hussein used
poison gas on Kurds at Hal-abja.
  The bloodshed was made worse by infighting among the
various Kurdish sects--battles over land, over
tradition, over the degree of interaction that would be
tolerated with non-Kurds.
  Finally, a truce was called by the ailing Mullah
Mustafa Mirza, leader of the small but powerful
Mirza clan in Iraq. He asked for unity.
And the charismatic Walid al-Nasri, leader of the
PKK, the Kurdistan Workers Party, agreed
to help provide it.
  Over the past few months, Ibrahim had spent
all of his free time in Haseke, a quiet city
to the southwest, working with the local patriots in the
PKK of which his brother was an officer. As
he made sure printing presses and cars were working as
they were supposed to, Ibra him had listened
eagerly to Mahmoud's views about establishing a
homeland. As he helped carry guns and
bomb-making material under the cover of night,
Ibrahim had listened to their bitter debates about
unification with other Kurdish factions. As he
relaxed after helping to train small groups of
fighting men, he'd listened as arrangements were made
to meet with Iraqi and Turkish Kurds, to plan
for a homeland, to select a leader.
  lbrahim put his sunglasses back on. The
world became dark again.
  Today, the only reason most people cross
al-Gezira is to travel to Turkey. That was
true for Ibrahim, though he wasn't most people.
Most people came with cameras to photograph the
bazaars or the World War I trenches or the
mosques. They came with maps and picks for
archaeological digs, or with American jeans or
Japanese electronics to sell on the black
market.
  Ibrahim and his team came with something else. A
purpose. To return the waters to al-Gezira.
  Monday, 1:22 p.m., Saniiurfa,
Turkey
  Attorney Lowell Coffey II stood on the
shaded side of a nondescript, six-wheel white
trailer and touched the hem of his red neckerchief.
He dabbed away the sweat that was dripping into his
eyes. He silently cursed the hum of the
battery-powered engine that told him the air-conditioning
was running inside the van. Then he stared across barren
terrain, which was dotted with dry hills.
  Three hundred yards away was a deserted
asphalt road that rippled beneath the afternoon heat. Beyond
that, separated by three barren miles and more than five
thousand years, was the city of Sanliurfa.
  Thirty-three-year-old biophysicist Dr.
Phil Katzen stood to the attorney's right. The
long-haired scientist shielded his eyes as he
looked toward the dusty outline of the ancient
metropolis.
  "Did you know, Lowell," Katzen said, "that ten
thousand years ago, right where we're standing, is where
beasts of burden were first domesticated? They were
all-rochs--wild ox. They tilled the soil right
under our feet."
  "That's great," Coffey said. "And you can
probably tell me what the soil
composition was then too. Right?"
  "No." Katzen smiled. "Only now. All
of the nations in this region have to keep records like that
to see how long the farmlands'll hold out. I've
got the soil file on diskette. As soon as
Mike and Mary Rose are finished, I'll load
it up if you want to read it."
  "No, thanks," Coffey said. "I have enough trouble
retaining all the goddamn information I'm supposed
to learn. I'm getting old, y'know."
  "You're thirty-nine," Katzen said.
  "Not much longer," Coffey said. "I was born
forty years ago tomorrow."
  Katzen grinned. "Well, happy birthday,
counselor."
  "Thanks," Coffey said, "but it won't be. Like
I said, I'm getting old, Phil."
  "Don't knock it," Katzen said. He pointed
toward Sanliurfa. "When that place was young, forty
was old.
  Back then most people lived to be about twenty. And not
a healthy twenty at that. They were plagued by rotten
teeth, broken bones, bad eyesight, athlete's
foot, you-name-it.
  Hell, today the voting age in Turkey
is twenty-one.
  Do you realize that ancient leaders in places like
Uludere, Sirnak, and Batman couldn't even have
voted for themselves?"
  Coffey looked at him. "There's a place
called Batman?"
  "Right on the Tigris," Katzen said. "See?
There's always something new to learn. I spent a
couple hours this morning learning about the ROC.
Helluva machine Matt and Mary Rose
designed. K. keeps you young, Lowell."
  "Learning about Batman and the ROC aren't
exactly things to live for," Coffey said. "And as
far as your ancient Turks are concerned, with all the
planting and sowing and irrigating and rock-hauling those
people did, forty years old probably felt like
eighty."
  "True enough."
  "And their life's work was probably the same job
they'd been doing since they were ten," Coffey said.
  "Nowadays we're supposed to live longer and
evolve, professionally."
  "You trying to say you haven't?" Katzen asked.
  "I've evolved like the dodo," Coffey said.
"Stasis and then extinction. By this time in my
life I always thought I'd be an international heavy
hitter, working for the President and negotiating
trade and peace accords."
  "Ease up, Lowell," Katzen said. "You're
in the arena."
  "Yeah," Coffey replied. "The nosebleed
seats. I'm working for a low-profile government
agency nobody's ever heard of---"
  "Low-profile doesn't mean lack of
distinction," Katzen pointed out.
  "It does in my end of the arena," Coffey
replied. "I work in a basement at Andrews Air
Force Base--not even Washington, D.c., for
God's sake--brokering necessary but unexciting deals
with grudgingly hospitable nations like Turkey so that
we can all spy on even less hospitable nations like
Syria. On top of that, I'm roasting in the
freakin' desert, sweat running down my legs
into my goddamn socks, instead of arguing First
Amendment cases in front of the Supreme
Court."
  "You're also starting to whine," Katzen said.
  "Guilty," Coffey said. "Birthday boy's
prerogative."
  Katzen pushed up the back of Coffey's
felted wool Australian Outback hat so it
covered his eyes. "Lighten up. Not every useful job
has to be a sexy one."
  "It isn't that," Coffey replied. "Well,
maybe just a little it is." He removed the Outback
hat, used his index finger to wipe sweat from around the
band, then settled the hat back on his dirty
blond hair. "I guess what I'm really saying
is that I was a law prodigy, Phil. The
Mozart of jurisprudence. I was reading my dad's
statute law books when I was twelve. When all
my friends wanted to be astronauts or baseball
players, I was thinking it'd be cool to be a bail
bondsman. I could've done most of this stuff when
I was fourteen or fifteen."
  "Your suits would've been way too large,"
Katzen deadpanned.
  Coffey frowned. "You know what I'm saying."
  "You're saying you haven't lived up to your
potential," Katzen said. "Well, ditto,
ditto, and welcome to the real world."
  "Being one disappointment among many doesn't make
it sit any better, Phil," Coffey replied.
  Katzen shook his head. "All I can say is,
I wish I'd had you at my side when I
was with Greenpeace."
  "Sorry," Coffey said. "I don't hurl my
body off ship decks to protect baby harp seals
or stop six-foot-six hunters from setting out raw
meat to draw out black
  "I did both of those once," Katzen said. "I
got my nose broke doing one and scared the hell out
of the harp seal doing the other. The point is, I had
these pro bono slackers who didn't know a
porpoise from a dolphin.
  What's worse was they didn't give a shit.
I was in your office when you negotiated our little
visit with the Turkish ambassador. You gave it
everything and you created a handsome piece.of work."
  "I was dealing with a country that's got forty
billion dollars of external debt, most of it
to our country," Coffey said. "Getting them to see
our point of view doesn't exactly put me in
the genius class."
  "Bull," Katzen said. "The Islamic
Development Bank holds a lot of Turkish
chits as well, and they exert a lot of
pro-fundamentalist pressure on these people."
  "Islamic law can't be imposed on the
Turks," Coffey replied, "not even by a
fiercely fundamentalist leader like the one they've
got now. It says so in their Constitution."
  "Constitutions can be amended," Katzen said.
"Look at Iran."
  "The secular population in Turkey is much
higher," Coffey said. "If the Fundamentalists
ever tried to take over here, there'd be civil war."
  "Who can say there won't be?" Katzen asked.
"Anyway, none of that is the point. You sprinted
through NATO regulations, Turkish law, and
U.s. policy to get us in here. No one else
I know could've done that."
  "So I had to cajole a little," Coffey said.
"Even so, the Turkish deal was probably the high
point of my year.
  When we return to Washington it'll be business
as usual.
  I'll go to see Senator Fox with Paul
Hood and Martha Mackall. I'll nod when
Paul assures the senator that everything we did in
Turkey was legal, that the soil studies you did in
the east will be shared with Ankara and were the "real"
reason we were here, and I'll guarantee that if the
Regional Op-Center program receives further
funding we will continue to operate legally.
Then I'll go back to my office and figure out how
to use the ROC in ways not covered by international
law." Coffey shook his head. "I know that's how
things have to be done, but it's not dignified."
  "At least we try to be," Katzen pointed out.
  "You try to be," Coffey said. "You spend your
career looking into nuclear accidents and oil fires
and pollution.
  You make a difference, or at least you challenge
your self. I went into law to wrestle with real
global issues, not to find legal loopholes for
spies in Third World sweatboxes."
  Katzen sighed. "You're schvitzing."
  "What?"
  "You're sweating. You're cranky. You're a day
shy of forty. And you're being way too hard on
yourself."
  "No, too lenient." Coffey walked toward the
cooler nestled in the shade of one of the three nearby
tents. He saw the unopened paperback copy of
Lord Jim, which he'd brought along to read. It had
seemed an appropriate selection when he was standing
in the air-conditioned Washington, D.c.,
bookstore. Now he wished he'd picked up Dr.
Zhivago or Call of the Wild. "I
think I'm having an epiphany," Coffey said,
"like all those patriarchs who used to go into the desert."
  "This isn't desert," Katzen said. "It's what
we call nonarable pastureland."
  "Thanks," Coffey said. "I'll file that
next to Batman, Turkey, as something
to remember."
  "Jeez," Katzen said, "you really are cranky.
I don't think being forty is what's doing this. I
think the heat's dried up your brains."
  "Could be," Coffey said. "Maybe that's why
everyone's always been at war in this part of the world. You
ever hear about the Eskimos fighting over ice floes
or pinguin eggs?"
  "I've visited the Inuit on the Bering
Coast," Katzen said. "They don't fight with each
other because they have a different outlook on life.
Religion is comprised of two elements: faith and
culture. The Inuit have faith without fanaticism,
and to them it's a very private matter.
  The culture is the public part. They share
wisdom, tradition, and fables instead of insisting that
their way is the only way. The same is true of
many tropical and sub-tropical peoples in
Africa, South America, and the Far
East. It has nothing to do with the climate."
  "I don't believe that about the climate,"
Coffey said.
  "At least, not entirely." He removed a can of
Tab from the melting ice in the cooler and popped it.
As he poured the soda into his mouth, he squinted
back at the long, gleaming van. For a moment, the
despair left him. That seemingly nondescript
vehicle was beautiful and sexy.
  He was proud to be associated with it, at least.
The attorney stopped drinking and caught his breath.
"I mean," he said, panting after the long, unbroken
swallow, "look at cities or prisons where there
are riots. Or compounds like Jonestown and Waco
where people turn into cult-kooks. It never happens
during a cold spell or a blizzard. It's always
when it's hot. Look at the Biblical scholars
who went out into the desert. Went out men, stayed in the
heat, came back prophets. Heat lights our
fuses."
  "You don't think that God could have had anything to do
with Moses and Jesus?" Katzen asked
solemnly.
  Coffey raised the can to his lips. "Touchand" he
said before he drank again.
  Katzen turned to the young black woman standing
to his right. She was dressed in khaki shorts, a
sweat-stained khaki blouse, and a white headband. The
uniform was "sterile." Nowhere did she display the
winged-lightning shield of the rapid-deployment
Striker force to which she belonged. Nor was there any
other sign of military affiliation. Like the van itself,
whose side-mounted mirror looked just like a mirror and
not a parabolic dish, whose walls were intentionally
dented and artificially rusted and didn't show a hint
of the rein-fomed steel underneath, the woman looked like
she was a seasoned archaeological field worker.
  "What do you think, Sondra?" Katzen asked.
  "With all due respect," said the young black
woman, "I think you're both wrong. I think
peace and war and sanity are all questions of leadership.
Look at that old city out there." She spoke with
quiet reverence. "Thirty centuries ago the
prophet Abraham was born--right there. That was where
he lived when God told him to move his family
to Canaan. That man was touched by the Holy Spirit.
He founded a people, a nation, a morality.
  I'm sure he was as warm as we are, especially
when God told him to put a dagger into the bosom of
his son. I'm sure his sweat as well as his
tears fell onto the frightened face of Isaac."
She looked from Katzen to Coffey. "His
leadership was based on faith and love, and he is
revered by Jews and Muslims alike."
  "Nicely put, Private DeVonne,"
Katzen said.
  "Very nicely put," Coffey agreed, "but it
doesn't contradict my point. We're not all
made of the same obedient, determined stuff as
Abraham. And for some of us, the heat makes our
natural irritability worse." He took
another long drink from his sweating can of Tab.
  "There's another thing too. After twenty-seven
hours and fifteen minutes of camping here, I hate
the living hell out of this place. I like air conditioning
and cold water from a glass instead of hot water from
a plastic bottle. And bathrooms. Those are good
too."
  Katzen smiled. "Maybe you'll appreciate
them a whole lot more when you get back."
  "I appreciated them before I left.
Frankly, I still don't understand why we couldn't have
tested this prototype in the U.s. We have enemies
at home. I could have gotten clearance from any
number of judges to spy on suspected
terrorists, paramilitary camps, Mafiosi,
you-name-it."
  "You know the answer as well as I do," Katzen
said.
  "Sure," Coffey said. He drained the can of
soda, dropped it in the plastic trash bag, and
walked back to the van. "If we don't help the
moderate True Path Party, the Islamic
fundamentalists and their Welfare Party will continue
to make gains here. And then you've got the Social
Democratic Populist Party, the Democratic
Left Party, the Democratic Center Party, the
Reform Democratic Party, the Prosperity
Party, the Refah Party, the Socialist Unity
Party, the Correct Way Party, and the Great
Anatolia Party, all of which have to be dealt withand
all of whom want their piece of the very small
Turkish pie. Not to mention the Kurds, who want
freedom from the Turks, Iraqis, and
Syrians." Coffey used his index fingers to wipe
sweat from his eyes. "If the Wel-axe Party does
happen to take control of Turkey and its
military, Greece will be threatened. Disputes in the
Aegean Sea will come to a head and NATO will be
torn apart. Europe and the Middle East will
be endangered and everyone will turn to the U.s. for
help. We'll gladly provide it, of course,
but only in the form of shuttle diplomacy. We
can't afford to take sides in a war like that."
  "Excellent summation, counselor."
  "Except for one thing," Coffey continued. "For
my money, they can all take a flying leap. This
isn't like when you took a leave of absence to save the
spotted owl from loggers."
  "Stop," Katzen said. "You're embarrassing
me. I'm not all that virtuous."
  "I'm not talking about virtue," Coffey said.
"I'm talking about being committed to something worthwhile.
  You went to Oregon, did your on-site
protest, testified at the state legislature, and
got the problem solved. This situation is fifty
centuries years old. Ethnic factions have always
fought one another here and they always will.
  We can't stop them, and it's a waste of valuable
resources even trying."
  "I disagree," Katzen replied. "We can
mitigate the situation. And who knows? Maybe the
next five thousand years will be better."
  "Or maybe the U.s. will get sucked into a
religious war that'll tear us apart,"
Coffey replied. "I'm an isolationist at
heart, Phil. That's one thing Senator Fox and
I have in common. We've got the best country in the
history of the world, and those who don't want to join us
in the democratic melting pot can shoot, bomb,
gas, nuke, and martyour each other until they're
all in Paradise.
  I really don't care."
  Katzen scowled. "That's one point of view, I
suppose."
  "Damn right," Coffey replied. "And I'm not
apologizing for it. But there is one thing you can tell
me."
  "What?" Katzen asked.
  Coffey's mouth twisted. "What is the difference
between a porpoise and a dolphin?"
  Before he could answer, the door of the van opened and
Mike Rodgers stepped out. Coffey savored the
blast of air-conditioning before the ramrod-straight
general shut the door. He was dressed in jeans and a
tight gray Gettysburg Campaign souvenir
T-shirt. His light brown eyes seemed almost
golden in the bright sun.
  Mike Rodgers rarely smiled, but Coffey
noticed the hint of a grin tugging at the side
of his mouth.
  "So?" Coffey asked.
  "It's running," Rodgers said. "We were able
to uplink to all five of the selected National
Reconnaissance Office satellites. We have
video, audio, and thermal views of the target
region as well as complete electronic
surveillance. Mary Rose is talking to Matt
Stollen right now, making sure all of the data is
getting through." Rodgers's reluctant smile
bloomed. "The battery-powered son of a gun works."
  Katzen offered him his hand. "Congratulations,
General.
  Matt must be ecstatic."
  "Yeah, he's a pretty happy fella,"
Rodgers said. "After everything we went through to put the
Roe together, I'm pretty happy myself."
  Coffey toasted General Rodgers with a swig from
the water bottle. "Forget everything I said,
Phil. If Mike Rodgers is pleased, then we
really must've batted one out of the park."
  "Grand slam," Rodgers said, "That's the good
news.
  The bad news is that the chopper which is supposed
to take you and Phil to Lake Van's been
delayed."
  "For how long?" Katzen asked.
  "Permanently," said Rodgers. "Seems someone
in the Motherland Party objects to the excursion. They
don't buy our ecology cover story, that we're
out here to study the rising alkaline levels of
Turkish waterways and its percolation effect on the
soil."
  "Aw, jeez," Katzen said. "What the hell do
they think we want to do out there?"
  "You ready for this?" Rodgers asked. "They
believe we've found Noah's Ark and that we plan
to take it to the U.s. They want the Council of
Ministers to cancel our permits."
  Katzen angrily jabbed the toe of his boot at
the parched ground. "I really did want to have a look
at that lake. It's got just one species of fish,
the darek, which evolved to survive in the soda-rich
water. We can learn a lot about adaptation from it."
  "Sorry," Rodgers said. "We're going to have
to do some adapting of our own." He looked over at
Coffey.
  "What do you know about this Motherland Party, Low ell?
Do they have enough power to screw up our shakedown
session?"
  Coffey dragged the kerchief along his strong jaw
and then across the back of his neck. "Probably not,"
he said, "though you might want to check with Martha.
  They're pretty strong and considerably
right-of-center.
  But any debate they start will go back and forth between
the Prime Minister and the Motherlanders for two or three
days before it's brought to the Grand National sembly for a
vote. I don't know about Philbbness excursion, but
I think that'll give us the time to do what we came
here for."
  Rodgers nodded. He turned to Sondra.
"Private DeVonne, the Deputy Prime
Minister also told me that leaflets are being passed
out in the streets, informing citizens about our plan
to rob Turkey of its heritage. The government is
sending an intelligence agent, Colonel Nejat
Seden, to help us deal with any incidents. Until
then, please inform Private Pupshaw that some of the people
who'll be heading to the watermelon festival in
Diyarbakir may be carrying a grudge as well as
fruit.
  Tell him to stay cool."
  "Yes, sir."
  Sondra saluted and jogged toward the
burly Pupshaw, who was stationed on the other side
of the tents. He was watching the road where it disappeared
behind a row of hills.
  Katzen frowned. "This is great. Not only could
I miss out on the chance to study the darek, but we've
got a hundred million dollars worth of
sophisticated electronics in there. And until this
Colonel Seden gets here, all we've got
to protect it are two Strikers with radios on their
hips and M21's, which, if they use "em, we'll
get clobbered for because we're supposed to be
unarmed."
  "I thought you admired my diplomatic finesse,"
Coffey said.
  "I do."
  "Well, that was the best deal we could get,"
Coffey said. 'allyou worked with Greenpeace. When the
French secret service sunk your flagship
Rainbow Warrior in Auckland Harbor in 1985,
you didn't go out and kill Parisians."
  "I wanted to," Katzen admitted. "Boy,
how I wanted
  "But you didn't. We're employees of a
foreign power conducting surveillance on behalf of a
minority government so that their military can
keep an eye on Islamic fanatics. We
don't exactly have a moral imperative to gun
down locals. If we're attacked, we lock the
van door, get inside, and radio the local
polisi. They rush out here in their swirl Renaults
and deal with the situation."
  "Unless they're Motherland sympathizers," Katzen
said.
  "No," Coffey replied, "the police here are
pretty fair.
  They may not like you, but they believe in the law and
they'll uphold it."
  "Anyway," Rodgers said, "the DPM
doesn't expect us to have that kind of trouble. At
worst there'll be tossed watermelon, eggs,
manure, that sort of thing."
  "Terrific," Katzen said. "At least in
Washington they only sling mud."
  "If it ever rained here," Coffey said, "we'd
get that TOO."
  Rodgers held out his hand and Coffey passed him
the water. After taking a long swallow the general
said, "Cheer up. As Tennessee Williams once
said, 'Don't look forward to the day you stop suffering,
because when it comes you'll know you're dead.""
  Monday, 6:48 a.m., Chevy Chase,
Maryland
  Paul Hood sat sipping black coffee in the
den of his comfortable suburban home. He'd opened the
ivory-colored drapes, had cracked the sliding
glass door an inch, and was looking across the
backyard. Hood had traveled the world and was
intimately familiar with many parts of it. But there was
nothing that thrilled him as much as the dirty-white
picket fence that marked his small part of it.
  The grass was glistening-green, and a warm breeze
carried the smell of roses from his wife's tiny
garden.
  Eastern bluebirds and yellow warblers were
lively with song, and squirrels were acting like furry
little Strikers as they moved, stopped,
reconnoitered, then moved again. The rustic
tranquility was broken now and then by what the
jazz-loving Hood called the morning door jam:
the slap of a screen door, the groan of a garage
door, or the slam of a car door.
  To Hood's right was a dark oak bookcase
filled with Sharon's well-used volumes on
gardening and cooking.
  The shelves were also packed with the
encyclopedias, atlases, and dictionaries
Harleigh and Alexander didn't consult anymore
since all that material was on CD-ROM.
  Then there was a small corner section for Hood's
own favorite novels. Ben-Hur. From Here
to Eternity.
  The War of the Worlds. Tender Is the Night.
Works by Ayn Rand, Ray Bradbury, and Robert
Louis Stevenson.
  Old Lone Ranger novels by Fran Striker
that Hood had read as a kid and went back to every now
and then. To Hood's left were shelves filled with
mementoes of his tenure as the mayor of Los
Angeles. Plaques, mugs, keys to other
cities, and photographs with domestic and foreign
dignitaries.
  The coffee and fresh air were equally invigorating.
  His lightly starched shirt was comfortable. And his new
shoes felt rich, even though they weren't. He
remembered when his father couldn't afford to buy him new
shoes. It was thirty-five years ago," when
Paul was nine and President Kennedy had been
assassinated. His father, Frank "Battleship"
Hood, a Navy man during the Second World
War, had quit one accounting job to take
another. The Hoods had sold their house and were about
to move from Long Island to Los Angeles when the
new firm put a sudden freeze on hiring. The
firm was very, very sorry but they didn't know what was
going to happen to the company, to the economy, to the
country. His father didn't work for thirteen months after
that, and they had to move into a small apartment. An
apartment small enough so he could hear his mother consoling his
father when he cried at night.
  Now here he was. Relatively affluent and the
director of Op-Center. In less than a year,
Hood and his core team had turned the agency,
formally known as the National Crisis Management
Center, from a liaison office between the CIA, the
White House, and the other big boys to a
crisis-management team in its own right. Hood had
an often fractious relationship with some of his closest
people, most notably Deputy Director Mike
Rodgers, Intelligence Officer Bob Herbert,
and Political and Economics Officer Martha
Mackall. But he welcomed the differences of
opinion. Besides, if he couldn't manage
personality clashes in his office, he couldn't
handle political and military clashes thousands of
miles away. The desk-side skirmishes
kept him alert and in shape for the bigger, more
important battles.
  Hood drank his coffee slowly. Virtually every
morning he sat comfortably alone on this sofa. He
surveyed his life and invited contentment to lap him like
an island.
  But it rarely did. Not on all sides,
anyway. There was a hole, much larger in the month
since he'd returned from Germany. A void which had
been filled unexpectedly with passion. Passion for
his one-time love Nancy, whom he'd met in
Hamburg after twenty years. Passion that burned
on the beach of his little island and disturbed his rest at
night and fought for attention during the day.
  But it was passion that he had not and could not act upon.
Not unless he wanted to destroy the people for whom this
home and this life were contentment. The children to whom he was
a constant and reliable source of strength and emotional
security. The wife who respected and trusted him
and said she loved him. Well, she probably did.
She probably loved him in the same
buddy-sisterly-shared-goals way that he loved her.
  Which wasn't bad, even though it wasn't what he
felt for Nancy.
  Hood drained his mug, regretting that the
last mouthful never tasted as glorious as the first. Not
in coffee, not in life. He rose, put the mug in
the dishwasher, grabbed his trench coat from the closet,
and walked into the balmy morning.
  Hood drove southeast through Washington,
D.c., to Op-Center's headquarters at Andrews
Air Force Base.
  He negotiated traffic that was already thick with
trucks, Mercedes, and fleets of overnight
courier vans rushing to make morning deliveries.
He wondered how many people were thinking like he was, how
many were cursing the traffic, and how many were just enjoying the
drive, the morning, and some upbeat music.
  He plugged in a tape of Spanish gypsy
music, a love he'd acquired from his
Cuban-born grandfather. The car filled with Romany
lyrics whose words he didn't understand but whose. passion
he did. And as the music washed over him, Hood
tried once again to fill the gaps in his contentment.
  Monday, 7:18 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  Matthew Stoll disdained the traditional labels
for "his kind." He loathed them almost as much as he
hated chronic optimists, unreasonably high
prices for software, and curry. As he'd been
telling all his friends and coworkers since his
days as an MIT wunderkind--a term he didn't
mind--he was not a computer nerd, a techno-weehie,
or an egghead.
  "I think of myself as a techsplorer," he'd
told Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers when he
first interviewed for the job of Operations Support
Officer.
  "Excuse me?" Hood had said.
  "I explore technology," the cherubic Stoll
had replied.
  "I'm like Meriwether Lewis, except I'll
need more than his twenty-five-hundred-dollar
Congressional appropriation to open up vast new
technological'lands.
  I also hope to live past the age of
thirty-five, though you never know."
  Hood had later confided to Stoll that he'd found
the neologism corny, though the scientist hadn't
been offended.
  He'd known from their first meeting that "Saint
Paul" had neither a vaulting imagination nor a sharp
sense of humor. Hood was a deft, temperate,
and remarkably intuitive manager. But General
Rodgers was a big-time history buff, and he'd
been won over by the Meriwether Lewis
reference. And as Hood and Rodgers had both
admitted, there was no ignoring Stoll's
credentials.
  He'd not only finished at the top of his class
at MIT, he'd finished at the top of MIT'S
classes for the previous two decades.
Corporate America had wooed Stoll
energetically and won him for a time, but he grew tired
of developing new easy-to-program VCR'S
or sophisticated heart monitors for exercise
machines. He yearned to work with state-of-the-art
computers and satellites, and he wanted the kind of
research and development budgets that private
enterprise just couldn't provide.
  He also had wanted to work with his best friend and former
classmate, Stephen Viens, who headed the
government's National Reconnaissance Office.
Viens was the man who had arranged the Op-Center
introduction for him. He also gave Stoll and his
coworkers first-dibs access to NRO resources to the
detriment and annoyance of his colleagues at the
CIA, FBI, and Department of Defense. But they
could never prove that Op-Center was getting a
lion's share of satellite time. If they could,
bureaucratic backlash would be severe.
  Viens was on-line with Stoll at Op-Center and
Mary Rose Mohalley in Turkey to make
certain the data coming from the Regional Op-Center
was accurate. The visual images being channeled from
the spy satellites weren't as detailed as those at
the NRO: The mobile equipment provided just under
half of the more than one thousand lines of resolution of the
NRO monitors. But they were coming in fast and
accurate, and intercepts of cell-phone conversations
and faxes were equal to those that were being received by both the
NRO and Op-Center.
  After running the last of the tests, Stoll thanked
Mary Rose and told her she was free to solo. The
young woman thanked him, thanked Viens, and got off
the secure downlink. Viens remained on his line.
  Stoll took a bite of sesame bagel and
washed it down with a swallow of herbal tea. "God,
I love Monday mornings," Stoll said. "Back
in the harness of discovery."
  "That was pretty," Viens admitted.
  Stoll said through cream cheese, "We build
five or six of these things, pack "em inside
planes and boats, and there isn't a corner of the world
we can't watch."
  "You do that and you'll put me out of business
faster than the Senate Intelligence Committee,"
Viens cracked.
  Stoll looked at his friend's face on the
monitor. The screen was the center one of three
built into the wall beside Stoll's desk. "That's just
a frosh dingbat's witch-hunt," Stoll said.
"Nobody's going to put you out of business,"
  "You don't know this Senator Landwehr," Viens
replied.
  "He's like a little dog with a very large bone.
  He's made it his personal crusade to put an
end to forward funding."
  Forward funding, Stoll thought. Of all the
government sleights of hand, Stoll had to admit that
that was the sneakiest. When money was earmarked for a
specific purpose and those projects were
back-burnered or altered, the funds were supposed
to be given back. Three years before, two
billion dollars had been given to the NRO
to design, build, and launch a new series of
spy satellites. Those projects were later
canceled. But instead of being returned, all of the money
was slipped into various other NRO accounts and
disappeared. Op Center, the CIA, and other
government agencies also lied about their
finances. They created small, so-called "black
budgets," which were hidden in false line items of the
budget and were thus concealed from public scrutiny.
  Those monies were used to finance relatively
modest secret intelligence and military operations.
They were also used to help finance Congressional
campaigns, which was why Congress allowed them
to exist. But the NRO had gone too far.
  When the NRO'S forward funding was discovered
by Frederick Landwehr, a freshman senator who
used to be an accountant, he immediately brought it to the
attention of the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence
Committee.
  Congress acted swiftly to reclaim what was
left of the money--with interest. And the interest included
the heads of the responsible parties. Although Viens
hadn't been involved in the parceling out of the money,
he'd accepted budget increases for his satellite
reconnaissance division knowing exactly where it
came from.
  "The press has to give space to a new face
with a new cause," Stoll said, "I still think that when
the headlines shrink, everything'll be sorted out
quietly."
  "Deputy Secretary of Defense
Hawkins doesn't share your atypical
optimism," Viens said.
  "What are you talking about?" Stoll asked. "I
saw the Hawk on the news last night. Every coif
with a mike who accused him of mismanagement got his
or her nose bit off."
  "Meanwhile, the Deputy Secretary is already
looking for a job in the private sector."
  "What?" Stoll said.
  "And it's only been two weeks since the forward
funding was uncovered. There are going to be a lot more
defections." @yiens raised his eyebrows
forlornly. "It re ally sucks, Matt. I
finally get my Conrad and I can't even enjoy it."
  The Conrads were an unofficial award given at
a private dinner every year by the foremost figures in
American intelligence. The dagger-like trophy was
named after Joseph Conrad, whose 1907 novel, The
Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage
tales. Viens had coveted the award for years, and
had finally won it.
  Stoll said, "I think you're going to weather this thing.
  There won't be a real investigation. Too many
secrets'll be made public. There'll be some
wrist-slapping, the money will be found and
returned to the treasury, and they'll watch your
budget more closely for the next couple of years.
Just like a personal audit."
  "Matt," Viens said, "there's something else."
  "There always is. Action followed by an equal and
opposite reaction. What else are they
planning?"
  "I hear they're going to subpoena our
diskettes."
  That got Stoll's attention. His round, beefy
shoulders rose slowly. The diskettes were time- and
destination-coded.
  They would show that Op-Center was getting a
disproportionate amount of satellite time.
  "How solid's your info?" Stoll asked.
  "Very," Viens said.
  There was a sudden gurgling in Stoll's belly.
"You, uh--didn't get that yourself, did you?"
  Stoll was asking Viens whether he'd ordered
surveil lance on Landwehr. He prayed that his friend
had not.
  "Please, Matt," Viens said.
  "Just making sure. Pressure can do funny things
to sane people."
  "Not me," Viens said. "Thing is, I
won't be able to do much for you during the rest of the
shakedown. I" ve got to give the other bureaus
whatever time they need."
  "I understand," Stoll said. "Don't sweat it."
  Viens smiled halfheartedly. "My psych
profile says I never sweat anything," he said.
"Worst that happens is I follow the Hawk into the
private sector."
  "Bull-do. You'd be as miserable as I was.
Look," Stoll said, "let's not go counting Mother
Carey's chickens before the storm hits. If the
Hawk flies the coop, maybe that'll take some
of the pressure off."
  "That's a slim maybe."
  "But it's a possibility," Stoll said. He
glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the
screen. "I'm supposed to see the boss at
seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working.
Why don't we have dinner tonight? On Op-Center."
  "I promised the missus we'd go out."
  "Fine," Stoll said. "I'll pick you both
up. What time?"
  "How's seven?" Viens asked.
  "Perfect," said Stoll.
  "My wife was expecting candles and
hand-holding.
  She'll kill me."
  "It'll save Landwehr the trouble," Stoll
pointed out.
  "See you at seven."
  Stoll clicked off feeling miserable. Sure,
Viens had given him access to the NRO, but
Op-Center had had the crises to justify that
access. And what did it matter whether Op-Center
or the Secret Service or the NYPD needed
assistance? They were all on the same team.
  Stoll phoned Hood's executive
assistant, "Bugs" Be-net, who said the chief
had just arrived. Finishing his tea and engulfing the
second half of his bagel, the portly young chief
technical officer strode from his office.
  Monday, 2:30 p.m., Qamishli, Syria
  Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop.
He awoke suddenly.
  "Imshee... imshee--to was he cried as he
looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards
in the backseat. Ibrahim's eyes settled on the
round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with
sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview
mirror.
  "Good afternoon," Mahmoud said dryly.
  Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his
eyes.
  "Mahmoud," he said with obvious relief.
  "Yes," his brother said with a half-smile.
"It's Mahmoud.
  Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?"
  Ibrahim put his sunglasses on the
dashboard. "I don't know. A man. I couldn't
see his face. We were in a market and he wanted
me to go somewhere."
  "Probably to see a new automobile or an
airplane or some other device," Mahmoud said.
""Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and
I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me.
Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be
your wife?" "Oh, thank you, djian. You are most
generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer,
I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.""
  Ibrahim scowled. "Where is it written that one
cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?"
  "Nowhere, my brother," Mahmoud replied. He
turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview
mirror.
  "I like women," Ibrahim said. "But
women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated.
Do you understand?"
  "I do," said Mahmoud. "But you miss the point.
I have a wife. I see her one night a week for
an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before
I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with
Walid. I am content."
  "That is you," Ibrahim said. "When it is time,
I want to be more of a husband, more of a father than that."
  "If you find a woman who wants that or needs
it," said Mahmoud, "I will be very happy for you."
  "Shukran," Ibrahim said. "Thank you." He
yawned and vigorously dug his palms into his
eyes.
  "Afterwardan," replied Mahmoud. "You're
welcome." He squinted into the rearview mirror
for a moment and then opened the door. "Now,
Ibrahim, if you've washed away the dust of
sleep, our brothers are arriving."
  Ibrahim looked ahead as two cars passed them
and pulled off the road. Both were large, old cars,
a Cadillac and a Dodge. Beyond the two
vehicles, less than a quarter of a mile
distant, were the first low-lying stone buildings of
Qamishli. They were misty gray shapes
rippled in the radiant heat of the burning afternoon.
  Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions
emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707
came in low headed for a landing at the nearby
airport.
  The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across
the flat wasteland.
  As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men
emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge.
All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and
but-ton-down shirts. The exception was Walid
alationasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard
and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven
men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of
alGezira on the Euphrates.
  It was partly the desperate plight of their
once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become
active in the movement. And it was the strength and
conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander
Kayahan Sirinet, that kept Walid and the others
active.
  The seven Kurds welcomed the others with
heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional
greeting of Alsalaam aleikum, "Peace be upon
you." Ibrahim and the others replied with a
respectful Wa aleikurn alsalaam, "And upon
you be peace." They gave their confederates equally
warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the
business at hand.
  The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. "Do you
have everything?"
  "We do, Walid."
  Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did,
Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His
features were extremely dark, and the thick beard
hid most of the lower half of his long face. The
salt-and-pepper expanse was broken only by a
long, diagonal scar that ran from the left corner of
his mouth to just behind his chin.
  It was a memento of the June 1982 Israeli
invasion of Lebanon, when his was one of over eighty
Syrian planes shot down in the Bekaa
Valley. Ibrahim felt humbled to be with him and
deeply honored to be serving under him.
  "The trunk of your automobile," Walid said.
"It appears light."
  "Aywa," Mahmoud said. "Yes. We put many
of the weapons under the front and back seats. We
did not want to be back-heavy."
  "Why?"
  "American satellites," Mahmoud said.
"Our man at the palace. in Damascus says that
the satellites can see everywhere and everything in the
Middle East. Even footprints. We have
crossed sand in many places, and these satellites
are able to measure the depth of tire tracks."
  "They dare to be like unto the Mighty One, the
Merciful," Walid said. He turned his face
toward the skies.
  It was a face eroded by the hot sun and years of
stress.
  "Allah's eyes are the only ones that matter!"
he cried.
  "But we are told to keep vigil against our
enemies," he said to Mahmoud. "You've acted
wisely."
  "Thank you," Mahmoud replied. "Also, the
sentries on our own border might have noticed the
weight. I didn't want them to move against them."
  Walid regarded Mahmoud and his companions.
"Of course not. We are peaceful, as the Koran
teaches. Murder is forbidden." Walid raised his
hands toward the heavens. "But killing in
self-defense is not murder. If an oppressor
lays violent hands upon us, are we not
obliged to cut them off?. If he writes in of us,
do we not sever the tips of his fingers?"
  "If it is the will of God," said Mahmoud.
  "It is the will of God," Walid confirmed.
"We are His hand. Does the hand of God shy from an
enemy, however great his numbers?"
  "La," replied Mahmoud and the others, shaking their
heads. "No."
  "Is it not inscribed in the Celestial Plate,
and thus inerrant? 'There was a sign for you in the two
armies which met on the battlefield. One was
fighting for the cause of God; the other was a host of
unbelievers. The faithful saw with their very eyes that
they were twice their own number. But God strengthens
with His aid whom He will." Is God not offended
by our treatment at the hands of the Turks?" Walid
asked, his voice rising. "Are we not the chosen
instruments of God?"
  "Aywa," replied Mahmoud and the others.
  Ibrahim's response was quieter than that of his
companions.
  He was no less devout than Walid or
Mahmoud.
  But he believed, as did most, that the Koran
advocated justice and not retribution. It
was a matter of some debate between Ibrahim and his
family, just as it was throughout Islam. Yet the
Koran also taught devotion and fealty. When
attacks against the Kurds had begun to intensify and
Mahmoud had asked him to join the group, Ibrahim
could not have refused.
  Walid lowered his hands. He regarded
Mahmoud's team. "Are you ready to move on?"
  "We are," said Mahmoud.
  "Then let us first pray," said Walid. Acting
the role of the muezzin, the caller to worship, he
shut his eyes and recited the Adhan, the summons
to prayer. "Allah u Akbar. God is greater.
God is greater. I witness that there is no god but
God. I witness that Mohammad is the Prophet
of God. Rise to prayer. Rise to felicity.
God is greater. God is greater. There is no
god but God."
  As Walid spoke, the men removed their prayer
rugs from the cars and placed them on the ground. The
qibla, the direction of prayer, was chosen
carefully. The men faced south, toward western
Saudi Arabia and the holy city of Mecca. Bowing
low, they offered their mid-afternoon prayers. This was the
third of their five daily devotions, which were
given at dawn, noon, mid afternoon, dusk, and after
dark.
  The prayers consisted of several minutes of
private recitations from the Koran as well as
personal meditations.
  When they were finished, the men returned to their cars.
A short time later they were driving northeast toward
the small, old city. As they did, Ibrahim
reflected that they were one more caravan among the countless
caravans that had passed this way since the beginning of
civilization. Each had had its own means of
travel, its own personality, its own goals. That
thought gave Ibrahim a precious sense of
continuity, but also of insignificance.
  For each set of footprints lasted no more than a
moment in the impermanent sands of alGezira.
  Qamishli passed quickly. Ibrahim paid no
attention to the ancient minarets and the cluttered
market. He ignored the Turks and Syrians who
mingled freely in this border city. His mind was on the
job and on his faith, not as separate things but as one.
He reflected on how the Koran speaks of
Judgment Day, the final fulfillment of both
God's threat and His promise. He thought about how
those who live according to the holy words and commandments
will join the other faithful and the alluring, virginal
houri in Paradise. And those who do not will spend
eternity in Hell. It was that faith, intensely
held, that told Ibrahim that he needed to do what
he would be called upon to do.
  After they passed through the village, the cars moved
on toward the Turkish border. Ibrahim rolled
down his window.
  The border crossing consisted of two sentry
posts, one behind the other. One was Syrian, the other
Turkish.
  There was a gate arm beside each booth and thirty
yards of roadway between them. The road was
weed-strewn on the Syrian side, clean on the
Turkish side.
  Walid's car was in the front of the caravan,
Ibrahim's in the rear. Walid presented the
visas and passports for his car. After the clerk
examined them, he signaled an armed guard beside him
to raise the gate arm.
  Ibrahim began to feel the weight of destiny on
his shoulders. He had a specific goal, the one
Walid had selected for them. But he also had a
personal mission.
  He was a Kurd, one of the traditionally
nomadic peoples of the plateau and mountain
regions of eastern Turkey, northern Syria,
northeastern letteraq, and northwestern Iran.
  Since the middle 1980's, the many guerrilla
factions of the Kurds living and operating in Turkey
had fought repression by the Turks, who feared that
Kurdish autonomy would lead to a new and hostile
Kurdistan comprised of portions of Turkey,
Iraq, and Iran. This was not a religious issue,
but a cultural, linguistic, and political one.
  The undcld war had claimed twenty thousand
lives by 1996. Ibrahim did not become
involved until then, when water became even scarcer
in the region due to Turkish operations and his
cattle began to die of thirst.
  Although Ibrahim had served in the Syrian Air
Force as a mechanic, he had never been a
militant. He believed in the Koran's teachings
of peace and harmony. But he also felt that Turkey
was strangling his people, and the genocide could not go
unavenged.
  In the two years that Ibrahim had been part of the
eleven-man band, the work had taken on an
importance all its own. Acts of terrorism and
sabotage in Turkey were no longer just a
matter of vengeance to him. As Walid had said,
Allah would decide whether there was ever to be a new
Kurdistan. In the meantime, the rebel actions were a
way of reminding the Turks that the Kurds were
determined to be free with or without a homeland.
  Typically, two, three, or four of the men would
sneak into the country at night, elude the border
patrols, and disable a power station or pipeline or
snipe at soldiers.
  But today's objective was different. Two months
before, Turkish troops had taken advantage of a
spring thaw and a unilateral cease-fire with
Turkish Kurds to begin a massive offensive
against the rebels. Over. one hundred Kurdish
freedom fighters had been killed in three days of
relentless combat. The attack had been designed
to quiet the western regions before Turkey turned
its attention to the east. There, territorial disputes
with Greece as well as tension between Christian
Athens and Islamic Ankara were becoming more and more
intense.
  Walid and Kenan Demirel, a leader of the
Turkish Kurds, had decided that the latest
aggression could not go unpunished. Nor would the strike
be small, worked by a team that snuck over the
border. They would enter the country boldly and show the
enemy that acts of oppression and betrayal would not be
tolerated.
  The caravan passed a black wooden stake
stuck in the side of the road. They were in Turkey
now. When they reached the Turkish gate, an armed
guard poked the barrel of an M1A1
submachine gun through a small opening cut in the
glass. His companion emerged and walked over
to Walid's car. He wore a 9mm Capinda
Tabanca in a crisp new holster.
  The agent bent and looked into the car. "Your
passports, please."
  "Certainly," Walid said. He slid the
bundle of small orange documents from a pocket
in the visor. He smiled as he handed the documents
to the official.
  The small, mustachioed Turk compared the
photographs to the faces in the car. He went about
his work slowly and carefully. "What business have you in
Turkey?"
  he asked.
  "We are attending a funeral," Walid
replied. He gestured to the cars behind him. "All of
us."
  "Where?"
  "In Harran," Walid told him.
  The guard looked back at the other cars. After a
moment he asked, "The deceased had only male
friends?"
  "Our wives are with our children," Walid said.
  "They do not mourn him?"
  "We sold barley to this man," Walid
replied. "Our wives and children did not know him."
  "What is his name?" the guard asked.
  "Tansu Ozal," Walid replied. "He
died on Saturday in a car accident. He drove
his car into a deep ditch."
  The guard idly pulled at the hem of his green
military jacket, regarded Walid for a moment,
then returned to his booth. The other sentry continued
to point his sub-machine gun at the car.
  Ibrahim had listened to the conversation across the
quiet stretch of road. He knew that Walid had
told the truth, that this Tansu Ozal had died as
he'd said. What Walid hadn't mentioned was that the
man was a Kurd who had betrayed his people. He'd
guided the Turks to a weapons cache under an old
Roman bridge in Koprnlu Kanyon.
Kenan's people had killed him for his treason.
  Ibrahim used a finger to wipe sweat from his
eyes.
  He continued to perspire, as much from nerves now as
from the heat. Like his own documents, Walid's papers
were obtained using a false birth certificate.
Walid's name, though not his likeness, was known to the
Turks.
  Had the border guard known who he was, the
Syrian would have been arrested at once.
  The Turkish agent made a telephone call and
read from each of the passports in turn. Ibrahim
hated him.
  He was a minor official who acted as though he
protected the Dome of the Rock. These Turks had
no sense of priority.
  Ibrahim turned his attention to the armed guard.
From their planning sessions, Ibrahim knew that if
anyone in the car were wanted by the authorities or
seemed suspicious, the guard would shoot the tires
out of hand. If any of the Syrians drew a
weapon, the guard would shoot to kill. Before returning
fire, his companion would step on a button to alert
the patrol station five miles up the road. A
helicopter gunship was at the ready and would be
dispatched at once.
  The Syrian border guards would not act unless
fired upon. They had no jurisdiction in Turkey.
  Ibrahim was slumped low in his seat, his eyes
on the Cadillac. To his right, between the door and the
seat, was a canister of tear gas. When Walid
gave the signal, he would be ready.
  The small Turkish guard shut the door of the
booth and returned to the car. He bent slightly and
displayed the passports like a cardplayer showing a
winning hand.
  "You have been cleared for a twenty-four-hour
visit.
  When you are finished you will return through this
checkpoint."
  "Yes," Walid said. "Thank you."
  The guard stood and returned the passports.
He held up his hand toward the second car. Then
he returned to the booth, raised the gate, and
allowed Walid's car to pass. When the Cadillac
had gone through, the gate was lowered.
  The Dodge drove up to the gate. Walid
stopped the Cadillac just beyond the gate.
  "Move on!" the guard shouted to him. "They will
catch up to you."
  Walid stuck his left hand out the window and
raised it. He moved it from side to side.
"Okay," he said, and let the hand drop over the
side of the car door.
  At that instant, Ibrahim and the passengers in the
front two cars leaned out the windows, popped the
tops on the palm-sized cylinders, and threw them
at the booth.
  While the small guard reached for his pistol, the
other opened fire through the thick, orange smoke.
As he did, Walid threw his car into reverse,
crashed through the gate, and rammed the booth. The
outpost shook and the shooting stopped, but only for a
moment. A moment later the driver of the middle car
thrust a Makarov pistol out the window. He began
firing and shouting oaths at the Turks.
  Through the rising tear gas, Ibrahim saw the
guard outside the booth go down. The guard in the
booth began firing again, though the booth was lopsided
and filling with tear gas. Walid drove forward a
few feet, jerked into reverse, and hit the booth
again. This time it went over.
  Two men had emerged from the second car. They were
wearing gas masks. They disappeared into the spreading
orange cloud, and Ibrahim heard several more
shots. Then everything was quiet.
  Ibrahim looked back at the Syrian
guards. They'd taken refuge behind their own weapons
in their own booth, but they didn't fire.
  After making sure that both of the Turks were dead, and
after thanking Allah for their victory, Walid
returned to his car. He motioned the caravan
onward.
  Speeding into Turkey, Ibrahim experienced a
new sensation. A feeling of burning anticipation in
his belly now that events had irrevocably been
set into motion.
  "Praise Allah," he said softly,
involuntarily. Then his voice rose in his throat
and he cried, "Praise Mohammad, peace be upon
Him!"
  Mahmoud said nothing. Sweat flowed from his
temples along his swarthy cheeks to his tight
mouth. In the back seat their companions were silent.
  Ibrahim watched Walid's car. After two
minutes the Cadillac swerved off the road onto
the golden desert.
  The Dodge and Ford followed, spitting up sand as
they plowed westward. After less than a hundred
yards the cars became bogged dowh in the sands. The men
got out.
  While Ibrahim and Mahmoud removed the seats
from the car and pulled the false floor from the trunk,
the other men went to work swiftly and purposefully.
  Monday, 2:47 p.m., Mardin, Turkey
  The Hughes 500Do is an extremely
quiet helicopter due to sound baffles in the
Allison 250-C20But engine. The small
T-tail construction provides great stability at
all speeds, as well as enormous
maneuverability. It holds a pilot and two
passengers in the forward bench as well as two to four
passengers in the aft. With the addition of a side-mounted
20mm cannon and a .50-caliber machine gun,
it makes an ideal vehicle for border patrol.
  When the alarm from the guard north of Qamishli
sounded at the Mardin Air Force outpost, the pilot
and copilot were having a late lunch. They had already
been out once on their hour-long late-morning
patrol. They weren't scheduled to go out again until
four o'clock. But the two men welcomed the signal.
Since the government had begun coming down hard on the
Kurds, things had been quiet. So quiet that the
fliers feared they might become rusty. With an
exchange of smiles and a thumbs-up, they were
airborne within five minutes.
  The two men flew low, passing isolated
villages and remote ranches and farms on their
way to the border outpost. Unable to raise the two
sentries by radio, the fliers were on high alert as
they closed in on the border.
  The pilot guided his craft swiftly over the
dry earth. He always kept the helicopter in
front of the sun to present a difficult target
to anyone on the ground.
  The two fliers saw the wreckage of the
automobile moments before they saw the destroyed
guardhouse. Circling the area from just north of the
border to north of the cars, they radioed headquarters
that they saw the two dead border guards, as well as
three dead drivers.
  "The vehicles appear to have been shot at," the
pilot said into his helmet microphone. He
peered for a moment through his amber-tinted visor. "Two
of the drivers are not moving and one of them is moving
only slightly."
  "I'll send a medical team by air," said the
dispatcher.
  "It appears as though the cars ran the gate,
struck the booth, and were shot by the guard," the pilot
said. "The survivor may not be alive for
long," he added. "I want to go down and question him before
he dies."
  There was a short consultation on the other end.
  "Captain Galata says you are to proceed at
your own discretion," the dispatcher told him. "What
about the Syrian border guards?"
  "Both men are inside the booth," said the pilot.
  "They appear to be unharmed. Do you want us
to try and raise them?"
  "Negative," said the dispatcher. "They'll be
contacted through government channels."
  The pilot wasn't surprised. If the dead and
dying were Syrians, then the Syrian border guards
would not say anything to the Turks. If they were
Turks, the Syrians would not be believed. Just
getting the pilots across the border to talk to them would
require high-level approvals. The entire
process would be a long and practically useless
exercise.
  The pilot dropped the 500Do to forty feet.
He circled again. The rotor whipped the loose
sands and obscured their view. He told the
copilot they were going to have to land.
  The chopper settled down nearly fifty yards from
the three cars. Both men retrieved old
Model 1968 submachine guns from the wall rack
just inside the cabin. They put on goggles
to protect themselves from sands swirled by the rotor
blades. The copilot exited first. He shut his
door and came around to the pilot's side. Then the
pilot got out. He left the rotor on in case
they had to get away quickly. He closed his door.
The men walked one behind the other toward the first car, a
Cadillac, where the driver was still alive.
  The man was leaning through the partly open window.
  His arm was hanging along the door, blood
dribbling from under the sleeve of his robe, down to his
fingers, and onto the sand. He looked up with obvious
effort.
  "Help... me."
  The copilot raised his weapon. He looked to the
left and to the right. The pilot walked in front of
him, his weapon pointed up.
  The pilot turned. "Cover me," he said as they
neared the car.
  The copilot stopped, tucked the stock of his
weapon against his shoulder, and aimed the gun at the
driver.
  The pilot continued to walk ahead, slowing as he
neared the vehicle. He peered into the back
and then walked sideways, moving around the car and
bending to make sure no one was hiding beneath it. He
checked the blown tires and then returned to the
driver's side.
  The bearded man looked up at him.
  "Who are you?" the pilot asked.
  The man tried to speak. His voice was a whisper.
  The pilot leaned closer. "Say it again."
  The driver swallowed. He raised his bloody
hand.
  And then with one swift and fluid motion he reached
behind the pilot's neck and pulled his forehead hard
into the top edge of the open window.
  The pilot was blocking the copilot's fire. As
he shifted to shoot, a man rose from the sand behind him.
He had been lying beneath it, his gun at his side; the
Turk never saw the burst of gunfire that ended his
life. As soon as he went down, Walid
released the pilot. The Turk staggered back and
fell. Sand was still falling from Mahmoud's shin and
trousers as he shot the pilot.
  Ibrahim rose from the sand on the other side of the
car. He had been waiting there in case the
helicopter had landed on that side. The other
Syrians climbed from the trunks of the three
cars.
  Walid opened the door and got out. He untied
the leather thong around his upper arm and removed the
packet of goat's blood that was under his sleeve.
He threw it into the car, then retrieved the pistol that
had been under his right thigh. He tucked it into his
belt.
  Walid jogged toward the helicopter. "We lost
no one," he shouted proudly. "The extra men we
brought--not needed. You planned well, Mahmoud."
  "Alfi shukr," Mahmoud replied as he
vigorously brushed sand from his hair. "Thank you very
much."
  Ihrahim ran after Walid. Except for the former
Syrian Air Force pilot, Ibrahim was the
only one with any knowledge of helicopters.
  "I feared--" said Ibrahim, angrily
spitting sand. "I feared the rotors might uncover
us."
  "Then I would have shot the Turks," Walid said
as he opened the pilot's-side door. Before he
got in, he put his hand over the switch to turn off
the radio.
  Ibrahim went around to the copilot's door. As
the other men came running over, he prepared
to close down the helicopter's tracking beacon.
When Walid nodded, he and Ibrahim shut the
switches simultaneously. At Mardin, the
Turks would assume the helicopter had suddenly
lost power and gone down. Rescue efforts would be
centered on the flight path.
  "The Turks are not what bothers me,"
Ibrahim said.
  "We planned every detail of this operation. I
repaired helicopters and you flew them. Yet neither
one of us anticipated that."
  "There is always the unexpected," Walid pointed
out as he climbed into the cockpit.
  "That's true," Ibrahim said. "But this was our
area of expertise."
  "Which is why we overlooked it," Walid
snapped.
  "This was a warning. We are told, 'ationor do We
punish a nation until We have sent forth an apostle
to forewarn them." We have been forewarned."
  Ibrahim reflected on Walid's words as the
other men ran over. Three of them embraced the
others and wished them well. Then they returned to the
cars to drive them back to Syria. With a
helicopter gunship at their back, the
Syrian guards would let them through without any questions.
Nor would they help investigators from Damascus
or Ankara, for fear of reprisals.
  "Now we don't look back," Walid said to the
three men in the helicopter. "We look ahead.
Backup aircraft will be here in less than ten
minutes." Walid glanced over his shoulder. "Are
you ready?"
  Mahmoud had waited for the other man, Hasan,
their radio operator, to get in. Extra containers
of fuel were loaded from the car, along with a backpack,
which was handled gingerly. It was studded from the inside out with
nails. When Ibrahim had settled into his seat
with the backpack nestled between his feet, Mahmoud
climbed aboard.
  "We're ready," Mahmoud said, shutting the
door.
  Without a word Walid checked his instruments and
throttled up, and the helicopter was airborne.
  Ibrahim watched the desert sink away. The
road came lace, patches of asphalt covered with
patterns of sand, and the carnage below became even more
impersonal.
  He turned his face to the sun. It burned through the
windshield, dwarfing the efforts of the
air-conditioner to keep them cool.
  As we will burn through the Turks for attempting
to keep our own fires from burning, Ibrahim thought.
  Walid was right. They'd made a miscalculation;
just one. And they'd still managed to achieve their goal.
  Now they must look ahead to the next, much bigger
target. To an adventure that would be celebrated
throughout the Kurdish world. To an act which would force the
world to pay long-overdue attention to their plight.
  To the beginning of the end of the world order as it stood.
  Monday, 7:56 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  "I'm unhappy about it too, Matt," Paul
Hood said as he finished his first Op-Center cup of
coffee. "Stephen Viens has been a good friend of
ours and I'd like to help him."
  "Then let's," Stoll said. He sat on the
couch to the left of the door, nervously moving his knee
up and down. "Cripes, we're secret agents.
Let's abduct the guy and give him a new
identity."
  Hood frowned. "I'm open to serious
suggestions."
  Stoll continued to look at Hood instead of at
Political and Economics Officer Martha
Mackall. She sat to his left on the
couch. Her arms were crossed and she wore an
unsympathetic expression.
  "Awright, I don't know what we can do," Stoll
admitted.
  "But the bloodhounds on the Hill won't get
to work for another ninety minutes or so. We can do
something by then. Maybe we can put together a list of the
missions Stepben's assisted us on. Or we can
bring in people whose lives he's saved. Jesus, that's
got to count for something."
  "Not unless those lives add up to a hell of a
lot of votes," Hood said.
  Martha crossed her long legs. "Matt, I
appreciate your loyalty. But forward funding is
a super-hot topic these days. Stephen Viens
got caught taking money from one project and putting
it into another."
  "Because he knew that project was needed for national
security," Stoll said. "It's not like the guy got
rich off what he was doing."
  "Irrelevant," said Martha. "He broke the
rules."
  "They were stupid rules."
  "Also irrelevant," she said. "Frankly, the
best we can hope for is that no one on the
committee decides to investigate Op-Center because
we've had improper access to NRO assets."
  "Preferred access," Hood corrected her.
  "Right," said Martha. "Let's see if Larry
Rachlin calls it that when his CIA guys testify
that we got ten times as much satellite time as they
did. And what do you think'll happen if the
Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee
decides to go through our finances?
  We didn't always rebate the NRO for that time
because it wasn't in our budget."
  "We've logged all of that debt and put it
into next year's budget," Hood said.
  "Congress'll still say we're living beyond our
means," Martha told him. "They'll come looking
to see how and why."
  "There!" Stoll said, clapping his hands together.
  "That threat is all the more reason to line up behind
Stephen from the get-go. One bureau is a target.
Two is a unified front. It's power. If we
go to bat for the NRO, Congress may think again about
taking us on. Especially if there's the hint of a
threat that national security is going to suffer."
  Martha looked at Hood. "Frankly,
Paul, some of those representatives would
love to roll up their sleeves and overhaul all of
national security. You know what I've been hearing
from my friends in Congress ever since Mike Rodgers
saved Japan from that North Korean nuke? Some have
been saying, 'Why should we pay to protect Japan
from terrorism?" The rest've been saying, 'ationice
job, but how come you didn't know about the plot before it
got so far?" Same with the tunnel bombing in New
York. We found the perpetrator, but what the
hot-torn-liners on the Hill wanted to know is why
didn't our intelligence resources know it was going
to happen and stop it. No, Matt. We're too
close to sinking ourselves to start rocking the boat."
  "I'm not asking you to rock anything," Stoll said.
  "Just throw the guy a life preserver."
  "We may need it ourselves," Martha replied.
  Stoll raised his hands as if he were going
to protest, then let them drop. "So is this the best
we can do for a good and loyal friend? Leave him twisting
in the wind?
  Hell, Paul, is that what would happen to me or
Martha or any from Op-Center who got into trouble?"
  "You should know me better than that," Hood said.
  "Anyway, that's different," Martha said.
  "Why?" Stoll asked. "Because we get a
paycheck from this place instead of from another place?"
  "No," Martha replied coolly. "Because the people
running Op-Center would have to approve whatever you
did that got you in trouble. If we okayed it and it was
wrong, then we'd take the heat with you. We'd
deserve
  Stoll looked from Martha back to Hood.
"Excuse me, Paul, but Martha's here because
Lowell's out of town.
  You wanted a legal opinion and she's given you
one.
  Now I'm asking for a moral judgment."
  "Are you saying that obeying the law is immoral?"
  Martha demanded, her large brown eyes flashing.
  "Not at all," Stoll said. "I pick my words
pretty carefully.
  What I said was that you gave a legal opinion."
  "My moral opinion would be the same," Martha
huffed. "That man did wrong. We didn't. If
we go to the mat for him, some headline-grabber's going
to take a magnifying glass to our operation next.
Why should we risk that?"
  Stoll said, "Because it's the right thing to do. I thought
we're all supposed to be brothers and sisters here
in the intelligence community. And I don't
really think it will raise any red flags if Paul
or especially you, as a black woman--"
  "African-American," she said firmly.
  "--were to go to the Congressional investigators and
tell them that Viens's good deeds outweigh the bad
call he made with the forward funding. Christ, it's not
like he pocketed any of the money himself. It all went
into the NRO coffers."
  "Unfortunately for him," said Martha, "the
national debt rose a little because of what he did.
And the taxpayer got hit for the interest. I figure
Jane Citizen is in the hole for about eighty
million dollars because of his creative
bookkeeping."
  "He used the money to do his job better," Stoll
said through his teeth. "He served Jane Citizen."
  Hood looked at the empty mug as he
gently" tapped its side. His wife only
allowed matched coffee cups in the house. This mug
was his, an old L.a. Rams mug given to him
by quarterback Roman Gabriel during an
Old-Timers Day tribute at Los Angeles
City Hall.
  Op-Center was his too. His to look after and
protect.
  His to make work. Stephen Viens had helped
make that happen. He'd helped Op-Center save
lives and protect nations. Now Viens needed
help.
  The question was, did Hood have the right to risk the
futures of people who reported directly to him, people
who might be hurt by backlash and cutbacks,
to help someone who didn't?
  As though reading his boss's mind, Stoll said
mournfully, "I guess Op-Center policy is
to look out for people who have to give us their loyalty instead
of one who gave it freely."
  Hood said, "This issue isn't as absolute as
either of you make it, and you both know it."
  Martha wiggled her foot. That was an indication that
she was pissed off but wasn't going to get into a
spitting contest. Martha got pissed off a lot at
Hood and others in government who did anything that
might jeopardize her own career. Still, ambition
didn't necessarily make her wrong.
  "Who's our best friend on the committee
investigating this?" Hood asked Martha.
  "That depends," she said, still irritated. "Do you
consider Senator Fox our friend?"
  Senator Barbara Fox had led the charge
to gut the budget for Op-Center. She'd done an
about-face when Hood, on business in Germany, had
found the man who had murdered the senator's daughter
decades before.
  "For the moment Senator Fox is our friend,"
Hood said. "But like Matt said, one is a target
while two is power. If we have to go in there swinging,
who else've we got?"
  "No one," Martha said. "Five of the other eight
committee members are up for re-election, and
Chairman Landwehr is on a crusade. They'll
do whatever it takes to look good. Meaning protect
the taxpayer by punishing the squanderer. The two
senators who aren't up for re election are Boyd
and Griffith. And they're tight with Larry
Rachlin."
  Hood frowned. CIA Director Rachlin was
not a friend of Op-Center. He perceived the crisis
management group as having stolen a great deal of his
overseas thunder--and with only seventy-eight full-time
employees. Barbara Fox was the only one they could
even hope to count on. And there was no telling which way
she'd go if the other members of the SIC and the press
leaned on her.
  It might toughen her or cause her
to back-paddle.
  "You've both made strong cases," Hood said,
"but there's one thing we can't ignore. We're in this
whether we want to be or not. It makes sense to me
that we take the offensive."
  Matt brightened. Martha shook her foot and
drummed her fingers on the armrest.
  "Martha, how well do you know Senator
Landwehr?"
  "Not very. We've bumped into one another at a
couple of dinners, a few parties. He's quiet,
conservative, like it says in the papers. Why?"
  "If there are any subpoenas," Hood said,
"they'll probably go to me, to Mike Rodgers, and
to Matt. But if you get in there first, we can spin this
our way."
  "Me?" she said. "As in "They won't dare
to attack a black woman?""
  "No," Hood replied. "You're the only one
of us who was in the loop but didn't deal directly
with the NRO.
  You don't have friends there. That makes you qualified
in the eyes of the committee. Equally as important,
it makes you the least-biased high-ranking official
in the eyes of the public."
  Martha's foot stopped wiggling and her fingers
stopped tapping. Hood knew she was interested. She
was a woman in her late forties who didn't want
to stay at Op-Center forever. Voluntary,
impassioned testimony would give her valuable
national exposure. That would be her motivation for
taking the stand. Hood's was that while their cause was
just, Congressional hearings were also high drama. If
the exits, entrances, and players were carefully
selected and stage-managed, defeat could be made
into triumph.
  "What would I be saying up there?" Martha asked.
  "The truth," Hood said, "which is what makes this
very sweet. You would tell the committee that yes,
we've occasionally and for very short periods
monopolized the NRO for national security. You'd
tell them that Stephen Viens is a hero who helped
us protect human rights and lives. Senator
Landwehr won't be able to attack us for telling the
truth. If we get him and Senator Fox behind us,
and portray Viens as a patriot, that robs the
committee of some of its power to grandstand. Then it'll just
be a matter of the NRO giving the money back, which
is pretty boring stuff. Not even CNN will give
it much coverage."
  Martha sat still for a moment, then said, "I'll think
about it."
  Hood wanted to say, "You'll do it." But
Martha was a thorny woman who also had to be handled
with care.
  He said, "Can you let me know by this afternoon?"
  She nodded, then left.
  Stoll regarded Hood. "Thanks, Chief. I
really mean that."
  Hood drained the last cold drop from his mug.
"Your friend screwed up over there, Matt. But if you
can't go to bat for a good man who's been a loyal
ally, then what the hell good are you?"
  Stoll made a zero with his thumb and index finger,
thanked Hood again, then left.
  Alone again, Hood pressed his palms into his
eyes.
  He had been a big-city mayor and a banker.
When his father was his age, forty-three, he was a CPA
struggling to keep his own small accounting firm
afloat. How did Frank Hood's son come to this
place in life where careers could live or die, where
people could live or die, based on decisions he
made here?
  He knew the answer, of course. He
loved government and he believed in the system. And
he did it because he believed that he could make these
decisions compassionately and intelligently.
  But Lord, he thought, it's difficult.
  With that, the self-pity ended. Rising with his mug,
Hood left the office to start on his next cup of
coffee.
  Monday, 3:53 p.m., Sanliurfa,
Turkey
  Mary Rose Mohalley finished running the last
of the local systems checks. The software for the
ALQ-157 infrared jammer was on-line and
functioning. So was the hardware of the
  three-foot-by-two-foot-by-two-foot
X-poser, which was designed to detect the residue
of nitroglycerin, C-4, Semtex, TNT, and
other explosives.
  Then she checked to make sure the ROC'S
batteries and solar panels were working at full
capacity. They were.
  Two dozen batteries were dedicated to the
ROC'S internal systems. Another four
batteries were devoted to powering the van's engine when,
unlike now, gasoline wasn't readily
available. The latter four batteries
consisted of a pair of low-rate-energy storage
batteries and two high-rate-energy flywheel
batteries. Together the four batteries provided a
total of eight hundred extra miles of travel
capacity without recharging. All of the nickel
metal-hydride batteries were stored in two
fifty-eight-by-fourteen-inch compartments that were built
into the raised floor. The solar panels that powered the
van's air-conditioning and water were also working
perfectly.
  The twenty-nine-year-old got up. She had
intended to go out and stretch, maybe catch a few
minutes of sun, when Mike Rodgers spoke.
  "Mary Rose, would you mind getting Matt's
OLM program up and running before you do anything
else?"
  The young woman's shoes squeaked as she stopped
suddenly on the smooth, black rubberized floor
covering.
  Rodgers hadn't turned around or he would have seen
her shoulders slump.
  "No, I wouldn't mind at all," Mary Rose
replied lightly. She plopped back down.
Back at Op-Center, psychologist Liz
Gordon had warned her that the only rays
she'd get working with Mike Rodgers were whatever
low-level radiation leaked from her computer monitor.
  After giving his associate her assignment,
Rodgers arched his back and stretched in silence. Then
he continued going through his own checklist.
  There it was, Mary Rose grumbled to herself.
General Rodgers just took his break.
  She looked at the screen and began moving the
mouse around. The OLM was Matt Stoll's
On-Line Mole.
  Though they had both been eager to try it, the
OLM was part of the second wave of software
installations. It was scheduled to be up and running
by four p.m. However, with General Rodgers, a
request was as imperative as a command.
  The young woman rubbed her tired eyes, but that
didn't make them feel any better. She was still
jet-lagged from the flight over, and the fatigue went
deep. Thanks to her doctorate in advanced
computer applications, she had the luxury of using
tireless machines to help her exhausted human
brain. But she wondered how many bad deals
American statesmen had made in this part of the world because
they were just too tired to think clearly.
  Then again, General Rodgers doesn't
seem to feel it, she told herself. If anything, he
appeared invigorated.
  He sat with his back to her, facing a wall of
monitors that displayed satellite views of the
region as well as information that ranged from levels of
microwave radiation to local smog and allergen
levels. Large rises in microwave levels
indicated an increase in cellular communications, which
was often a forerunner to military activity in a
region. A higher smog or pollen count told
them what kind of efficiency levels they could
expect from soldiers. Mary Rose had been
astonished to learn from Op-Center's chief medical
officer, Jerry Wheeler, that antihistamines
weren't deeply stockpiled by many of the world's armies.
However sophisticated a nation's weapons were,
they'd be useless in the hands of itchy-eyed warriors.
  No, General Rodgers didn't feel the
exhaustion. Mary Rose could tell that he was
happily immersed in studying his data. That was why
they hadn't had a break since their early,
fifteen-minute lunch. He was lost in this first
glimpse at wars of the near future. Wars that
wouldn't be fought between great armies, but by small bands
against small bands, and by satellites against
computers and communications centers. Enemies of tomorrow
would not be battalions, but groups of terrorists who
used chemical and biological weapons against
civilian targets, killing and vanishing. Then it
would be up to teams like the ROC crew to plan a
swift and surgical response. Find a way
to get as close to the enemy brain as possible and
1obotomize it, using an elite unit like
Op-Center's Striker or a missile hit or a
booby-trapped car or telephone or"
electric shaver. Hope that with the head gone, the hands
and feet would no longer function.
  Unlike many "old soldiers" who longed for the
old ways, Mary Rose knew that the forty-something
Rodgers relished this new challenge. He enjoyed
new ideas and new ways almost as much as he enjoyed
his bottomless supply of old aphorisms. As
he'd told her with boyish enthusiasm when they'd
settled into their seats early this morning, "Samuel
Johnson once said, "The world is not yet
exhausted; let me see something tomorrow which I never saw
before." I'm looking forward to this, Mary Rose."
  Getting Matt's OLM up and running took just
over fifteen minutes. When she'd loaded it and
run the diagnostics, Rodgers asked her
to break into the Turkish Security Forces computer
file. He wanted to learn more about Colonel
Nejat Seden, the man who was being sent to work with them.
He said that Seden was undoubtedly being sent to watch
them as well, though Rodgers had expected that. That
was how what he called the "watch out" worked. It was the
nitrogen cycle of spying. Rodgers himself was
watching the Turks as well as the Syrians; the
Israelis were probably watching them both, while
the CIA watched the Israelis. Rodgers said it
was only fitting that the Turks would watch them.
  But Mary Rose suspected that more than
politics was behind his request. The general also liked
to know the caliber of the individual with whom he'd be
spending his time. Sitting beside him on the
C-141A that had brought them to Turkey, she'd
discovered one quality above all about General Mike
Rodgers. He didn't enjoy being surrounded by people,
even enemies, who weren't as committed to their jobs as
he was to his.
  Mary Rose wriggled uncomfortably in her seat
as she typed commands into the computer. Because chairs with
wheels made a familiar and distinctive sound, the
seats in the ROC were bolted to the floor. As
Op-Center's Yale-educated Chief
Engineer Harlan Bellock had said during the
design phase, "Casters would be a tip-off
to snoops. It would be very odd to hear the sounds of
office furniture coming from an archaeologist's
van, you know."
  Mary Rose understood. But that didn't make the
aluminum chairs any more comfortable. She also felt
sun-light-deprived in here, just as she did when she
worked in her Op-Center cubicle. All of the
windows in the back had been deeply darkened, and
lead-lined walls separated the front section of the
van from the rear, with only a narrow, doorless opening
in the center. Stoll had insisted on that precaution
because many modern spies were equipped with "detection
kits" or "DeteKs."
  These portable receivers literally read the
electromagnetic radiation that was emitted by the
computer monitor and permitted the spies to monitor
the screens from outside and from a distance.
  Maybe I should have been a Striker, she thought.
  Drill, play sports, shoot, rockclimb,
and swim at the FBI Academy in Quantico,
Virginia. Get some rays. Kick some derriere.
But she had to admit she got a lot of sun on her
days off, and she loved computers and
cutting-edge technology. So stop complaining and do
your programming, young lady.
  The woman's long, fine brown hair was pulled
back with a bow to keep it from tumbling onto the
keyboard as she worked. Her hazel eyes were alert,
her mouth tight as she modemed OLM to TSF
headquarters in Ankara.
  There, like a perfect little spy, the OLM made
room for itself by downloading a legitimate program
to the ROC computer for storage.
  "Attaboy," she said, her shoulders and thin lips
relaxing slightly.
  Rodgers chuckled. "It sounds as if you're
coaxing one of your father's trotters and pacers."
  Her father, William R. Mohalley, was a
magazine publisher who owned several of the finest
race horses on Long Island. He had always
hoped that his only child would ride for him. But when Mary
Rose reached a height of five feet seven at
age sixteen, and kept on growing to five ten, that
became unlikely. And she was just as happy.
Horses were one of Mary Rose's passions.
  She had never wanted it to become work.
  "I do feel like I'm racing," Mary Rose
replied. "Matt and his German partners
packed a lot of speed into this rig."
  Assuming the borrowed file name, the On-Line
Mole slipped into the system. Once there, OLM
found the information it wanted, copied and downloaded it,
then shed its assumed skin and left. As it departed,
the program it had temporarily replaced was
returned: one bit of OLM would leave as one bit
of the original program returned, so that no change
in available memory was ever registered. The entire
procedure took less than two minutes. If,
during the course of the operation, someone went looking for the
file OLM had temporarily "become," OLM
would quickly restore the program and either impersonate
a different file or put the downloading process
on hold. The OLM was much more sophisticated than
the "Brute Force" attack programs used by most
hackers. Instead of randomly flinging passwords at a
computer, which could take hours or days, the OLM
went right to the "recycle bins" or "trash cans"
to find discarded codes. Unobserved in the computer's
dumpster, the OLM quickly sought and usually found
recurring sets of sequential numbers that gave it
a key to valid programs.
  Nine percent of the time, nothing useful was located.
  When that happened, the OLM switched
quickly to its "feed mode." Many people used birth
dates or the names of favorite movies as
codes, just as they did on personal license
plates. The OLM rapidly fed in sequences
including post-1970 years, which was when most
computer-users were born; thousands of first names,
including Elvis; and movie or TV titles and
characters such as 2001, Star Trek, and 007.
Nearly eight percent of the time, OLM found the
correct sequence within five minutes. It
resorted to "Brute Force" only when faced with the
elusive one percent.
  Mary Rose beamed as Colonel Seden's
dossier appeared, pulled from the recycle bin.
"Got it, General," she said.
  Mike Rodgers slid to the left. It was a
tight squeeze getting out of the chair, and there
wasn't enough room for him to stand upright once he was on
his feet. Rodgers stood, his head bent low as he
leaned over Mary Rose's seat. His chin touched her
hair and he withdrew quickly.
  She was sorry that he did. For a moment,
Rodgers had been just a man and she'd been just a
woman. It had been a surprising, very exciting
moment. Mary Rose turned her attention
to the dossier.
  According to the file, forty-one-year-old Colonel
Seden was a rising star in the Turkish Security
Forces. He had joined the paramilitary
gendarmetie Jandarma when he was seventeen, two
years older than many new recruits.
  After overhearing three Kurds in a cafe
plotting to poison a large shipment of tobacco
headed for Europe, Seden had followed them to their
apartment and singlehandedly arrested them. He'd been
offered a post in the TSF two weeks later. There
was an eyes-only note in the dossier from Seden's
commanding officer at the TSF. General Suleyman
feared that the "takedown" of the Kurds had been too
fortuitous. There was Kurdish blood on Seden's
mother's side, and the general worried that the Kurds had
willingly sacrificed themselves so that Seden could
infiltrate the security force. However; nothing in the
colonel's subsequent record indicated anything
but complete devotion to the TSF and to the government.
  "Of course his record would be impeccable,"
Rodgers muttered when he reached that section of the
file.
  "You don't slip a mole in and immediately set him
spying.
  You wait."
  "For what?" Mary Rose asked.
  "For one of two things," he replied. "For a
crisis, when you absolutely need data.
Otherwise you wait for the person to work his or her way
up to the highest levels of security clearance. At
those levels, a mole can bring in other moles. The
Germans did a lot of that during World War II.
They would attempt to locate just one sympathizer in
some area of the British aristocracy. That person would
then recommend chauffeurs or domestics to lords or
officers or members of the government. Those workers were
all German plants, of course, who would then spy
on their employers and pass information on to milkmen,
postal workers, and others who had been bought by the
Germans."
  "Gee, they never taught me that in my computer and
fiber-optics classes," Mary Rose remarked.
  "It isn't even taught in most of the history
classes," the general lamented. "Too many
professors are afraid of insulting the
German-Americans or the British-Americans
or any other hyphenate group which might be wounded,
every inch of it, if you insult a fraction."
  Mary Rose nodded. "So does this mean
Seden is absolutely tied to the Kurdish
underground?"
  "Not at all," said Rodgers. "According to the
Turks, only about a third of the people who have some
Kurdish blood sympathize with their cause. The
rest are loyal to their host country. It does mean
we show him as little as possible."
  They continued to scan the dossier as they spoke.
Seden was unmarried. He had a widowed mother who
lived in an apartment in Ankara and an unmarried
sister who lived with her. His father was a riveter who
had died in a construction accident when the boy was
nine. The colonel had attended secular school in
Istanbul, where he'd studied hard and at the same
time excelled at weight lifting. He'd been part
of the Turkish weight-lifting team in the summer
Olympics in 1992. He'd then quit school in
order to join the Jandarma.
  "No dependents," Rodgers said. "Well, these
days that doesn't mean much. Marriages of convenience
between spies is the new thing. Investigators always
look for lone wolves."
  Mary Rose closed the file. "So where does that
leave us with Colonel Seden?"
  "Informed," Rodgers smiled.
  "That's all?" Mary Rose asked.
  "That's all. You never know when information will come in
handy." Rodgers's smile broadened. "Why
don't you take a break now. We'll continue after
Colonel Seden has--"
  Rodgers stopped as one of his computer alarms
began pinging softly but insistently. It sounded twice
for a second, was silent for a second, sounded once,
and then was silent for another second. After that it
repeated the pattern.
  "That's the ABA warning," Mary Rose said.
She bent her head sharply as she stood and leaned behind
Rodgers.
  The ABA, Air Border Alarm, was an
advanced radar-and-satellite system that constantly
monitored air traffic within a nation or province.
Detailed relief maps could be brought up to tell
the ROC how high and how fast the craft was flying.
At the same time, heat tracking from space told the
ROC how fast the ship was moving. Reconnaissance
craft were typically slower-moving and flew higher
than attack craft. The ABA also used a
digitized template of a nation or province
to ascertain when an aircraft was within a mile of
crossing the border. That was the reason it had
sounded now.
  A low-flying, fast-moving ship headed to the border
was presumed to be hostile. The alarm sounded when such
an aircraft was spotted.
  "It's heading almost due west," Rodgers said.
"The speed and height indicate that it's a chopper."
There was concern in his voice, but also excitement. The
ROC was doing its job flawlessly.
  Mary Rose crouched beside a console to Rodgers's
left. "Are you surprised to find one traveling
alone?"
  "Border patrols travel solo," Rodgers
said. "But this one is going too fast for just a
look-see. It's got a destination."
  Mary Rose punched an auto-tune button
on the console.
  At once, an antenna hidden in the van's
dark, domed sunroof turned toward the ABA'S
target. It began listening to communications to and from the
target vessel.
  The computer was programmed with hundreds of
languages and dialects. After digitally cleaning
away static and other imperfections, the monitor
displayed a simultaneous translation of any
electronic transmission it received.
  . . ind out there?""
  There was silence from the chopper.
  "Repeat, Mardin One. What did you find at
the crossing?"
  There was still no answer.
  "The chopper is from the Turkish air base at
Mardin," Rodgers said. He punched a few keys
and brought up data on the facility. "What've they
got there? Two choppers, both Hughes
500Ds, and a Piper Cub." He glanced at the
ABA speed indicator. "This one's traveling at
one hundred and thirty-four MPH. That sounds about
right for the 500D."
  "So what have we got?" Mary Rose asked.
"A lost pilot?"
  "I don't think so," Rodgers said. "It
looks like a crew was sent out to reconnoiter and
hasn't reported in.
  He wouldn't be flying at his maximum speed if
he were lost. And it sure doesn't look like he's
defecting because the chopper's headed further
into Turkey."
  "Could the radio have been damaged?" Mary Rose
asked.
  "Possibly," Rodgers said. "But
again, they're butting right up against their maximum
cruising speed. These guys are in a hurry."
  Jabbing at the keys with his index fingers, Rodgers
asked the computer to check on military facilities
in the southwestern section of eastern Anatolia.
Unlike the rest of Turkey, which was mountain or
desert, Anatolia was mostly flat plateau with
areas of low hills.
  The screen quickly flashed a red X for
negative.
  "They're not headed for an emergency landing,"
Rodgers said. "These guys are after something."
  Outside, over the low hum of the air-conditioner,
Mary Rose could hear the putter of a motor
approaching the van. She continued to read the
transcript as it scrolled up one of the
monitors.
  you are out of our radar range and we are not picking
up your signal. Is there a problem?
  Why do you not answer?""
  "Maybe someone's gotten into the country and they're
chasing them down," Mary Rose suggested.
  "Then why wouldn't they report that to base?"
Rodgers shook his head. "No, something isn't right
here.
  I'll tell the TSF what we've got and see
what they say."
  "Don't you think they'd have been alerted if there were
a problem?" Mary Rose asked.
  "To the contrary," Rodgers said. "Out here, the
rivalries between government factions make
Washington politics seem like triple-A ball.
They're almost as intense as the rivalties between
religious factions."
  There was a knock on the door. Mary Rose
leaned over, turned the handle, and peeked out. It was
Private Pupshaw.
  "Yes?" she said.
  "Colonel Nejat Seden is here to see
General Rodgers," the hulking Pupshaw said.
  "Please send him in, Private," Rodgers
replied without looking over.
  "Yes, sir," Pupshaw replied.
  The private stepped aside and Mary Rose
opened the door. She smiled pleasantly as a
short, light-skinned man entered. He was powerfully
built, with a neatly. trimmed mustache and deepset
eyes that were also the darkest Mary Rose had ever
seen. His curly black hair was damp and pressed
down. From a motorcycle helmet, she
guessed. He wore a .45 in a belt holster.
  Seden returned her smile. He bowed his head.
"Good afternoon to you, miss," he said. His English was
thickly accented, with the lengthened vowels and clipped
consonants of his native tongue.
  "Good afternoon," Mary Rose replied. She had
been warned that Turkish men, even enlightened ones,
would be no more than courteous to her. Though Turkey
had long ago granted equal rights to women,
equality was a myth in the minds of many Muslim
men. As Op-Center's staff psychologist Liz
Gordon had told her, "The Koran decrees that
women should always cover their heads, arms, and legs.
Women who do not are regarded as sinners." Yet this
man had a warm smile for her. He seemed
to possess a sweet, natural charm.
  Colonel Seden turned to General Rodgers and
saluted.
  Rodgers returned the salute. Seden took
two steps toward Rodgers and handed the general a
crisply folded yellow paper.
  "My orders, sir," Seden said.
  Rodgers looked at them quickly, then turned
back to the screen. "You've come at an opportune
moment," the general said. "We have one of your
choppers on the screen... here." He pointed to a
sharp red object moving across an ever-changing green
grid.
  "That's strange," Seden said. "Military
helicopters usually travel in pairs for
security. Do you know where this one is from?"
  "It came in from Mardin."
  "Border patrol," said Seden.
  "Yes," said Rodgers. "The radio operator
there has been trying unsuccessfully to raise it.
What kind of armaments do you put on those ships?"
  "Typically, General, there is a machine gun
and a side-mounted rotary cannon," Seden
disreplied. "Usually the cannon is 20mm with a
rotating barrel with one hundred fifty or so
shells."
  "Where could it be headed in such a hurry?" Mary
Rose asked.
  "I don't know that," Seden replied. He
didn't take his eyes off the screen. "There's
nothing out that way.
  There are no military targets and the villages
are small and not strategic in any way."
  "You're sure there are no terrorist groups
based in any of them?" Rodgers asked.
  "I'm certain," Seden said. "Nor has there
been any movement to the region. We watch all of
them very closely."
  "Couldn't this simply be a hijacking?" Mary
Rose asked. "Someone hides the chopper before it can
be spotted, then uses it later for any number of
things."
  "That is unlikely," replied Seden. "It is
easier for helicopters to be purchased in Russia
or India and smuggled into our country in pieces."
  "In pieces?" Mary Rose said.
  "On boats, by air, or by land, amidst shipments
of machine parts," Seden said. "It isn't as
difficult as you might think."
  "On top of which," said Rodgers, "the Turkish
Air Force is certainly looking for this chopper
by now."
  "But not there," Seden said. "Somewhere along its
original flight plan."
  "We've picked it up," Mary Rose said.
"Other radar is sure to. It will be found before very
long."
  "Obviously, whoever has it doesn't care,"
Rodgers said. "They're planning to use it now.
Colonel," do you want to let the Air
Force know where it is?"
  "In another moment," Seden said. "I'd prefer
to tell them where it's headed rather than where it will not be when
they arrive."
  Mary Rose gave a sideward glance at the
officer. She caught Mike Rodgers doing the
same. She could tell from his expression that the general
was thinking the same thought she was, Is Seden
interested in gathering intelligence or in delaying them?
  The colonel watched as the map scrolled with the
chopper. "Can I possibly see a larger view
of the area?"
  Rodgers nodded. He touched a key, and an
expanded view of the region appeared' on the screen.
The chopper was now a small red dot.
  Seden watched the screen for a moment and then said,
"General, may I ask--do you know the range of the
helicopter?"
  "It's around four hundred miles, depending upon
the load they're carrying." Rodgers looked back
at Seden.
  "Why? What are you thinking?"
  The Turk replied, "The only conceivable
targets are several dams along the Firat
Nehri--what you call the Euphrates."
He pointed at the river, then traced its course
southward through Turkey into Syria. "The Ke-ban
Dam, the Karakaya Dam, and the Ataturk Dam.
All of them are within range."
  "Why would anyone want to attack them?" Mary
Rose asked.
  "It's an old conflict," Seden said.
"Islamic law calls water the source of life.
Nations may fight over oil, but it's a trifle.
Water is what stirs the blood--and causes it
to be spilled."
  "My friends at NATO tell me that over the last
fifteen years or so, the dams of the Greater
Anatolia Project have been a sore
subject," Rodgers said. "They allowed Turkey
to control the flow of water into Syria and Iraq.
  And if I'm not mistaken, Colonel Seden,
Turkey is now embarked on an irrigation
project in southeastern Anatolia which will reduce
the water supply of those nations even further."
  "Forty percent less water will reach Syria and
sixty percent less to Iraq," Seden replied.
  "So some group, perhaps Syrians, steals a
Turkish chopper," Rodgers said. "They keep the
military guessing as to whether it actually
has been stolen. Guessing just long enough for them
to strike their target."
  "The Ataturk is the largest dam in the Middle
East, one of the largest in the world, General," Seden
said gravely. "May I use a telephone?"
  "Over there," Rodgers said. He pointed to the
computer at the side of the van. "And you'd better
hurry.
  That chopper is just about a half hour from the first of the
dams."
  Seden walked around Mary Rose. He went to the
cellular phone, which was cradled on the side of the
monitor and hooked directly into the ROC'S
uplink. He punched in a number. As he spoke
softly in Turkish, he slowly turned his back
toward them.
  Mary Rose and Mike Rodgers exchanged a
brief look.
  When Seden's back was completely turned,
Rodgers tapped a few keys on the other computer.
Then he turned to watch the simultaneous
translation of the colonel's conversation.
  Monday, 4:25 p.m., Halfeti, Turkey
  The Ataturk Dam on the Euphrates River
is named after Kemal Ataturk, the
venerated twentieth-century political and
military leader. The Armistice that ended World War
I also ended nearly six centuries of Ottoman
role over Turkey. But because the Turks had sided
with the Germans, the losing side, the Greeks and
British felt free to seize portions of the nation for
themselves. The Turks felt differently, and in 1922
Kemal and the Turkish Army drove the foreigners
out. The following year, the Treaty of Lausanne
created the modern-day Republic of Turkey.
  Ataturk established the new republic as a
democracy rather than as a sultanate. He
instituted a Swiss-style legal system
to replace the Sheriat or Islamic code, and
adopted the Gregorian calendar to replace the
Islamic one. Even the turban and fez were banned
in favor of European-style headwear. He founded
secular schools, gave women basic rights for the first
time, and adapted a Latin-based alphabet
to replace the old Arabic one.
  As a result of his massive transformation of
Turkish society, Ataturk caused
significant resentment to build among the
Muslim majority.
  Like all Turks,
fifty-five-year-old Mustafa Mecid knew the
life and legend of Ataturk. But Mustafa
wasn't preoccupied with the Father of the Turks. As
assistant chief engineer of the dam, he thought mostly
about keeping kids from playing on the walls of the dam.
  Unlike the more spectacular, high-rising
concrete gravity dams, or the sweeping, concave
arch dams, embankment dams are long and wide and
relatively low.
  Under the waters of the reservoir side is an
upstream shoulder that slopes toward a peak like the
side of a pyramid. On the top of the dam is a
narrow wave wall with a walkway behind it. The
walkway falls away as a sloping downstream
shoulder. Typically, the downstream side is
stepped. There's a berm halfway down to give the
top level of stone a base on which to rest. A
drainage layer is located halfway between the berm
and the next level, a downstream toe. The effect,
viewed from the side, is like a downward-sloping W.
The core of the embankment dam is a high column
of clay surrounded by sand. A thick layer of stone
surrounds the core.
  Large embankment dams typically contain fifty
million cubic meters of water. The
volume of the Ataturk dam is eighty-five
million cubic meters. Not that that mattered much
to Mustafa. He couldn't see most of the water. The
enormous reservoir twisted away behind artificial
promontories and breakwaters. The end of it was
lost in the hazy distance.
  Twice each day, at eleven in the morning and at
four in the afternoon, Mustafa left his two coworkers in
the small control room at the base of the dam and
went looking for kids. That was when they came there
to dive from the wave wall into the cool waters.
  "We know it is safe to dive here," they would always
say. "There are no rocks or roots underwater
here, SaaHib."
  They always called him their SaaHib, their friend,
though Mustafa suspected that they were laughing at him.
And even if they were sincere, he couldn't allow them
to stay here and swim. If he did, the wall would be
lined with children. Then the tourists would come.
  Soon there would be more weight on the dam than it was
designed to take.
  "And then they would blame the collapse of the dam
and the flooding of southern Anatolia on Mustafa
Mecid," he said, running his fingers through his full
brown beard.
  The fifty-five-year-old Turk was happy that
he had two grown daughters. Young men were so
physical. He watched his sister's children and didn't
know how she coped with them. Mustafa's own poor father
had sent him to the Army when he was sixteen because he was
always getting into trouble with neighbors and teachers and
employers. Even when Mustafa was in the Army--
stationed on the Greek border near the Gulf of
Saros--he made life more difficult for smugglers
and undercover operatives than any Turk since His
Eminence Ataturk himself. And when he married, his
poor wife could hardly keep up with him. More than
once she accused him of having a twin brother who
crept into their bed in the middle of the night.
  Mustafa turned his face toward the skies. "I
think, Blessed Lord, that you made Turkish men for the
same reason you made hornets. To go here and there and
to work. And in doing all of that, to stir up others and
to keep them busy." Mustafa smiled brimmingly,
proud of his gender and his nation.
  He walked briskly, his hiking boots crunching
loudly on the walkway. Its gravel surface
had been designed to deter bare feet--designed
by some college engineer whose soles weren't calloused
from a childhood of walking barefoot. The
radio hooked to his belt hung against his right hip.
From under the brim of his forest-green cap he looked
north, across the reservoir. He breathed deeply as
the warm breeze washed over him. Then he looked
down ten feet at the waves that slapped gently
against the dam. The water was choppy, clear, soothing.
  He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the solitude.
  And then, from the south, Mustafa heard what sounded
like a motorbike. He turned and squinted in that
direction. There was no dust rising from the dirt
roads of the surrounding hillsides. Yet the sound from
behind the hillsides grew closer.
  Suddenly, the drone became the distinctive beating
of a helicopter rotor. He tugged down the brim
of his hat and looked toward the rich blue sky.
Recreational fliers regularly flew over the
reservoir, though of lddate more and more helicopters
had been coming this way. Kurdish terrorists had
established a presence around Lake Van and on
Mount Ararat to the east, on the border with Iran.
  According to the radio reports, the military kept
track of them by air and sometimes attacked them as
well.
  Mustafa watched as a small, black
helicopter shot up over the treetops.
For a moment he was looking at the underbelly. Then he
was staring at the front of the craft as it nosed toward
him. The helicopter skimmed the green canopy,
agitating the leaves as it passed over them.
  As the chopper descended, the orb of the sun was
reflected in the dark cockpit windshield.
Mustafa was blinded for a moment, but he could hear the
drone growing louder.
  "What are they doing?" he wondered aloud.
  When the sunlight finally rolled off the
windshield, Mustafa saw what they were doing. He
saw, but there was nothing he could do about it.
  The helicopter had cleared the trees and was flying
directly toward the center of the dam. He saw a
man raise the machine gun so that it was pointed in his
direction.
  On the pilot's side of the helicopter, the
rotary cannon was pointed lower.
  "They are out of their minds!" Mustafa yelled.
  The Turk turned and started running back the way
he'd come. The helicopter was less than two
hundred yards away and moving in fast. He could
feel the gun on him. He felt it the way any
battle-seasoned soldier felt danger, by God
whispering into his ear and fear tightening his
groin.
  Without breaking his stride, Mustafa suddenly
threw himself to his right, toward the water. He hit it
hard and his boots quickly filled with water. But even
as he'd jumped he'd heard the machine gun spit
death. As he brought his knees toward him and struggled
to undo the laces, Mustafa thanked God for having
spoken to him.
  His lungs ached as he worked on his shoes. His
eyes were open, and he saw the bubbly trails of the
bullets as they slashed around him. A few came
perilously close, and Mustafa gave up on the
shoes. He swam to the wall of the dam, dug his
fingers into the spaces between the stones, and crept up the
sloping side. He stopped just below the surface and
lay with his belly against the wall. He heard the
muffled roar of the guns as the helicopter bore
down. The dam shook beneath him, but at least he felt
safe here. He wondered how his coworkers were doing.
The fire didn't seem directed at them, and he
hoped they were all right. He also hoped that the men in the
helicopter didn't make a second pass.
  He didn't know what they hoped to accomplish with
this attack, and he began to fear for the security of the
dam.
  When he could hold his breath no longer, he
turned his face upwards and poked his mouth from the
water.
  He sucked down air--and immediately lost it as
something punched him hard in the belly.
  Monday, 4:35 p.m., Sanliurfa,
Turkey
  Mike Rodgers began to doubt that the attack would
ever materialize.
  The assault of watermelon and manure that the
Turkish Security Forces had warned about was
probably a fiction. Rodgers's sixth sense
told him that the TSF had invented the warning in order
to send Seden out here to observe them. Not that the
colonel was a fraud. The colonel had asked his
headquarters for aerial reconnaissance of the
chopper. The request had been rushed through channels,
and the Air Force was getting ready to launch a pair
of F-4 Phantoms from a base east of
Ankara. What Colonel Seden told Rodgers
coincided exactly with the clandestine translation
Rodgers had run.
  Of course, the whole thing could be a setup,
Rodgers thought with an intelligence officer's
natural and healthy skepticism. The
TSF might just want to see how the helicopter and
F-4's registered on state-of-the-art ROC
equipment. Perhaps they'd report their findings to the
Israeli military, with whom they had a partnership.
In exchange for mutual naval support and
continued up grades of aging Turkish jet
fighters, the Israelis would have access to Turkish
air space. The two nations would also share
intelligence. Knowing the capabilities of the ROC,
Tel Aviv might deny Op-Center the freedom
to use it there. Or conversely, they might press to have
access to it. First, however, they had to know what it could
do.
  Not that any of this would change the way Rodgers
conducted his business. To the contrary. There was nothing in
the Regional Op-Center that Rodgers worried
about Seden seeing. The general had erased the
translated conversation the colonel had had with TSF
headquarters, and the On-Line Mole program had
been shut down before he arrived. The ROC
capacities on view were sophisticated but not
revolutionary. Indeed, Rodgers would welcome a
report from Seden to his superiors that TSF
secrets and military data were safe. That would
make it easier to bring the ROC back
into Turkey and get the facility into other NATO
countries. As Rodgers had told Mary Rose
while they waited for Seden to arrive, being informed
enabled a team leader to craft an appropriate
intelligence, military, or diplomatic
response.
  It allowed a leader to feed the party line to an
enemy or even to an ally. It was being caught
by surprise that was dangerous.
  And now they waited for the F-4's to report
back.
  Though Colonel Seden had been offered the
relatively comfortable driver's seat up front,
he graciously declined.
  He stood at ease and spent most of the time gazing
out the front window. Only occasionally did he wander
over to check the helicopter's progress.
Rodgers noticed that when he did he no longer
looked vaguely put out to be there. His eyes were
alert and very interested.
  Because he is a loyal Turk, Rodgers
wondered, or because he is not?
  For her part, Mary Rose clearly wished that
Seden would leave. Rodgers knew that she had other
programs to test-run. But Rodgers had
E-mailed her from his station and told her to wait.
Instead of working, she brought up one of the war
simulations Mike Rodgers kept on file for
relaxation. In alarmingly quick succession, the young
woman lost the Battle of San Juan Hill for
Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders in 1898,
helped E1 Cid bungle the siege of
Valencia during the war with the Moors in 1094, and
enabled the formerly victorious George Washington
to be defeated by the Hessians at Trenton in
1776.
  "That's the value of simulations," Rodgers
told her.
  "It lets you appreciate how large the shoes of
those giants really are."
  Seden watched Mary Rose fight the last
battle during her "break," and seemed vaguely
amused. Then he turned. He happened to glance at
the helicopter display on Rodgers's monitor
when the green screen began turning blue. The
color was changing from the center out.
  The helicopter remained an orange
silhouette in the center of the screen.
  "General?" Seden said with real urgency.
  Rodgers looked over. "Temp
flux," he said urgently.
  "Something just happened out there."
  Mary Rose turned around as the blue spread to the
corners of the monitor. "Whoa," she said. "Something
that's generating a lot of cold in a hurry. This
grid is over a mile square."
  Seden bent closer. "General, are you sure it's
cold and not heat?" he asked. "Could the helicopter
have dropped a bomb?"
  "No," Rodgers said. He was bent over the
keyboard, quickly.punching keys. "If it had
dropped a bomb, the screen would have gone red."
  "But what could have chilled so much air so quickly?"
Mary Rose asked. "That's gone down from
seventy-eight to fifty-odd degrees. A cold
air mass wouldn't move in that fast."
  "No, it wouldn't," Rodgers said. He consulted
his meteorological database, then looked at a
computerized geophysical chart. He called up a
four-mile-square view of the region and asked the
satellite to give him specific heat readings.
  The helicopter was a step-five
AHL'-AVERAGE heat level. That meant it
generated a heat signature where the engine was one
hundred degrees, plus or minus
five.
  Anything at that heat level showed up orange on
the monitor. Above it was a step-six red or a
step-seven black. Below it was a step-four green,
a step-three blue, a step-two yellow, or a
step-one white, which was freezing.
  According to the geophysical chart, the mean ground
temperature of this region around the Euphrates was
sixty-three degrees. That fell within the step-four
levels they had been showing. Step three started at
fifty-three degrees. Whatever was happening out there
was pulling the temperature down at least ten
degrees at a speed of forty-seven miles an
hour.
  "I don't understand," Seden said. "What is it that
are we seeing?"
  "A massive cooling around the Euphrates,"
Rodgers said. "According to the anemometer simulation,
that's almost strong gale speeds. Are gales
possible out there?"
  "I've never heard of any," Seden said.
  "I didn't think so," said Rodgers. "Besides,
a wind like that would've taken out the helicopter."
  "But if it isn't air," Seden said, "what is
it?"
  Rodgers looked at the screen. There was only
one explanation, and it made him sick to contemplate
it.
  "My guess is it's water," he said. "I'm
going to notify Op-Center. I think, Colonel,
that someone just punched a hole in the Ataturk
Dam."
  Monday, 4:46 p.m., Halfeti, Turkey
  As they swept along the Euphrates,
Ibrahim had peered through the waves of heat rising from
Mahmoud's busy 20mm cannon. The ripples
had distorted the reservoir and its mighty dam as their
attack ravaged it.
  The Syrian's hands had been resting on the stock
and trigger of the side-mounted machine gun. It hadn't
been time for him to act, so he'd watched chunks of
stone explode inward along the center of the dam,
chewed up by the barrage. Though Walid kept the
chopper steady, Ibrahim kept his legs braced
firmly on either side of the backpack, which lay between
them.
  As the helicopter flew over the dam,
Ibrahim had seen one large piece of stone
strike the dam engineer as he tried to surface. The
blow probably hadn't been enough to kill
him, though that wouldn't matter. In just a few moments
the engineer would be dead.
  The helicopter had come in low over the dam, and
Walid swung it around sharply for another pass.
As they'd flown toward the control house, Ibrahim
had peppered the structure with fire from his machine
gun.
  Though one Turk died in the doorway,
Ibrahim's task had not been to kill the
occupants. It had been to keep them crouched under
tables or chairs, away from the windows and from the
radio. Walid hadn't wanted anyone to see in which
direction they were headed when they left. If they
couldn't get back to Syria, they wanted to get as
close as possible before they were pursued.
  In the back seat, Hasan was tossing out strips
of aluminum to jam signals from the control house.
At the same time he was monitoring military
communications on a radio headset. If someone in
the control house did manage to get a message
out, perhaps by telephone, and they were pursued, the plan
was to land the helicopter and scatter. Then they would
make their way individually to one of two safe
houses. The huts were located in southern
Anatolia on the Syrian border, run
by Kurdish sympathizers.
  The helicopter had swung around for another
pass.
  Once again Mahmoud's powerful 20mm shells
had slammed against the center of the dam. Shards of stone
flew in all directions as the cannon fire pounded
down.
  The attack wasn't designed to weaken the dam.
It was being used to create a foothold for the package
between lbrahim's legs.
  Now that the moment was nearly upon them, Ibrahim
unzipped the backpack to make sure that everything was
in order. He looked down at the four sticks of
dynamite bound neatly in a pack with electrical
tape. There was a timer hooked to an ignition cap
on top. He ran his finger along each of the wires
and fuses to check the connections.
  They were secure. The nails were also fast, the
heads taped to the inside of the bag. The entire
package would sit firmly in place when lodged
amid the bullet-shattered stones.
  Walid lowered the helicopter to just a foot above
the dam. Ibrahim hopped out, placed the bag in the
largest crevice, and set the timer for one minute.
Then he climbed back into the chopper and it
soared off.
  The young Syrian pulled off his sunglasses and
looked back. He saw the sun rippling along the
top of the water. Birds pecked at the fish, and the
sky behind them was unusually clear. Then, in an
instant, the tranquility was rudely destroyed.
  Ibrahim winced as a yellow-red burst of
flame grew quickly from the top of the dam. The sound
reached them a moment later and caused the helicopter
to shudder.
  Hasan and Mahmoud also looked back as the long
stone expanse folded outward at the center. As it
did, it pulled the sides of the sweeping structure
with it. The reservoir came cascading over the
crumbling top of the dam, swallowing the fireball and
turning it to steam. The giant wave disgorged the
stones it had swallowed, spilling them over the
shattered top of the wall. The flood pushed down the
center of the dam in a giant V shape that reached
almost to the base. Water poured through the breach,
easily brushing aside the ends of the earthen dam and
crashing onto the trees below. The steam quickly
dissipated as churning white breakers slapped away
the control house and carried its shattered remains
into the valley beyond.
  The sound of the deluge filled the cabin, dwarfing the
roar of the rotor. Ibrahim couldn't even hear his
own shout of triumph. He saw but did not hear
Mahmoud praise Allah.
  As the helicopter raced south over the thundering
waters, Hasan suddenly tapped Walid on the
shoulder. The pilot half turned. Hasan held
his hand out, palm down, and swooped it forward. Then
he held up two fingers.
  Two jets were on their way.
  Hasan was clearly annoyed. The helicopter
had been flying too low to be spotted by radar, and
he'd apparently heard no transmission from the
control house radio.
  Yet somehow the Air Force knew what had
happened here.
  "I am sorry, my akhooya, my brother!"
Hasan shouted.
  Walid held up his hand. "We put our trust
in the word of God!" he shouted back. "It is
written, "He that flees his homeland for the cause
of God shall find numerous places of refuge.""
  Hasan did not appear consoled, though the other
members of the team seemed exultant. The mission
had been a success and their place in
Paradise was secured.
  Still, no one was quite ready to give up. As Walid
guided the helicopter over the vast, swelling
Euphrates, Mahmoud began loading another
belt into his cannon.
  Ibrahim turned to his left to help him.
Paradise notwithstanding, they would fight for their lives
and for the privilege of continuing to do the work of Allah in
this world.
  Suddenly, Walid shook his head.
"SaaHib!" he shouted. "Friend! You will not need
that."
  Mahmoud leaned toward him. "Not need?" he
yelled back. "Who will do battle for us?"
  Walid replied, "He who is the Sovereign
of the Day of Judgment."
  Ibrahim looked at Mahmoud. Both men
believed in Allah and they had faith in Walid.
But neither of them believed that the strong hand of the Lord would
reach down and protect them from the Turks.
  "But Walid--" Mahmoud said.
  "Trust in me!" Walid said. "From safety you
will see the sun set."
  As Walid flew on with some purpose in mind,
Ibrahim contemplated their chances of
surviving. The nearest Turkish Air Force base
was two hundred miles to the west. Traveling at
maximum cruising speed, the fighter planes--
deadly American-made Phantoms, most
likely--would be here in about twenty minutes. The
helicopter would still be far from the Syrian border.
From his Air Force days he knew that each of those
jets probably carried eight heat-seeking
Sidewinder missiles under each wing. Any one of
those rockets would be enough to destroy the chopper long before
the jets could be seen or heard. And the Turks would
shoot them. from the sky rather than let them leave the
country.
  Still, Ibrahim thought, let the Phantoms come.
He looked away from his brother. The Ataturk
Dam, the pride of Turkish arrogance, was in
ruins. The Euphrates would flow as it did in
ancient times, and the Syrians would have more water for their
needs. Towns for dozens of miles down river would
be flooded. Villages up-river, which depended upon
the reservoir, would be without water for their homes and
crops. Government resources in the region would be
sorely burdened.
  As Ibrahim turned and looked back at the
maelstrom, he was reminded of a passage
from the Koran:
  "Pharaoh and his warriors conducted themselves with
arrogance and injustice in the land, thinking they would never
be recalled to U. But We took him and his
warriors, and We cast them into the sea. Consider the
fate of the evildoers."
  Like the taskmasters of Egypt and the sinners drowned
in Noah's flood, the Turks had been punished
with water. Ibrahim was briefly moved to tears by the
glory of what had just transpired. Whatever suffering
might await him, it could only enhance the sense of
holy purpose that filled him now.
  Monday, 9:59 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  Bob Herbert rolled his wheelchair into Paul
Hood's office. "Mike was right as usual," the
intelligence chief said. "The NRO confirms that the
Ataturk Dam's been heavily damaged."
  Hood exhaled tensely. He turned to his
computer and typed in a single word: "Affirmative."
He appended this to his emergency Code Red
E-mail of 9:47 a.m. which contained Mike
Rodgers's initial evaluation. Then he sent the
confirmation to General Ken Vanzandt, the new
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He also
copied it to Secretary of State Av
Lincoln, Secretary of Defense Eruesto
Colon, Central Intelligence Agency
Director Larry Rachlin, and super-hawk
National Security Advisor Steve Burkow.
  "How close is the ROC to the affected
region?" Hood asked.
  "They're about fifty miles to" the southeast,"
Herbert said. "Well out of the danger zone."
  "How well is "well?"" Hood asked.
"Mike's idea of a buffer zone isn't the same as
other people's."
  "I didn't ask Mike," Herbert said. "I
asked Phil Katzen. He had experience with the great
Midwest flood of 1993 and he did some quick
computations. He says that within the fifty miles
there's a good fifteen-to-twenty-mile cushion.
Phil figures the Euphrates will rise about
twenty feet straight down through Syria to Lake
Assad. That won't hurt the Syrians much,
since a lot of that area is seasonally dry as toast
and deserted. But it's going to flood out a lot of
Turks who live in villages around the river."
  Darrell McCaskey arrived as Herbert was
speaking.
  The slim, forty-eight-year-old former
FBI agent, now interagency liaison, shut the
door behind him and leaned quietly against it.
  "What do we have on the perpetrators?" Hood
asked.
  "Satellite reconnaissance showed a Turkish
500Do leaving the site," Herbert said.
"Apparently, it was the same helicopter stolen from
the border patrol earlier in the day."
  "Where's it headed?" Hood asked.
  "We don't know," Herbert said. "There're a
pair of F-4's looking for the chopper now."
  "Looking for it?" Hood said. "I thought we had
it on satellite."
  "We did," Herbert said. "But sometime between one
picture and the next it disappeared."
  "Shot down?"
  "Nope," Herbert said. "The Turks would've
told us."
  "Maybe," Hood said.
  "All right," Herbert agreed. "Even if they
didn't, we'd have spotted the wreckage. There's
no sign of the helicopter for a radius of fifty
miles from the last place it was seen."
  "What do you make of that?" Hood asked.
  "I honestly don't know," Herbert
said. "If there were any caves in the area which were large
enough, I'd say they flew right in and parked it.
We're still looking, though."
  Hood was annoyed. He wasn't like Mike
Rodgers, who enjoyed putting clues together and
solving mysteries.
  The banker in him liked information orderly,
complete, and now.
  "We'll find the chopper," Herbert added.
"I'm having the last satellite photograph
analyzed to get the exact speed and direction of the
500D. We're also running a complete study
of the area's geography. We'll try to find a
place like a cave or canyon where a helicopter
could hide."
  "All right," Hood said. "In the meantime, what
do we do about the ROC? Just leave it?"
  "Why not?" Herbert asked. "It was designed for
on-site reconnaissance. You can't get any more
on-site than this."
  "That's true," Hood agreed, "but I'm more
concerned about security. If this attack is a taste
of things to come, the ROC is relatively
vulnerable. They've only got two Strikers
covering four open sides."
  "There's also a Turkish security officer,"
McCaskey added.
  "He seems like a good man," Herbert said. "I
checked him out. I'm sure Mike did too."
  "That's three people," Hood said. "Just three."
  "Plus General Michael Rodgers," Herbert
said respectfully, "who is a platoon unto
himself. Anyway, I don't think Mike would let
himself be evacuated now.
  This is the kind of thing he lives for."
  Hood sat back. Rodgers's career as a
soldier included two tours of Vietnam, command
of a mechanized brigade in the Persian Gulf, and
leading a covert Striker operation into North
Korea. Rodgers wasn't going to run from a
terrorist attack on a dam.
  "You're right about that," Hood admitted. "Mike
will want to stay. But Mike isn't the one who has
to make that decision. We've also got Mary
Rose, Phil, and Lowell in the saddle and they're
all civilians. I just wish we knew whether the
attack was an isolated event or the first salvo of
something larger."
  "Obviously, we'll know more when we find out
who's responsible," McCaskey said.
  "Well give me something to chew on," Hood
said.
  "Who do you think was behind this?"
  "I've spoken with the CIA and with the Turkish
Special Forces, and also with the Mossad in
Israel," McCaskey said. "They're all
saying it's either Syrians or Muslim
fundamentalists within Turkey. There's a strong
argument for both. The Muslim Fundamentalists
desperately want to weaken Turkey's ties with
Israel and the West. By attacking the
infrastructure, they place a burden on the
populace and 'turn them against the government."
  "If that's the case," Hood said, "we can
expect more attacks."
  "Right," McCaskey replied.
  "Yea, but I'm not going for that one," Herbert
said.
  "The fundamentalists are already pretty damn
strong in Turkey. Why would they try to take by force
what they can conceivably win on the next ballot?"
  "Because they're impatient," McCaskey pointed
out.
  "Iran is paying a lot of their bills and
Tehran wants to see results."
  "Iran has already put Turkey in the 'win"
column," Herbert replied. "It's just a matter
of time. Their big playground now is Bosnia.
They were outfitting the Bosnians with arms and
advisors during the Balkan war. Not only are
those advisors still there, they're multiplying like
guppies. That's how the fundamentalists plan on
getting into the heartland of Europe. As far as
Turkey goes, Iran's going to let the
political situation move at its own pace."
  "Not if Turkey continues to rely more and more on
Israeli military assets and on financial
aid and intelligence from the United States,"
McCaskey said. "Iran doesn't want another
U.s. stronghold in their backyard."
  "What about the Syrians?" Hood interjected.
Mc-Caskey and Herbert always went at each other
like this, passionately but respectfully. Darrell
Consensus and Bob Gut Instinct, psychologist
Liz Gordon had once called them. That was why
Hood had asked McCaskey to pop in when
Herbert phoned that he had news about the attack.
Between the two of them, Hood always ended up with a
concise but comprehensive overview of a situation--
though it was necessary to keep them from turning it
into a political science debate.
  "With the Syrians we have two possibilities,"
McCaskey said. "The terrorists could be Syrian
extremists who are sold on the idea of the Middle
East becoming Greater Syria--"
  "Adding it to their collection, like Lebanon,"
Herbert said bitterly.
  Hood nodded. It was the terrorist bombing of the
U.s. Embassy in Beirut in 1983 that had
cost the intelligence officer his wife and the use of his
legs.
  "Correct," said McCaskey. "Or what
seems more likely is that the dam-busters are
Syrian Kurds."
  "They're Kurds, all right," Herbert said
confidently.
  "Syrian extremists don't do anything without the
approval of the military, and the military takes its
marching orders from the Syrian President himself.
If the Syrian government wanted to spark
hostilities with Turkey, they wouldn't do it this
way."
  "What would they do?" Hood asked.
  "They'd do what aggressor nations always do,"
Herbert said. "They'd hold war games
on the border, massing troops there and provoking an
incident to draw the Turks over. The Syrians
would never set foot in Turkey.
  As we used to say in the military, they like receiving.
It goes back to 1967 when Israeli tanks
rolled in on the third day of the Six-Day War.
Defending their homeland makes Syrians look and
feel like freedom fighters instead of like
aggressors. That helps to rally other Arab nations
around them."
  "In addition to which," McCaskey added,
"except for 1967, the Syrians generally like
to fight proxy wars.
  They gave arms to Iran to fight Iraq in
1982, let the Lebanese kill each other during
fifteen years of civil war, then went in and set
up a puppet regime--that sort of thing."
  Herbert looked at McCaskey. "Then you
agree with me?"
  "No." McCaskey grinned. "You agree with
me."
  "So assuming Bob is right," Hood said, "why
would Syrian Kurds attack Turkey? How do
we know they weren't acting as agents for Damascus?
They may have been sent to Turkey to pick
a fight."
  "The Syrian Kurds would sooner attack
Damascus than Turkey," Herbert said. "They
hate the current regime."
  "The Kurds have also become increasingly empowered
by the Palestinian example," McCaskey said.
  "They want their own state."
  "Though even getting that won't bring them peace,"
Herbert said. "They're Sunni Muslims and they
don't want to be mixed with the Shiite Muslims
and the rest of the population. That's the big war they've
been fighting in Turkey, Iraq, and Syria. But
put the Sunnis together in a new Kurdistan and their
four branches--the Hanafites, Malikites, the
Shafites, and the Hanbalites-will start tearing each
other apart."
  "Maybe not," McCaskey said. "The Jews have
strong differences of opinion in Israel, but they
coexist."
  "That's because the Israelis believe more or less
the same thing in terms of religion," Herbert said.
"It's politics where they differ. With the Sunnis,
there are some very basic, very serious religious
differences."
  Hood learned forward. "Would the
Syrian Kurds be acting alone or with other
Kurdish nationalists?"
  "That's a good question," McCaskey said. "If the
Kurds are behind the dam attack, it's much more
ambitious than anything they've tried in the past.
You know, raiding weapons depots or attacking
military patrols, that sort of thing. My feeling
is that for something this big they'd have needed the help of the
Turkish Kurds, who've been fighting their
government from strongholds in the east for the last
fifteen years or so."
  "And joining with them," Hood said, "what would the
Syrian Kurds hope to do?"
  "Destabilize the region," Herbert replied.
"If Syria and Turkey were to bash away at one
another while the Syrian and Turkish Kurds
unified, they could become a power in the region
by default."
  "Not only by default," McCaskey said.
"Assume they use the distraction of war to dig in
all along the Turkish and Syrian border.
Infiltrate villages, cities, and mountains,
set up mobile camps in the desert. They could
wage an intractable guerrilla war like
Afghanistan lasting for years."
  "And whenever the pressure got too intense in one
country," Herbert said, "the Kurds could simply
slip into the other. Or else they join with the Kurds
in Iraq to bring that country into the fray. Can you
imagine an ongoing war involving those three nations?
How long before nuclear or chemical weapons are
used? How long before Syria or Iraq realizes
that Israel is supplying the Kurds--"
  "Which they've been doing for years," said
McCaskey.
  "--and starts chucking missiles at them?"
  "Eventually," McCaskey said, "when there's a
peace settlement, it will have to deal with the Kurdish
issue in order to be effective. So the Kurds
get a homeland, Turkey embraces the
fundamentalists, and democracy and the United
States are the big losers."
  "If there's a peace settlement," Herbert said
portentously.
  "We're talking about thousands of years of
animosity being unleashed on a large scale. If
that genie is ever let out of the bottle, it might be
impossible to put him back in."
  Hood understood. He also knew that it wasn't the
responsibility of Op-Center to plan
for a war in the Middle East. His job was to spot
"hot situations" and manage them if they became
"crises." Once they evolved from that into
"policy problems," it was up to the White House
to handle them. The President would let him know what
help was needed and where. The question was, what Could be
done to manage this developing crisis?
  Hood turned to his keyboard and typed in the
extension of his executive assistant, Stephen
"Bugs" Benet.
  A moment later the young man's face appeared on
the screen.
  "Good morning, Paul," Bugs said, his voice
coming from speakers mounted on the side of the monitor.
  "Morning, Bugs," Hood said. "Would you
please get Mike Rodgers for me? He's still at
the ROC."
  "Right away," Bugs said. His image winked
off.
  Hood glanced at Herbert. "What's Mike
doing to find that missing helicopter?"
  "Same thing we are," Herbert replied.
"Analyzing data. He's in a better position
to scan communications in the region, so I'm sure
he's doing that too. He'll be following
all the procedures we wrote up for ROC
operations."
  "What's the minimum security requirement you
established for the ROC?" Hood asked.
  "Two Strikers when the facility is in the
field," Herbert said. "That's what they've got
now."
  Bugs reappeared on the screen. "General
Rodgers is not available," he said. "He's gone
out to-do field work."
  Hood's mouth tightened. He knew the general
well enough to smell a euphemism when he heard one.
  "Where did he go?"
  "Mary Rose said he took Colonel Seden and
left about ten minutes ago," Bugs told him.
"They took the Turkish officer's motorcycle."
  "Uh-oh," Bob Herbert said.
  "What about the computer cell phone?" Hood
asked.
  "Can you reach Mike on that?"
  "The general phoned Mary Rose to check
reception a few minutes after he went out into the
plains," Bugs said. "The satellite uplink
worked fine, but he told her not to call unless it was
an emergency. Just in case anyone was
listening in."
  "Lots of cross talk in open spaces like that,"
Herbert said. "Zero security."
  Hood nodded at Herbert. On military
missions, Op-Center personnel typically carded
secure TAC-SAT'S.
  They had their own parabolic dishes which allowed them
to uplink securely with satellites, then
broadcast directly to Op-Center. But those
units were relatively cumbersome.
  Though the ROC carried one TAC-SAT,
Rodgers obviously wanted to travel light.
  Hood was angry with Rodgers, and deeply
concerned about him being out without Striker backup. But
he couldn't pull anyone from the ROC without
compromising security procedures, and he didn't
want to recall Rodgers. The general was his own
man and he hadn't broken any rules. Besides, it
wasn't Hood's place to second-guess his
Deputy Director from nine thousand miles away.
  "Thanks, Bugs," Hood said. "Stay in touch
with the ROC and let me know at once if they hear
anything."
  "Will do, Chief," Bugs said.
  Hood clicked Benet off and regarded
Herbert. "S. It looks like Mike's gone off
to do some first-hand recon."
  Herbert absently punched the keys on the
speaker-phone of his armrest. "Yeah. Well, that's
Mike's style, isn't it?"
  "Why wouldn't he have taken the ROC?"
McCaskey asked. "At least then he'd have been
able to do a thorough job."
  "Because he knew he was going into a dangerous
situation," Hood said. "And you know Mike. He
wouldn't want to jeopardize the facility or the
crew.
  That's also his style."
  Hood looked at Herbert, who was looking at
him. The intelligence chief shut his eyes and nodded.
  "I'll find him," Herbert said. He
speed-dialed the NRO on his wheelchair phone.
"I'll see if Viens can push everything else
aside again and get us a nice clear satellite
snapshot of Rodgers of Arabia."
  "Thanks," Hood said. He looked at
McCaskey.
  "The usual?" McCaskey asked.
  Hood nodded. The former G-man knew the
drill. If a group claimed credit,
McCaskey would have to run a check through other
domestic and foreign agencies to see if they had the
resources. If not, who were they coveting forand why?
If so, he would have to run their modus operandi through the
computer to determine what their next likely move was
and how long they'd wait.
  Then McCaskey and his advisors would have
to ascertain whether diplomacy would forestall other
attacks, whether the perpetrators would have to be hit
militarily, and what other targets they were likely
to strike.
  "Put Liz in on this," Hood said.
  McCaskey nodded as he left.
Psychological profiles of Middle Eastern
terrorists were especially important.
  If the terrorists were motivated solely
by politics, as most Kurds were, they were less
likely to be suicidal.
  That being the case, security against air and ground
attacks was possible. If the terrorists were
motivated by religion and politics, as the larger
majority of Kurds were, then they were not only
happy but honored to give their lives. In that
case, killers could strike anywhere.
  They might wear six to eight sticks of
TNT in a specially designed belt supported
by shoulder straps. Or they might carry a
backpack loaded with fifty to sixty pounds of
plastique. Wires running from the explosives through
two batteries were attached to a switch. This switch
was usually kept in the bomber's pants pocket, which
allowed him to trigger the blast anytime, anywhere. Those
kinds of attacks were virtually impossible
to protect against; those kinds of terrorists were damn
near impossible to reason with. The most frustrating and
ironic part was that a single terrorist was far more
lethal than a group. A lone operator had
total tactical flexibility and the ability
to surprise.
  Herbert clicked off his phone. "Viens is on
the case for us. Says he can get the 30-45-3
away from the Defense Department in about ten minutes.
It's one of the older jobs, no infrared capacity,
but we'll get good daylight pictures."
  The designation 30-45-3 referred to the third
satellite looking down on the longitudes thirty
to forty-five degrees east of the prime meridian.
That was the region which included Turkey.
  "Viens's a damn fine man," Hood said.
  "The best." Herbert turned. He
snickered as he wheeled toward the door. "At least
Stephen's keeping his sense of humor about the
investigation. He told me there're so many nails in
his coffin he's thinking of nick-naming the division the
Iron Maiden."
  "We won't let Congress close the lid on
him," Hood promised.
  "That's a nice sentiment, Paul. But it'll be
real difficult to make happen."
  "I like the difficult, Bob." Hood smiled
faintly.
  "That's why I'm here."
  Herbert glanced back as he opened the door.
"Touche."
  He winked as he rolled into the hallway.
  Monday, 5:55 p.m., Oguzeli, Turkey
  Ibrahim and the radio operator Hasan stood
on the windy plain as Mahmoud knelt between them.
They had Czechoslovakian Samopal submachine
guns lying across their shoulders and Smith and Wesson
.38's tucked into holsters on their belts. There were
hunting knives sheathed on their hips.
  Ibrahim held Mahmoud's weapons as his
brother bent low on the hard earth. Tears trickled
down the older man's dark cheeks and his
voice cracked as he quoted the Holy Koran.
  "He sends forth guardians who watch over you and
carry away your souls without fail when death
overtakes you ....
  Just minutes before, Walid had deposited his
three passengers and their backpacks and weapons on
this dry hillside. He'd given Mahmoud a
gold ring he wore, one which was topped with two
silver daggers crossed beneath a star. It was the ring which
identified him as a leader of the group. Then he'd
taken off again and flown the helicopter back toward
the flood. Racing headlong into the raging waters,
he'd allowed the helicopter to be swallowed up.
A geyser of spray and steam had briefly marked
its death. Then the three survivors had watched in
horror as the helicopter's shattered remains were
carried away by the torrent.
  Walid had sacrificed himself and the chopper because it
was the only way to erase the ship from Turkish
radar.
  The only way to keep the team from being shot from the
skies. The only way to protect the others so that
they might continue the important work of the
Kurdistan Workers' Party.
  Mahmoud finished his prayer, but he
continued to bow low. His voice soft and sorrowful, he
asked, "Why you, Walid? You were our leader, our
soul."
  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said softly, "patrols
will be covering this region soon. We must go."
  "You could have shown me how to fly the helicopter,"
Mahmoud said. "My life was not as important as
yours. Who will lead the people now?"
  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said more insistently.
"Min fadlak--please! You will lead us. He gave
you the ring."
  "Yes." Mahmoud nodded. "I will lead you. It
was Walid's dying wish. There is still a great deal
to be done."
  Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger
in his brother's expression. And it occurred to him then
that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The
fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his
soldiers.
  As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his
Parabellum and a .38.
  "Thank you, my brother," Mahmoud said.
  "According to Hasan," Ibrahim said with quiet
confidence, "we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall.
We can stay in the foothills and hide if
necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region.
Perhaps we can capture a car or track."
  Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a
respectful distance away. "We do not hide," he
said. "Is that understood?"
  "Aywa," said both men. "Yes." still
  "Lead us, Hasan," Mahmoud said. "And may
the Holy Prophet guide us to our home... and
to the homes of our enemies."
  Monday, 6:29 p.m., Oguzeli, Turkey
  Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers
had done what he always did. He'd read about the
region.
  Whenever possible, he'd read what other soldiers
had said about a nation or people. When he was here for
Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he'd
read ThEvery Lawrence's Seven Pillars of
Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas's With
Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the
same man and the same region. This time he'd
re-read the memoirs of General Charles
"Chinese" Gordon of Khartoum as well as an
anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence--the
English author D.h., not the soldier THE--WHICH
had been published in the latter had stayed
with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the
desert was "the forever unpossessed country."
Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.
  Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed
but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice
could be melted for water and there was relatively
solid ground for construction, the desert had moods.
Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one
minute, utterly still the disnext. One had to bring not
only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the
Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn't
get off a boat or a plane, move inland a
mile or two, take pictures or readings, then
depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans
crossed these regions, if a person came to the
desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in
these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but
parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in
miles, crossing it required luck as well as
stamina.
  Thanks to radios and motorized travel,
traversing the desert or Turkey's dead meadows was
not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the
century. But they were still places of staggering
desolation. After a half hour of riding on
the back of Colonel Seden's motorcycle,
Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects
had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.
  Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The
wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and
pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the
small compass that was bracketed to the top of the
dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed
in the direction where the helicopter had last been
seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He
looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another
twenty minutes or so.
  The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light
fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled
as any Rodgers had ever seen.
  Colonel Seden half turned. "We are nearing
the plains," he shouted back. "Above this region
there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled,
but at least the ride will not be so bumpy."
  Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they
left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn't a
talker.
  "A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas
is bumpy," Rodgers yelled back. "This is
fine."
  "If you can believe it," Seden said, "the
temperatures in this region drop to near freezing
before dawn.
  From October to May the roads are often closed
here because of snow!"
  Rodgers knew that from his reading about the region.
  Only one thing in this part of the world was unchanging.
  It wasn't the desert winds or sands or
borders, or the local and international players who
made the Middle East their battleground. It was
religion and what people were willing to do for it. Since the
days of the priest-dominated Sumerians who
flourished in southern Mesopotamia in the fifth
millennium BC, people here had been willing to fight
for religion, to slaughter humans and beasts for it,
and also to die for it.
  Rodgers understood that. Roman Catholic
by birth and by choice, he believed in the divinity of
Jesus. And he would kill to defend his right
to worship God and Christ in his own way.
To Rodgers, that was no different from fighting and killing
and bleeding to protect the flag and principles of his
beloved country. To strike a blow for honor. But
he wasn't self-righteous about his faith.
  He would never raise anything but his
voice to try to convert anyone.
  The people here were different. For six thousand years they
had sent millions of people to dozens of afterlifes
populated by hundreds of gods. Nothing was going
to change them. The best Rodgers hoped for by coming here
was to fight a better holding action.
  Seden shifted gears as they climbed a hill.
Rodgers watched the bright headlight as it bobbed across
the dirt road. Unlike the region they'd just
crossed, there were rocks, low scrub, and contours in
the terrain.
  "This road," said Seden, "will take us directly
to--" The colonel's body jerked to the right an
instant before Rodgers heard the gunshot. Seden
fell back and knocked Rodgers from his seat just as the
motorcycle tipped over. Rodgers hit the road
hard and rolled back several feet. Seden managed
to hold on as the bike struggled up the road on its
side for a few yards. It pulled the colonel part
of the way before he slipped off.
  Rodgers's right side burned, his arm and leg
having been torn open by the pebbles in the road. The
motorcycle headlight was pointed back toward them.
Rodgers could see that Seden wasn't moving.
  "Colonel?" Rodgers said.
  Seden didn't answer. Fighting the pain,
Rodgers got his elbow under him and crawled toward the
colonel. He wanted to get the Turk off the
road before a vehicle came over the top and ran
them down. But before Rodgers could reach him he felt
a gun pressed to the back of his neck. He froze
as boots crunched on the road. Rodgers watched
as two men went to examine Se-den.
  The Turk stirred. One man disarmed him and
pulled him off the road while another went and moved
the motorcycle.
  The man behind Rodgers grabbed him by the collar and
pulled him to the side of the road as well.
  They were dragged behind a high, narrow hillock.
  The man pressed the gun back against Rodgers's
neck and said something to him in Arabic. He was not a
Turk.
  "I don't understand," Rodgers said. He showed
no fear in his voice. By their actions, these men
appeared to be guerrilla terrorists. The breed
did not respect cowardice and refused
to negotiate with cowards.
  "American?" asked the man behind him.
  Rodgers turned to look at him. "Yes."
  The man called over someone named
Hasan, who had been checking the motorcycle.
Hasan had a narrow face, very high cheekbones,
deep-set eyes, and curly, shoulder-length black
hair. Hasan was given a command in Arabic.
Acknowleding it, Hasan pulled Rodgers to his
feet. With the gun still at the general's neck, he
began patting him down. Hasan found the general's
wallet in his front pants pocket. He took
Rodgers's passport from one shirt pocket and his
cellular phone from another.
  Rodgers's documents identified him as
Carlton Knight, a member of the environmental
resources department of the American Museum of
Natural History in New York. It was a
coin toss as to whether these men would buy that. Seden's
uniform clearly identified him as a colonel in the
Turkish Security Forces. Rodgers was going to have
to come up with a good reason why he was out here with a TSF
officer.
  Personal safety, Rodgers decided. After
all, hadn't these men just attacked him?
  All other things being equal, Rodgers wasn't
sure whether it was good to be identified as an
American.
  Some Middle Eastern groups wanted the
sympathy of the American public, and murder
didn't get them that.
  Others wanted the support of Arab
extremists, and murdering Americans won them that.
If these were the same people who blew up the dam, there was
no telling what they might do.
  There was only one thing of which Rodgers was certain.
  The motorcycle was obviously the first vehicle
these men had seen--and because of the flooding, it was
probably the only one that would be along. They were
going to have to make this situation work for them.
  Hasan ignited a cigarette lighter and read the
passport.
  "Kuh-ni-git," he said phonetically. He
regarded Rodgers.
  "Why are you out?"
  "I came to Turkey to check on the status of the
Euphrates," Rodgers said. "When the dam came
down, I was rushed to the area. They want my
opinion on the short- and long-term ecological
damage."
  "You came with him?" Hasan asked.
  "Yes," Rodgers said. "The Turks were
worried about my safety."
  Hasan translated for the man behind him,
an angry-eyed soul named Mahmoud. The other man
was tending to Seden's wound.
  Mahmoud said something and Hasan nodded. He
looked at Rodgers. "Where is camp for you?"
Hasan asked.
  "To the west," Rodgers said. "At Gazing
Antep." The ROC was to the southeast, and the general
did not want to lead them there.
  Hasan snickered. "You have not enough gas in this
motorcycle for that ride. Where is camp?"
  "I told you, it's at Gazing Antep,"
Rodgers said. "We left our fuel can at a gas
station on the way. We were supposed to pick it up
on our return." Since Hasan was not a Turk,
Rodgers assumed that he wouldn't know whether or not
there was a gas station in that direction.
  Hasan and Mahmoud spoke. Then Hasan said,
"Give me the telephone number of your camp."
He snapped the phone open under the lighter. He
looked at Rodgers and waited.
  Though Rodgers remained outwardly calm, his
heart and mind began to race. His main objective
was to protect the ROC. If he refused to give
them the number, they would surely suspect he
wasn't who he said he was.
  On the other hand, they knew who Colonel Seden
was and hadn't killed him. So they would probably
hold him as well, at least until they got out of the
country.
  "I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I don't know
the number.
  This phone is for them to call me."
  Hasan stepped closer. He held the lighter
close to Rodgers's chest, the flame burning low
under his chin.
  Slowly, he began to raise the lighter.
  "Are you speaking the truth?" Hasan asked.
  Rodgers forced himself to relax as the heat spread
across the soft flesh of his neck. Everyone who worked
behind the lines in Vietnam was taught the rudiments of
surviving torture. Beatings, burning with lighted
cigarettes, electric current applied
to sensitive areas, standing chin-deep in water for days
on end, and having your arms pulled behind you as you're
hoisted to the top of a pole. All of those were
practiced by the North Vietnamese, and sampled
by Special Forces operatives who went over there.
The key was not to be tense. Tension only tightened the
flesh, stretching the skin cells and exacerbating the
pain. Tension also focused the mind on the
pain. Victims were told to try to count to themselves,
divide the suffering into manageable segments of three
or five seconds. They had to think of making it to the
next plateau rather than to the end.
  Rodgers counted as the heat intensified.
  "The truth," Hasan urged.
  "It is... the truth!" Rodgers said.
  Mahmoud spoke harshly to Hasan. The young man
switched off the flame and sneered at the American.
  Hasan handed Mahmoud the telephone and then
walked over to Colonel Seden.
  The third terrorist was standing behind the Turkish
officer. He held a pistol pointing down at the
top of colonel's head. Seden was sitting up, his
back propped against the terrorist's legs. The
colonel's head had been crudely bandaged with a
sleeve from his jacket. The other sleeve had been
used to make a tourniquet for his bloody right arm.
He was barely conscious.
  Hasan knelt beside Seden. He lit a
cigarette, took a few puffs, then held the
lighted tip to Seden's chin. The dazed Turk
shrieked. Hasan quickly cupped his hand on the
colonel's mouth.
  Hasan said something in Turkish. Seden
shook his head violently. Hasan put the lighted
cigarette to Seden's left earlobe. The Turk
screamed again. He tried to push Hasan's hand
away. The man standing beside him used his free hand to pin
the Turk. Hasan withdrew the cigarette.
  Suddenly, Mahmoud called Hasfin back. The
young man jogged over. There was hurried, quiet
conversation.
  Rodgers tried to turn and see what was going on,
but Mahmoud pushed his face back around with the barrel
of the gun. Vigorously alert because of the seating pain in
his neck, Rodgers listened attentively. He
heard a beep on the cellular phone. Hasan had
pressed a button.
  Why?
  And then with sickening swiftness the answer came
to him. Mahmoud had summoned Hasan, the group's
linguist, to read the English words on the phone. Above
one of the buttons was the word "Redial." The camp
was the last place Rodgers had called. Mahmoud
was calling it back.
  Hasan was standing just a foot away. Rodgers could
hear the phone ringing, and he was numb as he waited
to see who picked up and what they said. Of all the
stupid, goddamn slipups- "Hello?"
  It was Mary Rose. Hasan seemed surprised
to hear a woman's voice, but he said nothing.
Rodgers silently prayed for Mary Rose to hang
up. He was tempted to shout for her to clear the ROC
out, but didn't think they could do it in time. Not if these
three killed him and Seden and went after it.
  "Hello?" she repeated.
  Don't say anything else, Rodgers thought.
Please God, Mary Rose, don't say a word-
"General Rodgers, I can't hear you," she said.
"I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can
I'm going to hang up."
  She did. So did Hasan. With a look of
triumph, he closed the phone and stuffed it back
into Rodgers's shirt pocket. He spoke with the
other two men for a minute.
  Then he glared at Rodgers.
  "General Rodgers," he said. "You are not an
environmentalist, I think. The American
military is working with Turkish Security to find
who? Us, perhaps?" Hasan moved his face closer
until he was practically nose-to-nose with
Rodgers. "So--you have found us. And this person who
answered the phone. She is not in Gazing
An-tep."
  "She is," said Rodgers. "At the police
department there."
  "There are mountainous regions between us and Gazing
Antep," Hasan said disdainfully. "Your
telephone would not have gotten through them. The only
flat lands are to the southeast."
  "This has a satellite uplink," Rodgers
lied. "It goes over mountains."
  The man behind Colonel Seden said something in
Arabic.
  Hasan nodded.
  "He says you're a liar," Hasan hissed.
"This "uplink" requires a plate... a dish.
We do not have time for this.
  We need to get to the Bekka Valley."
  The Arab turned angrily back to Colonel
Seden. The officer was more alert than before and breathing
heavily from his ordeal. Hasan knelt beside him again
and flicked on the lighter. Rodgers could see the
Turk's expression in the light of the flame. It was
defiant, God bless him.
  Hasan asked Seden something in Turkish. The
colonel didn't answer. Hasan jammed disa
handkerchief in his mouth, grabbed a handful of the
officer's hair to hold his head steady, then
put the flame under Seden's nose.
  The colonel kicked roughly at the ground, his
cries muffled by the handkerchief. This time, Hasan
didn't remove the flame. Seden's screams
rose higher and he writhed violently to try and get
away.
  Hasan shut the flame. He removed the
handkerchief from Seden's mouth. He spoke closely
into Seden's ear. The colonel was panting, his legs
and arms trembling.
  Rodgers could tell from his condition that Hasan was
about to "get inside" him. That was the point in
torture when the pain and not the mind was in control of the
body. The will had been broken and the conscious mind was
only concerned with preventing further pain.
  Hasan put the handkerchief back in the
colonel's mouth. He moved the lighter toward
Seden's left eyebrow.
  Seden shut his eye, but Rodgers knew that wouldn't
help.
  The flame burned the hair of his eyebrow and
crept up along his forehead. @ddeden was about to break.
  Rodgers didn't want him to have to live with that
guilt--if either of them survived.
  "Stop!" Rodgers said. "I'll work with
you."
  Hasan removed the flame. He let go of
Seden's hair.
  The Turk folded forward at the waist.
  "What do you want?" Rodgers asked. It was time
to change tactics. He would stop stonewalling and
try to compromise and disinform.
  "At first, General, we wanted you to come as our
hostages," Hasan said. "But now we want something
else."
  Rodgers didn't have to ask what. "I will help
you hide or leave the country," Rodgers said. "But
I won't take you to my camp."
  "We know this land. We can find it without you,"
Hasan said confidently. "But we will not need to.
Your people must have vehicles where they are. You are going
to tell them to come and get you."
  "I don't think so," Rodgers replied.
  Hasan walked toward the general. "If
Mahmoud and I approach your camp in the dark with the
colonel's motorcycle, wearing what is left of
your clothes, do you think we will be stopped?"
  "My people will challenge you, yes."
  "But not before we get very close with our weapons.
  And they will hesitate before firing,"
Hasan said. "We will not hesitate. We cannot."
  Rodgers extrapolated quickly. Firebrand
Private Pupshaw might not hesitate to open
fire at the bike, but Private DeVonne
might. And if Phil Katzen, Lowell Coffey,
or Mary Rose Mohalley were taking the watch
tonight, they might not even be armed. Rodgers couldn't
justify the almost certain loss of life, especially
if these men ended up taking the ROC anyway.
  "What guarantee have I that you won't kill the
colonel and me after I place the call?"
Rodgers asked.
  "We could have killed you already," Hasan replied.
  "We could have telephoned your camp, said "we
found you bleeding and unconscious. They would have come for
you. No, General. The fewer deaths, the better."
  "The more hostages the better, you mean."
  "God is compassionate and merciful," Hasan
said.
  "If you cooperate, then we will follow His
example."
  "Your flood killed innocent people as well as
believers," Rodgers said. "Where was your mercy
then?"
  "The believers have gone to the High
Pavilions of the Lord," Hasan replied. "The
others were content to dwell in our stolen homeland. They
are victims of their own greed."
  "Not their greed," Rodgers said. "The greed of
generations long dead."
  "Nonetheless," said Hasan, "if they continue
to live there, they will continue to die."
  Mahmoud spoke impatiently to Hasan, who
nodded.
  "Mahmoud is correct," Hasan said
to Rodgers. "We have talked enough. It is time
to telephone." He opened the phone and handed it
to Rodgers. "Press only the redial button.
And don't try and warn them. It will only lead
to bloodshed."
  Rodgers looked at the phone. The thought of giving
ground offended him utterly. His heart told him
to crush the damn thing and be done with these three. He
asked himself, What will your people think if you surrender for
them? If you don't give them the chance to fight or
withdraw on their own? But this wasn't a question of them not
having a choice. By resisting he sentenced those people
to death. By surrendering for now, he might be able
to negotiate the release of some of the team or disable the
ROC'S key technologies. At least
that was something.
  Rodgers hesitated as he swallowed the bile of
self-reproach.
  "Quickly!" said Hasan.
  Rodgers looked at the phone. He reached down
slowly and touched redial. He raised the
telephone to his ear, and Hasan leaned close
to listen.
  As he did, Rodgers knew that everything he'd just
told himself was nonsense. No one was going to hand him
a telephone and order him to lead his countrymen into an
ambush.
  Monday, 6:58 p.m., Sanliurfa,
Turkey
  Lowell Coffey II was dozing in the driver's
seat of the ROC when the phone rang. He awoke
with a jolt, fumbled with the phone for a moment before finding the
right button to push, then answered.
  "This is the mobile archaeological research
center," he said.
  "Benedict, it's Carlton Kuhnigit."
  Lowell wasn't fully awake. But he was
awake enough to recognize Mike Rodgers's voice
and to know that his own name wasn't Benedict. In
fact, the only Benedict he knew of was
Benedict Arnold the traitor, who'd plotted
to surrender West Point to the British during the
American Revolution. Since Mike Rodgers
had zero sense of humor, there had to be a reason
he'd referred to him as Benedict. There also had
to be a reason that Rodgers had intentionally
mispronounced the name of his Carlton Knight
pseudonym.
  All of this the attorney considered in the instant it
took him to reply with a jaunty, "Hi there, Mr.
Kuhnigit."
  At the same time Coffey pressed the record
button on the top of the phone cradle. Then he
opened the driver's side window and snapped his
fingers. Phil Katzen and Mary Rose were eating a
chicken they'd bought in the market that morning and had
cooked over a campfire.
  Coffey pointed to them and indicated that they should come
in quickly but quietly. They put their paper plates
down and hurried over. "How are things going?"
Coffey asked.
  "Not so well," Rodgers said. "Benny, the
colonel and I had this damn accident out here."
  "Are you okay?"
  "More or less," Rodgers said. "But
I want you to tell Captain John Hawkins
to pack up and get out here as soon as possible."
  Katzen and Mary Rose rushed in.
  "I'll tell Captain John Hawkins to do
that," Coffey replied. The attorney looked at
Mary Rose. He pointed to the computer and wriggled
his fingers as though he were typing.
  Mary Rose gave him a thumbs-up "got-it"
and sat down at the keyboard. She typed in the name.
  "Where are you?" Coffey asked. Not that he needed
Rodgers to tell him. Coffey would let Mary
Rose and the ROC do that. But he wanted to give
Rodgers the opportunity to talk, to pass along
any other information.
  "Have you got map Three P-as-in-perps
handy?"
  Rodgers asked.
  "Right here," Coffey said. "Just let me open it
up."
  His mind was speeding. Someone who understood English
was obviously listening in, but not someone who spoke
colloquial English or knew American
history.
  Otherwise, that person would have known that perps meant
perpetrators. The person also would have known
who Benedict Arnold was.
  So what's he saying? Coffey asked himself. Was
Ben edict Arnold Colonel Seden? Or did
Mike mean that he was being forced to betray the ROC?
In any case, there was treason afoot and three people
were holding him.
  "Ready with the map," Coffey lied.
  "Okay," Rodgers said. "We're off the road
about a quarter mile after the dirt road begins.
There's a hill on the east side of the first rise.
See it?"
  "Sure do," Coffey replied.
  "I'll be waiting for you there."
  "You need any medical supplies?" Coffey
asked.
  "Just a couple of bandages. Also a shot of
whiskey for the colonel. I think you better hurry,
okay?"
  Coffey knew that Rodgers didn't drink. He
was guessing that someone had been shot. "I understand,
Carlton.
  We'll be there ASAP." Coffey hesitated.
"Are you sure you'll be all right until we get
there?"
  "I think I'll live, Benny,"
Rodgers replied.
  Coffey hung up and walked toward Katzen.
"Okay," he said gravely, "what I got from this
is that Mike and the colonel have been caught by three
people. They don't speak English very well.
Apparently they read his Carlton Knight ID and
called him Kuhnigit. Sounds like Seden was shot and
Mike was forced to call us. And since Mike isn't
a swearing man, I'm guessing he mentioned the
'damn" accident for a very specific reason
reason."
  "Like he stumbled on the guys who blew up the
Ata-turk," said Katzen, who was standing behind Mary
Rose.
  "Or they stumbled upon him," Coffey said.
  "Here," Mary Rose said. "Captain John
Hawkins.
  According to the database, Hawkins was an English
sailor who was ambushed by the Spanish in Vera
Cruz in 1568."
  Katzen shook his head slowly. "Only Mike
Rodgers would know something like that."
  Coffey had slipped into Mike Rodgers's
seat. He called Op-Center on the secure line
built into the computer.
  "Mary Rose," he said, "Mike told me
he's about a quarter mile up the dirt road. Can
we get a closer look at that?"
  "Right away," she said. It took just over a
second to bring up a map of the region. "They were
going across the desert to the plains, which puts them
right... here."
  She zeroed in on the region where the road began.
"Do you have any other information?"
  "Yes," Coffey said. "He said that they were at a
hill on the east side of the first rise."
  "I see it," she said. She called up the
computer-simulated relief map. "That's
north-south coordinate E, east-west
coordinate H. I'll contact the NRO. See
if they can get us visuals."
  "I'm going to brief Privates Pupshaw and
DeVonne in case we have to move out," Katzen
said.
  Coffey nodded as the seal of the National Crisis
Management Center appeared on the screen--the
organization's formal name, though no one at
Op-Center ever used it. He typed in his personal
access code, and a menu appeared offering all the
different departments.
  Coffey selected Office of the Director. A
prompt appeared asking him to input the full name of the
person with whom he wished to speak, surname first. This
procedure helped to screen crank calls from
hackers who managed to get this far into the program.
  Hood, PaulDavid A computerized voice
told him to wait a moment.
  Almost at once, Bugs Benet's face filled
the screen.
  "Good afternoon, Mr. Coffey," Benet said.
  "Bugs, we've got a major situation here,"
Coffey said. "I need to talk to Paul."
  "I'll tell him," Benet said.
  Hood was on the secure digital uplink within
seconds.
  "Lowell, what's up?" he asked.
  "Paul, we just heard from Mike out in the
field," Coffey said. "From the sound of things, he
found the terrorists he was searching for. And it looks
like they've got him and the TSF colonel as their
prisoners."
  "Hold on," Hood said. His expression
darkened and his voice had dropped considerably.
"Let me bring Bob "Herbert in on this."
  A few seconds later the screen
split down the middle.
  Hood was on the left side, Herbert on the
right. The intelligence chief's thinning hair was
disheveled. He looked even grimmer than
Hood.
  "Talk to me, Lowell," Herbert said. "Do you
have any idea what these bastards want?"
  "Not a clue," Coffey said. "All we're
supposed to do is go out there and get Mike and the
TSF officer who went with him."
  "Out where?" Herbert asked.
  "Into the plains," Coffey said.
  "Now?" Herbert asked.
  "Immediately," Coffey replied. "Mike was
pretty explicit about us leaving at once."
  "Meaning the guys who are holding them must need a
lift out of the area," Herbert said, "possibly out
of the country. Maybe that chopper they had was too hot
to keep flying."
  "Where are they located?" Hood asked.
  "About a ninety-minute drive north of here,"
Coffey said. "Mary Rose is in touch with the NRO
to try and get some precise visuals."
  "Did Mike put a time limit on how long it
should take you to get there?" Herbert asked.
  "No," Coffey said.
  "Did the captives make any other demands?"
Hood asked. "Do you have to bring the ROC?"
  "No," Coffey said.
  "Is there any indication that they even know about the
ROC?" Herbert asked.
  "None," said Coffey.
  "At least that's something," Hood said.
  "Excuse me," Mary Rose said, turning
around. "Stephen Viens says he can give us an
infrared photo in about two or three minutes.
He's still got the 30-45-3 in the neighborhood."
  "Bless him," Coffey said. "Paul, Bob,
did you hear that?"
  "I heard," said Hood.
  "Lowell, did Mike say anything else?"
Herbert asked.
  "Not much," said Coffey. "He didn't seem
to be in pain or under duress. He passed all the
information along calmly, using oblique references
to Benedict Arnold and some old English sea
captain who we found out was ambushed. It was clear
he was trying to tell us that he was being forced to say what
he was saying and that we'd better watch out."
  "These jerks'll want hostages,"
Herbert said. "If we don't fire, chances are
they won't either."
  "Are you saying that we should give them a ride?"
  Hood asked.
  "I'm just giving you the facts," Herbert said.
"If it were up to me I'd shoot the bastards dead.
Fortunately, it isn't up to me."
  "Are Privates Pupshaw and DeVonne
ready to go out?" Hood asked.
  "They were eating when the call came in," Coffey
said. "Phil is briefing them now. What do we do
about the Turkish government? The TSF will be calling
when their man doesn't check in."
  "You negotiated our way in there," Hood said.
  "What are we obliged to tell them?"
  "Depends what we decide to do," Coffey said.
"If we start shooting we'll be in violation of about
twenty different international codes. If we kill
anyone, we're in deep doo. If it's a
Turk, we're in very deep doo."
  "What if we shoot the terrorists who blew up
the dam?" Hood asked.
  "If we can prove it, and let the TSF share
credit, then we'll probably be heroes,"
Coffey said.
  "I'll have Martha get in touch with them," Hood
said. "She can brief them and ask them to lay low."
  "Lowell," Herbert said, "Mike didn't
promise them a certain kind of transportation."
  "Not as far as I know."
  "Which means if you go out there with the ROC," Herbert
continued, "we can follow you even il" we don't have
satellite imaging. I can listen in through the
computer."
  "Negative," said Katzen. "I think Mary
Rose should lobotomize the hardware."
  "I disagree," Herbert said. "That'll leave you
defense-was
  "Picture about to come in!" Mary Rose said.
"NRO should be downloading it to you as well,
Paul."
  In exactly .8955 seconds, the monitors
filled with the same green-tinted photograph showing the
site described by Rodgers. Op-Center and the
ROC were still voice-linked.
  "There they are," Herbert said.
  Rodgers was sitting against the motorcycle. It
looked as if his hands were tied to the handlebars. His
feet were also bound. The TSF officer was lying on his
belly, his hands lashed behind him. A third
man was sitting on the side of the hill, smoking.
There was a submachine gun in his lap.
  "They're still alive," Hood said. "Thank
God for that."
  Katzen, Private Pupshaw, and Private
DeVonne entered then. They stood between the two
stations and had a look at the photograph.
  Coffey leaned toward the screen. "I only see
three people."
  "Maybe Mike meant that there were only three people
altogether," Hood suggested.
  "No," Coffey said. "He told me there were
three perps. I can play back the tape if you
want, but that's what he said."
  "The other two could be out on stakeout," Herbert
said. "It would make sense for them to have gone ahead and
see who comes in. Make sure Mike didn't
send for the cavalry or something."
  "Even if they're out watching the road," Hood
said, "we've got two Strikers they may not know
about. If the captors think that Mike was a
run-of-the-mill spook, they may not expect an
armed escort to come for him.
  Especially one that knows exactly what they're
riding into."
  "Which brings us back to whether you take the ROC,"
Herbert said. "I still think you should leave everything
active. Paul?"
  Hood thought for a moment. "Phil, you're against
it."
  "If anything happens to us, we'd be giving them the
key to the candy store," Katzen said.
  "Lowell?" Hood asked.
  "Legally, Paul, we might have problems,"
Coffey said. "Our geographical playing field
was pretty carefully delineated to both the Turks and
Congress."
  "Jesus!" Herbert yelled. "Mike's being
held hostage and you're talking about our legal
limitations!"
  "There's something else," Katzen said. "The
Strikers.
  If someone's watching the van, they may see them.
  If we dismantle some of the equipment, we can
hide them in the battery compartment."
  "The battery compartment," Herbert said.
"Privates, how do you feel about that?"
  "I like it, sir," Pupshaw said. "We go in
completely unseen."
  Hood asked if everyone was finished with the
photograph.
  They were. He had the face-to-face visuals
restored.
  "Okay," Hood said. "We go in and we take
the lo-botomized ROC. Who runs the operation?"
  "We can't call it a military rescue,"
Coffey said.
  "We need Congressional approval for that and
it'll never come in time. So on the books at least it
has to be a civilian operation."
  "Agreed," said Hood. "The Strikers
dress-down, weapons handy but hidden. Who runs the
operation?"
  No one answered. Coffey looked at the three
faces on the green-lit screen. "I guess
I'm elected," he said unenthusiastically.
  "I've got seniority."
  "By two days over Phil," Herbert said.
"Shit, Lowell, you've never fired a gun. At
least Phil has."
  "To scare away nesting harp seals," Coffey
said.
  "He never shot at anybody. That makes us
both virgins."
  "Not me," said Mary Rose. "When I
was at Columbia I shot once a week at a
pistol club on Murray Street in
Manhattan. And I once pulled a gun on an
intruder who busted into my dorm room. I don't
care who goes and who runs this, but I'm going with
them."
  "Thanks, M.r.," Hood said. "Phil, you
did lead some pseudo-military Greenpeace
escapades, didn't you?"
  "Very pseudo." Katzen grinned. "Shotguns with
blanks. I did three in Washington State,
two in Florida, two in Canada."
  "You feel up to running this?"
  "If it has to be done, I'll do it."
  "That isn't what I wanted to hear," Hood
snapped.
  "Can you take command of this operation?"
  Katzen flushed. "Yes," he said. He looked
at the determined faces of Mary Rose and the two
Strikers.
  "Hell, yes, I can do it."
  "Good," Hood said. "Lowell, I'd prefer it
if you stayed behind. Whatever happens, somebody's
going to have to be on-site to smooth things with the Turkish
government. You're the best man for that
job."
  "I won't try to change your mind," Lowell
said. He looked at his companions and then looked
down. Even though he'd offered to go and been ordered
to stay, he felt like a coward. "But in fairness to the
mission, let's see how things look when we're
ready to roll."
  "All right," Hood said. "It'll be your
call."
  "Thanks ever so much." Coffey frowned.
  "You realize, Paul," Herbert said, "that
by running even a civilian operation covertly, both
Turkey and Congress will be up our butts for a very
long. time. And that's just if things go right. If they go
wrong, we'll all be making license plates for the
government."
  "I understand," Hood said. "But getting Mike out
is my only concern."
  "And there's something else," Herbert said. "Our
sources in Ankara tell us that the Turkish
Presidential Council and Cabinet are meeting
now to mobilize the military. They want to prevent
any further attacks. The ROC may run into some
pretty skittish patrols."
  "Once we pull the batteries we'll
be limited to eyes and ears," Katzen said. "But
we'll keep them open."
  "I'll see if Viens can keep a satellite
eye on things too," Herbert said.
  "Thanks, all of you," Hood said. "Now if
you'll excuse me, I'm going to phone Senator
Fox so she doesn't find out about it from someone in the
Ankara bureau of the Washington Post."
  Hood clicked off. After saying that he was going
to find out what other intelligence agencies had on the
dam attack, Herbert also excused himself.
  When the ROC team was alone, Katzen rubbed his
hands together.
  "All right, then," he said. "Mary Rose, would
you kindly print out the map? You're going to drive.
Sondra, Walter--we three are going to have a
strategy session with input from the NRO." He
turned and offered Coffey his hand. "As for you, wish us
luck and then go finish my chicken for me."
  Coffey looked at the four and smiled. "Good
luck,"
  he said. "You're really, really going to need it."
  "Why is that?" Katzen said.
  "Because I can deal with the Turks just as well
by phone." He took a long, anxious
breath. "I'm coming with you."
  Monday, 12:01 p.m., Washington, D.c.
  Paul Hood was preoccupied with Mike
Rodgers's plight when he received a call from
Deputy Chief of Staff Stephanie Klaw at
the White House. Hood was being ordered to report
to the Situation Room by one o'clock to discuss the crisis
on the Euphrates. He left at once, telling
his assistant Bugs Benet to notify him immediately
if there were any developments in Turkey. In the
absence of both Hood and Mike Rodgers, Martha
Mackall would be in charge of Op-Center. Bob
Herbert wouldn't be happy about that. She was the kind of
career politician he disliked and distrusted. But
he'd have to live with it. Martha knew her way around
the corridors of power both domestically and
abroad.
  At this time of day it would take an hour for him
to drive from Op-Center headquarters at Andrews
Air Force Base to the White House.
Op-Center usually had a helicopter at its
disposal for quick, fifteen minute trips into the
capital. However, there had been trouble with the rotor
heads in other Sikorsky CH53Every Super
Stallions and the entire government fleet
had been grounded. That was fine with Hood. He
preferred to drive.
  Hood hopped right onto Pennsylvania
Avenue, which was located just a short distance northeast
of the base.
  Though most government officials had private
cars and drivers to take them around the city, Hood
scwashed the privilege. He'd also refused it when
he was Mayor of Los Angeles. The idea of
being chauffeured was just too ostentatious for him.
Security didn't concern Hood. No one wanted
to kill him. Or if they did, he'd rather have someone
try to do him harm instead of going after his wife or children
or mother. Besides, driving himself, he could still conduct
business by phone. He also had the opportunity
to listen to music and think. And what he was thinking about
now was Mike Rodgers.
  Hood and his second-in-command were very different
types of men. Mike was a benevolent autocrat.
Hood was a thinking-man's bureaucrat. Mike was
a career soldier.
  Hood had never even fired a gun. Mike was a
fighter by nature. Hood was a diplomat
by temperament.
  Mike quoted Lord Byron and Erich
Fromm and William Tecumseh Sherman.
Hood occasionally remembered lyrics from Hal
David and Alfred E. Neuman's quotes from his
son's copies of Mad magazine. Mike was an
intense introvert. Hood was a guarded extrovert.
The two men often disagreed, sometimes passionately.
But it was because they disagreed, it was because Mike
Rodgers had the courage to say what was on his mind,
that Hood trusted and respected him. Hood also
liked the man. He truly did.
  Hood maneuvered patiently through the thick
lunchtime traffic. His suit jacket was folded
across the seat and his cellular phone lay on top of
it. He wanted it to ring. God, how he wanted
to know what was going on.
  At the same time, he dreaded finding out.
  Hood stayed in his lane in the slow-moving
traffic.
  As he did, he ruminated over the fact that death
was an inescapable part of intelligence work. This was
something Bob Herbert had pounded into him during the
early days of Op-Center. Undercover operatives
in domestic as well as foreign situations were
frequently discovered, tortured, and killed. And
sometimes the reverse was true.
  Often, operatives had to kill to keep from being
discovered.
  Then there was Striker, the military wing of
Op-Center.
  Elite teams lost members on secret
missions. Op-Center's own Striker had lost two
so far. Bass Moore in North Korea and
Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires in
Russia. Sometimes officers were murdered at home
and sometimes they were ambushed abroad. Hood's own
life had been in jeopardy recently when he and
French undercover operatives had helped to break up
a ring of neo-Nazis in Europe.
  But while death was an understood risk, it was
brutal on the survivors. Several Strikers had
suffered serious reactive depression due to the death
of Commander Squires. For several weeks they had
been unable to perform even simple duties. Not
only had the survivors shared the lives and dreams
of their dead coworkers, they also felt that they'd failed
the victims in some way.
  Was the intelligence as reliable as it should have been?
  were our backup plans and exit strategy
sufficiently well thought out? Did we take
reasonable precautions? Merciless,
unforgiving guilt was also the price of doing business.
  Hood reached the White House at exactly
12:55, though it took him a few minutes to park
and get through the security check. Upon finally being
admitted, he was met by the slender, gray-haired
Stephanie Klaw. Side by side, they walked
briskly down the corridor.
  "They've just started the meeting," Stephanie said,
her voice as soft as the green carpet underfoot.
"I gather, Mr. Hood, that you're still motoring
around Washington by yourself?."
  "You really ought to get a driver," she said. "I
assure you, the General Accounting Office will not think
that you're taking advantage of your position."
  "You know I don't believe in them, Mrs.
Klaw."
  "I am very much aware of that," she said. "And part of
me thinks that's charming. But you know, Mr. Hood,
those drivers know the traffic patterns and how
to maneuver through them. They also have these really loud
sirens to help them get around. Besides, using drivers
helps keep the unemployment statistics down. And
we like it here when those figures look good."
  Hood looked at her. The handsome, wrinkled
face was deadpan. He could tell that
Mrs. Klaw wasn't making fun of him, but of
everyone else who took government limousines.
  "How would you like to become my driver?" he asked.
  "No, thank you," she replied. "I'm Type
A when I get behind a wheel. I'd abuse the
siren."
  Paul smiled slightly. "Mrs. Klaw,
you've been the one bright spot in my morning.
Thanks."
  "You're welcome," she said. "Your lack of
pretension is always a bright spot in mine."
  They stopped at an elevator. Mrs. Klaw
wore a card on a chain around her neck. It had a
magnetic stripe on the back and a photo ID
on the front. She inserted it into a slot to the left
of the door. The door opened and Hood stepped in.
Mrs. Klaw leaned in and pressed a red button.
The button read her thumbprint and turned green.
  She kept her finger on the button.
  "Please don't make the President cross,"
she said.
  "I'll try not to."
  "And do your best to keep the others from fighting with
Mr. Burkow," she added. "He's in a mood
over all of this and you know how that affects the
President."
  She leaned closer to Hood. "He's got
to defend his man."
  "I'm all for loyalty," Hood said
noncommittally as she lifted her thumb and the door
shut. The ultra-hawkish National Security
Advisor was not an easy man with whom to keep the
peace.
  The only noise in the wood-paneled elevator
was the soft whir of the ceiling ventilator. Hood
turned his face up to the cool air. After a quick
ride he reached the White House sublevel. This
was the technological heart of the White House where
conferences were held and grounds security was maintained.
The door opened on a small office. An armed
Marine was waiting for him.
  Hood presented his ID to the guard. After
examining it, the Marine thanked him and stepped
aside. Hood walked over to the room's only
other occupant, the President's Executive
Secretary. She was seated at a small desk
outside the Situation Room. She E-mailed the
President that Hood had arrived, and he was told
to go right in.
  The brightly lighted Situation Room
consisted of a long mahogany table in the center with
comfortable leather-cushioned chairs around it. There was a
new STU-5 secure phone, a pitcher of water,
and a computer monitor at each station, with slide-out
keyboards underneath.
  On the walls were detailed video maps showing the
location of U.s. and foreign troops, as well as
flags indicating trouble spots. Red flags marked
present armed conflict, while green flags marked
latent danger spots.
  Hood noticed that there was already a red flag on the
Turkey-Syria border. Tucked in the far
corner of the room was a table with two male
secretaries. One took minutes on a
Powerbook. The other sat by a computer and was
responsible for bringing up any maps or data which
might be required.
  The heavy, six-paneled door clicked shut
by itself.
  Above the highly polished table, two gold
ceiling fans with brown blades turned slowly.
Hood gave a general nod to everyone around the table
as he arrived, saving a fast smile for his friend
Secretary of State Av Lincoln.
  Lincoln winked back. Then Hood
nodded directly at President Michael
Lawrence.
  "Good afternoon, sir," Hood said.
  "Afternoon, Paul," the tall former Minnesota
Governor said. "Av was just bringing us up to date."
  The President was clearly in a high-energy
state. During his three years in office, the
President had not enjoyed any headline-making
foreign policy successes.
  Though that would not be enough to lose him the next
election, he was a born competitor who was
frustrated at not having found the right combination of
military strength, economic muscle, and charisma
to dominate international affairs.
  "Before you continue, Av," the President said,
holding up a hand, "Paul--what's the latest on
General Rodgers?"
  "There's been no change in the situation," Hood
said as he made his way to the empty leather chair in
the middle of the table. "The Regional Op-Center
is headed deeper into Turkey, to the spot from which
General Rodgers telephoned." He glanced at
his watch. "They should be arriving within the half hour."
  "Will the ROC mount a rescue attempt?"
asked National Security Advisor
Burkow.
  Hood sat down. "We're empowered
to evacuate our personnel from unstable situations,"
he said carefully.
  "However, we have no idea whether that's feasible at
this point."
  "Anything's feasible if you want to pay the
price," Burkow remarked. "Your people are
authorized to use deadly force to rescue hostages.
We've got thirty-seven hundred troops at the
Incirlik Air-Base, which is right around the
corner."
  "There are two Strikers onboard," Hood
replied.
  "But as I said, I have no idea what's feasible
at this point."
  "I want to be notified personally of any
developments," the President said, "wherever you
are."
  "Of course, sir," Hood said. He wondered
what the President meant by that last comment.
  "Av," the President went on, "would you please
continue your briefing?"
  "Yes, sir," said Secretary of State Av
Lincoln.
  The powerfully built former major league
baseball star looked at his notepad. He had
made a successful transition into politics, and
had been one of the earliest supporters of the candidacy
of Michael Lawrence. He was one of the few
insiders Paul Hood trusted completely.
  "Paul," said Lincoln, "I was just telling the
others about the Turkish mobilization. My office
has been in constant contact with Ambassador
Robert Macaluso at our embassy in Ankara,
as well as with the U.s. Consulates General in
Istanbul and Izmir and the consulate in Adana.
We've also been talking with Ambassador Kande
at the Turkish Chancery in Washington. All of
them have confirmed the following information.
  "At 12:30 p.m. our time, Turkey
mobilized over a half-million men in their Land
Forces and Air Force and put one hundred thousand
men on high alert in the Naval Forces, which
includes the Naval Air and Naval Infantry
. That's nearly all of their total military
power."
  "Including reserves?" the President asked.
  "No, sir," said Defense Secretary
Colon. "They can dig up another
,twenty thousand troops if they have to, then dip
into the nineteen-to-forty-nine-year-old work force for
another fifty thousand trainees if necessary."
  "We've been told that the land and air forces are
going to take up positions down the Euphrates and
along the Syrian border," Lincoln went on.
"The sea forces are being concentrated on the Aegean
and the Mediterranean.
  We've been assured by Ankara that the naval
troops in the Mediterranean will go no further south
than the southern tip of the Gulf of Alexandretta."
  Hood looked at the map on his computer screen.
The gulf ended about twenty-five miles north of
Syria.
  "The Turkish forces in the Aegean are to make
sure the Greeks stay out of this," Lincoln said.
"We haven't heard anything definitive yet from
Damascus, though the President, his three Vice
Presidents, and the Council of Ministers are
meeting right now. Ambassador Moualem at the
chancery here in Washington says there will be an
appropriate response from Syria."
  "Meaning."?" asked the President.
  "Some kind of mobilization," said General Ken
Van-zandt, Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff. "Syria's got its highest
concentration of soldiers in bases along the
Orontes in the west, along the Euphrates in
central Syria, and in the east near the Iraqi and
Turkish borders.
  The Syrian President will probably send
half of those troops north, maybe one hundred
thousand troops."
  "How far north will they go'?" the President
asked.
  "All the way," said Vanzandt. "To within slingshot
distance of Turkey. Since losing the Golan
Heights to Israel in 1967, the Syrians have
been pretty aggressive about defending their
territory."
  "It's interesting that Turkey mobilized nearly
six hundred thousand men," said Secretary of
Defense Ernie Colon. "That's almost three times
the total manpower available to the Syrian Army,
the Syrian Navy, the Syrian Air Force, and the
Syrian Air Defense Forces combined.
  Turkey's obviously saying, "We'll take
you on one-to-one. And if any other nations join
in, we've got something left over for them too.""
  "That sounds good on the surface," said
General Vanzandt. "But the Turks are facing a
big problem.
  They have to fight this kind of terrorism, that's a
given.
  But even if the Syrian military weren't a
factor, a Turkish attack against the Kurds is
a dangerous proposition.
  We know that the Kurds have been trying to smooth out
their differences. Whether they caused the dam attack
or not, it's certain to encourage and solidify the
different Kurdish elements. A counterattack
by Turkey will inspire million Kurds among
Turkey's fifty-nine million people, and they're
ready to blow."
  "Who can blame them?" asked Lincoln.
"They've been shot at, gassed in their homes, and
executed without trials."
  "Hold it right there, Av," said Burkow. "Many
of those Kurds are terrorists."
  "And many are not," Lincoln replied.
  Burkow ignored him. "Larry, what was that
business in the Syrian Navy last month?"
  CIA director Larry Rachlin folded his
hands on the table. "The Syrians did an A-one
job keeping this out of the press," he said,
"but a Kurdish mole assassinated a general and
two aides. When the mole was captured, another
Kurdish mole took the general's wife and two
daughters hostage and demanded his release. Instead,
they sent him his colleague's head. Literally. There
was a rescue attempt. By the time it was finished, the
general's wife, daughters, and the second Kurd were
dead along with two Syrian rescuers."
  "If it's the Turks who are terrorizing the
Kurds," said the President, "why did this mole
turn on the Syrians?"
  "Because," said Rachlin, "the Syrian President
has come to the conclusion, correctly, that his armed
forces are full of Kurdish moles. Some of them in
very high places. He's vowed to flush them all out."
  Lincoln sat back with disgust. "Steve,
Larry, what's the point of all this?"
  "The point is that we can't start bleeding all over
for the Kurds," Burkow said. "We've been good
to them in the past. But they're becoming increasingly
militant, they're ruthless, and they've got
God-knows-how-many moles in the Turkish military
as well. If we get mixed up in this those
Turkish moles may start turning on NATO
assets."
  "Actually, things could be a whole lot worse
than that," Vanzandt said. "The Kurds have a lot of
sympathizers among the Islamic fundamentalist
parties in Turkey. Individually or together, those
Kurds and their sympathizers could very well take
advantage of the confusion of war to try and throw out the
secular rulers in both governments."
  "Out of chaos comes more chaos," Lincoln said.
  "You got it," said Vanzandt. "Out with flawed
democracy, in with religious oppression."
  "Out with the U.s.," Defense Secretary
Colon said.
  "Out isn't the word for it," CIA Director
Rachlin added. "Steve's right on the money.
They'll start hunting us down not only in Turkey
but in Greece. Remember all those Afghan
freedom fighters we helped to arm and train to fight
the Soviets? A lot of those people have thrown in with the
Islamic fundamentalists. Many of them are being
directed by Sheik Safar alAwdah, a Syrian
who is one of the most radical clerics in the
region."
  "God, I'd like to see someone drop-kick that
son of a bitch," Steve Burkow said. "His
radio speeches have sent a lot of people on
one-way bus trips into Israel with bombs tied
to their legs."
  "His following in Turkey and Saudi Arabia
in particular are very strong," Rachlin went on, "and
it's gotten stronger in Turkey since Islamic
Party Leader Necmettin Erbakan became
Prime Minister of Turkey in the summer of
1996. Ironically, not all of the radicalism
has to do with religion. Some of it has to do with the
economy.
  In the 1980's, when Turkey went from being a
relatively closed market to being a global one,
only a handful of people got rich. The rest stayed
poor or got poorer.
  Those kinds of people are easy converts to anything
new."
  "The fundamentalists and the big urban underclass
are natural allies," said Av Lincoln.
"Both are minorities and both want things the
wealthy, secular leaders have."
  "Larry," the President said, "you mentioned
Saudi Arabia. What will the rest of the region do
if things escalate between Turkey and Syria?"
  "Israel is the big question," said Rachlin. "They
take their military cooperation agreement with
Turkey very, very seriously. Israel's been flying
training missions out of Akinci Air Base west of
Ankara for two years now.
  They've also been slowly upgrading Turkey's
164 Phantom F-4's to the more sophisticated
Phantom 2000's."
  "Mind you," Colon pointed out, "Israel
didn't just do that out of the goodness of their hearts. They were
paid six hundred million dollars to do that."
  "That's right," Rachlin agreed. "But in the event
of war, Israel will still continue to provide spare
parts, possibly ammunition, and certainly
intelligence to Turkey.
  It's the same kind of arrangement Israel
signed with Jordan back in 1994. There will
probably be no direct military intervention
unless Israel is attacked. However, if
Israel permits Turkey to fly from its
territory for a two-sided slam at Syria, you can
be pretty sure that Damascus will attack
Israel."
  "For the record," said Vanzandt, "that 'bracketing
the enemy" idea works both ways. Syria and
Greece have been talking about forging a military
relationship so that either of them could hit
Turkey from two directions."
  "Talk about a marriage made in Hell," said
Lincoln.
  "Greece and Syria have virtually no other
common ground."
  "Which should tell you how much they both hate
Turkey," Burkow pointed out.
  "What about the other nations in the region?" asked
the President.
  "Iran will certainly intensify efforts
to promote their puppet parties in Ankara,"
Colon said, "calling for general strikes and
marches, but they'll stay out of this militarily.
  They don't need to become involved."
  "Unless Armenia gets pulled in," Lincoln
said.
  "Right," said Colon, "which we'll get to in a
second.
  Iraq will almost certainly use the excuse of
troop movements to attack Kurds operating on
their border with Syria. And once Iraq is
mobilized, there's always the possibility that they'll
do something to provoke Kuwait or Saudi Arabia
or even their old enemy Iran. But as Av said, the
big question we have is about Armenia."
  The Secretary of State nodded. "Armenia is
almost entirely Armenian Orthodox. If the
government there fears that Turkey is going to go
Islamic, they may have no choice but to jump
into any conflict to protect their own border. If that
happens, Azerbaijan, which is mostly Muslim,
will almost certainly use that as an excuse to try and
reclaim the Nagorno-Karabakh region, which they
lost to Armenia in skirmishes in 1994."
  "And which Turkey has publicly stated belongs
to Azerbaijan," Colon said. "That creates tension
within Turkey for those who support their religious
brethren in Armenia. On top of everything else,
we could have civil war in Turkey over events in
two neighboring countries."
  "This might be a good time to push the expansion of
NATO," Lincoln pointed out. "Bring Poland,
Hungary, and the Czech Republic into the fold
to keep them stabilized.
  Use them as a breakwater."
  "We'll never be able to make that happen in time,"
Burkow said.
  Lincoln smiled. "Then it's best to start right
away."
  The President shook his head. "Av,
I don't want us distracted by that now. Those
countries will side with us and we'll support them.
My concern is stopping this situation before it gets that
far."
  "Fine," Lincoln said, raising his hands
slightly. "Just a precaution."
  Hood looked at the new map which the Situation
Room secretary had just put up on the screens.
Armenia was situated with Turkey on its western
border and Azerbaijan to the east. The
Nagorno-Karabakh region in Azerbaijan was
claimed by both Armenia and Azerbaijan.
  "Obviously," said Lincoln, "the greatest
danger isn't that Azerbaijan and Aremenia will go
to war. The two of them put together are about half the
size of Texas with a combined population of Greater
Los Angeles. The danger is that Iran,
located directly below them, and Russia,
situated directly above them, will start moving
troops to protect their own borders. Iran would
love to get their hands on that region. It's rich in
oil, natural gas, copper,. farmland, and other
resources. And the hard-liners in Russia would love
to get it back."
  "There are also devout Christians in
Armenia," said Vanzandt, "and Iran would love
to clean them out.
  Without Armenia to serve as a counterbalance to the
mostly Muslim population of Azerbaijan, the
entire region becomes a de facto part of
Islamic Iran."
  "Maybe," said Lincoln. "There are other hair
triggers as well. For example, the fifteen
million Azeris in the northern provinces of
Iran. If they decide to secede, Iran will
fight to hold them. And the five million ethnic
Caucasians in Turkey will surely fight with their
Iranian kin. That puts Iran and Turkey at
war with one another.
  And if the Caucasians fight for independence,
chances are good the North Caucasus will be ripped
apart by other groups looking to resolve ages-old
strife. The Os-setians and Ingush, the
Ossetians and the Georgians, the Abkhazians
and the Georgians, the Checkens and the Cossacks, the
Chechens and the Laks, the Azeris and the Lezgins."
  "What's frustrating," said Colon, "is that
both Bob Herbert's team at Op-Center and
Grady Reynolds's team at the CIA agree
with my own people. Damascus probably had
nothing to do with blowing up the dam. They'd have to be
insane to cut off more than half their own water
supply."
  "Maybe they want to generate international
sympathy," Burkow said. "Videos and
photographs of thirsty babies and dying old people
would give Syria an instant image-remake. It
would help to turn United States sympathy and
foreign aid away from Turkey and Israel to them."
  "It would also cause the much larger and better-armed
Turkish Army to come marching down their throats,"
Colon replied. "This dam incident is an act
of war. In such a war, the U.s. military and our
financial institutions would be obliged by NATO
treaty to support Turkey. Israel would also
support the Turks, especially if it gave them
a chance to hit Syria."
  "Only if Syria rises to the challenge of
war," Burkow said. "Turkey might mass an
army on the Syrian border.
  So might Syria. But if Syria chooses not
to reply, there'll be no war."
  "And the Arab world would consider them dishonored,"
Colon said. "No, Steve, that's just too
Machiavellian.
  This makes more sense if it's the work of Syrian
Kurds."
  "Why would the Kurds seek to cause an
international confrontation?" asked the President.
"They've been desperate enough to attack host nations.
But would they do something on this scale?"
  "We've been expecting the different Kurdish
nationals to unite for some time," said Larry Rachlin.
"Otherwise, they run the risk of getting picked
off separately.
  This could be that unification."
  "Kurdistan in diaspora," said Lincoln.
  "Exactly," said Rachlin.
  "The truth is, Steve," said Lincoln,
"General Van-zandt is right to worry about what the
Kurds might do.
  As things stand, they're among the most persecuted people
on Earth. Distributed throughout Turkey, Syria,
and letteraq, they're actively oppressed by all
three governments.
  Until 1991, they weren't even allowed to use
their own language in Turkey. Under pressure from
the other NATO nations, Ankara reluctantly
granted them that but no more. Over twenty thousand
Turks have been killed since the rebels
started fighting for sovereignty in 1984, and the
Kurds are still banned from forming groups of any
sort. I'm not just talking about political parties,
but even choral clubs or literary societies.
If there were a war, the Kurds would inevitably be
part of the fighting, and then they'd also be part of the peace
process. It's the only way they can ever hope
to get autonomy."
  The President turned to Vanzandt. "We have
to support the Turks. And we also have got
to prevent this thing from turning the other way,
into Greece and Bulgaria."
  "Agreed," said Vanzandt.
  "So we've got to try and contain this before the
Syrians and Turks go at it," said the
President. "Av, what are the chances that the
Turks will enter Syria to hunt the bombers?"
  "Well, Ankara is pretty upset,"
Lincoln said, "but I don't think they'll go over
the border. At least, not in force."
  "Why not?" said Vanzandt. "They've ignored
national sovereignty before. In 1996 they mounted some
pretty bloody cross-border air attacks on
Kurdish separatists in northern Iraq."
  "We've always believed that Turkey was
acting with Iraqi approval in that case," said
CIA Director Rachlin.
  "Since the U.s. wouldn't let Saddam
attack the Kurds, he let the Turks do it."
  "Anyway," said Lincoln, "there's another
reason the Turks are wary of going against Syria.
Back in 1987, Turkey discovered that
Abdullah Ocalan, the Kurdish guerrilla
leader, was living in Damascus. He was sitting in
his apartment and ordering attacks on villages in
Turkey.
  Ankara asked Damascus to let a strike team
in so they could take him. All Syria had to do was
stay out of the way. But Syria didn't want to stir
things up with the Syrian Kurds, so they refused.
The Turks came very close to ordering a strike
team into Damascus."
  "Why didn't they?" the President asked.
  "They were afraid that Syria had tipped
Ocalan off," Lincoln said. "The Turks
didn't want to raid the building and not find him
there. It would have been politically embarrassing,
to say the least."
  "I'd say that this dam blast is a helluva
lot more provocative than what was
happening in 1987," Vanzandt remarked.
  "It is," said Lincoln, "but the problem is the
same.
  What if it turns out that Turkish Kurds did
the hands-on work, not the Syrian Kurds? Turkey
attacks Syria looking for enemies there, and it
turns out their own Kurds were responsible.
Syria's stock rises in the international foram and
Turkey's plummets. Turkey won't risk that
kind of an ambush."
  "You've got to remember, Mr. President,"
said Defense Secretary Colon, "this explosion
hurts Damascus as much as it does Ankara.
My feeling is that it's the unified Kurds who have
turned up the heat. They're trying to trigger a war
between Turkey and Syria by forcing Turkey to enter
Syria looking for terrorists. And the Kurds will
keep applying pressure until they get a
major incursion."
  "Why?" asked the President. "Because they think
they'll get a homeland as part of the peace
process?"
  Colon and Lincoln both nodded.
  Hood was looking up at one of the maps. "I
don't understand," he said. "What does
Syria gain by preventing Turkey from finding
Kurdish terrorists? Damascus has got
to ensure the security of their other water sources,
especially the Orontes River in the west. It
looks like it comes right through Turkey into Syria and
Lebanon."
  "It does," said Lincoln.
  "So if Turkey wants to stop the Kurds,"
Hood went on, "and Syria needs to stop the
Kurds, why won't they join forces? This isn't like
the Ocalan affair. Syria doesn't risk
stirring up the Kurds. It looks like they're already
on the warpath."
  "Syria can't join forces with Turkey," said
Vanzandt, "because of the Turkish military cooperation
pact with Israel. Syria would sooner support
Kurdish political goals to stop them from blowing
up other dams rather than join the Turks and
eradicate the Kurds."
  "Syria would back one enemy rather than support
the friend of another enemy," Colon said. "That's
Middle Eastern politics for you."
  "But Syria would have to give up some of its own land
to give the Kurds a homeland," the President
said.
  "Ah, but would they?" asked Av Lincoln.
"Suppose the Kurds eventually get what they
want, a homeland straddling parts of Turkey,
Syria, and Iraq. Do you think for a moment that
Syria will stay out of there? They don't play by any
rules. They'll use terrorism to exert de
facto control over what used to be their territory,
and also absorb some of the former Turkish lands
into Greater Syria. That's exactly what they've
done with Lebanon."
  "General Vanzandt, gentlemen," the President
said, "we've got to find some way of guaranteeing the
security of those other water sources and also of
helping the Turks find the terrorists. What are
your suggestions?"
  "Larry and Paul, we can talk about internal
operations against the terrorists later," said General
Vanzandt "Present the President with some
suggestions."
  Hood and Rachlin both nodded.
  "As for the water," Vanzandt went on, "if we
move the Eisenhower Carder Battle Group from
Naples to the eastern Mediterranean, we can watch
the Orontes while at the same time keeping the
seaways secure for Turkish exports.
We want to make sure the Greeks don't jump
into this."
  "That leaves diseveryone happy," said Steve
Burkow, "unless the Syrians suddenly decide in
their paranoid way that this is all a United
States plot to cut off their water supply. Which,
if you ask me, wouldn't be the world's worst idea.
That would put Damascus out of the terrorism business
right quick."
  "And kill how many innocent people?" Lincoln
asked.
  "Not many more than Syrian-backed terrorists will
kill worldwide over the next few years," Burkow
replied.
  He typed his password on the computer and brought up
a file. "We were talking about .sheik alAwdah
before," Burkow said as he looked at the screen.
  "In yesterday's radio speech from Palmyra,
Syria, he said, "We call upon God
Almighty to destroy the American economy and
society, to transform its states into nations and turn
them against one another. To turn its brothers against one
another as penance for infidelic evil." Now, to my
ears that's a declaration of war. You know how many
sickeroos out there are going to hear this and try
to make that happen?"
  "That doesn't justify blind, preventative
strikes," the President pointed out. "We aren't
terrorists."
  "I know that, sir," Burkow said. "But I'm
tired of playing by rules that no one else in the world
seems to acknowledge. We pour tens of billions
of dollars into the Chinese economy and they use that
money to develop and sell military nuclear
technology to terrorists.
  Why do we allow it? Because we don't want
American businesses to suffer by being shut out of China
--" "The issue isn't China," Lincoln said.
  "The issue is a chronic goddamn double
standard," Burkow shot back. "We look the other
way when Iran ships weapons to Muslim
terrorists around the world.
  Why? Because some of those terrorists are bombing other
countries. In a perverse way, that gives us
allies in the fight against terrorism. We don't
have to endure all kinds of criticism for defending
ourselves if other nations are defending themselves too.
All I'm saying is we've got an
opportunity here to hold Syria's feet to the
fire. If we cut off their water, we
choke their economy.
  We do that and HezboHah and the Palestinian
terrorist camps in Syria and even our Kurdish
terrorists get
  "Kill the body and you kill the disease,"
Lincoln replied.
  "Come on, Steve."
  andmiddotbbandmiddotbbally also keep the disease from
spreading to other bodies," Burkow answered. "If
we were to make an object lesson of Syria, I
guarantee you Iran and Iraq and Libya would
pull in their claws and count their blessings."
  "Or redouble their efforts to destroy us,"
Lincoln said.
  "If they did," Burkow replied, "we would
turn Tehran and Baghdad and Tripoli
into craters wide enough to be photographed from
space."
  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Visions
of Dr. Strangelove flashed through Hood's mind.
  "What if we were to turn that around?" Lincoln
asked. "What if we were to hold out a helping hand
instead of a fist?"
  andmiddot; 'What kind of hand?" the President
asked.
  "What would really get Syria's attention
isn't just a flow of water but a flow of money," said
Lincoln.
  "Their economy is in the gutter. They're
turning out roughly the same amount of goods as they were
fifteen years ago when the population was
twenty-five percent smaller. They've gotten
mired in an unsuccessful attempt to match
Israel's military strength, there's been a big
falloff in Arab aid, and they've got insufficient
foreign exchange earnings to buy what they need
to spur industry and agriculture. They have nearly
six billion dollars in external debt."
  "My heart grieves," Burkow said. "Seems
to me they've got enough money to underwrite terrorism."
  "Largely because that's the only kind of pressure
they can apply on rich nations," Lincoln said.
"Suppose we give Syria the carrot before they
sponsor further acts of terrorism.
Specifically, we give them U.s. guaranteed
credit at the Import Export Bank."
  "We can't do that!" Burkow shouted. "For one thing,
the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund have
to okay any knockdown of debt burdens."
  "Donor countries can also write off
loans to heavily indebted nations," Hood pointed
out.
  "Only if the borrowing countries adopt strict
market reforms which are monitored by the bank and the
fund," Burkow shot back.
  "There are ways around that," Hood replied.
"We can let them sell off gold deposits."
  "And end up buying them ourselves and thereby sponsoring
the terrorists who are going to blow our asses up,"
Burkow said. "No, thanks." He looked back
at Av Lincoln. "As long as Syria's on
top of the list of terrorist nations, we are forbidden
by law from giving them financial aid."
  "Nuking capital cities strikes you as
lawful?" Hood asked.
  "In self-defense, yes," Burkow replied
with disgust.
  "The State Department's annual report on
terrorism hasn't had Syria directly
involved in a terrorist attack since 1986,"
said Lincoln, "when Hafez aiAssad's air
force intelligence chief organized the bombing of an
El AI airliner from London."
  "Directly involved." Burkow laughed.
"Oh, that's rich, Mr. Secretary. The
Syrians are as guilty of terrorism as John
Wilkes Booth was of shooting Abraham
Lincoln. And not only of terrorism, but of running
drug-processing plants for cocaine paste and
morphine in the Bekaa Valley, of producing
high-quality counterfeit hundred-dollar bills--
was
  "The issue is terrorism, Steve," Lincoln
said. "Not cocaine paste. Not China. Not nuclear
war. Stopping terrorism."
  "The issue," Burkow shouted back, "is giving
financial aid to an enemy of this country! You
don't want to waste them, that's one thing. But it
doesn't mean we have to reward them."
  "A token twenty- or thirty-milliondollar
loan guarantee as, say, drought relief
doesn't constitute aid and it isn't a reward,"
Lincoln said. "It's merely an incentive to whet
their appetites for future cooperation. And coming now,
a gesture like that might also help prevent a
  "Av, Steve," said the President, "all
I'm interested in right now is containing and defusing this
particular situation." The President looked at
Hood. "Paul, I may want you to handle this.
Who's your Middle East advisor?"
  Hood was caught by surprise. "Locally,
I've got Warner Bicking."
  "The Kid from Georgetown," Rachlin said.
"He was on the U.s. boxing team in the "88
summer Olympics.
  Got involved in that tiff over the Iraqi
fighter who wanted to defect."
  Hood slipped Rachlin an annoyed look.
"Warner is a good and trusted colleague."
  "He's a loose cannon," Rachlin said to the
President.
  "He critiqued George Bush's policy on
asylum on network TV while wearing red trunks
and boxing gloves.
  The press called him "the flyweight
diplomat." Made a joke of the entire affair."
  "I want a heavy hitter, Paul," the
President said.
  "Warner's a good man," Hood said to the
President.
  "But we've also used Professor Ahmed
Nasr to work on many of our white papers."
  "I know that name."
  "You met him at the dinner for the Sheik of
Dubai, Mr. President," Hood
said. "Dr. Nasr was the one who left after dessert
to help your son with his paper on pan-Turkism."
  "I remember him now." The President
smiled.
  "What's his background?"
  "He used to be with the National Center for Middle
East Studies in Cairo," Hood said. "Now
he's with the Institute for Peace."
  "How would he play in Syria?"
  "He'd be very welcome there," said Hood, still
confused.
  "He's a devout Muslim and a pacifist. He
also has a reputation for honesty."
  "Hell," said Larry Rachlin, "I'm starting
to lean toward Steve on this one. Mr. President,
do we really want an Egyptian Boy Scout
talking restraint with a terrorist state?"
  "We do when everyone else is running off
half-cocked," the President said. He glanced
at Burkow, but didn't rebuke him. Hood
knew that he wouldn't. The men had been friends for too
long and been through too many personal and professional
crises together. Besides, Hood knew that the
President welcomed Burkow saying the things that
he, as the Commander-in-Chief, could not.
"Paul," the President went on, "I'd like you
to go to Damascus with Professor Nasr."
  Hood recoiled slightly. Larry Rachlin and
Steve Bur-kow both sat up straight. Lincoln
smiled.
  "Mr. President, I'm not a diplomat,"
Hood protested.
  "Sure you are," said Lincoln. "Will Rogers
said that diplomacy is the art of saying 'nice
doggie" until you can find a rock. You can do that."
  "You can also talk to the Syrians about intelligence
and about banking," the President said. "That's
exactly the kind of diplomacy I need right now."
  "Until we find a rock," Burkow muttered.
  "Frankly, Paul," the President continued.
"I also can't afford to send anyone at cabinet
level. If I do, the Turks will feel slighted.
Personally, I' m as tired of being pushed around as
Steve and Larry are. But we've got to try the
low-key route. Mrs. Klaw will see that you have the
appropriate policy papers to read on the
flight. Where is Mr. Nasr?"
  "In London, sir," Hood said. "He's
speaking at some kind of symposium."
  "You can pick him up there," the
President said.
  "Dr. Nasr can fine-tune and help sell
whatever you think will work. You can take that kid from GU
if you'd like.
  This will also put you on the scene in case you need
to help negotiate for the release of General
Rodgers. Ambassador Haveles in
Damascus will see to all the security
arrangements."
  Hood thought about missing his daughter's piccolo
solo tonight at school. He thought about how his wife
would fear for him going into that part of the world at this
particular time. And he thought about both the challenge and
pressure of being part of history, of helping to save
lives instead of risking them.
  "I'll be on a plane this afternoon, sir," Hood
said.
  "Thanks, Paul." The President looked at
his watch.
  "It's one-thirty-two. General Vanzandt,
Steve, we'll have the Joint Chiefs and Security
Council meet in the Oval Office at three
o'clock. You want to move the battle group,
General?"
  "I think it would be prudent, sir,"
Vanzandt said.
  "Then do it," said the President. "I also want
options in the event of increased hostilities.
We've got to keep this from spreading."
  "Yes, sir," General Vanzandt said.
  The President rose, signaling the end of the
meeting.
  He walked out with Burkow and General Vanzandt
on either side, followed by Rachlin and Colon.
Secretary of Defense Colon threw Hood a
friendly salute as he left.
  As Hood sat alone at the conference table,
collecting his thoughts, Av Lincoln walked over.
  "The first time I ever pitched in the Major
Leagues," the Secretary of State told him,
"it wasn't because I was ready for the job. It was because
three other starters were sick, injured, or
suspended. I was eighteen years old and scared
spitless, but I won the game. You're smart,
you're dedicated, you're loyal, and you've got a
conscience, Paul. You're going to bat this assignment
out of the ballpark."
  Hood rose. He shook Lincoln's hand.
"Thanks, Av.
  I hope I don't dazzle everyone so
much that you're out of a job."
  Lincoln smiled as they left the Situation
Room together.
  "Considering the stakes, Paul, I hope you do."
  Monday, 8:17 p.m., Oguzeli, Turkey
  Lowell Coffey was staring through the closed window of the
passenger's side of the ROC as the dark
countryside slipped by. Mary Rose was driving,
and nervously tapping the steering wheel and humming
Gilbert and Sullivan to herself, an appropriate
piece that Coffey recognized from Iolanthe:
"Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady."
  Coffey was anxious too, though he calmed himself
by half shutting his eyes and picturing himself driving with
his father and brother across Death Valley. The three
Coffey men always took days-long drives together.
The Coffey Beans, his mother used to call them, because
they were always packed together in a metal can. He would
give just about anything to be able to do that again just one more
time. The senior Coffey had died in a
small-plane crash in 1983. Lowell's brother
had graduated from Harvard two years later and
moved to London to work in the U.s. Embassy.
Their mother had gone with him. Since then, Coffey
didn't feel as if he belonged to anything.
He had gone to work for Op-Center not just to have some
impact on peoples's lives, as he'd told
Katzen, but also to feel as though he were part of a
close-knit team. Yet even in the ROC, that
sense of belonging wasn't quite there.
  What did it take to create that? he wondered.
His father spoke of his bomber crew having had that
intense camaraderie during World War II. There
had been some of that in Coffey's college
fraternity. What caused it?
  Danger? Enclosure? A common purpose?
Years of being together? Probably a little of all of
that, he decided. But despite their present
situation--or perhaps because of it?--there was still a sense of
dreamy contentment that came from lowering his lids just a little
and pretending that his father was to his left and the mountains
he knew were out there were the Panamint Range he had
marveled at as a boy.
  Phil Katzen was sitting at Mary Rose's
terminal in the ROC. He was watching the
full-color map scroll by on her monitor.
On Mike Rodgers's screen was a radar display
of Turkish aircraft operating in central and
southern Anatolia. Katzen turned to look at it
every few seconds.
  There were no planes in the region as yet. If
there were, he would have been forced to identify himself and do
whatever he was told. The Operations and Protocol
Manual was explicit about ROC activities in
a war zone.
  The printout was on a clipboard in Katzen's
lap.
  Section 17:
  ROC Operations in a War Zone Subsection
1: Undcld War In Non-Combat Zone A.
If the ROC is conducting surveillance or other
passive operations at the invitation of a country which is
attacked by an outside force, or at the invitation
of a government which is attacked byinsurrectional
forces; and participation on behalf of the attacked
country is legal pursuant to United States
Law (see Section 9) and Administration
policy, ROC personnel are free to operate
away from the lines of combat and to work closely with the
local military to provide whatever services are
required, feasible, or ordered bythe Director of
Op-Center or the President of the United
States. See Section 9Can for legal operations
under the National Crisis Management Center
Charter.
  B. Any and all activities byROC or
ROC personnel as outlined in Section 17,
Subsection 1A will be terminated at once if the
ROC is ordered to depart the combat zone by a legally
empowered officer or representative of the
recognized government.
  C. If the ROC is present at the invitation
of the attacking country in a conflict in which the United
States is neutral, ROC personnel are
to operate pursuant to United States Law
(see Section 9A) and provide only those
services which do not make the United States a
participant in unlawful aggression (see Section
9But) or provide intelligence which is designed
to protect the lives and property of United
States citizens, so long as said action does not
bring it inffconflict with United States law (see
Section 9A, Subsection 3) and the laws of the
host country.
  Subsection 2:
  Undcld War in Combat Zone A. If the
ROC is present in a zone and is caught in a
situation of armed conflict, the ROC and its
personnel are to retreat with practical speed to a
place of safety.
  1. If it is not possible to evacuate the
ROC, it is to be disabled according to Section 1,
Sub-section 2 (self-disablement) or Section
12, Subsection 3 (external disablement).
  2. To remain in the combat zone, permission must be
obtained from the legal and recognized government with
jurisdiction over said region.
  Activities in this region are to conform strictly
to United States law (see Section 9A,
Subsection 4) and to the laws of the host country.
  a. Where these laws are in conflict, civilians
are required to adhere to local law. Military
personnel will follow military procedure and
United States law.
  3. If the ROC is present in the combat
zone, or enters a combat zone subsequent to the
advent of hostilities; and if the stated purpose
of said presence is to studyevents leading up to and/or
including the armed convict, only military
personnel will be permitted to take an active part
in the operation of the ROC. They will operate according to the
boundaries set out in the NCMC Striker code,
Sections 3 through 5.
  a. If non-military personnel are on the
ROC, including but not limited to members
of the press, they are not to partake in the activities
of the ROC.
  B. If the ROC enters a combat zone
subsequent to the breaking out of armed conflict, the
regulations set forth in Section 17,
Subsection2A apply. In addition, ROC must
have express permission to enter said region from the
legal and recognized government or
representatives of said governstnent who have
jurisdiction over the combat zone.
  1. Absent such permission, ROC can operate
only as a civilian facility with its sole
objective being the protection of the lives and
safety of United States citizens.
  a. If said civilians are accompanied
by United States militarypersonnel, or if said
personnel are the only or sole surviving team
onboard the ROC, said personnel will in no way
act as a partisan force in the present or evolving
conflict, either against or on behalf of the host nation or
to further any objectives, goals, or ideals
of the government of the United States of America.
  1. Said military personnel may employ
arms only in self-defense. Self-defense is
herein defined as the defense by arms of
United States personnel, military or
otherwise, who have undertaken to depart the combat zone
without attempting to affect the outcome of said combat.
  2. Said military personnel may employ
arms in the defense of local citizens who are
undertaking to exit the region, provided said
citizens are not endeavoring to affect the outcome of
said hostilities.
  According to Lowell Coffey, it was Section 17,
Sub-section 2, B-1-a-1, which gave them, as
civilians, the right to go in and get Mike out. The
question they'd wrestled with enroute was whether bringing
Colonel Seden out constituted a partisan act.
Because he was a Turkish soldier who had entered the
region with partisan intent, he was not covered
by Section 17, Subsection 2, B-1-a-2.
However, Coffey said that as long as the colonel was
hurt, his evacuation would be acceptable in accordance
with the charter of the International Red Cross.
  According to Section 8, Subsection 3,
A-1-b-3, ROC was permitted under to act under
the IRC charter to evacuate wounded outsiders at the
discretion of the individual in charge.
  With just over five minutes to go until they reached
the reported location of Mike Rodgers and
Colonel Se den, Privates Pupshaw and
DeVonne were crouched in the battery cabinets under
the raised floorboards. Most of the batteries had
been removed and stacked to the side to accommodate the
Strikers. As a result, except for the radio,
radar, and telephone, the inner workings of the ROC were
dead. It was also running on fuel instead of on
batteries.
  The Strikers hid black nighttime uniforms in a
cabinet in the rear of the ROC along with a powerful
M21, a sniper version of the M14 combat rifle,
an image-intensifier eyepiece. These twin-lens
units were designed to be clamped to the front of their
helmets. In addition to providing night-vision
capabilities, the eyepieces were electronically
linked to an infrared sensor on top of each
soldier's M21. These sensors were the size of a
small video camera, and were capable of identifying
targets at 2,200 meters, even behind foliage.
The visual data was then relayed to the right-side
eyepiece. In a field situation, computers in the
Strikers' backpacks would send a monochrome
display of maps and other data to the right-side
eyepiece. When they emerged from hiding, the plan was
for Private DeVonne to immediately
retrieve the gear, while PFC Pupshaw
reconnoitered through a one-way mirrored window in the
back. Though Katzen was in charge of the mission, he
had put PFC Pupshaw in charge of the actual
rescue attempt, as allowed for by the ROC
manual.
  "Five minutes to target," Katzen said.
  The Strikers snuggled down in their compartments.
  Coffey went over and helped them replace the
compartment tops. After making sure the Strikers were
all right, he walked toward Katzen.
  "Good thing they're not claustrophobic," Coffey
said.
  "If they were," said Katzen, "they wouldn't be
Strikers."
  Coffey watched as the map on the computer
monitor scrolled ominously toward the target
hill. At least, it seemed ominous to the
attorney.
  "I have a question," Coffey said.
  "Shoot, counselor."
  "I've been wondering. Just what is the difference
between a porpoise and a dolphin?"
  Katzen laughed. "Mostly it has to do with the body
shape and face," he said. "Porpoises
are shaped pretty much like a torpedo with spade-like
teeth and a blunt snout. Dolphins have a more
fish-shaped body, peg-like teeth, and a snout that
looks like a beak. Temperamentally, they're pretty
much identical."
  "But dolphins seem more lovable because they look
less predatory," Coffey said.
  "They do, yes," said Katzen.
  "Maybe the military should think about that when they
design the next generation of submarines and tanks,"
Coffey said. "They can lull the enemy in!complacency
with a submarine that looks like Flipper or a tank that
looks like Dumbo."
  "If I were you, I'd stick to law," Katzen
said. He looked toward the front of the van.
"Heads up, Mary Rose. According to the map you should be
coming up on the rise any moment now."
  "I see it," she said.
  The small of Coffey's back went ice-cold.
This wasn't the same as the jitters he got when he
went before a judge or a senator. This was fear. The
van went down the sharp dip before the rise. Coffey
used both hands to brace himself on the back of Mike
Rodgers's empty chair.
  "Shitst" Mary Rose shouted, and
crushed the brake down.
  "What is it?" Katzen cried.
  Coffey and Katzen both looked out the window. A
dead sheep was lying in the center of the road. The
carcass was the size of a Great Dane and had
coarse, dirty-white wool. In order to stay on
the narrow road and avoid the ditches on either side,
a driver would have to go over it.
  "That's a wild sheep," Katzen said. "They
live in the hills to the north."
  "Probably hit by a car," Mary Rose said.
  "I don't think so," Katzen said. "With an
animal that size there'd be tire tracks in the
blood beyond."
  "So what do you think?" Coffey asked. "That it was
shot and put there?"
  "I don't know," Katzen said. "Some military
units have been known to use animals for target
practice."
  "The dam-busters, maybe," said Mary Rose.
  "No," said Katzen. "They'd probably have
eaten it.
  More likely it was a Turkish unit. Anyway,
we've got a pair of Strikers who are going
to need fresh air pretty soon. Go over
it."
  "Wait," Coffey said.
  Katzen looked at him. "What's wrong?"
  "Is it possible the thing could be land-mined?"
  Katzen slumped. "I didn't even think of that.
Good catch, Lowell."
  "A terrorist might do that to slow down mechanized
troops," Coffey said.
  Katzen looked out toward the ditches on the right and
left. "We're going to have to go off-road."
  "Unless that's where the mines are," Coffey said.
  "Maybe the sheep was put there to send someone off the
road."
  Katzen thought for a moment. Then he pulled a
flashlight from the hook between the two front seats and
opened the passenger's-side door.
  "This is going to get us nowhere," he said. "I'll
pull the damn sheep off the road. If I blow
up, you'll know it's safe then."
  "Uh-uh," Coffey said. "You're not going out
there."
  "What choice do we have? The metal
detector's tied to the main computer. We broke
those batteries down and there isn't time to reassemble
them."
  "We'll have to make time," Coffey said. "Or
at least turn the road check over to the Strikers."
  Katzen shouldered past the attorney. "Them
isn't time for that either." He hopped onto the dirt
road. "Besides, you're going to need them to save
Mike and the colonel.
  I've been good to animals," he grinned. "This
one wouldn't dare hurt me."
  "Please be careful," Mary Rose said.
  Katzen said he would, and walked out in front of the
van. Coffey leaned out the door. Though the night
air was surprisingly cool, his mouth was dry and his
forehead was wet. He watched Katzen as the
round-shouldered young man followed the flashlight beam
into the glare of the headlights. About five yards in
front of the van, he stopped and shined the beam around the
road.
  "I don't see any exposed trip wire,"
Katzen said. He shined his flashlight on the road
and walked around the sheep slowly. "It doesn't
look as if the dirt's been dug up." He reached
the sheep and shined the flashlight down. The blood
glistened a bright, oxygenated red in a wound which was
nearly four inches in diameter.
  Katzen touched the blood. "There's been
no coagulation at all. This thing was killed within the
hour. And it's definitely a gunshot wound."
Katzen bent low and looked under the sheep. He
slid his left hand under and felt around. "There's no
wire or plastique as far as I can tell.
Okay, gang. I'm going to move this sucker."
  The pounding of Coffey's heart and temples
drowned out the gentle hum of the ROC engine.
Coffey knew that it wasn't necessary for the body to be
wired. It could simply be lying on top of a mine.
  The attorney watched as Katzen set the
flashlight on the road and grabbed the sheep's
hindquarters. Though Coffey was afraid, it
wasn't fear which kept him from joining his coworker. He
stayed back because if anything happened to Katzen, he
would have to help Mary Rose and the Strikers reach their
destination.
  Mary Rose squeezed Coffey's hand as
Katzen held the sheep tightly and took a step
back. The sheep moved an inch, then another.
Katzen put it down, went to the other side, bent
low, and flashed the light under the carcass.
  "I don't see any booby traps," he said.
  He returned to the hindquarters and pulled the
sheep a little more. After it had moved another
few inches, Katzen went back and checked beneath it.
Again he saw nothing.
  In just over a minute the environmentalist had
moved the sheep entirely away from the space it had
occupied.
  There was nothing beneath it, and Katzen quickly pulled it
off the road. He was perspiring heavily when he
returned to the van.
  "So what the hell was that all about?" he complained.
  Coffey was looking out into the dark. "The dead sheep
could've been the result of army target practice,
like we thought," he said. "Or maybe someone was out
there, watching us. To see who we've got inside."
  Katzen shut the door. "Well, now that they think
they know," he said, "let's get the hell over this
hill."
  Mary Rose shifted the van to drive. She
breathed deeply before pressing down on the gas. "I
don't know about you two, but that did a number on my
stomach."
  Katzen smiled weakly. "Ditto."
  While Mary Rose guided them toward the rise
and the hillock beyond, Coffey went back to explain the
delay to the Strikers. As the attorney knelt on
the floor, he began to feel dizzy. He
rested his forehead on his knee.
  "Hey, Phil," Coffey said, "are you feeling
okay?"
  "I'm feeling a little drained," he said. "Why?"
  Coffey's ears were beginning to ring. "Because I'm
having... a little trouble here. Dizzy. Buzzing in
my ears. Have you got that?"
  When Katzen didn't answer, Coffey turned
toward the front of the van. He was just in time to see
Katzen fall heavily into the passenger's seat.
Mary Rose was leaning forward, her forearms against the
steering wheel. She was obviously struggling to keep
her head up.
  "I'm going to stop," she said. "Something is...
  wrong."
  The van slowed and Coffey rose. As he did,
he was overcome by a sense of vertigo which brought him
back to the floor. He reached along the backs of the
two chairs beside the computer stations and struggled to pull
himself up. Nausea filled his stomach and rose in his
throat and brought him back down again.
  A moment later, as black clouds swirled
inside his eyes, Lowell Coffey felt himself
hoisted up bodily and dragged backward.
  Monday, 8:35 p.m., Oguzeli,
Turkey
  They look without seeing, lbrahim thought.
  The young Kurd had shot the wild sheep and dragged
it into the road to stop the van. When the driver braked
to avoid hitting it, Ibrahim climbed from the ditch
in which he'd been hiding. He crept from the side of the
road to the back of the van, plugged the exhaust pipe
with his T-shirt, and snuck away again. The windows
were closed. Once the door was shut, he knew it
would take less than three minutes for the passengers
to be overcome by carbon monoxide. He had
selected a relatively flat stretch of
roadway so that when the driver fainted, the van would
simply glide to a stop. Then, removing his
T-shirt from the exhaust, Ibrahim entered the van
and opened the windows. He was both surprised and
delighted to find it filled with computers. The
equipment and perhaps the data itself would be useful.
  Ibrahim checked the three Americans. They were
still breathing. They would survive. Dragging the
unconscious man to the front of the van, Ibrahim
sat him and the others back-to-back behind the
passenger's seat. Using his knife to cut out the seat
belts and shoulder harnesses, he tied the three people
together by the wrists.
  Then he bound their legs at the thighs and shins.
  He took a last look around the van before
slipping into the driver's seat. As he sat down he
thought he heard something behind him. It sounded like someone
gagging. Noticing the flashlight between the seats, he
shined it into the back of the van. For the first time he
noticed that there were doors in the floor. Drawing the
.38 from his belt holster, he walked over. He
stopped at the compartments and looked down.
  Each compartment was large enough to hold one person.
  He heard the retching sound again. There was
definitely someone in the left-side compartment.
  Ibrahim fought the urge to put bullets into the
floor before raising the door. But he knew that whoever
was inside would have been incapacitated by carbon
monoxide just as the other three had been. Bending,
he pointed his gun down and threw open the first door.
  There was a woman inside. She was conscious, but just
barely so. There was a pool of vomit below her head.
Ibrahim opened the other door. There was another
soldier inside. He was unconscious. Trapped
in the unventilated compartment closest to the exhaust,
he had obviously been the most seriously affected
of the five.
  But he too was still alive.
  So the American officer did warn these people,
Ihrahim thought. They were trying to sneak these. two people
in to kill them. But Allah was looking out for them,
blessed be His mighty name.
  Pulling the man out, Ibrahim slipped off his
black shirt. Tearing it into strips, he draped the
man over the back of the chair and tied his hands to the
front legs and his feet to the back legs. Then he
went to the woman, threw her over the back of the other
chair, and tied her up using the rest of the shirt.
  With a self-satisfied smile, he surveyed
all his captives one last time before slipping his gun
back into his holster and returning to the driver's
seat. Flashing the van's comheadlights three times
to signal Hasan to let him through, he put the
vehicle into drive and quickly covered the short distance
to the hillock.
  Monday, 2:01 p.m., Washington, D.c.
  There was a ping from the side-mounted speakers of
Paul Hood's computer. Hood looked at the
monitor and saw Bob Herbert's code on the
bottom of the screen. He pushed Ctf1/Ent.
  "Yes, Bob."
  "Chief, I know you're in a rush," Herbert
said, "but there's something you've got to take a
look at."
  "Something bad?" Hood asked. "Is Mike
okay?"
  "It may involve Mike directly," Herbert
said, "and I'm sorry. Yeah, it does look
pretty bad."
  "Send it over," Hood said.
  "Right away," Herbert replied.
  Hood sat back and waited. He'd been busy
downloading classified data onto diskettes
to take with him on the airplane. The diskettes were
specially designed for use on government flights.
The jackets became superheated in a fire, though
they could not burn. In the event of a crash, the disks
as well as their data would be reduced to slag.
  The White House was sending a chopper to Andrews
and putting him and Assistant Deputy Director
Warner Bicking on a three p.m. State
Department flight to London. Hood was scheduled
to meet Dr. Nasr at Heathrow Airport and
catch a British Airways flight to Syria an
hour later. Hood watched as the computer finished
copying files onto diskettes. When the hard
drive stopped humming, Hood continued to stare at the
blank screen.
  "Hold on a second," Herbert said. "I
want the computer to animate the stuff for you."
  "I'm holding on," Hood said, a trace of
impatience in his voice. He tried to imagine what
could possibly be worse than Mike Rodgers
having been captured by terrorists.
  Mike Rodgers a hostage, he thought
bitterly. Your wife disappointed in you. A new
problem will give you a hat trick. Still, it was a
record he didn't feel like shooting for.
  Less than two minutes ago Hood had
phoned his wife to tell her he wouldn't be able
to make daughter Har-leigh's piccolo solo at
school that night, and almost certainly son
Alexander's championship soccer game on
Thursday. Sharon had reacted the way she always
did when work came before family. She immediately grew
cold and distant. And Hood knew she would stay that
way until he came back. Part of her reaction
was concern for her husband's safety. American
government and business leaders abroad, particularly
in the Middle East, were neither low-profile nor
particularly well liked. And after her husband's
experiences with the New Jacobin terrorists in
France, Sharon was less complacent than
ever about his safety.
  Another, possibly larger, part of her reaction
was Sharon's oft-voiced concern that time was passing and
they weren't spending enough of it together. They weren't
building the memories that helped make marriages
rich... and durable. Ironically, long hours was one
of the reasons he'd gotten out of politics and then out
of banking. The directorship of Op-Center was
supposed to have been about managing a modest staff which
managed domestic crises. But after being drawn
into a near-disaster in North Korea, Op-Center
suddenly found itself an international player, a
streamlined counterpart to the bureaucracy-heavy CIA.
As a result, Hood's own responsibilities
had increased dramatically.
  Working hard certainly didn't make him a bad
person.
  It provided a very comfortable life for his family and
it exposed their two children to interesting people and events. But
on top of everything else, he had to deal with the fact
that his freedom to work, and to work hard, made Sharon
jealous. She'd been forced to cut back her "healthy
cooking" appearances on Andy McDonnell's cable
food show to twice a week. There simply wasn't
enough time to do a daily segment and shuttle the
kids to where they had to go and mn the house. Though
Hood felt bad for his wife, there was nothing he could
do.
  Except get home on time, he thought, which sounds
great on the surface but isn't practical. Not in
a city that operates on international time.
  "Here it is," Herbert said. "Watch the left
side of the screen."
  Hood leaned forward. He saw an extremely
jerky motion picture of what looked like the ROC
sitting in darkness.
  From the ID numbers in the lower left corner of the
picture, he knew that these were successive NRO
photographs being flashed together sequentially,
flip-book style. There was approximately a
one-second delay between each image.
  "Am I looking for anything in particular?"
Hood asked. "Is that Phil?"
  "Yes," said Herbert. "He's pulling a dead
something off the road. It looks like a sheep or
dog. But that's not what I want you to see. Watch
the back of the Regional Op-Center."
  Hood did. The darkness seemed to shift
slightly behind the ROC, though that could have been caused
by atmospheric conditions between the satellite
and the target.
  Suddenly, there was a tiny flash which lasted for just one
image. A few seconds later there was another
flash in a slightly different spot.
  "What was that?" Hood asked.
  "I've mn it through computer enhancement," Herbert
said. "We thought at first that it might have been a moth
or an artifact in the image. But it was
definitely a reflection, slightly concave and
probably coming from a watch crystal. Keep
looking, though."
  Hood did. He saw Phil Katzen return
to the van. He watched it start to move ahead. Then
he saw it stop. The van remained parked for several
images. Hood leaned closer to the screen. Then the
door opened, the light came on inside the ROC,
and someone got in.
  "Oh, no," Hood said. "God, no."
  Herbert froze the image on the monitor. "As
you can see," he said, "whoever it is, he's armed.
Looks like a .38 in the holster and a Czech
Parabellum over his shoulder.
  According to Darrell, the Syrian Kurds bought
crate loads of those from Slovakia in 1994."
  Herbert started up the moving image again.
For a moment Hood couldn't see anything else because the
image had been taken from almost directly overhead.
But as he waited, he felt his guilt and every other
priority evaporate in the face of what he was
watching.
  "In about four minutes real time," Herbert said,
"the ROC headlights are going to flash three times.
Obviously, whoever is at the controls is
signaling someone up ahead."
  "How did this happen?" Hood asked. "Mike
wouldn't have told them about the ROC."
  "We don't think his captors knew about the
Regional Op-Center ahead of time," Herbert
said. "They were probably just waiting for Mike's
wheels to arrive and lucked out."
  "How was it done?" Hood asked.
  "My guess is the carjackers set up a watch
alongside the road. As a precaution, they must have
gassed the ROC as it passed. The way the van
slowed seems to indicate that the crew was overcome
quickly, although not immediately. The driver had enough time
to brake.
  The good news is that the intruder didn't shoot
our people once he got inside."
  "How do you know?"
  "We would've seen flashes," Herbert said.
  "Yes, of course," Hood replied. That was a
stupid question. Pay attention to what the hell's going
on. And then he said, "Unless they were already dead from the
gas."
  "That's unlikely," Herbert replied. "The
crew would be no help if they were dead. Alive they
can serve as hostages. Perhaps they can help the
Kurds get out of the country. Or," Herbert added
gravely, "maybe they can tell the Kurds how
to work the ROC."
  Hood knew that Mike Rodgers and the two
Strikers would die before they helped their kidnappers
work the ROC. But Hood did not know whether
Katzen, Coffey, or Mary Rose would
sacrifice their lives to protect it.
  Nor did he believe that Rodgers would let
them.
  "We don't have too many options here, do we?"
  Hood asked.
  "We do not," said Herbert.
  According to prescribed Regional Op-Center
procedures established by Rodgers, Coffey,
Herbert, and their advisors, if the ROC were ever
captured, the immediate response would be for
someone to hit the "Fry" buttons.
  Simultaneously pressing Control, Alt,
Del, and Cap F on either keyboard would cause
a surge from the ROC engine batteries. The
current generated by the command would be sufficient to burn
out the major circuits in the computers and
batteries. For all intents and purposes, the
fried Roe would cease to be anything but a gas-powered
van. If for some reason the procedure failed, the
crew or Op-Center itself was required to destroy the
Roe by any means at its disposal. If an enemy
were to obtain access to communciations links and codes,
national security and the activities and lives of
dozens of undercover operatives would be compromised.
  Having designed all of that, however, even
Rodgers admitted there was no way of knowing what he
or anyone would do if the Roe were ever taken. As an
experienced hostage negotiator, Herbert had said
that it might be worth preserving the' operations if some
of them could be bartered to keep hostages alive.
  But all of that was speculative, Hood thought.
We never thought it was ever going to happen.
  Hood watched as the Roe's headlights flashed
three times. Then the screen went blank.
  "Whatever is happening now," Herbert
said, "is anybody's guess. It's taking place
in darkness. Viens gave this situation Priority
A-I, and is trying to get us some infrared
reconnaissance. But it'll take at least ninety
minutes to reprogram the nearest satellite and
turn it around."
  Hood continued to stare at the dark image on the
monitor.
  This was one of his worst nightmares. All of their
planning, all of their technology had been undermined
by what Rodgers called "street fighters." People who
fought without rules and without fear. People who weren't
afraid to die or to kill. As Hood had learned
from the legitimate strikes and bitter riots Los
Angeles had endured during his mayoralty,
desperation made enemies deadly.
  But Hood reminded himself that adversity made
strong leaders stronger. He would have to swallow his
guilt and disappointment, put aside his sudden
desire to kick things, including himself. He was going
to have to lead his team.
  "Bob," Hood said, "there's a strike force at
the In-cirlik Air Base, correct?"
  "A small one," Herbert said, "but we can only
use it inside Turkey."
  "Why?"
  "Because there are Turks on the team. If U.s.
and Turkish troops go into an Arab nation together, that
will be considered a NATO action. It'll create a
firestorm with our European allies and turn even
friendly Arab nations against us."
  "Great," Hood said. He cleared the screen and
brought up a form document. He began typing. "In
that case," he said, "I'm ordering Striker into the
region."
  "Without prior Congressional approval?"
  "Unless Martha can get it for me within the next
ninety minutes, yes. Without approval. I can't
wait while they diddle."
  "Good man," Herbert said. "I'll order the
C-141But packed for a desert operation."
  "We can put Striker down at the Incirlik if
the ROC stays in Turkey or northern or
eastern Syria," Hood said. "If the ROC
goes into southern or western Syria or
Lebanon, we'll have to see about getting them
into Israel."
  "The Israelis would welcome anyone wanting
to kick terrorist butt," Herbert replied. "And
I know just the place to base our team there."
  Hood picked up a light-pen and signed the
screen. His signature appeared on the Striker
Deployment Order Nunber 9. He saved the
document on the hard drive, and then E-mailed it
to both Martha Mackall and to Colonel Brett
August, the new Striker commander. He put the pen
down. Then he rapped the edge of the desk slowly with
his knuckles.
  "Are you okay?" Herbert asked.
  "Sure," Hood said. "I'm probably a
hell of a lot better than Mike and those poor
devils in the ROC."
  "Mike will get them through this," Herbert said.
  "Listen, Chief. Would it make you feel any
better to piggyback to the Middle East with Striker?
They'll actually be getting there before you."
  "No," Hood said. "I need to talk with Nasr
about the Syrian strategies. Besides, you and Mike
and all the Strikers have worn uniforms. I
haven't. I wouldn't feel right planting myself in a
seat of honor I haven't earned."
  "Take my word for it," Herbert said. "A ride
in a C-141fBut ain't no day at Disneyland.
Besides, it's not like you ran from a uniform. You stayed
1A during the draft.
  You just weren't called. You think I would've gone
if the Selective Service Board hadn't
grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and said, "Mr.
Herbert, Uncle Sam wants you?""
  "Look," Hood said, "I'd be uneasy about it
and that's that. Please brief Colonel August and
work out the details with him. Fax the finished mission
profile to our embassy in London and have them bring
it to me at Heathrow. Bugs has my flight
schedule."
  "All right, Paul," Herbert said. "But I still
think you're overreacting about the C-141B."
  "I can't help that," Hood said. "You're
to call me directly with any news. I also want
you to get us some on-site help. Does it make
any sense to bring in some Kurdish resources?"
  "Not to me it doesn't," Herbert said. "If our
Kurdish resources were all that goddamn super
reliable, we'd have known about the Atamrk blast.
We'd know who these terrorists are."
  "Good point. Whoever you get, go into the black
budget to pay them. And pay them well."
  "I planned to," Herbert said. "We're
talking to some informants now to try and find out
exactly where the dam-busters might be
headed. I've also got a lead on someone to go in there
with Striker."
  "Excellent," Hood said. "I'll call
Martha from the car and explain the situation to her.
She'll have to go to Senator Fox and the Congressional
Intelligence Oversight Committee."
  "You know that Martha's not going to be happy about
any of this," Herbert warned. "We're getting
ready to mount a covert operation without prior
Congressional approval; we're giving money to the
Kurdish enemies of her friends in Damascus and
Ankara."
  "Friends who aren't going to do a damn thing to help
us," Hood pointed out. "She's going to have to live with
that."
  "With that," Herbert said, "plus the fact that we
planned this without her."
  "Like I said, I'll call her from the car and
explain.
  She's our political officer, for God's
sake, not a lobbyist for Turkey or Syria."
Hood rose. "Is there anything I'm forgetting?"
  "Just one thing," Herbert said.
  Hood asked what that was.
  "I hope you don't think I'm out of
line," Herbert said, "but you've got to try and calm
down."
  "Thanks, Bob," Hood replied. "Six of
my people are in terrorist hands, along with a key
to undermining U.s. intelligence efforts. I think
I'm pretty calm, all things considered."
  "Pretty calm, yes," Herbert said, "but that
may not be calm enough. You're not the only one who's
on the hot seat. I had supper with Donn Worby
of the General Accounting Office last night. He
told me that last year, over sixty-five percent
of the estimated quarter-million hacker attacks
on Department of Defense computer files were
successful. You know how much classified data is
floating around out there? The ROC is just one front
of a large battle."
  "Yes," Hood replied, "but it's the one that
fell on my watch. Don't tell me there's
safety in numbers. Not on this."
  "All right," Herbert said, "But I've been through
more than a couple of these hostage situations,
Paul.
  You've got the emotional pressure, which is
awful, and then you've got additional disorientation.
You're forced to work outside our structured
environment. There are no checklists, no
established procedures. For the next few days or
weeks or months or however long this takes, you're
going to be a hostage along with Mike--a hostage
to the crisis, to every whim of the terrorists."
  "I understand," Hood said. "That doesn't mean
I have to like it."
  "No," Herbert replied. "But you have to accept the
process. You also have to accept your part in it. It's
the same with Mike. He knows what he has to do.
If he can get his people out, he will. If not, he'll have
them play word games, make up limericks about
God knows what, force them to talk about their
families. He'll get them through. That terrible
burden's on him. You've got to handle the rest.
You've come out of the gate with the right ideas. Now you've
got to keep yourself and everyone on this end cool. And that
may be pretty rough. We may get intelligence
that our people are being mistreated.
  No food, no water, physical abuse. There
are two women in the group. They may be
assaulted. If you're not loose, fluid, you're
going to crack. If you start to feel vengeful or
angry or self-reproachful, you'll become
distracted. And then you're going to make
mistakes."
  Hood removed the diskettes from his computer.
Herbert was right. He was already primed to lash out at
Martha, at himselLike even at Mike. Who would
benefit from that except for the terrorists?
  "Go on," Hood said. "What am I supposed
to do?
  How did you deal in these situations?"
  "Hell, Paul," Herbert said, "I never had
to lead a team. I was a loner. I only had
to give advice. That was relatively easy. I was
never attached to the people I worked with. Not like we are
to Mike. All I know is, people who lead operations like
this effectively have got to empty themselves of emotion.
Compassion as well as anger. I mean, suppose you
find out that one of the terrorists has a sister or a
kid somewhere. Suppose you can get to them. Are you
prepared to play the same kind of ball they're
playing with us?"
  "I honestly don't know," Hood said. "I
don't want to stoop to their level."
  "Which is something that people like these always count on,"
Herbert replied. "Remember Eagle Claw in
1980, when the Delta rescue force attempted
to get our hostages out of Tehran?"
  "Yes."
  "Mission parameters forced our guys to set up the
Desert I refuel site in a moderately
well-traveled area.
  Minutes after landing, the guys captured a bus with
forty-four Iranian civilians. Before the whole
operation blew up on them, the plan was to hold the
captured Iranians for a day while the commandos went
in, then release them from Manzariyeh Air
Base, which we intended to capture. Sorry if I
sound a little Burkow-esque," Herbert said, "but I
think we should've held those Iranians and given
'em the same shit treatment our people were getting."
  "You would've made martyrs of them," Hood said.
  "No," Herbert replied. "Just broken-down
prisoners.
  No press coverage, no burning Iranian
flags. Just an eye for an eye. And when word
spread among terrorists worldwide that we were prepared
to play their game, they would've thought twice before
picking on us. You think Israel's still around because they
play by the rules?
  Uh-uh. I've seen the view from the high road
and it ain't always pretty. If you let compassion
affect your judgment, you may end up
jeopardizing our own people."
  Hood breathed deeply. "If I don't let
compassion affect my judgment, then we aren't people."
  "I understand," Herbert said. "That's one reason
I never wanted a bigger office in this town. You
pay for every square inch of it with soul as well as
blood."
  Hood slipped the diskettes into his jacket
pocket.
  "Anyway," he said, "you weren't out of line,
Bob.
  Thanks."
  "You're welcome," Herbert said. "Oh, and one
more thing."
  "What's that?"
  "Whatever you have to face," Herbert said, "you
won't face it alone. Don't ever forget that,
Chief."
  "I won't," Hood said. He smiled.
"Thank God I've got a team that won't let
me."
  Monday, 9:17 p.m., Oguzeli, Turkey
  Mike Rodgers was tied uncomfortably to the
front of the motorcycle. His arms were above and behind
him, tied to the handlebars and dead asleep.
His back was pressed against the twisted metal of the
fender, and his legs were tied at the ankles and
stretched in front of him.
  But the discomfort he felt inside was far greater
than what he felt outside. Rodgers didn't
know for certain what the terrorists had been up to.
He knew that one of the men, Ibrahim, had gone up
the road and over the rise. His own er/while
interpreter, Hasan, had walked off to the east,
perhaps four or five hundred yards. The pair were
probably setting up a two-gun cross fire.
One person stayed close to the route of the target,
slightly ahead of it. The other went off-road
well ahead of the vehicle. There was nowhere the driver
could run except to turn around. And if the snipers
were good, there usually wasn't enough time for that.
  The van was continuing and Rodgers hadn't heard
any gunfire. were the terrorists simply hiding,
covering their base in case the ROC opened fire?
  The van stopped and Ibrahim got out. A few
seconds later Hasan came running from the plain
and hugged him. The third man, Mahmoud, rose and
embraced them both. He had remained behind, and it was
clear now that he was their leader. The ROC was facing
Rodgers and he couldn't see inside. But
it was obvious that the terrorists were in charge.
Rodgers only hoped that the Strikers had gotten out
and were flanking the terrorists, which is what he would have
had them do.
  Ibrahim and Hasan entered the van, and
Mahmoud hurried over to Rodgers. The Syrian
held the submachine gun in his right hand and a hunting
knife in his left. Mahmoud sliced away the
cord which held him to the handlebars, but left
Rodgers's legs tied. Then he motioned for his
prisoner to go to the van. Rodgers got into a
squatting position, stood, and hopped ahead. It
would have been easier to crawl, but that was not something
Rodgers did. Though the earth seemed anxious
to reject his feet, he managed to keep his balance.
  As he approached the van, Rodgers saw
Coffey, Mapj Rose, and Katzen. The three were
splayed groggily on the floor of the ROC. They
were tied to the column beneath the passenger's seat, their
ankles bound. While lbrahim left to drag
Colonel Seden over, Rodgers hopped up the
step. As he looked to the left, toward the back of the
van, his flesh went cold.
  Pupshaw and DeVonne were draped over the
chairs of the computer stations. The Strikers were
tied hand and foot to the legs of the chairs and were just
beginning to stir. Rodgers felt his bowels tighten.
They looked more like hunting trophies than like
soldiers.
  Whatever had gone wrong didn't matter right now.
  The fact was that they were all captives. And
to determine how they would be treated for however long they
were held was going to require a long, complex dance.
  The first thing Rodgers had to do was try to help the
Strikers. When they woke and found themselves tied like this,
not only would their heart and fight be extinguished, but
their dignity as well. Though wounded and physically
abused, they both could survive this. But without
pride, they would have nothing even after they were set
free. In training for terrorist situations and in
talking to the new Striker commander, Brett August,
a former Vietnam POW, Rodgers had learned that
more hostages took their own lives a year or two
after being released than died in captivity. The
feeling that they had been degraded and dishonored left
them feeling ashamed. That sense was heightened if the
victims were in the military. Rank and medals were the
outward recognition of courage and honor, which were the
blood and breath of the soldier. When those qualities
were compromised in hostage situations, only
death could reclaim them. It could be death like a
Viking, facing an enemy or presumed enemy with a
sword in one's hand, or it could be death like a
dishonored samurai, alone with a self-inflicted
cut to the viscera. But there was no facing life any
longer.
  Rodgers also had to run the first of his four remaining
military assets up the flagpole for the sake of the
Strikers.
  He had to risk his life. When he was stationed in
Cam Ranh Bay in southeast Vietnam, there were
always casualties. The physical ones were written
in blood. The psychological ones were written in
the faces of the soldiers.
  After soldiers had cradled a friend whose legs or
hands or face had been blasted off by a mine, or
comforted a buddy dying from a bullet wound in the chest
or throat or belly, there were only two ways
to motivate them. One was to send them out for revenge.
That was what the military psychologists now called
a "spike high." Rooted in anger rather than
purpose, it was good for quick strikes or fast fixes
in tough situations. The second way, which Rodgers
had always preferred, was for the leader to put his own life
in danger. That created a moral
imperative for the platoon to get back on its
feet and support him. It didn't heal the scars,
but it built a bond, a camaraderie which was greater
than the sum of the parts.
  All of this Rodgers considered in the time it took
him to glance at the Strikers, give the
faster-recovering Private Pupshaw a
supportive little smile, then look back at the
front of the van.
  While Hasan checked the crew for concealed
weapons, Rodgers felt a gun barrel pressed
into the small of his back. Mahmoud pushed him to the
left. He wanted him to go into the back of the van.
  Rodgers stood where he was and hip-butted the gun
aside.
  The terrorist spat something in Arabic and used his
free hand to push Rodgers through the narrow opening.
  His legs still bound, the general stumbled and fell
into the back. He immediately started to get up again.
Mahmoud strode over and aimed the gun barrel at
his head.
  He pointed for Rodgers to stay.
  Rodgers started to rise. Even in the dark he could
see Mahmoud's eyes go wide.
  This was the moment which would define their
relationship or end Rodgers's life. As the
American struggled to get his feet under him, he
continued to stare into his captor's eyes. Many
terrorists found it easy to plant bombs, but not so
easy to shoot a person they were looking in the eye.
  Before Rodgers could get all the way up,
Mahmoud raised his foot. He put his heel on
Rodgers's chest and angrily pushed him down. Then
the terrorist kicked Rodgers in the side and shouted
at him again.
  The blow forced the air from Rodgers's lungs, but
it told him what he needed to know. The man didn't
want to kill him. That didn't mean he wouldn't, but
it meant that Rodgers could probably push him a little
more.
  Rolling onto his side, Rodgers sat up and
got his feet under him again. Once more he tried
to stand.
  Muttering angrily, Mahmoud swung a
roundhouse punch at Rodgers's head. The general
hadn't quite gotten up, and simply dropped back
onto the floor. The fist flew over him.
  "Bahstahd!" Mahmoud screamed in crude
English.
  He stepped back and aimed the gun at
Rodgers's mid-section.
  Rodgers turned his head around. He did not
take his eyes off the Arab.
  "Mahrnoud, la!" lbrahim yelled. "Stop!"
  Ibrahim ran over and positioned himself between
Rodgers and Mahmoud. They conferred in whispers, the
newcomer pointing at Rodgers, at the computers, and
then at the ROC crew. After a long silence,
Mahmoud threw up his hand and walked away.
Ibrahim joined him at the door and helped him
carry Colonel Seden inside.
  He sent Hasan over to talk to Rodgers.
  Rodgers had recovered from the kick, and climbed
back onto his feet. He stood with his shoulders
erect and his chin up. He was not looking at
Hasan. In circumstances like these a prisoner
tried to avoid the eyes of the interrogator. It
created an aloofness, a detachment which the inquisitor
had to try to breach. It also helped to prevent the
prisoner from seeing the captor as a human being.
However benign or compassionate he appeared to be,
the man asking the questions was still an enemy.
  "You were very close to death," Hasan said
to Rodgers.
  "It wouldn't be the first time," Rodgers
said.
  "Ah," Hasan replied, "but it might have been
the last.
  Mahmoud was ready to shoot you."
  "To kill a human being is the least injury you can
do him," Rodgers replied. He spoke slowly,
wanting to make sure that Hasan understood.
  Hasan regarded Rodgers curiously as
Mahmoud and Ibrahim finished loading Colonel
Seden onto the van.
  They tied him together with the others. Then Mahmoud
walked over to Hasan. They spoke briefly, after
which Hasan turned to Rodgers.
  "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
De-Vonne 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 stem, 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 un-derperform-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 winsome
respect from their captors, this imprisonment--whether
it lasted for hours, days, weeks, or months--would
be one of abuse and contempt.
  "Sifriend 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. . . kharnsa. . ."
  "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
count-down.
  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 blood shed,
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, God bless her. He'd never been
prouder of his own soldiers than he was of her.
  "ltneyn . . ."
  "Two seconds."
  "Monster!" Coffey screamed, and began
to straggle against his bonds. The Syrians paid no
attention to him.
  Katzen was awake now and clearly trying to take
everything in.
  andmiddot; 'Wehidst"
  "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. Them
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.
  "Last" 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 De-Vonne'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 man 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 ESBLED 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 De-Vonne 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.
  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 jetrison
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 in charge until I return."
  PFC lshi Honda, the Striker communciations
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 remarkably
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.
  August shut the door behind him. He walked to the
gunmetal desk and hit the autodial on his
secure telephone.
  Bob Herbert picked up.
  "Afternoon, Colonel," Herbert said.
  "Good afternoon, Bob."
  "Turn on your computer," Herbert said. "There's
a signed directive. Countersign and E-mail
it back."
  August's belly burned with anticipation as he
booted up the HP Pavilion and input his
identification code. He still wasn't
speculating, but he was eager and damned curious.
In just a few seconds Paul Hood's order
appeared on the screen. August read it. Striker
Deployment Order No. 9 simply ordered him
and his full Striker team to chopper from Quantico
to Andrews Air Force Base and board the waiting
C-141B. August picked up the
electronic pen on the desk and signed the screen.
He saved the document and returned it to Herbert.
  "Thanks," Herbert said. "Lieutenant
Essex of General Rodgers's staff will meet you
at the field at fifteen hundred hours. He'll
have the mission overview. We'll download the
details once you're airborne. However, I can
tell you this muoh, Colonel, and it isn't
pretty. Mike and the Regional Op-Center have
been captured by what appear to be Kurdish
terrorists."
  The burning sensation rose in August's throat.
  "Either you retrieve the facility," Herbert
continued, "or according to the playbook, we close up
shop. It may be necessary for us to do that before you get there,
but obviously we're going to try and avoid that.
Understood?"
  Close up shop, August thought.
Destroy the ROC regardless of where it is or
who's inside. "Yes," the colonel said. "I
understand."
  "I don't go way back with General Rodgers
like you do," Herbert went on, "but I enjoy and
respect the hell out of him. He's the only guy
I know who can quote Arnold Toynbee in one
breath and lines from Burt Lancaster movies in the
next. I want him back. I want them all
back."
  "So do I," August replied. "And we're
ready to go get them."
  "Good man," Herbert said. "And good luck."
  "Thank you," August said.
  The colonel hung up the phone. After a moment,
he drew breath slowly through his nose. He let
himself fill with air from the belly up, like a bottle.
The "big belly" was a trick a sympathetic
prison guard had taught August when he was a
POW in Vietnam. August had been sent
into North Vietnam to find a Scorpion team which
the CIA had recruited from among persecuted
North Vietnamese Catholics in 1964. The
thirteen commandos had been presumed dead. Years
later, word reached Saigon that they were still
alive.
  August and five others were sent out to find them.
  They discovered the ten surviving Scorpions in a
prison camp near Haiphong... and joined them.
The Viet Cong guard, Kiet, had to do what he
was doing in order to feed his wife and daughter. But he
was a humanist and a Taoist who secretly taught
his creed of "effortless survival" to the captives.
It was as much Kiet's quietistic outlook as
August's own determination which had enabled him
to survive.
  August exhaled, stood quietly for a moment,
then left the office. His step was quicker than before, his
eyes more intense.
  As August tried to assimilate the shock of
what had happened, he didn't think of Mike
Rodgers or the ROC. He thought only about
getting his team airborne.
  That was another trick he'd learned as a POW.
It was easier to deal with a crisis if you bit it off
in digestible chunks. Suspended by your wrists
nose-deep in a rank, fly-covered cesspool,
or baking in a coffin-sized cage under the noon
sun, you didn't wonder when you were going to get out.
That kind of thinking would drive you mad. You
tried to last as long as it took for a cloud to travel
from one treetop to another, or until a
five-inch-long spider crossed an open patch of
earth, or until you counted off one hundred slow
Buddah Belly breaths.
  He was ready, he told himself. And so was his team.
  At least they'd better be. Because in about half a
minute he was going to start kicking Striker ass as it
had never been kicked before.
  Monday, 3:13 p.m., over Chesapeake Bay
  The State Department 727 took off from Andrews
at 3:03, and was quickly swallowed by the low-hanging
clouds over Washington. The customized jet would
remain in the clouds for as long as possible. That was
standard State Department procedure to keep them from
being visually sighted and targeted by ocean-based
terrorists.
  It made for a safer ride, albeit a bumpy
one.
  Paul Hood knew very few of the other forty-odd
passengers.
  There were a number of brawny, silent DSA'S
--Diplomatic Security Agents--a handful of
tired-looking reporters, and a lot of career
diplomats with leather briefcases and
black suits. There had been a good deal of
pre-takeoff networking going on, and ABC State
Department correspondent Hully Burroughs had
already organized the traditional plane pool.
Everyone who had wanted to play kicked in a dollar
and picked a number.
  An official timekeeper had been named and when it
was time to land, would count off the seconds from the time the
pilot told everyone to buckle in until the instant
the wheels touched the ground. Whichever passenger
guessed the correct number of seconds between the
two events won the pot.
  Hood had avoided it all. He'd taken the
window seat and put young Warner Bicking on the
aisle. Hood had found that chronic talkers tended
to talk less if they had to lean over. Especially
if they'd already had a few drinks.
  Hood's pager beeped at 3:07. It was
Martha calling, probably to continue the conversation
they'd begun in the car. She hadn't been happy about
the fact that the President had sent him
to Damascus instead of her. After all, she'd
argued, she'd had more diplomatic experience than
anyone at Op-Center and she knew some of the
players. She'd wanted to get on the
plane or meet him in London, requests which
Hood had denied. For one thing, he'd explained, this
was the President's idea, not his. For another,
if she were gone, then Bob Herbert would be left in
charge of Op-Center. Hood didn't want him
doing anything but working on saving the ROC and its
crew. Martha had gotten off the phone angry.
  Hood was not permitted to use his cell phone
until ten minutes into the flight, so he waited
until the flight attendant gave the okay for
electronic equipment to be used. Before calling
back, Hood booted his laptop. Since the phone
lines were not secure, Martha would have to refer him
to coded information on the diskettes if there were any
new developments.
  When Martha picked up the phone, Hood knew
that she was no longer quite so angry. He could tell at
once from Martha's hollow monotone that something had
happened.
  "Paul," she 'sd, "there's been a change in the
weather where you" re headed."
  "What kind of change?" he asked.
  "It's gone up to seventy-four degrees," she
said.
  "Winds are from the northwest. Nice red
sunset."
  "Seventy-four degrees, northwest winds, red
sunset," he repeated. "Correct."
  "Hold on," Hood said.
  He reached into his small carrying case and
removed the red-tabbed diskette from its pocket.
That already told him that things weren't good. The situation
somewhere was code red. After booting the diskette,
Hood carefully typed in the code 74NW on
the computer. The machine hummed for several seconds,
then asked for Hood's authorization code. He
punched in PASHA, which stood for Paul, Alexander,
Sharon, Harleigh, and Ann--his mother's name--and
then he waited again.
  The screen went from blue to red. He clicked the
mouse on the white letters OP in the upper left
corner.
  "Warner," Hood said as the file opened, "I
think you'd better have a look at this as well."
  Bicking leaned over as Hood began scrolling
through the file:
  Op-Center Projection 74NW/RED
  1. Subject: First-Stage Syrian
Response to Turkish Mobilization.
  2. Provocation Scenario: Syrian
and Turkish Kurds jointly strike inside
Turkey.
  3. Response Scenario: Turkey moves
five-six hundred thousand troops to Syrian
border to prevent further incursions.
  (access 75NW/RED for larger Turkish
response.)
  4. Result: Syria mobilizes.
  .. Likely Composition of Syrian Force:
Available manpower is 300,000, distributed between
Syrian Army, Syrian Navy, Syrian
Air Force, and Syrian Air Defense Forces.
Police and Security Forces consisting of 2,000
troops would'be assigned to defend Damascus and the
President. Additional conscripts would be culled
from workforce within the first three days of mobilization.
Total additional force of 100,000 men between the
ages of 15-49 would be fielded within two weeks.
Inadequately trained, the conscripts would
probably suffer casualties of 40-de%
  within the next two weeks. Syria would be betting
on the fact that wars in the region tend to be
brief.
  6. Turkish Diplomatic Efforts:
Intensive.
  Would not want war.
  7. Syrian Diplomatic Efforts:
Moderate.
  Given highly secular Turkish government,
Syria's ninety% Muslim population (11.3
million of 13 million) would accept a
conflagration as a jihad or holy war.
  8. Time Frame for Initial Conflict:
Given an emotionally charged environment created
by terrorist activities, there is an 88% chance
that hostilities would occur within the first forty-eight
hours.
  As reactions cool, there is a 7% chance that
hostilities would occur in the next twenty-four
hours and a 5% chance that hostilities would occur
thereafter.
  9. First Wave Initial Conflict: Turkey
will not want to be the aggressor for fear of triggering
Greek response. However, current policy
permits the pursuit of terrorists by strike force
if "the nature of the crime is of such a nature
to warrant pursuit. (access Turkish
Military White Papers 1995-1997, file
566-05/ Green.) To discourage internal discord
resulting from inactivity or perceived
weakness, a measured Turkish response is
deemed extremely likely. Syrian response
to a Turkish incursion will be swift and absolute.
A multi-force retaliation is likely within and without
Syrian borders.
  (access Syrian Military White Papers
1995-1997, file 566-hg/green.)
  10. Second Wave Initial Conflict:
Turkey will attack any Syrian troops within
its borders but almost certainly will not move
into Syria. That would surely arouse Muslims
living within Turkey. At that point, both sides will
have shown sufficient muscle to withdraw and stand only
to lose from further hostilities. Diplomatic
efforts will intensify and are considered likely
to prevail. The small uncertainty factor will be
influenced largely by concomitant response from
neighboring nations (see 11., below).
  11. Projected Response from Surrounding
Countries: It is expected that all nations in the
region will assume some form of defensive military
posture. Several are likely to take offensive
steps.
  A. Armenia: The government will support
Turkey unless Turkey supports
Azerbaijan. In either case, a military
response is unlikely against any target but
Azerbaijan. Government security forces will watch
the Kurdish minority very closely but will not be
likely to take military measures against them.
  (access Armenian White Paper, file
364-babj/s/white, for U.s. response
to Armenian situations.)
  B. Bulgaria: Of the 210,000 active
soldiers, only the Frontier Troops are
likely to be mobilized. The population is
8.5% Turkish. There is no reason why
Turkish forces should cross the border.
  Unless they do so, the Bulgarian troops will
avoid confrontations.
  C. Georgia: The government will back
Turkey but make no military gestures.
  D. Greece: Mediterranean patrols by the
Hellenic Navy will be increased.
  Confrontations may erupt if Turkish
patrols are encountered. If a second wave of
hostilities erupts between Turkey and Syria,
Greece will most likely remain neutral while
moving against Aegean territory claimed by both
Ankara and Athens.
  (access Imia Islet file,
645/E/red.)
  E. Iran: Iran will almost certainly remain
militarily inactive. Fifth column activity
will certainly increase.
  "dis Iraq: During any first-wave
hostilities, Baghdad will increase at'tacks on
Iraqi Kurds to prevent them from joining with
Turkish and Syrian Kurds.
  During a second wave, Baghdad may seek
to press old claims against Kuwait.
  (access Wadi al Batin file
335/NW/RED.)
  G. Israel: Israel's partnership with
Turkey covers only mutual military
maneuvers.
  It is not a mutual defense pact, though
Israeli intelligence resources will be placed at
Turkey's disposal.
  If a second wave of hostilities erupts,
Israel may agree to flying limited sorties.
  H. Jordan: Jordan exercises joint air
force maneuvers with Israel. While they would
remain neutral in an Israeli war with Arabs,
they will join a Turkish war against Syria
if the United States permits them to.
  Hood cleared the screen. "Any chances the weather
will change again?" he asked Martha.
  "It looks like the front at 11From-Frank
is not happening," she replied.
  Hood scrolled back. He repeated what
Martha had said for Bicking's benefit. Iraq
hadn't moved against the Kurds, but he knew that
wouldn't last. Recent intelligence reports put
the Iraqi military at over two million
strong. Many of those men were young newcomers, untested
in battle and probably scared. Others were
veterans, many of them itching to avenge their humiliation
during the Persian Gulf War.
  "We're also thinking that liDo-David and
11Go-George may move in sooner than
expected," Martha said.
  Hood was not surprised by either of those. With
elections coming up, the Greek President needed
to do something blazingly patriotic to win the right wing.
Taking long-disputed lands from an embattled
Turkey would accomplish that. As for Israel, the
hardline government would love the opportunity
to strike at an enemy under the auspices of defending
an ally.
  "What're things like on the home front?" Hood
asked.
  "The meteorologists are watching and talking,"
Martha said. "A few picnics have been called off
in the area, but only one umbrella has been
broken out."
  That meant military leave in the region had been
canceled and U.s. troops were on a low-level
Defcon One alert.
  "I'll keep you up to date," Martha said, "but
I can tell you there are a lot of long faces at the
weather headquarters."
  The weather headquarters was the White House.
  "They're worried about storms, I'm sure,"
Hood said, "and they'll probably get a few."
  "They can live with a few," Martha said. "It's a
big one they're worried about."
  Hood thanked her and hung up. He turned
to Bicking.
  The spindly twenty-nine-year-old was a former
associate professor of social sciences at
Georgetown University.
  His area of expertise was Political Islam,
and he was one of four political experts recently
added to the Op-Center team to advise
Paul Hood on foreign affairs.
  "What's your take on this?" Hood asked.
  Bicking twirled a longish lock of black
hair around his index finger. It was a habit he had
whenever he was thinking. "There's a very, very good chance that
it'll all blow up. And when it does, it could well
drag the rest of the world along with it. From Turkey it
can move up through Greece and Bulgaria
into Romania and Bosnia.
  With the Iranian presence there, they can drop-kick
this thing up into Hungary, Austria, and straight
into Germany.
  There are two million Turks living in
Germany.
  Of those, half a million are Kurds.
They'll pop for sure.
  At the same time it can move from Turkey in the
other direction, up through southern Russia."
  "Don't pull any punches," Hood said.
"Give it to me straight."
  "Sorry," Bicking said, "but you've got all
these ancient hatreds being fanned and interacting--
Turkey and Greece, Syria and Turkey,
Israel and Syria, Iraq and Kuwait, and
various combinations and multiples thereof.
  The smallest thing can trigger any of them. And
once those locusts start hopping--"
  "You've got a swarm," Hood said.
  "The swarm," Bicking replied.
  Hood nodded unhappily. Suddenly, there was
going to be a lot more to do in Damascus than save
the ROC.
  Bicking twirled his hair a little faster. He
peered at Hood from under heavily lidded eyes.
"Here's a thought," he said. "Let me work on the
ROC situation while you and Dr. Nasr
concentrate on preventing a major conflagration."
  "There may not be a lot of time to work on the ROC
situation," Hood said. "If there's even a
remote chance that it will be used by the Kurds, the
President is going to order the ROC found and
destroyed."
  "Pronto," Bicking added. "And finding it
won't be a problem. As soon as they uplink, the
military will have a signal to lock on to--"
  Hood grabbed the phone and dialed. "That's how
we buy time.""
  "How?"
  "If the captors manage to turn on the
ROC, the signal has to go through the
satellite. When it does, there may be a way
Matt @.toll can shut it down. If the ROC is
dead in the water, we may be able to convince the
President to give us time to negotiate a
release."
  Bicking twirled rhythmically. "It's good," he
said.
  Hood waited for the connection to go through. The plan
to destroy the ROC was a simple one. There was no
self-destruct button. It had to be designed as
a completely unarmed facility in order to be
allowed into many foreign nations. Instead, wherever it
went, it could be taken out by a Tomahawk missile,
which could be launched from ground, air, or sea and had a
range of over three hundred miles. Equipped
with. terrain-following computers, it could hit the ROC
virtually anywhere.
  Stoll's assistant answered the phone. He
put Matt on at once.
  "Are we secure?" Stoll asked breathlessly.
  "No," Hood said.
  "All right, then listen," the computer expert told
him.
  "You know that missing rock and roll group?"
  "Yes," Hood said. They didn't have
code phrases describe the situation with the ROC,
so Stoll was improvising.
  "There's an ambient level of juice which
radiates oat when their amps are on," Stoll
said. "Bob lost that when the rockers pulled the plug
earlier."
  "I understand," Hood said.
  "Okay. Now our high-flying friend the ESBLED is
beginning to pick up a signal again."
  The ESBLED was the Electromagnetic
Spectrum Satellite Surveillance System.
The sensors were a component in a chain of
multi-purpose satellites which read terrestrial
radiation in frequencies from 1029 to zero hertz and
in wavelengths from 10 .3 centimeters to infinity.
These readings included gamma rays, X-rays,
ultra-violet radiation, visible light, infrared,
microwaves, and radio waves.
  "So we now know exactly where the band is?"
Hood asked
  "Yes," Stoll replied. "But not what they're
doing."
  "No audio yet," Hood said.
  "Zippo," said Stoll. "What's
significant, though, is that the band
leader's not in any rush to get on-line again."
  "How can you tell?"
  "According to the tests we ran back here before they
left, you can get from zero to sixty, so to speak, in
about four minutes and change. You follow?"
  "Yes," Hood replied. The batteries which had
been removed inside the ROC could be replaced in
a little over four minutes.
  "At the rate El Supremo's plugging things
in," Stoll went on, "the bandwagon won't be up
to full power, nor the wheels turning, for another
fifteen minutes or so.
  That's twenty-five minutes in all."
  "Which means the other band's still in charge of the Hood
said.
  "Very likely," Stoll said.
  So Rodgers was stalling and the Kurds were in
control.
  Hood also knew that if Bob Herbert and Matt
Stoll were drawing these conclusions from the ROC
readings, so was the CIA and the Department of Defense.
If they decided that the ROC was fully operational
and in enemy hands, it was doomed.
  "Matt," Hood said, "is there any way we can
shut the band down if it comes online?"
  "Sure," Stoll said.
  "How would you do it?"
  "We'd send a command to the uplink," Stoll said.
  "Tell it that as soon as a sign. al from the band
hits the receive reflector, it should ignore all
other signals from that source. That'd take about five
seconds."
  "Give the bandleader fifteen seconds," Hood
said.
  "If he's going to try to get a message to us,
he'd do it right away. Then shut it down. He'll
understand what we're doing and why."
  "Okay," Stoll said. "We'll still keep an
eye on them, though."
  "Right." The ESBLED would be able to follow their
electromagnetic trail until the NRO
satellite was turned on them in just a few
minutes. If Hood could keep the President from
issuing a destruct order, they'd have a chance of
getting the team out. "Matt, I want you to write
this up and get it to Martha. Tell her to send it over
to the White House with my recommendation that we watch
and wait. Meanwhile, you get things ready to close
the door if our band opens it."
  "It's as good as done," Stoll said.
  Hood hung up and briefed Bicking. They both
agreed that if the ROC could be shut down, the
President would give Striker time to get it back.
Despite pressure from National Security
Chief Steve Burkow, who believed in security
at any price, the President would not be anxious
to take out his own team. Not if the hardware in the
ROC could be neutralized.
  Hood and Bicking began to study the Syrian
position papers which had been loaded into their computer.
But Hood had trouble focusing, and announced that he
was going off to the galley. Bicking said he'd start
highlighting Administration positions while Hood was
gone.
  The Op-Center Director got a Diet
Pepsi from one of the two male flight attendants,
and sipped it while he stood looking back at the
cabin. The thickly cushioned seats were arranged in
two rows of two with a wide aisle. Passengers were
huddled over computers.
  Typically, an hour or so of work got done before
drinks and restlessness and reporters desperate
to file stories turned the trip into a social
gathering. There were two small tables in the back for
conferences and working meals. They were empty right
now, but wouldn't be around five when snack sandwiches
were served. Beyond them was the door which led to the modest
office and' sleeping quarters used by the Secretary
of State when he was aboard.
  Hood wondered how the most powerful nation in the
history of civilization, with awesome technological
resources and a great army, could be sandbagged by three
men with guns. It was inconceivable. But even as he
wondered about it, Hood knew that it wasn't the
Kurds who were holding the U.s. hostage. It was
ourselves, our own self-restraint. It would be a
simple matter to target pockets of Kurds and
blast them one by one until our people were released. Or
to capture and murder the families of their leaders.
But civilized, twentieth-century Americans would
not do to anyone else what they did to us. We played
by the rules. That was one of the qualities which kept
any superpower from becoming an abomination like the Third
Reich or the Soviet Union.
  That was also what gave other people the courage to lash out
at us, Hood thought as he finished the soda and
crushed the can. He went back to his seat determined
to make all of this work through the system. He believed
passionately that the American way was the best way
in the world, and he took comfort knowing that
history-buff Mike Rodgers believed that too.
  "The Kurds and the Islamic fundamentalists
don't have a corner on political zeal," Hood
said as he looked at the computer screen. "Let's
figure out how to do the rest of this."
  "Yes, sir," Bicking replied as he began
twirling his hair again.
  Monday, 10:34 p.m., Oguzeli, Turkey
  Ibrahim sat in the driver's seat watching the
power gauge as each battery was replaced. As the
digital numbers increased incrementally, he tried
various buttons to see how the lights,
air-conditioning, and other devices worked. There were many
panels and buttons he didn't understand.
  Mahmoud stood beside him, leaning against the dashboard
and smoking a cigarette. The Kurd's arms were
crossed and his tired eyes never left the
Americans in the rear of the van. Hasan was back
there with them, holding a flashlight and watching what they
were doing.
  The other prisoners were all awake. They were
sitting silently where the Kurds had left them.
Katzen, Coffey, Mary Rose, and Colonel
Seden were tied to the base of the passenger's side
seat. Private Pupshaw was still draped
over the chair at the computer station. Neither food nor
water had been offered, nor had it been requested.
  No one had asked to go to the bathroom.
  Ibrahim looked out the window. As soon as power
had begun returning to the controls, he'd opened the
window to let out Mahmoud's cigarette smoke. The
Bedouin-grown tobacco he favored was
sickly-sweet, like insect repellent. Ibrahim
didn't understand how his brother could enjoy it.
  But then, he didn't understand how his brother could
enjoy a lot of things. Confrontations, for example.
Mahmoud had genuinely liked the showdown with the
American.
  They had both lost a little stature during that, and
Ibrahim could tell that his brother was looking forward
to the next one.
  For his part, lbrahim knew that this work was necessary,
yet he did not enjoy it. He caught his
reflection in the side-view mirror. He studied
it with a curious blend of satisfaction and hatred.
They had done a good job today, but what right did he
have to be alive? Walid had fought so long and so
diligently. Tonight he should have been thanking Allah
in prayer, not in person.
  As he stood looking at himself,
Ibrahim noticed for the first time the side mirror
itself. It was dish-like, curved to provide a wide
view of the road. But the setting was also curved, far
more than style would seem to dictate. Curious, he
took his knife and worked it behind the mirror.
  The American leader, the one called
Kuhnigit, stopped what he was doing and said something
to Ibrahim.
  Hasan said something back. The American spoke
again. Ibrahim glanced back. Kuhnigit did not
look as confident as he had before, and Ibrahim
wondered if he was on to something. Hasan pointed
back to the opening in the floor and said something in
English. The American bent down and went back
to work. Ibrahim kept working on the mirror.
  The glass came free at the sides, but
remained attached in the center. Only it wasn't
glass, it was something much lighter. Almost like silvery
cellophane.
  Ibrahim leaned out the window and had a look at
it.
  There was something behind it--a horn of some kind.
  It looked like a transmitter.
  No, he thought, not a transmitter. A radio
dish like the big ones they used in the Air
Force.
  Ibrahim replaced the mirror and looked
back. The American had stopped replacing the
batteries and was glaring at him. Hasan was saying,
"Work--work!"
  The American stood unsteadily on his bound
feet for just a moment, then leaned against one of the dark
computer stations. Hasan walked over, grabbed him
by the shoulder, and pulled him back to the pit.
  Ibrahim climbed from the seat. He tapped his
knife in his open palm. "There's something wrong
here," he said to Mahmoud.
  Mahmoud sucked on his cigarette, then ground it
out on the floor. "What could be wrong, other than the
worm's pace of the American?"
  "I don't know," said Ibrahim. "If I were
to let my imagination go, I would say that the frame of
that mirror appears to be a very small radio
transmitter." He swept the knife point across
the van. "And there are all of these computers and
monitors. Suppose they are not used for finding
buried cities. Suppose these people are not
scientists and guards. Suppose all of this is a
disguise."
  Mahmoud stood up suddenly. The
exhaustion seemed to leave him. "Go on, my
brother."
  Ibrahim pointed the knife at Rodgers. "That
man didn't act like a scientist. He knew just
how far to go when you threatened the girl."
  "As if he'd done this before, you mean," Mahmoud
said. "Aywa--yes. I had that same feeling but I
did not know why."
  "Everyone has even been very quiet," Ibrahim
said.
  "No one has pleaded or asked for a drink."
He pointed from Pupshaw to DeVonne. "Those two
took their bondage without complaint."
  "As though they had been trained," Mahmoud said.
  "And would security guards have secreted themselves as
these two did?"
  "Not security guards," said Ibrahim, "but
commandos."
  Mahmoud looked around the dark van as though he were
seeing it for the first time. "But if not for research, then
what is this place?"
  "A reconnaissance station of some kind,"
Ibrahim said tentatively. Then, more confidently,
he said, "Yes.
  I believe it could be."
  Mahmoud grasped his brother's arms. "Praised
by the Prophet, we can use such a thing--"
  "No!" said Ibrahim. "No--"
  "But it can help to get us out of Turkey,"
Mahmoud said. "Perhaps we can listen to military
communications."
  "Or they to us," Ibrahim replied. "And not from
the ground but from up there." He pointed at the
side-view mirror with the knife. "It is quite
possible that they are already watching us, waiting to see
where we move."
  Mahmoud looked from his brother to Rodgers, who was
bent over the pit in the floor and had resumed working
on the batteries. "Abadanst" the Syrian
cried.
  "Never! One way or another I will blind them."
He snatched Ibrahim's knife from him. Turning
to Mary Rose, he bent and cut away the rope which
held her to the chair. Her hands and feet were still tied
together and he threw her forward, onto her face. Then
he handed Ibrahim the knife and knelt beside the young
woman.
  He grabbed her hair so tightly that she
screamed. He pulled his .38 from its belt holster
and pressed the barrel of the gun against the
base of her neck.
  Rodgers stopped working again. He didn't get
up.
  "Hasan!" Mahmoud shouted. "Tell the
American that I know what this vehicle is. Tell
him I wish to know how it works." Mahmoud sneered,
"And tell him that this time he has until I count
to three."
  Monday, 3:35 p.m., over Maryland
  Lieutenant Robert Essex was waiting for
Colonel August when the Striker chopper set
down at Andrews Air Force Base. The
lieutenant handed him a diskette with a
pressure-sensitive piece of silver tape on
top. Only August's thumbprint on the
diskette, scanned by his computer, would allow him
to access the data.
  While August accepted the diskette,
Sergeant Chick Grey hustled the
sixteen-soldier Striker team onto the
C-141B.
  A converted C-141A Lockheed
StarLifter, the C-141But had a fuselage which
was 168 feet and four inches long--twenty-three
feet, four inches longer than its
predecessor. The retooling of the aircraft added
flight-refueling equipment which increased the troop
carrier's normal operating range of 4,080
miles.
  The aircraft's crew of five helped the
Strikers stow their gear. Less than eight minutes
after the soldiers had arrived, the four powerful
Pratt and Whitney turbofans carried the jet
into the skies.
  Colonel August knew that Lieutenant
Colonel Squires used to chat with the crew about
everything from favorite novels to flavored coffee.
August understood how that could relax the team and make
them feel closer and more responsive to the commander.
However, that was not his style. And that was not the style he
taught as a guest officer at the John F.
Kennedy Special Warfare Center. As far as he
was concerned, one of the tenets of leadership was to make it
impossible for the team to know you too well. If they
didn't know which buttons to push, how to please you,
then they had to keep trying.
  As his old Cong jailor used to tell him,
"We keep together by keeping apart."
  The poorly insulated cabin was loud and the bench was
hard. That too was how August preferred
things. A cold, bumpy plane ride. A landing
craft in choppy waters.
  A long and exhausting march in the rain. These things
were the tannin which toughened the soldier's hide.
  Led by Private First Class David
George, the Strikers began going through the inventory
of what had been placed onboard the plane.
Op-Center maintained an equipment depot at
Andrews which was stocked with gear for any climate and
equipment for any mission.
  Included in the cargo for this trip were the standard
"takedown" fatigues with desert coloration, as
well as desert-camouflage face scarves and
flop hats. Equipment included bullet-proof
Kevlar vests, rappelling belts, ventilated
assault boots for hot climates, goggles with
shatterproof lenses, and gadget bags which were worn
around the waist. There were compartments for additional ammo
magazines, a flashlight, concussion grenades,
flat-sided M560 series fragmentation grenades,
a first-aid kit, rappelling rings, and Vaseline
to apply to areas rubbed raw by walking, climbing,
crawling, and tight straps. Weapons provided for the
team were Beretta 9mm pistols with extended
magazines and Heckler and Koch MP5
SD3 9mm submachine guns. The MP5'S
boasted a collapsing stock and an integral
silencer. Since he'd first used them, August had
found the weapon's sound suppressor to be both
clever and effective. The first stage absorbed the
gases while the second sucked up the muzzle
blast and flame. The bolt noise was concealed
by rubber buffers. Fifteen feet away, the gun was
deadly silent.
  Bob Herbert was obviously anticipating some
close-in encounters.
  The team had also been equipped with six
motorcycles which had heavily muffled engines, as
well as a quarter of FAV'S. The Fast
Attack Vehicles each carded three passengers
and were designed to travel across the desert at speeds
in excess of eighty miles an hour. The driver
and one passenger sat up front, with an additional
gunner in the elevated back seat. The FAV'S were
armed with .50-caliber machine guns and 40mm
grenade launchers.
  Colonel August already had a good idea where they
were going when he pushed his thumb on the diskette.
The tape recorded the thumbprint, the A slot
of the computer read the print, and the diskette
was booted up.
  There was an overview of what had happened to the
ROC, along with the photographs Herbert had shown
to Hood. The evidence collected by Herbert pointed
to Syrian Kurds as the perpetrators,
possibly in league with Turkish Kurds.
Apparent confirmation came less than an hour
ago, when Herbert learned from a deep undercover
operative working with the Syrian Kurds that there had
been highly secret meetings between the two groups
several times over the past few months. A dam
assault had been discussed at one of those meetings.
  As August had suspected, their own destination was
either Ankara or Israel. If they went
to Ankara, they'd be landing at the NATO base
north of the capital. If Striker went
to Israel, they'd be landing at the secret Tel
Nef Air Base near Tel Aviv. August
had been there just a year before and remembered it well.
It was as low-tech and as safe a base as he had ever
visited. The perimeter was surrounded by high
barbed-wire fences.
  Outside the fence, every two hundred feet, was a
brick outpost with a sentry and a German shepherd.
Fifteen feet beyond them, also surrounding the
perimeter, was five feet of fine, white sand.
Buried within it were land mines. In over a quarter of a
century, very few people had attempted to break into the
base. None had been successful.
  From Ankara, the team would fly east to a staging
area within Turkey. From Tel Nef, the Striker
team would be flown or would drive to the border of
Turkey or Syria. If, as Herbert'
believed, the ROC was in the hands of Syrian
Kurds, chances were very good that they would be headed to the
Bekaa Valley in western Syria.
  That was a stronghold for terrorist operations and a
place where the ROC would be of great use. If the
Syrian Kurds were in league with Turkish
Kurds, they could be planning to stay in Turkey and
make for the eastern Kurdish strongholds around Mt.
Ararat. However, that could be risky. Ankara was still
waging unofficial war on the Kurds holed up in
the southeastern provinces of Diyarbakir, Mardin,
and Siirt and in the eastern province of Bingol.
  Because of the Syrian government's own support of
other terrorist groups in the Bekaa, particularly
the Hez-bollah, that was a more likely destination.
Herbert was convinced that the Syrians would never allow
Striker into that region.
  "Whatever your destination," Herbert wrote, "we
do not yet have Congressional Oversight Intelligence
Committee approval for the incursion. Martha
Mackall expects to get it, though perhaps not in time
to suit our schedule. If the terrorists are still in
Turkey, we expect to get you permission to enter the
country and set up a control and reporting center
until we get COIC approval.
  If the terrorists enter Syria, Striker will not
have the authority to enter the country."
  The corner of August's mouth turned up
slightly. He reread the passage "... Striker
will not have the authority .... "What Herbert had
written didn't mean that Striker shouldn't enter the
country. When he first came to Op-Center, Mike
Rodgers had encouraged August to spend several
nights reviewing the language in other
Op-Center/striker communiques. Often, as
August diswell knew, one's orders were to be found
in what wasn't said rather than what was.
  What August had discovered was that when Bob
Herbert or Mike Rodgers did not want
Striker to move ahead they always wrote, "You do not
have the authority ...."
  Clearly--or rather, obliquely--this was a
case in which Herbert wanted Striker to act.
  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-141But'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
qne 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.
  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 Roe 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-biwh!" 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 Roe 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
Rodgers would have no choice but to get to either keyboard
and hit Control, AI-THAT, 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 Ihrahim 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 silentst"
  "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.
  Rodgem 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.
  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.
  Suddenly, it seemed as if a second flood
had washed over Martha's office. First came Bob
Herbert, who wheeled in with word that they had broken the
repeating phone code from the ROC.
  "We broke the pulse signal," he said
proudly. "The beeps represent the numbers
722528573. That has to stand for
RC2BKVKRD, which appears to translate as
'ROC to Bekaa Valley Kurds." Our people are
being taken to the Syrian Kurd stronghold in the
Bekaa."
  Even as Herbert was explaining the code, his wheel
chair phone rang. He snatched it up. It was
Chingmy Yau, one of his assistants, informing him that
they'd lost the ROC on every one of their
satellites.
  "How can that be?" Herbert demanded. "Are you
sure there isn't an equipment failure on this
end?"
  "Positive," said Chingmy. "It's as if someone
nuked an area ten miles across. There's
nothing but static."
  "What about the Rhyolite?" Herbert asked. The
Rhy-olite was a small, orbiting radio
telescope in a 22,300-mile-high geostationary
orbit. Guiding a high-gain beam to earth, it was able
to detect even the faintest electronic signals.
The most common of these signals was side-lobe
energy, radio beam energy which spilled at angles
from the main beam. Sigint specialists were usually
able to decipher the primary messages from the contents
of this leakage.
  "The Rhyolite's gone out too," Chingray
replied.
  "It's got to be interference from the ROC,"
Herbert said.
  "That's what we decided," Chingmy said.
"We're working on reestablishing contact. But it"
s as if someone threw a blocking program into the
ROC computers.
  They just don't want to let us in."
  Herbert told his assistant to update him one
way or the other. Less than a minute later, before
he could return to discussing the Bekaa Valley
message with Martha, his phone rang again.
  "Yes, Ching?" he said. Only it
wasn't his assistant this time.
  "I have someone who wishes to speak with you," said the
caller.
  Herbert slapped the speaker button and fired a
look at Martha. "Mike," he mouthed.
  Martha turned to her computer keyboard and typed:
  Priority One: Triangulate Herbert's
cell phone.
  Expedite.
  call on Bob She E-mailed the message
to Radio Reconnaissance Director John
Quirk, then listened to Herbert's conversation.
  "What do you see when you look for your van?"
  asked the caller.
  "First tell me," said Herbert, "with whom have I
the pleasure of speaking."
  "One who holds your van and its crew of six,"
the caller replied. "If you wish it to remain a
crew of six instead of five, please answer."
  andmiddot; Herbert swallowed his quick temper.
"We see nothing when we look for the van," he
replied.
  "Nothing? Describe this nothing."
  "We see color static," said Herbert.
"Confetti. Glitter."
  Herbert was watching Martha. She received a
"Mapping in progress" reply from Quirk. From this
point it would take the RRD another twenty-five
seconds to position the caller.
  "Is there anything we can do for you all?" Herbert
asked pleasantly as he slipped into his old
Philadelphia, Mississippi, drawl.
"Maybe we can talk about this, uh--this situation?
Find a way to help you."
  "The only assistance we require is the
following. We wish you to make certain that the
Turkish government does not stop us from reaching and then
crossing the border," the caller said.
  "Surely, sir, you must understand that we don't have
the authority to do that."
  "Get it," the caller said. "If I ring you again,
it will be so you can hear the sound of the bullet which ends the
life of one of your spies."
  A moment later the line went dead. Martha gave
Herbert a thumbs-up.
  "The ROC is exactly where the ESBLED placed
it," Martha said. "Right outside of Oguzeli,
Turkey. It hasn't moved."
  "But it will," Herbert said.
  Martha swung her high-backed chair
around so she was facing away from the others. Then she
phoned her assistant and asked him to ring the
Turkish Ambassador's office at the Chancery
in Washington.
  While she waited, Herbert tapped the armrests
of his chair.
  "What are you thinking, Bob?" Ann asked.
  "I'm thinking that I can't get anyone over
to Oguzeli in time to follow the ROC," he said.
"And if we try to watch it from space, all we'll
get is ten miles of video and audio garbage."
  "Is there any other way you can do it?" Ann
asked.
  "I don't know," Herbert said angrily. He
was mostly angry at himself that this had happened.
Security was one of his areas of responsibility.
  "What about the Russians?" Ann asked.
"Paul is pretty close to General Orlov.
Maybe their operations center in St. Petersburg can
see it."
  "We had a scrambler built into the ROC so they
couldn't," Herbert said. "Paul may be close
to Ofiov, but Washington and Moscow are still just
dating." He punched his open palm. "The world's
most sophisticated mobile intelligence
unit and it gets coldcocked.
  Worse, the terrorists have access to our new
SINC-GARS-V."
  "What's that?" Ann asked.
  "Single-Channel Ground and Airborne
System VHF," Herbert said. "It's a radio
which hops at random over a wide range of
frequencies during a single broadcast.
  Most SINCGARS-V, like the ones used by the
U.s. Army, make a few hundred hops a
second. Our unit makes seven thousand hops.
Even if it's picked up by an enemy satellite,
it's virtually impossible to decode.
  The people who have the ROC have both the transmitter and
receiver."
  Martha waved them quiet as she spoke with the
ambassador's executive secretary. Herbert
sunk into a brooding silence. When Martha was
finished, she turned the chair around. She was frowning.
  "There's a bit of a setback," she said.
  "What happened?" Ann asked.
  "In fifteen minutes I'll be talking
to Ambassador Kande about the terrorists' request
for non-intervention," Martha said. "But her deputy
assistant doesn't think we'll be able
to swing any kind of a deal for them. The ambassador
has been given marching orders to do whatever's necessary
to help find the dam-busters and bring them in, dead
or alive. Fact is, I expect I'll get
a lot of pressure to tell the Turks what we
know."
  "Can't say I blame them," Herbert said, still
brooding.
  "We could use a little more of that spirit in this town."
  "Blind justice?" Martha asked. "Lynch mob
justice?"
  "No," Herbert replied. "Plain old
justice. Not worrying about repercussions, like what
nation is going to cut off our oil supplies if we
do this, or which corporation is going to pull their
billions from our banks if we do that, or which
special interest group is going to get pissed off
and uppity because we came down hard on some of their
twisted brethren. That kind of justice."
  "Unfortunately," Martha said, "that kind of
justice and this kind of country weren't made for each
other.
  Due process is one of the things which made this
country great."
  "And vulnerable," said Herbert. He
exhaled. "Let's do this over a table of frozen
yogurt when we're all done." He pointed toward
Martha's computer. "Would you bring up a map of
Turkey for me?"
  She obliged. Herbert wheeled toward the desk.
  "There are about three hundred miles Of border
between Turkey and Syria," he said. "If we've
interpreted Mike's covert message
correctly, and I think we have, the ROC is
headed toward the Bekaa Valley. That starts about
two hundred miles southwest of Oguzeli."
  Martha measured the distance with her thumb and index
finger. She compared it to the scale on the bottom.
  "I make it to be less than a hundred miles
of border between Oguzeli and the Mediterranean."
  "And the ROC'D be entering in a corridor much
narrower than that," Herbert said. "With the Euphrates
flooded by the dam blast, they'll probably stay
pretty wide to the west of the river and then shoot
straight down. That gives them a border window of
about seventy miles to drop down through."
  "That's still a lot of area to cover, isn't it?"
asked Ann.
  "And flyovers by Turkish jets or
helicopters wouldn't be exactly
low-profile," Martha said.
  "We might not need aerial recon," Herbert
said, "and seventy miles isn't bad if you know where
to look." He reached the computer and traced a line
down through Turkey into Lebanon. "A lot of that
terrain isn't going to be ROC'-FRIENDLY. There are
only one or two good roads in that region. If
I can find someone with contacts along those roads, we
may be able to spot them."
  "A Racman," Martha said.
  Herbert nodded.
  "Excuse me," said Ann. "A rack man?"
  "R-A-C-man," said Herbert. "The
Redcoats Are Coming. Instead of Paul Revere,
Samuel Prescott, and William Dawes on
horseback warning the militias of Lincoln and
Concord, we use a phone relay of people watching from
their windows or hilltops or market-places.
  They report the target's progress to the
Racman, who reports to us. It's primitive but
efficient. Usually, the only potential problems
with disthe system are leaks along the Racline, someone
warning the target that they are a target."
  "I see," said Ann.
  "But that usually isn't a problem with the people
I'm thinking of using," Herbert said.
  "Why not?" asked Ann.
  "Because they cut the throat of anyone who turns
on them," Herbert replied. He regarded the map.
"If the Bekaa's our arena, then Striker will have
to land in Tel Nef. Assuming they get
Congressional approval to go forward from there, they
move north into Lebanon and into the Bekaa. If a
Racman can meet them there, we've got a chance of
getting everyone out."
  "And possibly saving the Regional
Op-Center," Martha added.
  Herbert wheeled around. "It's a shot," he said
as he rolled quickly toward the door, "and a good one.
I'll let you know what I can set up."
  When he was gone, Ann shook her head. "He's
amazing," she said. "Goes from James Bond
to Huck Finn to Speed Racer in the space of a
few minutes."
  "He's the best there is," Martha said. "I
only hope that's good enough to do what has to be done."
  Monday, 11:27 p.m., Kiryat Shmona
  This is better, thought Falah Shibli.
  The swarthy young man stood in front of the
dresser-top mirror in his one-room
apartment and adjusted his tribal red-and-white checkered
kaffiyeh. He made sure the headdress sat
squarely on his head. Then he brushed lint from the
collar of his light green police uniform.
  This is much, much better.
  After serving seven long and difficult years in the
Sayeret Ha'Druzim, Israel's Druze
Reconnaissance unit, Falah had been ready
for a change. Before joining the local police force,
he couldn't even remember the last time he'd worn
a clean uniform. His darker Sayeret Ha'
Druzim greens had always been crusted with dirt or
sweat or blood. Sometimes it was his own blood, more
often than not it was someone else's. And he'd usually
worn a green beret or helmet, rarely his own
headdress.
  If only his head were sticking up from a foxhole
or over a wall, he didn't want an
overanxious Israeli mistaking him for an
infiltrator and shooting at him.
  Falah took one last look at hmfi He was
as proud of his heritage as he was of his adopted land.
He turned off the dresser light, shut off the fan
on his nightstand, and opened the door.
  The cool night air was refreshing. When
the twenty-seven-year-old first joined the small
police force in this dusty northern town, he'd
asked for a night job directing traffic. His work
with the Sayeret Ha'Druzim had been so intensive,
not to mention so damned hot, he needed the break.
Let the years of sunburn fade a little so the
wrinkles around his eyes didn't stand out quite so much.
  Let the old wounds heal--not just the torn muscle
from gunshot wounds, but the still-calloused feet from the
long patrols, the flesh ripped by crawling over
sharp rocks and thorns to capture terrorists, the
spirit rent by having to shoot at fellow Druze.
  Very few terrorists came through this kibbutz town.
  They picked their way through the barren plains to the
east and west. Except for the occasional drunk
driver or stolen motorbike or car accident, this
job was blessedly uneventful. It was so quiet that on
most nights, he and the owner of a local bar, a former
Sayeret Ha'Druzim gunner team commander, were able
to spend a half hour trading gossip. They did so
in special fomes fashion, standing under
streetlights on opposite sides of the road and
blinking the information in Morse code.
  As Falah stepped onto the wooden stoop that was
too small to be called a porch but had a
folding chair on it anyway, the phone rang. He
hesitated. It was a two-minute walk to the station
house. If he left now, he'd be on time. If
it was his mother calling, it would take at least that long just
to tell her he had to go. On the other hand, it could be
his adorable Sara. She'd been talking about taking a
day off from her bus route. Perhaps she wanted to see
him in the morning ....
  Falah went back into the apartment and snatched up
the old, black dial phone.
  "Which of my ladies is this?" he asked.
  "Neither," said the man's voice on the other end.
  The tall, dark-haired young man moved his heels
together.
  His shoulders drew back. Coming to attention was
conditioning which never left when your former commander addressed
you.
  "Master Sergeant Vilnai," Falah said.
He said nothing more. After acknowledging a superior, the
soldiers of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim responded
with silent attention.
  "Officer Shibli," said Sergeant Vilnai.
"A jeep from the border guard will be arriving at your
apartment in approximately five minutes. The
driver's name is Salim.
  Please go with him. Everything you need will be
provided."
  Falah was still at attention. He wanted to ask his
former superior, "Everything I need for where and how
long?" But that would have been impertinent. Besides, this was
an unsecured line.
  "I have a job here--" Fallah said.
  "Your shift has been taken care of," the
sergeant informed him.
  Just like my job, Falah thought. "Take this
position, Falah," the sergeant had said. "It will
keep your skills in good repair."
  "Repeat your orders," said the NCO.
  "Border patrol jeep, driver Salim.
Pickup in five minutes."
  "I'll see you around midnight, Falah. Have a
pleasant ride."
  "Yes, sir. Thank you."
  The caller hung up. After a moment, so did
Falah. He stood there staring at nothing in
particular. He'd known this day would probably come,
but so soon? It had only been a few weeks. Just
a few. He'd barely had time to get the burning
sun of the West Bank out of his eyes.
  Will I ever? he asked himself as he went
back outside.
  The question bothered Falah as he sat heavily in the
chair and looked up at the brilliant stars. It
bothered him almost as much as why he'd picked up the
goddamned telephone. Not that it would have made a
difference.
  Master Sergeant Vilnai would have climbed into a
Jeep and come to the station house to get him. The
Sayeret Ha'Druzim NCO always got what he
wanted.
  The charcoal-gray jeep arrived on schedule.
Falah pushed off on his knees and walked around to the
driver's side.
  "ID?" he said to the baby-faced driver with a
buzz cut.
  The driver removed a laminated card from his shirt
pocket. Falah examined it in the glow of the
dashboard light. He handed it back.
  "Yours, Officer Shibli?" the driver asked.
  Falah scowled and pulled the small leather
billfold from his pants pocket. He opened it
to his police ID card and badge. The driver's
eyes shifted from Falah to the photo, then back
again.
  "It's me," Falah said, "though I
wish it weren't."
  The driver nodded. "Please get in," he said,
leaning across the seat and opening the door.
  Falah obliged. Even before the door was shut the
driver had swung the jeep around.
  The two men headed north in silence along the
ancient dirt road. Falah listened to the pebbles
as they spat noisily from under the jeep's tires.
It had been a while since he'd heard that sound--the
sound of haste, of things happening. He decided that
he didn't miss it, nor had he expected to hear
it again so soon. But they had a saying in the Sayeret
Ha'Druzim: Sign for a tour, sign for a
lifetime. It had been that way ever since the 1948
war, when the first Druze Muslims along with
expatriate Russian Circassians and
Bedouins volunteered to defend their newborn nation
against the allied Arab enemy.
  Then, all of the non-Jews were bunched together in the
infantry group called Unit 300 of the Israel
Defense Force. It wasn't until after the 1967
Six-Day War, when Unit 300 was a key
to turning back King Hussein's Royal
Jordanian Army on the West Bank, that the
IDF and the Unit 300 leader Mohammed
Mullah formed an elite Drnze reconnaissance
splinter group known as Say-eret Ha'Druzim.
  Because they were fluent in Arabic, and because they were
parachutist-qualified, it was common for Drnze
recon soldiers to be recalled into active
service and dropped into Arab nations to gather
intelligence. These assignments could last anywhere from
a few days to a few months. Officers preferred
to draw on retired soldiers for these assignments
since it saved them from having to raid active
units. They preferred most of all to draw on
soldiers who had fought with the IDF when they invaded
southern Lebanon in June of 1982. The
Sayeret Ha'Druzim were in the front lines of the
battles around the Palestinian refugee camps.
Many of the Israeli Druze were forced to fight their own
relatives serving in the Lebanese armed forces.
Moreover, the Sayeret Ha'Druzim were obliged
to support the fierce historic enemies of their people,
the Maronite Christian Phalangists, who were
warring against the Lebanese Druze.
  It was the ultimate test of patriotism, and not
every member of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim passed.
Those who did were revered and trusted. As Sergeant
Vilnai had wryly observed, "Proving
our loyalty gave us the honor of being first in line
to get shot at in subsequent conflagrations."
  Falah had been too young to serve in the 1982
invasion, but he'd worked undercover in Syria,
Lebanon, and Iraq, and dangerously in the open in
Jordan. The Jordanian assignment had been the
last, not to mention the shortest and most difficult.
While patrolling a border sector in the
Jordan Valley after a terrorist attack on the
town of Mashav Argaman, Falah had gone ahead
of his small force of soldiers. He noticed that a
hole had been cut through the thick rows of concertina
wire which had been stretched along the border--a
sign of infiltration.
  The single set of tracks led back
into Jordan. Afraid that he might lose the
terrorist, Falah raced ahead alone, pushing a
quarter mile into the desert hills. There, following
the footprints and his nose, he entered a gully.
  Moving ahead cautiously, he spotted a man
who fit the description of the assassin who had shot
a local politician and his son. Falah
didn't hesitate. One couldn't in this part of the world.
He swung his CAR-15 around as the Jordanian
turned and aimed his AK-47. The guns
fired simultaneously and both men went down.
Falah had been wounded in the shoulder and left arm.
The Jordanian had been killed.
  Hiding from a Jordanian patrol which had heard
the shots, Falah waited until nightfall before
crawling back toward the border. He was pale and
weak when his unit finally found him inside Jordan.
  Falah was told he'd get a medal. All he
wanted was coffee laced with cardamom. He received
both--the coffee first, happily. He recovered
quickly, and in nine weeks was back on active
patrol. When his hitch ended, Falah decided it
was time to pursue another line of work.
  He hadn't considered becoming a police officer.
Though there was a great demand for military-trained
personnel, the pay was low and the hours long. But
Master Sergeant Vilnai had arranged this job for
him. It was such an open display of personal concern
that Falah could hardly decline the position--comeven
though he knew that Viihal's real motive was
to keep his dischargee in good physical condition and
close to the Sayeret Ha'Druzim's regional
base at Tel Nef.
  The ride to Tel Nef took just over a half
hour. Once inside the nondescript
base, Falah was taken to a small, one-story
brick building. It was empty. The real office was
in a bunker ten feet below reinforced concrete.
  There, it was safe from Syrian artillery,
Iraqi Scuds, and most any other conventional
weapons which might be hurled at it. During its
twenty-year history, most of those weapons had been
fired at the base.
  Falah passed through the staircase checkpoint and
walked into the small office shared by Major Maton
Yar-koni and Master Sergeant Viihal. An
orderly shut the door behind him and left the two men
alone.
  Major Yarkoni was not present. He was usually
in the field with his troops, which was why Vilnai
spent so much time here. Falah was convinced that whereas
everyone else in the brigade got too much
sunlight. Vil-nai got far too little. That would
help to account for his chronic bad humor. Studying
maps and communiques, keeping track of troop
movements, and processing intelligence in this dark,
stuffy hole would have made even a Desert
Prophet cross.
  The barrel-chested Vilnai rose when Falah
entered.
  The former infantryman accepted the sergeant's hand
as he offered it across his metal desk.
  "You're not in the service anymore," Vilnai
reminded him.
  Falah smiled. "Am I not?"
  "Not officially," he admitted. He held his
hand to ward a wooden chair. "Sit down, Falah.
Would you care for a cigarette?"
  The Israeli frowned as he took a seat. He
knew what the offering meant. Falah only used
tobacco when he was among Arabs, most of whom were
chain-smokers.
  He selected a cigarette from the case on the
desk. Viihal offered him a match. Falah
hacked as the first drag went down.
  "You're out of practice," the sergeant observed.
  "V. I ought to go home."
  "If you'd like," Vilnai said.
  Falah looked at him through the smoke. "You're
too kind."
  "Of course," Vilnai said, "you'll have to crawl
under the barbed wire and through the minefield around the
base."
  "I used to do that for my daily warm-up,"
Falah smiled.
  "I know," Vilnai said. "You were the best."
  "You flatter me."
  "I find it helps," Viihal said.
  Falah took another drag on the cigarette.
It went down more smoothly. "The master puppeteer
works his marionettes," he said.
  Vilnai smiled for the first time. "Is that what I
am?
  A master puppeteer? There is only one
puppeteer, my friend." He shot a look at the
white ceiling as he sat down. "And sometimes--no,
most times--I feel as though Allah cannot decide
whether we're performing in a tragedy or in a comedy.
All that I do know is that the play is as
unpredictable as ever."
  Thoughts of his own well-being evaporated as
Falah regarded his former superior. "What's
happened, Sergeant?"
  The master sergeant splayed his fingers on his desk
and looked at them. "Shortly before phoning you, I was
on a conference call with Major General
Bar-Levi in Haifa and an American
intelligence officer, Robert Herbert of the National
Crisis Management Center in Washington,
D.c."
  "I've heard of that group," Falah said.
"Why?"
  "They were part of that New Jacobin takedown in
Toulouse."
  "Yes," Falah said enthusiastically. "The
neo-Nazi hate games on the Internet. That was
a beautiful piece of work."
  Viihal nodded. "V. They're a good outfit
with a superb young strike force. Only they managed
to stumble down a well in Turkey. You heard about the
terrorist attack on the Ataturk Dam."
  "That's all they're talking about in K'ujat
Shmona," he said. "That and a raw diamond old
Nehemiah found in the sand at the kibbutz. It was
probably dropped by a smuggler, but everyone's
convinced there's a vein under the settlement."
  Vilnai looked up sharply.
  "Sorry," Falah said. "Please continue."
  "The Americans were field-testing a new
mobile intelligence facility in the region,"
Vilnai said. "Very sophisticated, able to access
satellites and listen to every form of electronic
communication. On their way back to Syria, the
Ataturk terrorists--at least, the Americans
believe it was the same terrorists--came
upon the facility and captured it. Along with this
Regional Operations Center, the Syrians were able
to take its crew." Vilnai consulted his notes.
"There were two strike force soldiers, a General
Michael Rodgers, a technician who helped
to design the mobile unit and can help the
Syrians run it, two NCMC officials, and a
Turkish security officer."
  "As the Americans would say, a grand slam,"
Falah observed. "Damascus will be celebrating
tonight."
  "Damascus does not appear to have been behind this,"
Vilnai said.
  "The Kurds?"
  Vilnai nodded.
  "I'm not surprised," Falah said. "There have
been rumblings about a new offensive for over a year
now."
  "I've heard those rumblings too," Vilnai
admitted.
  "But I discounted them. Most everyone did. We
didn't think they could put aside their differences
long enough to make any kind of effective union."
  "Well, they have. And this was an impressive show
for them."
  "An impressive first act," Vilnai
corrected. "Our American friend Mr. Herbert
believes that the van containing the equipment and his people is
still in Turkey but headed toward the Bekaa
Valley. A strike team has been dispatched from
Washington to try and take it back."
  "Ah," Falah said. "And they need a guide."
He pointed to himself.
  "No," Vilnai said. "What they need,
Falah, is someone to find it."
  Tuesday, 12:45 a.m., Barak, Turkey
  While Ibrahim drove the twenty-five
miles to Barak, Hasan had been busy taking
inventory of the ROC'S cargo. Mahmoud,
meanwhile, sat in the passenger's seat, four of his
prisoners at his feet. He was teaching himself how
to use the radio. Any questions he had were passed from
Hasan to Mary Rose. Rodgers had instructed
her to answer. He didn't want to push the
terrorists again.
  Not yet. Within minutes, Mahmoud had discovered
the frequency used by the Turkish border patrol.
Mary Rose showed him how to communicate with them. But
he didn't.
  The Turkish border town of Barak
lies just west of the Euphrates. By the time the ROC
arrived, the flood-waters had covered the floors of
wood-frame homes, stores, and a mosque in the
northeastern sector of the village. The town was
deserted, save for a few cows and goats and an old
man who sat on his porch, his feet in the water.
Apparently, he just hadn't felt like going anywhere.
  Ibrahim passed south through the near-lifeless
town, then stopped the ROC less than three yards
from rolls of barbed wire strung between
six-foot-high posts. The driver said something
to Hasan, who nodded and walked over to Rodgers.
  The general had been tied between the computer station
chairs. He was kneeling and facing the rear of the van.
Private Pupshaw was still draped over the chair, and
Sondra had been returned to hers. The only
concession the Syrians had allowed was to let Phil
Katzen to tend to Colonel Seden's bullet wound.
Though the Turk had lost a good deal of blood, the
wound itself wasn't grave. Rodgers knew that they
hadn't done that simply out of mercy. They
probably wanted Colonel Seden for something
important. Unlike some terrorists who soften
toward their hostages as time passes, these three
didn't seem to understand concession or
compromise. They certainly didn't practice
mercy. To the contrary, they had demonstrated their
willingness to hurt or kill. On their home ground,
with their comrades, there was no telling what they would do.
Even if the hostages weren't killed, there was a good
chance the men or women would be seriously abused.
  Rodgers realized that he was going to have to try
to move quickly against their captors.
  Hasan looked down at Pupshaw. "You will come
with me," the Syrian said as he cut the bonds around
Private Pupshaw's legs.
  "Where are you taking him?" Rodgers asked.
  "Outside," Hasan said as he led the
American from the van.
  When Rodgers saw Hasan tie Pupshaw's
hands to the door handle on the driver's side, and
heard Hasan tell him to stand on the narrow running
board, Rodgers knew what the Syrians were
planning.
  There was just over a quarter mile of "no-man's
land" between this fence and the one situated at the Syrian
border. Rodgers knew that both wire fences were
electrified. The Syrians probably knew it
too. If they hadn't known it before they arrived, the
baked-on insects were a giveaway.
Cutting the wire at any point would break the
circuit and set off an alarm at the nearest
checkpoint. Turkish guards would respond by land
or air before anyone could cross in either direction.
In this case, Rodgers didn't know whether the sighi
of hostages would deter the Turks from attacking the
van or whether it wouldn't make any difference. They
probably wanted to stop the Ataturk bombers so
bad that they would shoot first and check ID'S later.
  Rodgers debated with himself whether or not to tell the
Syrians another of the ROC'S capabilities.
If the terrorists knew, it would be even less
reason for them ever to return the van. But the lives
of his crew were at risk.
  When Hasan returned for Sondra, Rodgers
,called him over. He had to tell him.
  "You don't have to do this," Rodgers said. "Our
van is bullet-proof."
  "Not the wheels."
  "Yes, the wheels," Rodgers said. "They're
lined with Kevlar. Nothing is going to happen to the
van."
  Hasan thought for a moment. "Why should I believe
this?"
  "Test it. Fire a bullet."
  "You would like that," Hasan said. "The Turks would
hear."
  "And shoot us all," Rodgers said.
  Hasan thought again. "If this is so and your tires
are bullet-proof, then we can just ride over the
wire. Correct?"
  "No," Rodgers said. "When the van hits, the
metal chassis will still conduct electricity.
We'll all be killed."
  Hasan nodded.
  "Look," Rodgers said, "having my people tied to the
side isn't going to stop the Turks. You know that.
The border patrol will shoot right through them to try and
get to you. Keep them inside and we'll all be
safe."
  Hasan shook his head. "If the border patrol
comes, they may not shoot. They will see one of their own
people tied to the outside. And they will want to question us."
He bent over Sondra and began to untie her.
  "I know these people," Rodgers yelled. "I tell
you, they'll try and cripple the van and they won't
lose sleep over who dies in the process, even
one of their own.
  And what'll you do if they chase you into Syria?"
  "That is the Syrian military's
problem."
  "Not if we get caught in an artillery cross
fire," Rodgers said. "If you'll just give me a
little time, we can get across without the Turks even being
aware of it."
  Hasan stopped untying Sondra. "How?"
  "We keep insulated cable in the van for patching
into satellite uplinks when we have to," Rodgers
said. "Let me rig an arc across the barbed wire so
we don't break the circuit. Then I'll cut the
wire and you can drive right over the cable. Once we
cross the field I'll do the same thing on the other
side. It'll be quiet. No alarms and no
patrols."
  "Why should I trust you to do this?" Hasan asked.
  "If you were to break the circuit, we wouldn't know
until the Turks arrive."
  "I don't gain anything by bringing the guards down
on us," Rodgers replied. "Even if they don't
shoot us, you'd probably kill my people in
retaliation. That defeats the purpose."
  Hasan considered this, then reported to Mabmoud.
  There was a short conversation, after which Hasan
returned to the back of the van.
  "How long will it take to make these
connections?"
  "Three quarters of an hour at the most,"
Rodgers said. "It'll take less time if you
help."
  "I will help," Hasan said as he retied
Sondra and began to untie the general. "But I
warn you, if you try to get away, I will kill you and
one of your people. Do you understand?"
  Rodgers nodded.
  Hasan finished removing the restraining rope, and
shoved it into his back pocket. Then he
retrieved the wire shears from the tool chest in the
rear of the van.
  Rodgers held out his hand, and Hasan
hesitated. Mahmoud unholstered his gun and pointed
it at Mary Rose.
  Hasan handed the shears to Rodgers.
  While Hasan collected the cable, Rodgers
used a staple gun to make a protective,
insulated mitt from a pair of rubber mouse pads.
When he was finished, he went outside with Hasan.
  Rodgers worked quickly under the glow of the headlights.
  As he bent beside the fence, he couldn't help but
think about what he was doing. Not about rewiring the fence.
That was rote. He and Hasan cut the cable
into two ten-foot lengths, stripped the ends, and used
the mitt to wrap them carefully around the two
separate but intermeshed coils of barbed wire. Then
they laid the cable on the ground and cut the barbed
wire. Rodgers used the mitt to pull it aside and
staple the end to the post.
  No, what Rodgers thought about during those
twenty-seven minutes was the fact that it was his job
to try to stop these bastards. Now here he was,
helping them to escape. He tried to justify his
actions by telling himself that they would probably get
away regardless. This way, at least, his people wouldn't
be hurt. But the idea of being a collaborator, for
whatever reason, stuck in his throat and refused to go
down.
  When they finished, Hasan gave an okay sign
to Mahmoud.
  The leader motioned them back inside. As they
entered, Rodgers removed his mitt. He paused
to cut Pupshaw free.
  Hasan pushed his gun against Rodgers's
temple.
  "What are you doing?" he asked harshly.
  "Letting my man back in."
  "You presume a great deal," Hasan
said.
  "I thought we had an agreement," Rodgers
replied.
  "I wire the fence, my people ride inside."
  "Truly," said Hasan, "we have this agreement."
He pulled the shears away from Rodgers. "But it
is not for you to give freedom."
  "I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I was only
trying to hurry things along."
  "Don't pretend that you are on our side,"
Hasan said.
  "Your lie insults us both." Hasan lowered the
gun. He used it to motion Rodgers inside.
  Rodgers watched the gun from the corner of his eye.
  As he stepped up on the running board, his sense
of duty began to gnaw at him again. That and the
humiliating reality of having just had a gun pressed
to his head. He was a United States soldier.
He was a prisoner. His job should be to try and
escape, not to take orders from a terrorist and abet
enemies of a NATO ally.
  Rodgers quickly considered his options. If he
turned and threw himself against Hasan, he might be
able to get the gun, shoot the Syrian, then turn the
weapon on the other two. Certainly in the
dark, on the ground, he'd have a decent chance of
success. And if he waited until Pupshaw was
free, the private would seize the initiative and
probably tackle Mahmoud, who was right behind him
inside the van. With luck, the only ones who would be
at risk were himself and Pupshaw. Even if they lost
their lives, the others were still valuable hostages. The
Syrians probably wouldn't kill them.
  Action was clearly on Pupshaw's mind as
well. Rodgers could tell from the way the
private's dark eyes followed him, waiting for his
lead. Rodgers knew then that if he didn't act,
not only would he hate himself, but he'd lose the
respect of his subordinates. He had only an
instant to decide. He also knew that if
he'.managed to get the gun, he wouldn't be able
to hesitate.
  Mahmoud said something. Hasan nodded, then pulled
the rope from his pocket. He pushed Rodgers in the
small of his back.
  "Turn around," Hasan said. "I have to tie you
up until we reach the next fence."
  Shit, thought Rodgers. He'd been hoping they'd
leave him free while they transferred Pupshaw
inside. Now, if he acted it would have to be
alone--with Pupshaw tied up in the line of fire.
Rodgers glanced at the private, whose gaze was
unwavering.
  Rodgers extended his hands toward Hasan. The
Syrian tucked his gun in his waistband and slipped
the rope around Rodgers's wrists. Rodgers's
hands were held palms-together. Slowly,
imperceptibly, he curled the third and fourth
fingers of his left hand slightly so that the tips of
all four fingers were even. Then, pressing the fingers
one against the other, he drove the solid line of
fingertips into Hasan's throat. The Syrian
gagged and reached for Rodgers's hand. As he did,
Rodgers's right hand shot down and grabbed the gun.
He fired twice into Hasan's chest. As the
Syrian tumbled soundlessly to the ground, Rodgers
stepped into the van and aimed at Mahmoud.
  "Use me as a shield!" Pupshaw shouted.
  Rodgers had no intention of doing so. But before he
could shoot around the private, Ibrahim gunned the
engine.
  Rodgers was thrown to the floor as the ROC raced
forward. The passenger's door was still open with
Pupshaw tied to the handle. The private was bucked
off the running board and his lower body was
dragged alongside, under the door, as the van sped
ahead.
  Mahmoud vaulted from the passenger's seat and
threw himself on top of Rodgers. As the American
tried to bring the gun around, the Syrian drew his
knife.
  Rodgers was able to move Mahmoud's arm to the
side.
  But with incredible speed the Syrian literally fed the
knife to his finger tips, pinched the hilt between his
thumb and index finger, turned the knife around, and
grasped it facing the other way. Once again the
knife was pointing down at Rodgers. He was forced
to let go of the gun to concentrate on Mahmoud's
knife hand. The general grabbed the wrist with one hand
and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt with the other.
  Suddenly, Ibrahim braked. Mahmoud and
Rodgers were thrown against the prisoners who were tied
to the base of the passenger's seat. The van's noisy
advance became the deathly quiet of late night as
Ibrahim drew his own weapon. Shouting at
Mahmoud, he aimed at Rodgers's head.
  Mary Rose screamed.
  Before Mahmoud could fire, the wail of a siren
reached them from across the plain. A patrol
must have heard the shot. Without hesitation, Ibrahim
threw the van into reverse. When they reached
Hasan's body, Mahmoud jumped out and pulled it
in. He was dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing.
Blood stained his shirt-front and was seeping into the
fibers around the side.
  There was more conversation, probably about whether to kill
Rodgers. Though Ibrahim was shaking with rage, the
Syrians obviously decided that a gunshot would
only tell the Turks exactly where they were.
  Mahmoud pulled the dazed and bloodied Pupshaw
inside and tied him back to his chair, while
Ibrahim kicked Rodgers in the head before tying him
to the chair leg, his back on the floor. They
drove off, Ibrahim leaning heavily on the gas
pedal.
  Mahmoud punched Rodgers several times as they
drove. Each time he struck the American's
jaw, Mahmoud spit in his face. He stopped
Only when they reached the fence. Grabbing the mitt and the
shears, Mahmoud went out to cut them through. There was no
longer any need to be secretive. He sliced the
wire quickly, pulling each strand to the side and
wrapping it around the post.
  Rodgers looked up through bloodstained
eyes. He saw Sondra struggling hard to get
free.
  "Don't," he said through his swollen jaw. He
shook his head slowly. "You're going to have
to survive...
  to lead them."
  When the last strand was cut, Ibrahim pressed
on the gas and the van tore across the border. He
stopped to let Mahmoud in. Evidently having had
enough of punishing Rodgers, Mahmoud settled into his
seat. As he sat in silence, picking pieces of
bloody flesh from his ring, lbrahim continued into the
night.
  Monday, 6:41 p.m., Washington, D.c.
  "You don't have to tell me," Martha Mackall
said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. "The
Roc has gone into Syria."
  Herbert's wheelchair was reflected over and over
in the framed, hanging gold records Martha's father
Mack Mackall had earned during his long singing
career. He parked, frowning, in front of her
desk. "We picked up the description from a
radio broadcast by the Turkish border patrol.
My expression tell you that?"
  "No." She tapped a pencil eraser
against her computer monitor. "This did. I've been
watching the computer lines we hacked in Turkey and
elsewhere. It reminds me of when the stock market
started to fall in 87, all that computerized trading
kicking in and making it worse."
  "It is like computerized trading," Herbert said.
  "Only it's computerized warfare. CAR-FARE,
they're calling it."
  "That's a new one on me," Martha said. She
rubbed her tired eyes. "Care to translate?"
  "It's Computerized Armed Response,"
Herbert said.
  "Every government is choosing the appropriate
response based on its own simulation
programs."
  Martha made a face. "If that's CAR-FARE,
then I've got bumper-to-bumper traffic up
here. The Turkish Security Forces say their
border patrol crossed into Syria, lost the
target, and retreated. As a result of the crossing,
Syria's calling up its reserves and Turkey
is mobilizing more troops and sending them toward the
border. Israel has gone on maximum alert,
Jordan is about to begin moving tanks toward its
borders, and letteraq is shifting troops
possessively toward Kuwait."
  "Possessively?" , "They're geared for a long
camp-out," Martha said, "just like before Desert
Shield. And to top it off, Colon just notified us
that the Department of Defense has ordered the U.s.
carrier battle group into the Red Sea."
  "Defcon?"
  "Two," she said.
  Herbert seemed relieved.
  "Supply lines have already begun forming from the
Indian Ocean, just in case they're needed.
Publicly, we're showing support for our NATO
ally. Privately, we're prepared to kick
whatever ass is necessary to try and contain the whole damn
thing in case it blows up.
  The President is determined not to let this spread
into Turkey and Russia."
  "Probably as determined as Syria and Iran
will be to see it spread there," Herbert replied.
  "They are an opportunistic bunch," Martha
said, "but they don't want to see the region turned
into a war zone. Don't forget, Syria sided with us
during Desert Storm."
  "They gave us a couple of jets and permission
to get ourselves killed defending their water
supplies," Herbert said. "Never mind them.
What's so damn frustrating is that no one else
wants to see this happen. And most of the players
realize they've been snookered by a small band of
Kurds."
  "It's The House That Jack Built," Martha
replied.
  "What do you mean?"
  "That's a little epigram from my side of the fence,"
she said. "These are the rats who tweaked the cat, who
crossed the border and woke the dog, who engaged the
cat and woke the menagerie that sent the fur flying in
the House That Jack Built."
  Herbert sighed. "It's more like The House on
Haunted Hill," he said. "One nightmare after
another."
  "We move in very different cultural
circles," Martha replied with an arched brow.
  "Life would be boring otherwise," Herbert said.
  "Anyway, the good news is that my friend Captain
Gunni Eliaz of the First Golani Infantry
Brigade in Israel put me in touch with an
operative who knows the Bekaa just about as well as
anyone. He's already on his way there, posing as a
Kurdish freedom fighter, to see what
he can find out. I've got Matt working on
geographical surveys of the region, looking for
possible destinations for the ROC."
  "What is he checking for?"
  "Caves, mostly," Herbert said.
"Ironically, in blacking out our satellite
view, the Syrians left us with a clue to where the
ROC is. We always know that it's within the
ten-mile-wide window we can't see through. We'll
collate all of that information with known PKK bases
of operation and see if we can select the most
likely spot.
  And we may still pick up some stray remark in a
telephone or radio communication."
  "Then it will be up to this Israeli of yours and
Striker to get them out," Martha said. "Or it will be
up to a Tomahawk to take them out."
  As she was speaking, Herbert's phone beeped.
He scooped it up. After a moment, he poked a
finger in his other ear. "There's what?" he demanded.
His eyes shifted absently from the floor to Martha
to the ceiling.
  "What else? Did they find anything else
there?" His eyes moved around again. "Nothing at all?
Okay, Ahmet.
  Tessekur. Thanks very much."-He hung up.
  "Shit."
  "What?" Martha asked.
  "There's a narrow zone between two barbed wire
fences at the Turkish-Syrian border," Herbert
said.
  "The Turkish border patrol heard a shot there
and raced over. That was where the ROC crossed
into Syria. The patrol found fresh blood beside
six deep tire fans."
  "Tire fans?"
  "A tire rut with dirt blown out behind it like a
paper fan," Herbert said. "It's caused by a
fast, sudden start."
  "I see," Martha said. "Six tires. So it
was the ROC."
  Herbert nodded.
  "And it was running from something."
  "They weren't being chased yet," Herbert said.
"The Turks say the ROC got past an
electrified fence by setting up a diversionary arc.
They were already through before the Turks heard a gunshot and
realized that they were there. The ROC took off long
before the border patrol arrived. Something else
caused the ROC to bolt."
  "Bob, I'm totally confused," Martha said
impatiently.
  "First, who do they think was shot and why?"
  "They don't know," Herbert said. He shut his
eyes.
  "I don't know. I've got to think. Why would the
ROC take off? Because they were afraid someone heard
the gunshot? That's possible. That isn't what's
important.
  The question is, who was shot? If one of the hostages
had been killed, the Syrians probably would have
dumped the body behind."
  "And if they were wounded?" Martha asked.
  "Unlikely," Herbert said.
  "How can you be sure?"
  "The Turks say the shot echoed," Herbert said.
"The ROC is soundproofed. It would have swallowed
most of the blast. In order to be wounded, a hostage
probably would have been trying to run away in the
dark. The gun would have fired, the hostage would have
fallen, and the ROC would have driven to where he or she
was.
  It didn't. It was right by the fence. No,"
Herbert said.
  "I know Mike Rodgers. My guess
is that they were about to cross into Syria, so he
decided to try and stop them."
  "And failed," she stated flatly.
  Herbert fired her a look. "Don't say it like
he screwed up. The fact that he or someone else
may have made the effort at all is a helluva
thing. A helluva big thing."
  "I didn't mean any disrespect," she said
indignantly.
  "Yeah, well, it sounded like that."
  "Calm down, Bob," Martha said. "I'm
sorry."
  "Sure," he said. "The sideline generals are
always sorry. I lost my wife and my legs to a
military miscalculation.
  It's bad, but it's like everything else. Real
easy to quarterback when you're watching the game
tapes, not so easy when you're on the field."
  "I never said any of this was easy," Martha said.
She drummed her long, rounded nails on the desk.
"Want to see if we can get back to fighting the
enemy?"
  "Yeah, okay." Herbert sucked down a breath.
"I've gotta think this whole thing through."
  "Let's start with some hypotheses,"
Martha said.
  "Suppose Mike hurt or killed one of his
captors. There will be repercussions."
  "Correct," Herbert said. "The question is, against
who?"
  "Would it be against one of the hostages?"
  "Not necessarily," Herbert said. "There are
three options.
  First of all, they won't kill Mike. Even
if they don't know his military rank, they've got
to know he's the leader. He's a valuable hostage and
they'll want to hold onto him. Though they may
torture him as an example to the others not to try
to escape. That rarely works, though. You watch someone
beat a fellow prisoner, it scares you into wanting
to get away." Herbert laid his neck back on the
barbershop-style headrest.
  "That leaves two other possibilities. If a
terrorist was killed in the exchange, they may
execute one of the hostages.
  They'd select the person by lot, the short straw
drawing the bullet in the back of the head. Mike would
be forbidden from participating, though he'd be forced
to watch the murder."
  "Jesus," Martha said.
  "Yeah, that's a rough one," Herbert said. "But it
also breeds a sense of resistance among hostages.
Terrorists tend to use it only when they want
to send a body back to someone, to show that they mean
business. So far, no one but us has been notified
that anyone's taken our team hostage."
  "Then scenario number two is unlikely,"
Martha said hopefully.
  Herbert nodded. "But the terrorists can't let an
escape attempt go unpunished. So what do they
do? They go to option three, which is an old
favorite of Middle Eastern terrorists. They
hit a target of equal importance to the hit they
took. In other words, if a lieutenant was
killed, they take out a lieutenant somewhere else.
If a nonmilitary leader was killed, they go after a
political figure."
  Martha stopped drumming. "If the Kurds are
behind this whole operation, they don't have many quick-strike
options."
  "Correct again," said Herbert. "We don't
think they've infiltrated any of our bases
overseas, and even if they had, they wouldn't show their
hand for something like this. They'd probably hit an
embassy."
  "They've got the greatest numbers of followers in
Turkey, Syria, Germany, and Switzerland,"
Martha said.
  She looked sharply at Herbert. "Would they know
about Paul's trip?"
  "Damascus has been informed," Herbert said,
"but it won't be announced publicly until he
lands in London."
  Herbert began wheeling toward the door. "If
Damascus knows, the Kurds may also know. I'm
going to inform Paul and also warn our embassies in
Europe and the Middle East."
  "I'll handle the Middle Eastern
embassies," Martha said. "And Bob? I'm
sorry about before. I really didn't mean any
disrespect to Mike."
  "I know," Herbert said. "But that isn't the same
as showing him respect."
  He left, leaving Martha wondering why she'd
bothered.
  Because they put you in charge here, that's why, she
told herself. Diplomacy wasn't supposed to be
pleasant, just effective.
  Calling her assistant Aurora, Martha put
everything but the safety of American
diplomats from her mind as she had the young woman
begin placing overseas calls, beginning with Ankara and
Istanbul.
  Tuesday, 2:32 a.m., Membij, Syria
Ibrahim did not stop the van until he was ten
miles within Syria. He wasn't sure whether the
Turkish border patrol had followed him. He
didn't hear them, but that didn't mean they weren't
back there following the van's tracks. Even if the
enemy were in pursuit, however, the Turks wouldn't
dare come as far as Membij. It was the first sizable
town on this side of the border, and even at this hour the
unauthorized intrusion of foreigners would raise the
citizens to resistance.
  As it was, the arrival of the long, white van
woke more than a few of the townspeople. They came
to their windows and doors and gawked as the magnificent
vehicle passed. Ibrahim didn't stop, but
drove on to the south, past the town, wanting
to attract as little attention as possible. His
captives and the van weren't a Syrian trophy but
a Kurdish prize. He intended to keep it that
way.
  Only when Ibrahim stopped, only when he
looked down at Mahmoud, who was
squatting protectively over the body of
Hasan, did Ibrahim permit himself to cry for his
fallen comrade. Mahmoud had already spoken a
prayer, and now Ibrahim said his part from the Koran.
  Kneeling and bowing his head low, Ibrahim offered
softly, ""He sends forth guardians who watch
over you and carry away your souls without fail when
death overtakes you. Then axe all men restored
to God, their true And then Ibrahim's
tear-filled eyes turned back to the man who had
done this monstrous deed. The American was lying on
his back on the floor of the van where Mahmoud had
left him. His face was swollen where he had been
beaten, but there was no sadness in his eyes.
  The accursed eyes were looking up, indignant and
unmoved.
  "Those eyes will not be defiant for very long,"
Ibrahim vowed. He reached for his knife. "I will
cut them out, followed by his heart."
  Mahmoud clasped a hand on his wrist.
"Don't! Allah is watching us, judging us.
Vengeance is not the best way now."
  Ibrahim wrested his arm free. "'Let evil
be rewarded with like evil," Mahmoud. The Koran
knows best. The man must be punished."
  "This man will submit to God's judgment soon
enough," Mahmoud said. "We have other uses for
  "What uses? We have hostages enough."
  "There is much more to this van than we know. We need
him to tell us of it."
  Ibrahim spit on the floor. "He would
sooner die. And I would sooner kill him, my
brother."
  "Someone will die for what happened to Hasan. But
we are home now, my brother. We can radio the
others.
  Tell them to seek out and strike down one of our
enemies.
  This man must suffer by living. By watching his
companions suffer. You saw how he broke "before,
when I threatened to cut the woman's fingers. Think
Of how much worse the days ahead can be for him."
  Ibrahim continued to look back at Rodgers.
The sight of him filled the Kurd with hate. "I
would cut his eyes out just the same."
  "In time," said Mahmoud. "But we're tired
now, and in mourning. We're not thinking as clearly as
we should.
  Let's contact the commander and have him decide how
best to avenge the deaths of Hasan and
Walid. Then we'll blindfold our prisoners,
finish our journey, and rest. We've earned that
much."
  Ibrahim looked back at his brother, then at
Rodgers.
  Reluctantly, he sheathed his knife.
  For now.
  Tuesday, 7:01 a.m., Istanbul, Turkey
  Situated on the shimmering blue Bosphorns
where Europe and Asia meet, Istanbul is the
only city in the world which straddles two continents.
Known as Byzantium in the early days of
Christianity, when the city was built along seven
great hills, and as Constantinople until 1930,
Istanbul is the largest city and most prosperous
port in Turkey. Its population of eight
million people swells daily, as families
migrate from rural regions looking for work. The
new arrivals invariably come at night and erect
shanties on the fringes of the city. These homes,
known as gecekondu or "built at night," are
protected by an ancient Ottoman law which declares
that a roof raised during the darkness cannot be torn
down.
  Eventually the shantytowns are razed,
new housing blocks rise in their place, and new
shanties are erected beyond them. These shacks stand in
dramatic contrast to the wealthy apartments, chic
restaurants, and fancy boutiques of the Taksim,
Harbiye, and Nisantasi districts.
  The Istanbullus who live there drive
BMW'S, wear gold and diamond jewelry, and
weekend in their yali, wooden mansions nestled on
the shores of the Bosphoms.
  American Deputy Chief of Mission
Eugenie Morris had been the overnight house
guest of charismatic Turkish automobile
magnate Izak Bora. Because the U.s.
consulate in Istanbul was secondary to the embassy
in Ankara, commercial as well as political
interests were dealt with here in a less formal, less
bureaucratic manner.
  The forty-seven-year-old diplomat had gone to a
dinner party at Mr. Bora's yali with American
business representatives, and had stayed until
all the other guests had left. Then she had
dismissed her driver and a second car carrying two
members of the Diplomatic Security Agency.
These men literally rode shotgun for any official
who went out on government or private
business.
  DSA agents were authorized to use
appropriate force to protect their charges. And because
they were attached to an embassy or consulate, they were
immune from prosecution for their actions.
  When the two cars returned at seven a.m. the
following morning, Eugenie was waiting inside the
foyer of the yali with Mr. Bora. A liveried
butler opened the door for them and then followed,
carrying the guest's overnight bag. One DSA
agent waited outside the low iron gates of the
mansion as the portly businessman walked her along
the short, stone path. The other agents sat behind the
wheel with the motor running. Behind the mansion, the
Bosphorus sparkled whitely in the early morning
sunlight. The leaves of the trees and the petals of the
flowers in the garden also shone brightly.
  Eugenie stopped when her host did. He waved
his hands at a hornet which seemed intent on nesting in
his hooked nose. The DSA agent stood with his
wrists crossed in front of him. His hands were
inside his dark sports jacket, ready to draw his
.38 if necessary. In the car, behind the nearly opaque
bullet-proof windows, his companion had a
sawed-off shotgun and an Uzi at his
disposal.
  Mr. Bora ducked in an ungainly fashion,
then watched with triumph as the hornet flew off
toward the water.
  Eugenie applauded his maneuver, and they continued
toward the gate.
  A motorcycle hummed in the distance. The DSA
agent standing by the fence half turned to keep an eye
on it as it approached. There was a boy sitting
tall in the seat, wearing a black leather jacket
and a white helmet.
  There was a canvas messenger's bag slung around
his neck with the tops of envelopes sticking out. The
DSA agent looked for telltale bulges under his
jacket and in his pocket. The fact that the jacket
was tightly zippered made it unlikely that he'd be
reaching inside for a weapon. The agent kept an eye
on the bag. The cyclist continued on past the cars
without slowing.
  As the agent looked back toward the compound, something
fell from the thick canopy of leaves. Both
Eugenie and Mr. Bora stopped to look at it as
it clunked on the stones at their feet.
  The DSA agent tried and failed to open the gate
as he looked at the top of the tree.
"Get back!" he shouted as the hand grenade
exploded.
  Before the couple could move, a gray-white cloud
erupted on the walk. At once, the boom of the
grenade was followed by the dull thucks and metal
clangs of shrapnel as it struck tree, iron, and
flesh. The DSA agent fell away from the gate,
his chest shattered. Eugenie and Mr. Bora went
down as though they'd been cut down by a scythe. Both
writhed on the walk where they fell.
  A moment after the explosion, the driver of the state
car shifted it forward. He rammed through the open gate
with his steel-reinforced fender, then pulled up beside the
fallen Deputy Chief of Mission. Behind him
came the DSA car. The driver swung it around
sideways and emerged with a shotgun. Protected by the
car, he stood and fired into the treetops. His shell
cut a fat path through the branches, stripping them
clean and causing a rain of damp green glitter.
  Submachine-gun fire from the tree sent the agent
ducking back down behind the car. The ski-masked
gunman then turned his fire upon the Deputy
Ghief of Mission, stitching a bloody path across
Eugenie's white blouse and jacket. She shuddered
as the bullets struck, and then she stopped
moving. The gunman ignored Mr. Bora, who was
lying on his side and slowly clawing his way back
toward the house. His butler had already run back and
was crouched in the foyer, a phone pressed to his ear.
  The DSA driver rose from behind the car. As he
prepared to fire a second shot into the trees, he
heard a clunk and looked down. A second hand
grenade was rolling toward him. Only this one had come
from behind.
  As he dove back into the car, he saw the
motor-cyclist standing down the road, behind a tree.
  The grenade exploded, causing the car to leap
slightly.
  But even before it had settled, the agent had grabbed
the Uzi from the glove compartment. He needed rapid
fire now, not just power. He rolled outside, lay
low on the ground, and aimed at the motorcyclist.
The man was already speeding toward him, coming around the cars
and using them for protection.
  The agent aimed to his side, shooting under the
chassis.
  He nailed the tires and the motorcycle skidded
toward the car, smacking into the other side. As he was
about to crawl under the car to reach the biker, he heard a
thunk on the roof. He looked up and saw
the man who had been in the trees. He'd jumped
down and was standing in a wide-legged horse stance,
pointing a revolver down at him. Before he could
fire, the driver of Eu-genie's car pulled his own
.45 and fired two shots from behind the gunman. One
slug passed through each of the man's thighs and he
dropped heavily to his side, slid onto the
hood of the car, and tumbled onto the ground.
  Several hand grenades rolled from the deep
pockets of his black sweater.
  The DSA agent crawled under the open door of the
car, stood next to the hood, and disarmed the moaning
gunman. He scooped up the extra grenades and
placed them all inside his car. Then he
cautiously made his way to the man who had been on
the motorcycle. The swarthy young man was lying on his
back, a broken right arm and left leg bone jutting
raggedly through his pants and jacket. Seven other hand
grenades had spilled from his delivery bag.
  One of them was in his left hand on his chest. He'd
pulled the ring and let the safety lever pop off.
  "Down!" the DSA agent yelled.
  The driver hit the dirt behind his car, and the DSA
agent jumped over the hood of his own vehicle. A
instant later the first grenade exploded,
taking the seven others with it in a series of loud,
echoing bangs.
  The car lurched and shook as shrapnel hit it, the
tires screaming as they burst. The DSA agent was
squatting behind one of them and he felt his feet go
numb as a piece of metal tore through the heel.
But he continued to squat, leaning against the car
to present as shielded a profile as possible.
  When the explosions were over, he rose painfully
behind his Uzi.
  The two assassins were dead, torn apart by their own
hand grenades. The driver of Eugenie's car was
holding the arm which was holding the gun, but at least he
was standing. Mr. Bora had made it back to the house
and was lying inside the foyer, his butler crouching behind
him. The rest of the household staff was standing behind them,
concealed in the shadows.
  A moment later, sirens ripped through the sudden
quiet. Four carloads of Turkish National
Police arrived, their Smith and Wesson .38's
drawn. Police swarmed Round the grounds and through the
house. The DSA agent set his Uzi on the car
roof, just so the Turks would know he was one of the good
guys. Then he limped over to his fallen
colleague. He was dead, as was the
Deputy Chief of Mission.
  The driver walked over, still holding his gun and his
bloody arm. He caught an officer's eye and
pointed to the wound. The officer said an ambulance was
coming.
  Both men ducked into their cars to radio their
superiors at the embassy. The reaction to the deaths
was cool and economical. Emotions were always kept
inside in situations like this. The press, and through them the
enemy couldn't be allowed to see how scared or upset
you were.
  When the men were finished, they met by the DSA
agent's car.
  "Thanks for tagging that guy on the roof," the agent
said.
  The driver nodded as he leaned carefully against the
back door. "You" know, Brian, there's nothing you
could've done about any of this."
  "BU-LITTLE," he said. "We shouid've gone in
to get her.
  I told Lee that, but he said the lady didn't
like being crowded. Well, shit. Better crowded than
what she got."
  "And if we'd gone in we'd all be dead," the
driver said. "They were expecting us to meet
her in there.
  What'd they have, fifteen grenades between them? It
was household security that screwed up. I'm
betting that guy was in the tree since last night
waiting for Ms. Morris.
  The other asshole on the bike must've been
following us."
  Three ambulances arrived, and while several
paramedics took care of the men's wounds before carrying
them off, others ran inside to check on Mr.
Bora. He was carried out on a gurney, moaning
in Turkish how this never would have happened if he
hadn't been such an internationalist.
  "That's how they win," the DSA agent said as he
was loaded into an ambulance beside the other American.
  "They scare guys like him into playing ball with just the
home team."
  "It doesn't take much to scare a guy like Mr.
Born," the driver replied as he looked from the
agent to the IV in his arm. "Let's see what
happens when they have to duke it out with the United
States of America."
  Tuesday, 5:55 a.m., London, England
  Paul Hood and Warner Bicking were met at
Heathrow Airport by an official car and a
DSA vehicle with three agents. The Americans
had expected to spend the two hours between flights at
the airport. However, an airport official met
Hood at the gate with an urgent fax from
Washington. Hood walked off to a corner to read
it. Bob Herbert had arranged for them to ride with an
embassy official to the U.s. Embassy at
24/31 Grosvenor Square in London. It was
important, the fax said, for Hood to use the
secure phone there. He and Bicking were shown to a
secure area of the terminal where international
dignitaries were hurried safely through customs.
  The ride through the very light early morning traffic
was swift. Hood was surprisingly alert. He'd
managed to catch three hours' sleep on the
plane, and he could still taste the weak coffee he'd
swigged two cups of before deplaning. Together, it would
be enough to keep him going for now. If he could grab
three or four more hours of sleep on the next leg
of the trip, he'd be fine when they hit Damascus.
Hood was also alert in part because of his curiosity and
concern about the mystery fax. If it had been good
news, Herbert would have indicated that.
  Bicking sat beside Hood, his legs crossed and his
foot rocking eagerly. Though he had worked
straight through the seven-hour flight, studying the
various CAR-FARE scenarios, he was more alert than
Hood.
  Bicking is young enough to do that, damn him, Hood
thought as he watched an early morning mist begin
to dissipate. There was a time when Hood could do that
too, during his banking years. Breakfast in New
York or Montreal, a late dinner in
Stockholm or Helsinki, then breakfast the
following morning in Athens or Rome. In those days
he could go for forty-eight hours without sleep. He
even disdained sleep as a waste of time. Now, there were
times when he got into bed and he didn't even want
his wife to touch him. He just wanted to lay down and
savor the sleep he had earned.
  Shortly after the car had gotten underway, the
driver handed Hood a sealed envelope from the
ambassador. It contained their local itinerary and
indicated that Dr. Nasr would be meeting them at the
embassy at 7:00 a.m.
  Ordinarily, Hood savored London. His
great grandparents were born in the Kensington section,
and he responded in an almost spiritual way to the
city's history and character. But as the car drove by the
centuries-old buildings, still charmed or
haunted by the ghosts of the courageous and the nefarious,
all Hood could think about was Herbert, the ROC, and
why the DSA car was so tight on their tail.
Usually, the diplomatic security teams
traveled with the length of a car or two between them. He
also wondered why there were three agents in the car instead
of two. That was all their companion, an embassy
assistant, should have merited.
  Hood's questions were answered when he was shown to an
office in the stately old embassy building and he
was able to place his call to Herbert. The intelligence
chief told him about the assassination in Turkey and
what appeared to be a failed attempt by hostages
to escape when the ROC crossed into Syria. He
also speculated that the assassination may have been a
response to that. When Hood asked why, Herbert
briefed him on a few facts which wouldn't be making
their. way into the press just yet.
  "One of Mr. Bora's household domestics
is a Turkish Kurd," Herbert said. "He let
the assassin in."
  Hood looked at his watch. "It happened less
than an hour ago. How do they know for certain who
did what?"
  "The Turks asked a lot of questions with
robber hoses and choke holds," Herbert replied.
"The servant admitted his orders came from
Syria. But except for the code name Yarmuk, he
didn't know from who or where.
  We're running checks on Yarmuk. So far the
only thing that's come up besides a river is a battle
from 636 A.d., when the Arabs defeated the
Byzantines and recaptured Damascus."
  "Sounds like someone's tipping their hand," Hood
said.
  "My thoughts exactly," Herbert said. "Only
we can't let Damascus know because for one thing, they
might not believe us. And for another, if they did
believe us, they might throw in with the Kurds just
to keep the peace there."
  "What about the motorcyclist?" Hood asked.
"Was he a Kurd or was he a freelancer?"
  "Oh, he was one of them," Herbert replied
"Up to his chin. He'd been living in a shack on
the outskirts of Istanbul for four weeks. Our
guess is that he'd been sent from the eastern
Turkish combat zones as part of a team designed
to hit targets in Istanbul after the initial dam
strike. His fingerprints were on file in Ankara,
Jerusalem, and Pads. He's got a
helluva record for a twenty-three-year-old.
  All of it as a Kurdish freedom fighter.
And the grenades he was carrying were the kind the Kurds
have been using in eastern Turkey. Old style,
without safety caps. East German."
  "The Kurds probably have fifth columnists
ready to act in other cities as well," Hood
said.
  "Undoubtedly," Herbert replied. "Though the
ones in Ankara have probably scattered like
cockroaches by now. I've notified the
President. My feeling is that the Kurds
probably intend to turn Ankara, Istanbul, and
Damascus into killing grounds as part of their overall
plan."
  "To stir up a war that'll give them a homeland as
part of the peace settlement," Hood said. "That was
something we talked about at the White House."
  "I think that assessment is dead-on," Herbert
said.
  "The only good news I've got is that we've
managed to put an Israeli Druze soldier
inside the Bekaa Valley to look for the ROC.
Though we've got a ten-mile-wide stick in our
eye, our Sayeret Ha'Druzim
veteran should be able to pinpoint the location for us.
Striker should be arriving in Israel in another five
hours or so. They can link up in the Bekaa then."
  "What are you hearing from Ankara and Damascus?"
  Hood asked.
  "Ankara is scrambling for information like we are, but
Damascus is starting to get tense. Major
General Bar-Levi in Haifa has been in touch
with his deep undercover Mista'aravim personnel in
the Jewish Quarter."
  "Those are the Arab impersonators?"
  "Right," Herbert said. "Actually, they're
trained special forces operatives who see and
hear damn near every thing. They say there's been an
unprecedented crackdown on Kurds. Arrests,
reports of beatings, real hardball. I've got
a feeling that's going to get worse very quickly."
Herbert paused. "You know, Paul, about Mike.
If he did spill blood trying to retake the
ROC, I'm hoping the attack on Deputy
Chief of Mission Morris was in response to that."
  "Why?"
  "Because it means that the Kurds wanted to pay him
back without hurting him directly," Herbert said.
"You know who used to do that all the time?"
  "Yeah, I do," Hood said. "Cecil B.
DeMilie. If he wanted to put the fear of
God in an actress, he yelled at her makeup
person or costumer. Scared her without leaving any
bruises."
  "Very good, Paul." Herbert said. "I'm
impressed."
  "You hear things like that running L.a.," Hood
said.
  He looked at his watch and got annoyed with
himself.
  He'd looked at it less than a minute before.
"I'm going to have to get going, Bob. I'm meeting
Dr. Nasr back at the airport. And you know how
I attract traffic."
  "Like Job attracts afflictions."
  "Right. On top of which, I feel goddamned
useless."
  "No more useless than I feel," Herbert said.
"I put out a warning to all our embassies as
soon as I figured out about the ROC border
incident. Got to the DSA'S in all of "em, but
Ms. Morris slipped through the net. The bastards
knew our M.o. and went after the stray lamb."
  "Not your fault," Hood said. "You
responded quickly and correctly."
  "And predictably," Herbert said, "which is
something we've gotta change. When the enemy knows
where your people are and how to get to them, and you don't,
you've got problems."
  "Twenty-twenty hindsight--"
  "Yeah," said Herbert. "I know. Most
businesses you learn your lessons by losing money.
In our business we learn by losing lives. It
stinks, but that's the way it goes."
  Hood wished there were something else he could say.
  But Herbert was right. They discussed some of the
Striker parameters, including the fact that the team
would be on the ground in Israel before Congress was
back for the day. And that it might well be necessary for
Striker to move before the Congressional Intelligence
Oversight Committee had a chance to okay their
actions.
  Hood told Herbert he'd sign a
Director's Order taking full legal
responsibility for any Striker activities.
He had no intention of letting Striker sit in the
desert if they had a chance to rescue Rodgers and the
team.
  Herbert wished Hood well on his
mission to Damascus and hung up. Sitting alone
in the dark, quiet room, Hood took a moment
to consider what he was prepared to do. To save six people
they only hoped were still alive, he was committed
to risking the lives of eighteen young commandos. The math
didn't make sense, so why did it seem right?
Because that was the job Striker was trained for, the job they
wanted to do? Because national honor demanded it, as
well as loyalty to one's colleagues?
  There were many excellent reasons, though none of them
neutralized the terrible burdens of command and the
execution of those commands.
  Where is Mike Rodgers, the walking
Bartlett's, when you need him? Hood mused as he
rose from the heavy lacquered chair.
  Hood's footsteps were swallowed by the Persian
rug as he crossed the room and rejoined Warner
Bicking, who was waiting for him in the outer office.
An embassy secretary offered Hood coffee, which
he accepted gratefully.
  Then Hood, Bicking, and a young official chatted
about the developments in Turkey as they waited for
Dr. Nasr.
  Nasr arrived at five minutes to seven. He
entered the main hallway and approached
briskly. The native Egyptian stood a few
inches over five feet tall, but he walked like a
giant. His head and shoulders were pulled back, and his
sharp salt-and-pepper goatee was pointed ahead like a
lance. Nasr's eyes were also sharp behind his
thick-lensed glasses, and his crisp, light gray
suit was nearly the same shade as his wavy hair.
He smiled generously when he saw Hood and
extended his small, thick hand from half a room
away. The gesture made him seem paternal now
rather than self-impressed.
  "My friend Paul," he said as Hood rose.
Their hands locked tightly, and Nasr reached up
to pat Hood on the back. "It's so good to see you
again."
  "You're looking very well, Doctor," Hood
said.
  "How's your family?"
  "My dear wife is fine and getting ready for a
new series of recitals," he replied. "All
Liszt and Chopin.
  To hear the Funeral Procession of Gondolas
No. 2 is to weep. Her recitando is
glorious. And her Revolutionary Etude--
superb. She'll be playing in Washington
later in the year. You will be our special guests, of
course."
  "Thank you," Hood said.
  "Tell me," Nasr said. "How are Mrs.
Hood and your little ones?"
  "Last time I checked, everyone was happy and not so
little," Hood said guiltily. He turned to where
Warner Bicking was standing behind him. "Dr. Nasr,
I don't believe you've ever met Mr.
Bicking."
  "I have not," Nasr said. "However, I did read
your paper on the increasing defensive
democratization of Jordan. We'll talk on the
plane."
  "It will be my very great pleasure," Bicking
replied as the men shook hands.
  As they walked to the car, Nasr between the other two,
Hood quickly briefed them on the latest
developments.
  They climbed into the sedan, Bicking taking a seat
up front. As the car started out, Nasr lightly
stroked the tip of his beard between the thumb and index
finger of his right hand.
  "I believe you are correct," said Nasr.
"The Kurds want and require their own
nation. The question is not how far they're prepared to go
to get it."
  "Then what's the question?" Hood asked.
  Nasr stopped playing with his beard. "The question, my
friend, is whether the blowing up of the dam was their big
gun, or whether they have something even bigger in store."
  Tuesday, 11:08 a.m., the Bekaa
Valley, Lebanon
  The Bekaa Valley is an upland valley which
runs through Lebanon and Syria. Also known as El
Bika and AI Biqa, the Bekaa is situated
between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountain
ranges. Seventy-five miles long and ranging
between five and nine miles wide, it's a continuation of
Africa's Great Rift Valley, and is one of the
most fertile farming regions in the Middle East.
  "Coele Syria," the Romans called it:
"Hollow Syria."
  Since the beginning of recorded history, wars have
been fought for the control of the wheatfields and vineyards,
the apricot, mulberry, and walnut trees.
  In spite of the valley's lushness, fewer and
fewer farmers work its most remote and fertile
areas. These regions are bordered by the tallest
peaks and thickest woods. Despite the
presence of the Beirut-Damascus highway, the
mountains and trees create a very real sense of
isolation. From the ground, many of these places can only
be reached by a single road. From the air or from the
peaks, these same places are hidden by ledges and
year-round foliage.
  For centuries, these hidden places have given
sanctuary to religious sects and cabals. In the
modern era, the first group known to have hidden here were the
men who helped to plot the the assassination of General
Bake Sidqi, the oppressive leader of Iraq,
who was slain in August of 1937. In their wake,
Palestinian and Lebanese guerrillas came to the
valley to train and plot against the formation of Israel
and then against the state itself. They came to conspire against
the Iran of the Shah, ags[ Jordan and Saudi
Arabia and other governments which embraced the
infidels of the West. Though archaeologists rarely
come to the valley to dig for Greek and Roman ruins
anymore, the soldiers have uncovered more caves than
the archaeologists ever found. They sell
antiquities they discover to raise money, and use
the caves as headquarters from which to mount their military
and propaganda campaigns. Arms and printing
presses, bottled water and gas-powered
generators sit side by side in the cool caverns.
  With the blessings of the Syrians, the PKK has
operated in the Bekaa Valley for nearly twenty
years.
  Though the Syrians are opposed to the idea of a
Kurdish homeland, the Syrian Kurds have spent
much of their time and efforts helping their Turkish and
Iraqi brothers survive the forces sent against them.
In fighting Ankara and Baghdad, the Syrian
Kurds strengthened Damascus by default. By the
time Damascus realized that it might finally be a
target as well, the Kurds were too well hidden,
too well entrenched in the Bekaa to be easily
evicted. And so the Syrian leaders took a
wait-and-see position, hoping that the brunt of any
assaults would be turned north or east.
  Ironically, it was United Nations pressure
on Ankara and Baghdad to relax attacks on the
Kurds that only recently allowed them to focus on
mounting a unified offensive. A series of meetings
at Base Deir in the deepest caves of the
northern Bekaa followed. After eight months,
representatives of the Iraqi, Syrian, and
Turkish Kurds devised Operation Yarmuk, a
plan to use water and surgical military
activity to throw the Middle East inffdisorder. In
command of the base and its operation was a
fifty-seven-year-old Southern
Californiaeducated Turkish Kurd named
Kayahan Siriner. Siriner's longtime Syrian
friend Walid alationasri was one of his most trusted
lieutenants.
  Mahmoud had used Hasan's radio to let
Base Deir know that they were coming in. They used the
same frequency-used by the 'm prosperous farmers in
the region to keep in touch with their shepherds, and
referred to themselves by code names. Anyone who was
eavesdropping electronically would not suspect their
real identities. Mahmoud had informed Siriner that
they were coming in with several oxen--enemies who were
unmanned.
  Had he told them that he was bringing in bulls, it
would have meant that the enemies were armed and the Kurds were the
hostages. Still, Sirinet knew that Mahmoud could have
been coerced into making the broadcast. The Kurd
leader would not take any chances.
  The appearance of the ROC was preceded by over a
minute by the sound of it crawling up the gentle
slope.
  Stones and dead branches cracked
thickly beneath its tires, the engine hummed and echoed,
and finally it was visible through the trees. The ROC
made its circuitous way toward the cave,
avoiding the land mines and stopping when the trees
became too thick. When the passenger's door
opened, four armed Kurds ran out of the cave, each
wearing a black kaffiyeh and camouflage
fatigues and carrying an old NATO Model
1968 submachine gun. Before they could deploy, one
man on each side, Ibrahim shut the van down
and Mahmoud stepped from inside. He raised his
pistol and fired three shots into the air. Had he
been a hostage, he would not have been carrying a
loaded gun. Shouting his thanks to God and His
Prophet, Mahmoud holstered his pistol and walked
toward the nearest man. As Mahmoud embraced him,
and whispered to him of the loss of Hasan, the other
three guards went to the open passenger's door.
Ibrahim did not hug the men. His attention was on
the blindfolded prisoners, and he didn't relax
until they'd been led one by one into the cave. Only
when they had been tied up inside did Ibrahim
walk over to Mahmoud, who was standing alone beside the
van. The guards had returned with earth-colored
tarps. They quickly began throwing them over the
van.
  Ibrahim hugged his brother. "We paid dearly for
this one," Ibrahim sobbed.
  "I know," Mahmoud said into his ear. "But it was
God's will, and Walid and Hasan are with Him
now."
  "I'd rather they were still with us."
  "So do I," Mahmoud said. "Now come. Siriner
will want to hear about the mission."
  Mahmoud kept his arm around his brother's shoulder
as the two of them walked toward the cave. It was the
first time Ibrahim had been to the sanctuary of the
unified Kurdish freedom fighters. He had
always hoped that his coming would have been under different
circumstances.
  Humbly, almost invisibly, as an observer. A
witness to history. Not as a hero who felt like a
blunderer.
  Base Deir was named after the Syrian word for
monastery.
  It was Kayahan Siriner's way of acknowledging
the lonely, sacrificial life he and his people led
here. The command headquarters was located in an
underground section of the cave. A tunnel had been
dug in the floor, and cinderblocks had
been used to make steps. The tunnel was covered by a
trapdoor which, when shut, could not be seen in the floor
of the dark cave. The door had been weighted with
heavy strips of robber. If anyone walked on it,
their footsteps wouldn't sound hollow.
  Beyond the trapdoor the cave continued to the north.
  There, the dozens of PKK soldiers slept on
cots and ate around a picnic table. Just past their
sleeping quarters the cavern forked. The eastern fork was
nearly a straight continuation of the north-running
tunnel. Daylight was visible from one end to the other.
A ffeadend dry gallery, this fork contained the
militia's arms and gas-powered generators. The
group's field commander, Kenan Arkin, had a station
here and in the command headquarters. The tall, gaunt
Turk remained in constant contact with the PKK'S many
factions. The natural cave had ended there, but the
soldiers had broken through to a small gorge beyond.
Cliffs overhung the gorge on either side, hiding
it from the air and making it ideal for training. In the
western fork of the cavern were ten small, dark pits.
They were lined with wire mesh and covered with circular
iron grates. The grates were held in place
by iron bars which lay across the center. Each end of the
bar was fitted into an iron upright. The
eight-foot-deep holes were used as jail cells
and held two people each. Sanitation consisted of larger
mesh openings on the bottom.
  Electric lights had been strong along the roof
of the narrow passageway, and Siriner's bunker was
protected by an iron door. The door had been
made from the hatch and armored plate of a Syrian
tank destroyed by the Israelis. It was cool ten
feet below the surface of the cave, and within the bunker
itself a pair of large fans stirred the musty air.
The room was nearly square and roughly the size of a
large freight elevator. The walls were naked,
and the low ceiling had been covered with a clear plastic
tarp. The plastic was pulled tight and bolted in the
corner to protect the room in the event of artillery
shelling. There were rugs on the dirt floor, a
small metal desk, and folding chairs with
embroidered cushions. Beside the desk was a shredder.
Behind it there was a radio with a headset and stool.
  Commander Kayahan Sirinet was standing behind his desk
when Mahmoud and Ibrahim entered. He was dressed
in a drab-green uniform and a white kaffiyeh with a
red band. He wore a .38 in a holster on his
belt.
  Siriner was of medium height and build,
with dark skin and pale eyes, He had a very thin
pencil mustache on his upper lip and a ring on his
left index finger. The gold band sported two
large silver daggers crossed beneath a star. Like
Walid, Commander Sirinet bore a scar. This one
was a deep, jagged scar which ran from the bridge of his
nose to the middle of his right cheek. He had obtained
the wound as the leader of the Kurdish food parties in
Turkey. It was his job to lead small bands against
non-Kurdish villages to obtain food. If the
villagers didn't give it willingly, the Kurds
took it by force.
  Turkish soldiers were killed out of hand whether they
resisted or not.
  Commander Siriner did not leave the cave unless it
was necessary. Even at night, there was the fear that he
might be assassinated by Turkish or Iraqi
snipers positioned in the peaks around the base.
  It was both a relief and an honor that Siriner
was standing. An honor because the commander was showing the men
respect for what they'd accomplished. A relief
because he attached no blame to them for the loss of
Walid and Hasan.
  "I thank Allah for your safe return and for the
success of your mission," said Sirinet, his
deep, resonant voice filling the room. "You have
come with a trophy, I understand."
  "Yes, Commander," said Mahmoud. "A vehicle
of some kind which the Americans use to spy."
  Siriner nodded. "And you are certain that in bringing it
here, you yourselves were not spied upon?"
  "We used it to blind the satellite, Commander," said
Ibrahim. "There is no doubt that they cannot see
us."
  Siriner smiled. "As their flyovers of the region
suggest."
  He looked at Mahmoud. "Tell me what
happened to Walid's ring and to Hasan."
  Mahmoud took a step forward. Hasan had
radioed the base about Walid's death, and the guard
had just informed Siriner of Hasan's death. Now
Mahmoud gave their commander the details. The commander
remained standing as he spoke. When Mahmoud was
finished, Sir-iner sat down.
  "The American is here, in captivity?"
  "He is," said Mahmoud.
  "He knows how to work the equipment you've
captured?"
  "He does," said Mahmoud. "Several of the
captives appear to know something of its
operation."
  Siriner thought for a long moment, and then called for a
soldier who served as his master-at-arms. The
brawny young man hurried into the office and saluted.
  Military formalities were strictly observed
among the twenty-five soldiers who were permanently
stationed at the base.
  The commander returned the salute. "Sadik," he
said, "I want the American leader tortured where
the others can hear."
  Ibrahim wasn't convinced that the American would
break. However, he didn't offer his unsolicited
opinion.
  The only answers Siriner accepted from his people were
"Yes, sir," and "I'm sorry, sir."
  "Yes, sir," the master-at-arms said.
  "Mahmoud," said Siriner, "I've heard that there
are women prisoners as well?"
  "Yes, sir."
  Sirinet looked back at Sadik. "Select
a woman to watch the torture. She will go second.
I want this vehicle working for the next part of our
operation. It may help us guide the
intiltrators."
  "Yes, sir."
  Siriner dismissed his master-at-arms. He turned
back to Mahmoud and Ibrahim. "Mahmoud. I
see you wear Walid's ring."
  "Yes, sir. He gave it to me before he--left
us."
  "He was my oldest friend," said Siriner. "He will
not die unavenged."
  Siriner walked from behind the desk. His expression
was a strange mix of grief and pride. Ibrahim
had seen the expression before in the faces of people who had
lost friends or brothers, husbands or sons to a
cause that was equally close to them.
  "As we expected, Syrian Army troops have
begun moving to the north. Mahmoud. You're
acquainted with the role that Walid was to have played in the
second phase of our operation?"
  "I am, sir," Mahmoud replied. "Upon his
return he was going to relieve Field Commander
Kenan. Kenan is going to lead the raid upon the
Syrian Army outpost in Quteife."
  Siriner stood in front of Mahmoud and peered
into his eyes. "The raid is vital to our plan.
However, Allah is merciful. He has returned
you to us. I see in that a sign, Mahmoud
affRashid. A sign that you and not Kenan
are to take Walid's part."
  Mahmoud's tired eyelids raised slightly.
"Commander?"
  "I would like you to lead the Base Deir group
to Quteife and then Damascus. Our man there
awaits the signal. Set out with the others and I will
give it."
  Mahmoud was still surprised. He bowed his head.
  "Of course, Commander. I am honored."
  Sirinet embraced Mahmoud. He patted his
back. "I know you must be tired. But it is
important that I be represented in Damascus
by a hero of our cause. Go and see Kenan. He will
give you your instructions. You can sleep while you
wait for the Syrians.""
  "Again, sir, I am honored."
  Sirinet moved over to Ibrahim. "I am
equally proud of you, Ibrahim."
  "Thank you, sir."
  "Because of your role in the day's victory, I have
special need of you," Siriner said. "I wish for you
to remain with me."
  Ibrahim's mouth fell at the edges. "Sir!
I would like to be allowed to go with my brother!"
  "That is understandable," Sirinet said as he
hugged Ibrahim. "But I need a man who has
dealt with the Americans and their van. This is not a question
of courage but of efficiency."
  "But commander. It was Hasan who spoke--" "You
will remain here," Sirinet said firmly. He
stepped back. "You drove the van from Turkey.
You may have seen something that will prove helpful. And you
have experience with machines. That in itself is more than many
of my soldiers have."
  "I understand, sir," Ibrahim said. He looked
narrowly at his brother without moving his head. He
fought hard to conceal his disappointment.
  "I will have a talk with the Americans," Sirinet
told him. "For now I want you to rest. You've
earned it."
  "Thank you, sir," Ibrahim replied.
  Siriner looked at Mahmoud. "Good luck,"
he said, and then went back to his desk. The men had
been dismissed.
  Ibrahim and Mahmoud turned smartly, then
returned to the tunnel. They stood there facing one
another.
  "I'm sorry," Ibrahim said. "I belong at
your side."
  "You will be even closer," Mahmoud said.
He touched his chest. "You'll be in here. Make me
proud of you, little brother."
  "I will," Ibrahim said. "And you be careful."
  The men hugged for a long minute, after which Mahmoud
walked deeper into the cave to meet with the field
commander.
  Ibrahim walked toward the makeshift
barracks, where he sat on an empty cot and
removed his boots. He lay back slowly,
stretching toes and leg muscles which were happy to be
free of their burden. He shut his eyes.
Ibrahim was aware of the soldiers trooping past
him, toward the cells.
  Sirinet would have a "talk" with the Americans.
He would torture them. They would break. And then their
leader would have nothing to do but help the other Kurds
run the computers and drive the van.
  It wasn't glorious. He wasn't even
convinced that it was useful. But he was tired and perhaps he
wasn't thinking clearly.
  In any case, he hoped the American did
break.
  He wanted him to capitulate, to cry out. What
right did any foreigner have to interfere with the fight for
Kurdish freedom? And to take the life
of a fighter who had displayed compassion as well as
heroism was unforgivable.
  lqe listened as the grates creaked open, as two
prisoners were pulled out, as the others shouted from their
cells. Their cries were like a campfire on a
cold night, warming him. Then his mind drifted to the
events of the past day and visions of the storm they would
unleash before this day was through. He thought of his brother and the
pride he felt for what he was about to do. And the warmth
settled over him like a blanket.
  Tuesday, 11:43 a.m., the Bekaa
Valley, Lebanon
  When she was a young girl, Sondra DeVonne
used to help her father Carl as he worked in the kitchen
of their South Norwalk, Connecticut, apartment.
By day, he managed a fast-food hamburger
restaurant on the heavily traveled Post
Road. By night, he mixed ingredients by the bowlful
looking for a custard recipe which would taste better
than anything else on the market. After two years,
he came up with a soft ice cream which his wife sold
on weekends at Little League games and
carnivals.
  A year after that, he quit his job and opened an
ice cream stand on Route 7 in
Wilton, Connecticut. Two years later, he
opened his second stand. A few months before
Sondra joined the United States Air Force,
he opened his twelfth Carl's Custard and was hailed
as Connecticut African-American
Businessperson of the Year.
  Watching her father at night, the ten-year-old
girl learned patience. She also learned dedication and
silence.
  He worked like an artist, intense and unhappy with
distractions. Sondra always remembered the time he'd
gotten so much powdered sugar on his face that he
looked like a mime. She'd sat on the small,
butcher-block kitchen table for nearly sixty full
minutes, turning the crank of the ice cream maker and
swallowing back a laugh. Had she succumbed, her
father would have been deeply offended. For that long, long
hour she kept her eyes shut and sang silently
to herself--any top-forty tune that would keep her mind
off her dad.
  This wasn't her small kitchen in South
Norwalk. The man in front of her wasn't her
father. But Sondra had flashes of being small and
helpless again as her hands were pulled behind her and cuffed
to a waist-high iron ring. In front of
her, on the other side of the cavern, Mike
Rodgers's shirt was cut off with a hunting knife.
  His arms were pulled up and handcuffed to a ring which
hung from the stone ceiling of the cavern. His toes
barely touched the floor. As an afterthought, the man
with the knife cut a bloody pencil-mustache over
Rodgers's upper lip.
  In the glow of the single overhead bulb, Sondra
could andmiddot; see Rodgers's face. He was
looking in her direction though not at her. As the
blood ran in streams into his mouth and down his chin
he was focusing on some-thing--a memory? A poem?
A dream? At the same time he was obviously
marshaling his energy for whatever lay ahead.
  After a few minutes, two men arrived. The first
one held a small butane blowtorch. The
blue-white flame was already to it and hissing. The other
man walked with an imperious strut. His hands were
clasped behind him and his pale eyes shifted from
Rodgers to Sondra and back again. There was no
remorse in those eyes, nor lust. There was just a
sense of cold purpose.
  The man stopped with his back to Sondra. "I am
the commander," he said in a rich, thinly accented
voice.
  "Your name does not matter to me. If you die, it
does not matter to me. All that matters is that you
tell us everything you know about the operation of your
vehicle.
  If you do not do so quickly, you will die where you are and
we will move on to the young lady. She will suffer a
different punishment"--he looked at her again--"a
far more humiliating one." He looked back at
Rodgers. "When we are finished with her we will move
to another member of your group. If you elect
to cooperate, you will be returned to your cell. Though
you murdered one of our people, you did what any good
soldier would have done. I have no interest in punishing
you and you will be released as soon as it can be arranged.
  Do you wish to tell us what you know?"
  Rodgers said nothing. The disman waited only a
few seconds.
  "I understand you withstood a cigarette lighter in the
desert," the man said. "Very good. So that you will know
what to expect this time, we will burn the flesh from your
arms and chest. Then we will remove your trousers and
continue down to the bottom of your legs.
  You will scream until your throat bleeds. Are you
sure you don't wish to speak?"
  Rodgers said nothing. The commander sighed,
then nodded to the man with the blowtorch. He stepped
forward, turned it toward Rodgers's left armpit,
and brought it forward slowly.
  The general's jaw went rigid, his eyes
widened, and his feet jumped from the floor. Within
seconds, the smell of burned hair and flesh
made the thick air fouler. Sondra had to breathe
through her mouth to keep from retching.
  The commander turned toward Sondra. He covered
her mouth to force her to breathe through her nose. He was
simultaneously pushing up on her jaw so that she
couldn't bite him.
  "It has been my experience," said the man, "that
one member of a party always tells us what we wish
to know. If you talk now you can save them all.
Including this man.your people were oppressed. They are
oppressed still." He removed his hand. "Can you not
sympathize with our plight?"
  Sondra knew she wasn't supposed to speak
to her captors.
  But he'd given her an opening and she had to try
reason with him. "Your plight, yes. Not this."
  "Then put a stop to it," the commander said.
  "You're not an archaeologist. You're a
soldier." He nodded toward Rodgers.
"This man has been trained. I can see that. I
feel it." He stepped closer to Sondra. "I
don't enjoy doing this. Talk to me. Help me and
you help him. You help my people. You will save
lives."
  Sondra said nothing.
  "I understand," the commander said. "But I won't let
dozens of women and children die every day because others do not
approve of our culture, our language, our form
of Islam. Hundreds of my people are in Syrian
prisons where they're tortured by the Mukhabarat,
the secret police. Surely you can understand my
desire to help them."
  "I understand," she replied, "and I sympathize.
But the cruelty of others doesn't justify your
own."
  "This is not cruelty," he said. "I would like
to stop. I have been tortured. I have suffered for
hours with electric wires threaded inside my
body so there would be no bruises. A dead animal
hung around your neck in a steaming-hot cell leaves
no marks. Nor do the flies it attracts or the
vomiting it induces. My wife was raped to death
by an entire Turkish unit. I found her body in
the hills. She was violated in ways which
I hope disare worse than you can imagine." He
looked back at Rodgers.
  "Other nations have made halfhearted efforts
to help us. The United States special envoy
tried to bring together the feuding Talabani and
Barzani factions in Iraq.
  He had no budget, no arms for them. He
failed. The United States Air Force tried
to prevent the Iraqis from bombing Kurds in the
north. They succeeded, so the Iraqis simply
poisoned their water supply. The Air Force could
not prevent that. It is time for us to help ourselves.
  For one of us to lead all of us."
  This is why we aren't supposed to talk to them,
Sondra thought. The man was making perfect sense.
And the Kurd was right about one thing. Someone would
probably talk. But it couldn't be her. She had
taken an oath of allegiance, and part of that oath was
to obey orders. Rodgers did not want her
to speak. She couldn't.
  She wouldn't. Living with that shame would be worse
than dying.
  She continued to look at the commander as Rodgers's
handcuffs rattled against the iron ring. After a
minute, the torch was moved to Rodgers other
side. He jumped this time, and so did she, as the
flame was applied. The jaw was no longer so strong.
His mouth fell open, his eyes rolled, and his entire
body trembled. The tips of his feet kicked up and
down vigorously. But he didn't scream.
  The commander watched with a relaxed, confident
expression as the flame was moved to Rodgers's
back.
  Rodgers arched and shook and shut his eyes. His
mouth went wide and there was a gurgling deep in his
throat.
  As soon as Rodgers became aware of the sound he
forced his mouth shut.
  Though tears formed in her eyes and fear dried her
mouth, Sondra refused to say a word.
  Suddenly, the commander said something in Arabic.
  The torturer stepped away from Rodgers and shut
off the burner. The commander turned to Sondra.
  "I will give you a few minutes to think without
having to see your friend suffer." He smiled at her.
  "Your friend... or your superior officer? No
matter.
  Think about the people you can help. Yours as well as
mine. I ask you to think about the German people during the
Second World War. were the patriots those
who did the bidding of Hitler, or those who did what
was right"?."
  The commander waited a moment. When Sondra said
nothing, he walked away. The torturer left with
him.
  As their footsteps died, Sondra looked at
Rodgers. He raised his head slowly.
  "Say... nothing," he ordered.
  "I know," she said.
  "We are not Nazi Germany," Rodgers gasped.
  "These people... are terrorists. They'll use the
ROC to kill. Do you ... understand?"
  "I do," she said.
  Rodgers's head dropped again. Through tears,
Sondra looked at the dark, raw burns under his
upraised arms.
  Rodgers was right. These men had killed thousands of
people by blowing up the dam. They'd kill even more if they
were able to use the ROC to watch troop movements or
listen to communications. The Kurds were oppressed, but
would they be any better under a warlord like this? He was a
man who had suffered, yet he was willing to burn
hostages alive and keep them in pits to get his
way. If he were Syrian, would he tolerate the
Turkish Kurds? If he were Turkish,
would he tolerate the Iraqi Kurds?
  She didn't know. But if Mike Rodgers was
prepared to die to say no to him, she was too.
  And then she heard the footsteps returning.
Sondra saw Mike Rodgers breathe deeply
to bring up his courage and resolve and felt her own
legs weaken. She pulled on the handcuffs and wished
she could at least die fighting their captors.
  The torturer reappeared without the commander. After
lighting the burner, he moved toward Mike
Rodgers again. And impassively, as though he were
igniting a barbecue pit, he turned the flame
on Rodgers's breast-bone.
  And after his head rolled back and he fought for a long
moment to keep his teeth clenched, the general finally
screamed.
  Tuesday, 3:55 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  Bob Herbert started working on his fourth pot of
coffee while Matt Stoll finished off his seventh
can of Tab.
  Except for bathroom breaks, neither man had
left Stoll's office, even when the night shift
came on duty.
  The two were examining photographs of the Bekaa
Valley which had been taken from 1975 through
the present by satellites, infiltrators, and
Israeli Sayeret Tzanhanim paratroopers.
They knew the ROC was somewhere in the valley, but they
didn't know where.
  An F-16 flyover from Incirlik hadn't
provided any clues.
  The thick tree cover and camouflage undermined
visual reconnaissance. And except for the
low-watt satellite-killer program, the ROC
had apparently been shut down or else hidden in a
cave or beneath a ledge. Otherwise, an infrared
search might have turned up something. The Air Force
plane had also been sending out millimeter-wave
microwave signals in an effort to raise the
ROC'S active-passive radar reflector.
Had Rodgers been able to get to the dashboard and
switch the ROC transponder on, it would have
replied with a coded message. So far, there had been
only silence.
  With nothing else to go on, the two men looked at
photographs. Herbert wasn't certain what he
was looking for. But as the pictures filled Stoll's
twenty-inch monitor, the intelligence chief tried
to think like the enemy.
  According to Turkish intelligence, which was
confirmed by Israeli intelligence, there were nearly
fifteen thousand PKK soldiers. Some ten thousand of
those were living in the hills of eastern Turkey and
northern Iraq. The rest were divided into pockets
of ten to twenty fighters. Some of these people were assigned
to specific areas of Damascus or Ankara or
other major cities. Others were in charge of
training, communications, or maintaining supply lines
through the Bekaa Valley. Now, the Bekaa was also
apparently the home of a new, aggressive
Syrian Kurdish unit. One which was working
closely with, or perhaps even joined with, Kurds from
Turkey and Iraq.
  "So the terrorists capture the ROC,"
Herbert said.
  Stoll let his forehead plunk down on his arms,
which were crossed on his desk. "Not again, Bob."
  "Yes, again," Herbert said.
  "There's got to be something else we can try,"
Stoll moaned. "The farmers out in the fields
contact their hands using cellular phones. Let's
listen to them. Maybe they saw something."
  "My team is doing that. They've picked up
zip."
  Herbert took a mouthful of warm coffee
from a chipped, stained mug which had once sat on the
desk of OSS chief Wild Bill Donovan.
"So the terrorists capture the ROC. They
report back to their headquarters. Since we can't
find the terrorists, we have to find the command base. The
question is, what do we look for?"
  "A command center has to have access to water, and
it'll have generators for electricity and a radar dish
for communications and probably heavy tree cover for
security," Stoll droned. "We've been through this
a zillion times. Water can be trucked in or
flown in, generator exhaust can be vented by hose
to someplace and dispersed so an airplane heat-sensor
won't see it, and a radar dish is easy to hide."
  "If you decide to chopper in drinking water, you'd
have to make a helluva lot of flights," Herbert
said.
  "Enough so that you stand a good chance of being spotted."
  "Even at night?"
  "No," Herbert said. "At night you stand a good
chance of crashing into some of those peaks, especially if
you're using a twenty- or thirty-yearold bird.
As for trucks, water can only be trucked in if
there's a road nearby. So if the base isn't
near a stream--and there aren't very many in this
region--it has to be near the highway or at least
a dirt road."
  "Granted,:" Stoll said. "But that still leaves us
about thirty or forty possible locations for a terrorist
base. We keep examining these same pictures and
magnifying different sections of them and
computer-analyzing the geology of the region, and we
still come up with squat."
  "That's because we're obviously not looking for the right
thing," Herbert said. "Every human activity leaves
traces." He was annoyed with himself. Even without some
of the high-tech satellite and surveillance tools
he'd normally have at his disposal, he should be able
to find those traces. Wild Bill Donovan
did. Lives and national security depended upon it.
"Okay," he said. "We know the command center is
somewhere in there. What other trappings would it have?"
  Stoil raised his head. "Barbed wire hidden in
vines, which we haven't seen. Mines, which we can't
see any way. Cigarette butts, which we could
see if we had a satellite that we could turn on
the area. We've been through all that."
  "Then let's look at it a different way,"
Herbert said.
  "Fine. I'm game. Fire away."
  "You're a terrorist leader," Herbert said.
"What's the most important asset you need in a
base?"
  "Air. Food. Sanitation. Those are the
biggies, I'd guess."
  "There's one more," Herbert said. "A bigger one.
  The top quality you'd look for is safety. A
combination of defensibility and impregnability."
  "From what?" Stoll asked. "From spies or
attack?
  From the ground or the air? For assault or
retreat?"
  "Safety from aerial bombardment," Herbert
said.
  "Flyovers and artillery fire are the easiest,
safest ways to take an enemy. base out."
  "Okay," said Stoll. "So where does that lead
us?"
  "We know that most of these caves are made
of--what did Phil call them in his analysis?"
  "I don't remember," Stoll said. "Porous
rock, sponge rock, something that sounded like you could
quarry it with a good karate chop."
  "Right," said Herbert. "The thing is, that kind of
rock only protects the terrorists from
surveillance by air, not from attack. What does?"
  "Protect from attack? You said that terrorists in
the Bekaa move around a lot," Stoll said, "like
mobile Scuds. Their best defense is keeping
anyone from knowing where they are."
  "True," Herbert said. "But this situation may be
different."
  "Why?"
  "Logistics," Herbert replied. "If these
terrorists are coordinating movements in at least
two nations, they have to remain centralized
to distribute arms, bomb parts, maps, information."
  "With computers and cellular phones, most of those
capacities are pretty transportable," Stoll
pointed out.
  "Maybe you can move the trappings around,"
Herbert agreed. "But these guys would also have been
training for a series of very specific missions." He
took another swallow of coffee. Grounds washed
along his gums as he reached the bottom of the cup.
He absently spat them back in. "Let's think
this through. When any strike force trains for a
specific. mission, they build replicas of the
sites."
  "These guys wouldn't have built a
mockup of the Ataturk Dam, Bob."
  "No," Herbert agreed. "They wouldn't have had
to, though."
  "Why not?"
  "That part was pure muscle. The terrorists
didn't have to work out technique and finesse because they just
flew in, dropped their bombs, and got out. But if
that was simply a precipitating incident, which it almost
certainly was, they'll probably have follow-up
assaults planned.
  Assaults which will have to be rehearsed."
  "Why?" Stoll asked. "What makes you think
those assaults won't be pure muscle as well?"
  Herbert drained his mug. There were more grounds in his
mouth. He spat them back into the cup before pushing it
to the side of the desk. "Because historically, Matt,
the first strike in a war or war-phase is big,
surprising, and strategic--like Pearl Harbor or
the Normandy invasion. It alestabilizes and
shocks. After that, the enemy is ready, so you have
to shift into a more methodical mode. Careful,
surgical assaults."
  "Like capturing important towns or killing
opposition leaders."
  "Exactly," Herbert said. "That
requires site-specific training. When combined
with the other factors about communications, supplies, and
commands, that means a more or less permanent base."
  "Maybe," Stoll said. He pointed at the
monitor. "But not in caves like the soft-rock
jobbers we have here. You can't reinforce those.
Lookit. They're not very big to begin with, only about
seven feet tall and five wide. If you throw in
a lot of iron and wood supports, you'd barely
have room to move around."
  Herbert chewed on a lingering coffee ground for a
moment, then absently pulled it out. He looked at
it.
  "Wait a minute," he said. "Dirt."
  "What?" Stoll asked.
  Herbert held out the dark ground and then flicked it
away. "Dirt. You can't build much inside one of
those caves but you can excavate. The North
Vietnamese did it all the time."
  "You mean an underground bunker," Stoll said.
  Herbert nodded. "It's the perfect solution. It
also narrows down our search. You can't blast a
tunnel in caves like these or the roof'll come down
on you--"
  "But you can dig one," Stoll interrupted
excitedly.
  "You've got to dig one."
  "Right!" Herbert said. "And to dig, you need
dirt."
  "From the descriptions on those pictures,"
Stoll said, "most of these caves were cut into the rock
shelf by subterranean streams."
  "Most," Herbert said as the data came up, "but
maybe not all."
  Stoll stored the Bekaa photographs and brought
up the geological records which Katzen had
organized before leaving for the region. Stoll and
Herbert both leaned toward the monitor as Stoll
ran a word-search for "soil." He came up with
thirty-seven references to soil composition. The men
began reading through each reference, looking for anything which
suggested a recent excavation. They crawled through a
mass of figures, percentages, and geological
terms until something caught Herbert's eye.
  "Hold it," Herbert said. He slapped his hand
on the mouse and scrolled back a page. "Look
at this, Matt. A Syrian agronomical study
from January of this year."
  Herbert began scanning down. "The team
reported an anomaly in the Thicket of
Oaks region of the Chouf Mountains."
  Stoll glanced at notes he'd been taking.
"Ohmigod.
  That's the area where the ROC is."
  Herbert continued reading. "It says here the A
horizon or topsoil there is characterized by unusually
high biotic activity as well as an abundance of
organic matter which is typically found in the B
horizon substratum.
  Movement typically occurs from A horizon
to B, carrying fine-grained clay downward. This
concentration of substratum material suggests one of
two things. First, that an effort was made to enrich the
soil with more active earth, and then abandoned. Or
second, it could be the result of a nearby
archaeological dig. The level of biological
activity suggests the deposits were placed here within
the last four to six weeks."
  Stoll looked at Herbert. "An
archaeological dig," he said, "or else a bit
of bunker-building."
  "Absolutely possible," Herbert replied.
"And the time frame fits. They found the soil four
months ago.
  That means the digging was done five to six
months ago.
  That would have been enough time to put together a base and
train a team."
  Stoll began typing commands.
  "What are you doing?" Herbert asked.
  "The NRO routinely photographs the
Bekaa," Stoll said. "I'm bringing up the recon
files of the region for the last six months. If there
was any digging, they may not have done it all by hand."
  "Yeah, those caves might just be wide and tall
enough," Herbert said. "And if they brought in a
back-hoe or bulldozer, even at night--"
  "There would be deep tire tracks," Stoll said.
"If not from the equipment itself, then from the truck or
flatbed which carted it in."
  When the files were loaded, Stoll accessed a
graphics program. He pulled up a file and
typed Tire Treads.
  When the menu appeared, he typed, No
Automobiles.
  The computer went to work. Just over a minute later,
it offered a selection of three photographs.
Stoll asked to see them. All three showed distinct
tread-bar marks in front of the same cave. It was
the cave from which the soil had been
excavated.
  "Where's the cave."?" Herbert asked.
  Stoll asked the computer to find the cave in its
file. It took just a few seconds for the
coordinates to come up.
  Stoll held up his can of Tab. "Here's dirt
in your he said as he triumphantly slugged the rest
of it down.
  Herbert nodded quickly as he snapped up his
cellular put in a call to Major General
Bar-Levi in Halfa, and told him about the map which
was about to be mo-demed over.
  Tuesday, 1:00 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  Over the past twenty years, Paul Hood had
been to dozens of crowded airports in many cities.
Tokyo had been big but orderly, packed with
businesspeople and tourists on a scale he'd
never imagined. Vera Cruz, Mexico, had been
small, jammed, outdated, and humid beyond imagining.
The locals were too hot to fan themselves as they waited
for departures and arrivals to be written on the
blackboard.
  But Hood had never seen anything like the sight which
greeted him as he entered the terminal of the
Damascus International Airport. Every
foot of the terminal had people in it. Most of them were
well dressed and well behaved. They held
baggage on their heads because there wasn't room
to keep it at their sides. Armed police stood at
the gates of arriving aircraft to keep people out if
necessary and help passengers get off planes and into the
terminals. After the passengers deplaned, the doors
of the gate were shut and they were on their own.
  "Are all of these people coming or going?" Hood asked
Nasr. He had to shout to be heard over persons
who were crying for family members or yelling
instructions to friends or assistants.
  "They all appear to be going!" Nasr shouted
back.
  "But I've never seen it like this! Something must have
happened--"
  Hood elbowed sideways through the mob at the
gate entrance. He thought he felt a hand reach for his
inside jacket pocket. He stepped back against
Nasr. His passport or wallet would both be
valuable if people were trying to leave Syria. His arms
tight at his sides, he got on his tiptoes. A
white piece of cardboard with his name written in
black was bobbing above heads about five yards away.
  "Come on!" Hood shouted at Nasr and
Bicking.
  The men literally pushed their way to the
black-suited young man who was holding the sign.
  "I'm Paul Hood," he said to the man. He
wormed his arm behind him. "This is Dr. Nasr and
Mr. Bick-+."
  "Good afternoon, sir. I'm DSA Agent
Davies and this is Agent Fernette," the young man
yelled, cocking his head toward a woman standing to his
right. "Stay close behind us. We'll take you through
customs."
  The two agents. turned and walked side
by side. Hood and the others fell in, following
closely as their escorts alternately shouldered,
elbowed, and pushed their way through the crowd. Hood
wasn't surprised they didn't have a Syrian
security contingent. He wasn't high-ranking enough
to merit one. Still, he was surprised that there were so few
police here. He was dying to know what had happened,
but he didn't want to distract their escorts.
  It took nearly ten minutes to push through the main
terminal. The baggage area was relatively
empty. While they waited for their luggage, Hood
asked the agents what had happened.
  "There's been a confrontation at the
border, Mr. Hood," Agent Fernette
replied. She had short brown hair and a clipped
voice, and looked about twenty-two.
  "How bad?" Hood asked.
  "Very bad. Syrian troops surrounded
Turkish troops which had crossed the border looking
for the terrorists.
  The Syrians were fired upon and fired back.
Three Turkish soldiers were killed before the rest
of the border patrol managed to work their way back
into Turkey."
  "There's been worse," Nasr said. "This panic
is for that?"
  Fernette turned her dark eyes on him.
"No, sir," she said. "For what followed. The
Syrian commander pursued the Turks into Turkey and
wiped them out. Executed the soldiers who
surrendered."
  "My God!" Bicking cried.
  "What is his background?" Nasr asked.
  "He's a Kurd," Fernette replied.
  "What happened after that?" asked Hood.
  "The commander was dismissed and the Syrians withdrew,"
the woman said. "But not before the Turks moved some of
their regular army troops and tanks to the
border. That's where it sits the last we heard."
  "So everyone's trying to get out," Hood said.
  "Actually, not everyone," said Fernette. "Most
of the people here are Jordanians, Saudis, and
Egyptians. Their governments are sending in
planes to evacuate them.
  They're afraid that their countries may come in on
the side of the Turks and they don't want to be here
if they do."
  After gathering their bags, Hood and the others were led
to a small room on the far northern side of the
terminal.
  There, they were hurried through customs and taken to a
waiting car. As he climbed into the stretch limousine
with its American driver, Hood smiled to himself.
  The President had to fly him to the other side of the
world to get him into one of these.
  The ride north into the city was quick and easy.
Traffic on the highway was light, and the driver
came in around the city to Shafik al-Mouaed
Street. He turned west and drove toward
Mansour Street. The U.s. Embassy was
located at Number Two. Both roads were
deserted.
  Nasr shook his head as they headed down
the narrow road. "I've been coming here all my
life." There was a catch in his voice. "I've
never seen the city so deserted. Damascus and
Aleppo are the oldest continuously inhabited
cities in the world. To see it like this is terrible."
  "I understand it's even worse in the north! Dr.
Nasr," said Agent Fernette.
  "Has everyone left the city or are they
indoors?"
  Hood asked.
  "A little of both," said Fernette. "The
President has ordered the streets to be kept
clear in case the army or his own palace guards have
to move around."
  "I don't understand," Hood said. "All the
activity is taking place one hundred and fifty
miles north of here.
  The Turks wouldn't be reckless enough to attack the
capital."
  "They're not," said Bicking. "I'll bet the
Syrians are afraid of their own people. Kurds, like
the officer who led the attack at the border."
  "Exactly," said Fernette. "There's a five
p.m. curfew.
  If you're out after that, you're going
to prison."
  "Which is someplace you don't want to be in
Damascus," Agent Davies said. "People are
treated rather harshly there."
  Upon reaching the embassy, Hood was greeted
by Ambassador L. Peter Haveles. Hood
had met the career foreign service man once, at
a reception at the White House. Haveles was
balding and wore thick glasses. He stood a
few inches under six feet, though his rounded shoulders
made him seem even shorter. He'd gotten this
post, it was said, because he was a friend of the Vice
President. At the time, Haveles's
predecessor had remarked that a man would only
give this post to his worst enemy.
  "Welcome, Paul," Haveles said from
halfway down the corridor.
  "Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador," Hood
replied.
  "Was the flight pleasant?" Haveles asked.
  "I listened to oldies on audio channel four
and slept," Hood said. "That, Mr.
Ambassador, is pretty much my definition of
pleasant."
  "Sounds good to me," Haveles said
unconvincingly.
  Even as the ambassador shook hands with Hood,
his eyes had already moved to Nasr. "It's an
honor to have you here, Dr. Nasr," Haveles said.
  "It's an honor to be here," Nasr replied,
"though I wish the circumstances were not so grim."
  Haveles shook Bicking's hand, but his eyes
returned quickly to Nasr. "They are grimmer than
you know," Haveles said. "Come. We'll talk in
my office. Would any of you care for something to drink?"
  The men shook their heads, after which Haveles
turned and extended a hand down the corridor. The
men began walking slowly, Haveles between Hood and
Nasr and Bicking beside Hood. Their footsteps
echoed down the corridor as the ambassador talked
about the ancient vases on display. They were
top-lit, and looked quite dramatic in front of
nineteenth-century murals showing events from the
reign of the Umayyad Caliphs during the first
century A.d.
  Haveles's round office was at the far end of the
embassy.
  It was small but ornate, with marble columns on
all sides and a central drum ceiling reminiscent
of the cathedral at Bosra. Light came
through a large skylight in the top of the dome. There were
no other windows.
  The guests sat in thickly padded brown
armchairs. Hav-eles shut the door, then sat behind
his massive desk. He seemed dwarfed by it.
  "We have our sources in the Presidential
Palace," he said with a smile, "and we suspect
they have sources here. It's best to speak in
private."
  "Of course," said Hood.
  Haveles folded his hands in front of him. "The
palace believes that there is a death squad in
Damascus. The best information they have is that the team
will strike late this afternoon."
  "Do we have corroboration?" Hood asked.
  "I was hoping you could help us there," Haveles
said. "At least, that your people could. You see, I've
been invited to visit the palace this afternoon." He
looked at the antique ivory clock on his
desk. "In ninety minutes, in fact. I've
been invited to remain there for the rest of the day, talking
things over with the President.
  Our chat is to be followed by dinner--"
  "This is the same President who once kept
our Secretary of State waiting for two
days before granting him an audience," Dr. Nasr
interrupted.
  "And kept the French President sitting in an
antechamber for four hours," Bicking added. "The
President still doesn't get it."
  "Get what?" Hood asked.
  "The lessons of his ancestors," said Bicking.
  "Through most of the nineteenth century, they used
to invite enemies to their tents and seduce them with
kindness.
  Pillows and perfume won more wars out here than
swords and bloodshed."
  "Yet those victories still left the Arabs in
disunity," Dr. Nasr said. "The President
does not seek to seduce us with kindness. He
abuses foreigners in an effort to seduce his Arab
brothers."
  "Actually," said Haveles, "I think you're
both missing the point. If I may finish, the
President has also invited the Russian and
Japanese ambassadors to this meeting. I
suspect that we will be with him until the crisis has
passed."
  "Of course," Hood nodded. "If anything
happens to him, it'll happen to you and the
others."
  "Assuming the President even shows up,"
Bicking pointed out. "He may not even be in
Damascus."
  "That's possible," Haveles admitted.
  "If an attack occurs," said Dr. Nasr,
"even with the President away from the palace,
Washington, Moscow, and Tokyo will find it
impossible to support whoever staged the attack,
whether it's the Kurds or Turks."
  "Exactly," said Haveles.
  "They could even be Syrian soldiers
masquerading as Kurds," said Bicking. "They
conveniently kill everyone except the President.
He survives and becomes a hero to millions of
Arabs who dislike the Kurds."
  "That's also possible," Haveles said. He
looked at Hood. "Which is why, Paul, any
intelligence you can come up with will be helpful."
  "I'll get in touch with Op-Center right away,"
Hood said. "In the meantime, what about my meeting
with the President?"
  Haveles looked at Hood. "It's all been
arranged, Paul."
  Hood didn't like the smooth way the
ambassador had said that. "When?" he asked.
  Haveles grinned for the first time. "You've been
invited to join me at the palace."
  Tuesday, 1:33 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Phil Katzen crouched on the mesh floor of the
dark pit. He had quickly grown accustomed to the
stale smell in his little prison. To the stench of the
sweat and waste of those who had been incarcerated before
him. Any lingering discomfort he felt passed when
Rodgers's torture began. Then it was the smell
of burning flesh which filled his nostrils and lungs.
  Katzen had wept when Rodgers finally screamed,
and he was weeping still. Beside him, Lowell Coffey
sat with his chin against his knees and his arms around his
legs. Coffey was staring through Katzen.
  "Where are you, Lowell?" Katzen asked.
  Coffey looked up. "Back in law school,"
he said.
  "Arguing in moot court on behalf of a laid-off
factory worker who had taken his boss hostage. I
do believe I'd try that one differently now."
  Katzen nodded. School didn't prepare a
person for much. In graduate school, he had
taken specialized courses as part of his
training for extended visits to other countries. One
of these was a semester-long series of lectures
by visiting professor Dr. Bryan Lindsay
Murray of the Rehabilitation and Research Center
for Victims of War in Copenhagen. At that time,
just over a decade before, nearly half a million
victims of torture alone were living in the United
States. They were refugees from Laos and South
Africa, from the Philippines and Chile. Many of
those victims spoke to the students.
  These people had had the soles of their feet beaten
mercilessly and had lost their sense of balance. They
had had eardrums punctured and teeth pulled,
tacks thrust under fingerniails and toenails and
cattle prods pushed down their throats. One
woman had been enclosed in the bell, a glass
dome which remained over her until her sweat had
reached her knees. The course was supposed to help
students understand torture and help them to deal with it
if they were ever captured. What a big, fat
intellectual sham that'd been.
  Yet Katzen knew that one thing he'd learned in
the lectures was true. If they survived this, the
deepest scars would not be physical. They would be
emotional. And the longer the captivity went
on, the less treatable their post-traumatic stress
disorder would be. Fits of panic or chronic
despondency could be brought on by re-experiencing
anything they had suffered today. The smell of dirt or
the sound of a scream. Darkness or a shove.
Perspiration trickling down their armpits. Anything.
  Katzen looked at Coffey. In his fetal
position and distant expression he saw himself and the
others. The time they'd spent tied up in the ROC
had enabled them to pass through the first phase of the long
emotional road hostages faced--denial. Now they
were moving through the numbing weight of acceptance. That
phase would last for days. It would be followed
by flashbacks to happier times--which was where Coffey was
already headed--and finally by self-motivation.
  If they lived that long.
  Katzen shut his eyes, but the tears kept coming.
Rodgers was snarling now, like a caged dog. His
chains rattled as he tugged against them. Private
DeVonne was talking to him calmly, trying to help
him focus.
  "I'm with you," she was saying to him in a soft but very
tremulous voice. "We're all with you ...."
  "All of us!" Private Pupshaw shouted from the
pit to the left of Katzen's. "We're
all with you."
  Rodgers's snarls soon became screams. They
were short, angry, and agonized. Katzen could no
longer hear Sondra's voice over his cries.
Pupshaw was swearing now, and Katzen heard Mary
Rose vomiting in the pit to the right. It had to be
her. Seden was still unconscious.
  There wasn't a civil, dignified human sound
to be heard. In a few short minutes, the
terrorists had transformed a band of educated,
intelligent people into desperate or frightened animals.
If he weren't one of them, he might have admired the
simple skill with which it was done.
  He couldn't just sit there. Turning, Katzen dug
his fingers into the mesh and pulled himself to his feet.
  Coffey looked up at him. "Phil?"
  "Yeah, Lowell?"
  "Help me up. I want to stretch too but my
goddamn legs are like rubber."
  "Sure," Katzen said. He put his hands under
Coffey's armpits and helped him to his feet. As
soon as Coffey was standing, Katzen released him
tentatively. "You okay?"
  "I think so," said Coffey. "Thanks. How about
you?"
  Katzen turned to the mesh side of the pit.
"Shitty.
  Lowell, I have to tell you something. I didn't
get up to stretch."
  "What do you mean?"
  Katzen looked up at the grate. Rodgers was
shrieking now in clipped bursts. He was fighting the
pain and losing.
  "Oh, for God's sake stop!" Katzen
moaned. He looked down and shook his head from side
to side. "Jesus God, make them stop."
  Coffey wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
  "It's kind of ironic," he said. "We're in
God's backyard and He isn't even listening.
Or if He is," Coffey added apologetically,
"He's got a plan that's not making much sense
to me."
  "To me either," Katzen said. "Unless we're
wrong and these other people are right. Maybe God is on
their side."
  "On the side of monsters like this?" Coffey said.
"I don't think so." He took two halting
steps across the pit and stopped beside his coworker.
"Phil? Why did you get up? What were you going
to do?"
  "I was thinking of stopping this."
  "How?" Coffey asked.
  Katzen put his head against the mesh wall of the
pit.
  "I've dedicated my life to saving endangered
animals and ecosystems." He lowered his voice
to a loud whisper.
  "I've done that through action, by risking my life."
  "You've got a streak of steel in you," Coffey
said.
  "I've told you that many times. Me? I don't
know how well I'm going to stand up under--under that."
He looked up quickly and then back. He leaned
closer conspiratorially.
  "If you're thinking of trying to get the hell out of
here, I'm with you. I'd rather die fighting than cringing.
I think I'm strong enough for that."
  Katzen looked at Coffey in the faint light
falling from above. "I'm not thinking about starting a war,
Lowell.
  I'm thinking about ending one."
  "How?"
  Katzen shut his eyes as Rodgers howled louder
than before. It was only a short cry because the general
bit it off. But it tore through Katzen's
bowels. After a moment, he leaned closer
to Coffey.
  "When the ROC is turned on, when it's
completely on, the locator will go on too,"
Katzen said. "Op-Center is sure to locate it.
When they do, the military will blow the hell out of it
and the terrorists with it. It won't be used against
anyone."
  "Wait a minute. Are you suggesting we help
these people?"
  "They're burning Mike alive," Katzen said,
"and God knows what they'll do to Sondra. By taking
some kind of initiative we have a chance of living.
Or at least dying with dignity."
  "Helping these bastards isn't dying with dignity,"
Coffey said. "It's treason."
  "To what?" Katzen asked. "A role book?"
  "To your country," Coffey said. "Phil, don't
do this."
  Katzen turned his back on Coffey. He
reached up and wrapped his fingers around the grate.
Coffey came around to face him.
  "I've fallen way short of my potential in
a lot of ways," Coffey said. "I can't now. I
couldn't live with myself."
  "This isn't your doing," Katzen said. He
pulled himself up so that his mouth was pressed against the
cool iron. "Stop it out there!" he yelled. "Come
get me! i'll tell you what you want to know!"
  Silence fell in pieces. First Pupshaw, then
the hiss of the burner, then Rodgers and DeVonne.
It was broken as footsteps crunched on the dirt.
Someone shined a flashlight down at Katzen. The
environmentalist dropped back down to the bottom
of the pit.
  "You've decided to speak?" asked a deep
voice.
  "Yes," Katzen said. "I have."
  Coffey turned away from him and sat back down.
  "What is your group?" the deep voice demanded.
  "Most of these people are environmental researchers,"
Katzen said. He shielded his eyes against the bright
light. "They were here studying the effects of
dam-building on the ecosystem of the Euphrates.
The man you're torturing is a mechanic, not
anyone's 'superior officer." I'm the one you
want."
  "Why? Who are you?"
  "I'm a United States intelligence officer.
The Turkish colonel and I came along
to use some of the equipment in the van to spy on
Ankara and Damascus."
  The man above was silent for a moment. "The man beside
you. What is his specialty?"
  "He's an attorney," Katzen said. "He
came along to make sure we didn't break any
international laws."
  "The woman we have out here," said the man. "You
say that she's a scientist?"
  "Yes," said Katzen. He prayed to God that the
man believed him.
  "What is her specialty?"
  "Culture media," Sondra said.
"Gelatinous substances containing nutrients in which
microorganisms or tissues are cultivated for
scientific research. My father holds patents in
those areas. I worked with him."
  The man switched off the flashlight. He said
something in Arabic. A moment later the grate was
lifted.
  Katzen was pulled out at gunpoint. He stood
before a dark-skinned man with a scar across his face.
To the left, from the corner of his eye, he could see
Rodgers hanging from his wrists. Sondra was tied
to the wall on the right.
  "I don't believe that you are
environmentalists," said the commander. "But it's no
matter if you're willing to show us how to work the
equipment."
  "I am," said Katzen.
  "Tell him nothing!" Rodgers gasped.
  Katzen looked directly at Rodgers. His
legs weakened as he saw the general's mouth, which was still
contorted with pain. As he looked at the dark,
glistening areas of burned flesh.
  Rodgers spat blood. "Stand where you are! We
don't take orders from foreign leadersst"
  The dark-skinned man spun. He swung a fist
hard at Rodgers's jaw. The blow connected
audibly and snapped the general's head back. "You
take orders from a foreign leader when you're the guest
of that leader," the man said. He turned back
to Katzen. His mood was less amiable now. "Whether
you live depends only on whether I like what you show
me."
  Katzen looked at Rodgers. "I'm sorry,"
he said.
  "Your lives are more precious to me than that
principle."
  "Coward!" Rodgers roared.
  Sondra pulled at her chains. "Traitor!"
she hissed.
  "Don't listen to them," the commander said to Katzen.
"You've rescued them all, including yourself.
  That is loyalty, not treason."
  "I don't need your stamp of approval,"
Katzen said.
  "What you need is a firing squad,"
DeVonne said.
  "I played your game because I thought you had a
plan."
  She looked at the commander. "He doesn't know
anything about the van. And I'm not a scientist."
  The commander walked up to her. "You're so young and so
talkative," he said. "After we see what the
gentleman does know, my soldiers and I will come
back and speak with you."
  "No!" Katzen said. "If any of my friends are
hurt, the deal is off!"
  The commander turned suddenly. In the same motion,
he slapped Katzen with a vicious backhand. "You do
not say no to me." He regained his composure at
once.
  "You will show me how to operate the vehicle. You will
do so without any further delay!" He
slid his left hand behind Sondra's head and held it
tightly. Then he seized her jaw with his right hand and
squeezed her mouth into an O. "Or will you work
better heating her cry as we use a knife to pry
out her teeth one by one?"
  Katzen held up his hands. "Don't do that," he
said as the tears began to flow again. "Please don't.
I'll cooperate."
  The commander released Sondra as a man pushed
Katzen from behind. He stumbled ahead. As he walked
past the Striker, her eyes felt more lethal than the
gun at his back. Dark slits, they cursed him
to his soul.
  Katzen winced as he walked through the cave into the
sunlight. Tears continued to flow. He wasn't a
coward.
  He'd protected harp seals by shielding them with his
own body. He simply couldn't let his friends suffer
and die. Even though, after this day, he knew that these people
who had been so important to him for over a year would
be his friends no more.
  Tuesday, 12:43 p.m., Tel Nef,
Israel
  Shortly after noon, the C-141But landed in the
fields outside the military base.
Colonel August and his seventeen soldiers were
already dressed in their desert take-down fatigues
and camouflage face scarves and flop hats. They
were met by Israeli troops who helped set up
tents which would conceal their cargo.
  Captain Shlomo Har-Zion met Colonel
August with a typed message. It was written in
matte gray-ivory ink on a white background which
reflected the sun. August had experience with these
kinds of field documents. The medium guaranteed
that the information would not be read by reconnaissance
personnel who might be positioned in the surrounding
hills. The details were not spoken of.
Electronic surveillance and lip-readers were used
extensively by Arab infiltrators.
  August tempered the reflectivity by moving the
paper around as he read the message. It indicated
that Op-Center had found a likely location for the
ROC and the hostages. An Israeli operative
had been dispatched to the area and would reconnoiter
ahead of Striker. He would contact Captain
Har-Zion directly. If the intelligence
proved correct, then Striker was to move in at
once.
  August thanked the superior officer and
told him he'd andmiddot; join him shortly.
  August helped as the Strikers and the Israelis
off-loaded and prepped the vehicles. The six
motorcycles were rolled out under a camouflage
canopy and stored in the tents. The four Fast
Attack Vehicles came next.
  Engine connections were checked to make sure that
nothing had shaken loose during the flight. The
.50-caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade
launchers were also carefully examined to make sure that
the mechanisms and sights were clean and aligned. The
C-141But left quickly after refueling, lest it
be spotted from the hills or by Russian
satellites. The information would be relayed quickly
to hostile capitals in the region and used against
Washington at a later date.
  While the team examined their equipment, August
and Sergeant Grey went to a secure, windowless
building at the base. With Israeli advisors the
two Strikers reviewed maps of the Bekaa
region, and talked with the Israelis about possible
dangers in the area. These included land mines as
well as farmers who might be part of an early warning
network. The Israelis promised to listen for
shortwave transmissions and jam any they
might pick up.
  Then there was nothing to do beyond what August did
worst.
  He had to wait.
  Tuesday, 1:45 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Falah had walked most of the night and slept
briefly before the sun came up. The sun was his
alarm clock and it had never failed him. And the
darkness was his cloak. That had never failed him either.
  Fortunately, Falah had never required a
great deal of sleep. As a young boy growing up in
Tel Aviv, he'd always felt that he was missing
something if he slept.
  As a teenager, he'd known he was missing something
when the sun went down. And as an adult, he had
too much to do in the dark.
  One day it will catch up to you, he thought as he
made his way Equally fortunate, after being driven
to the Lebanese border, Falah had been able
to make most of the first leg of his journey before resting.
It was a seventeen-mile trek to the mouth of the
Bekaa, and he found an olive grove well
away from the dirt road. Covered with fallen leaves
for warmth and concealment, Falah had the
Lebanese Mountains to the west and the foothills of the
Anti-Lebanon range to the east. He made
certain there was a break in the peaks where he rested.
That would allow the rising sun to kiss him before it
cleared the mountains and woke others in the valley.
  Virtually every village in Syria and Lebanon
has its own preferred style of dress and cloth.
Wraps, robes, trousers, and skirts with
distinctive patterns, colors, tassels, and
accoutrements are more varied here than anywhere in the world.
Some of the styles are based on tradition, others are
based on function. Among the Kurds who had
moved into the southern Bekaa, the only traditional
article of clothing is the headdress. Before leaving
Tel Nef, Falah had gone into the "closet," a
well-stocked wardrobe room, to dress for his role
as an itinerant farm worker. He'd selected a
ratty black robe, black sandals, and a characteristic
black, stiff, tasseled headdress. He'd also
chosen heavy, black-framed sunglasses.
  Under the torn, loose-fitting robe, Falah
wore a tight rubber belt strapped to his waist.
Two waterproof pouches were attached to it. One, on
his right hip, contained a fake Turkish passport
with a Kurdish name and an address in a
Kurdish village. He was Aram Tunas from
Semdinli. The pouch also contained a small
two-way radio.
  The other pouch contained a .44 Magnum
revolver which had been taken from a Kurdish
prisoner. A coded map printed with food dye on
dried lambskin was tucked into the pouch with the radio.
If he were captured, Falah would eat the map.
Falah was also given a password which would identify
him to any of the American rescuers.
  It was a line Moses had uttered in The Ten
Commandments: "I will dwell in this land." Bob
Herbert had felt the password for the ROC'S
Middle East mission should be something holy, but not
something from the Koran or the Bible that someone might
say inadvertently.
  When challenged after giving the line, Falah was
to say that his name was the Sheik of Midian. If he
were captured and the password tortured or drugged from
him, chances were good an imposter would not think to ask for the
second part. The impersonator would then give himself
away by answering with the name on Fa-lah's
passport.
  The Israeli also carried a large cowskin water
pouch over his left shoulder. Over his right
shoulder was a duffel bag with a change of clothes,
food, and an EAR--AN Echelon Audio
Receiver. The unit consisted of a small, collapsible
parabolic dish, an audio receiversttransmitter,
and a compact computer. The computer contained a digital
recorder as well as a filter program which was
based on principles of the Doppler effect. It
allowed the user to choose sounds by echelon or layer.
At the press of a button on the keypad, the
audio which reached the listener first was eliminated to make
way for that which came next. If the acoustics were good
enough, the EAR could hear around corners. The audio
data could also be stored for later transmission.
  Less than five minutes after he woke,
Falah was bent over a stream, sucking water through a
minty reedstalk.
  As he savored the cool water his radio
vibrated. With the throw of a switch, the radio could be
made to beep.
  However, when he was working undercover or stalking an
enemy who could be concealed anywhere, that was not something
Falah desired.
  Crouching, Falah chewed on the reed as he
answered.
  He never sat down in the open. In an
emergency, it took that much longer to get to his
feet.
  "Ana rahgil achmel rnuzehri," he
answered in Arabic.
  "I am a farmer."
  "lnta mineyn?" asked the caller. "Where are you
from?"
  Falah recognized the voice of Master
Sergeant Vilnai, just as Vilnai had surely
recognized his. For the sake of security, the two
men went through the exchange of codes just the same.
  "Ana min Beirut," Falah replied. "I
am from Beirut."
  If he'd been injured he would have answered,
"Ana min Hermil." If he'd been captured
he would have said, "Aria rnin Tyre."
  As soon as Falah had said that he was from
Beirut, Master Sergeant Vilnai said,
"Eight, six, six, ten, zero, seventeen."
  Falah repeated the numbers. Then he pulled the
map from the pouch. There was a drawing of the valley with a
grid sketched on top of it. The first two numbers
of the sequence directed Falah to a grid box. The
second pair of numbers indicated an exact
spot within the grid.
  The final two numbers referred to a vertical
location.
  They meant that the cave he sought was situated
point-seventeen miles up the side of a cliff,
probably along a road.
  "I see it," Falah said. Not only did he
see it, but it was the perfect place for a military
base. There was a gorge behind it which could easily
accommodate helicopters and training
facilities.
  "Go there," Vilnai replied. "Reconnoiter
and signal if affirmative. Then wait."
  "Understood," the young man said. "Sahl."
  "Sahl," Vilnai answered.
  Sahl meant "easy" and it was Falah's
individual sign-off.
  He had selected the word because it was ironic.
Due to Falah's high success rate, his
superiors had always chided him that he'd picked the
word because it was true. As a result, they kept
threatening to give him more dangerous assignments.
Falah dared them to find more dangerous assignments.
  After replacing the radio, Falah took a
moment to study the map. He groaned. The cave he
sought was nearly fourteen miles away.
Given the incline of the hills and the rough terrain here,
and allowing for a short rest, it would take him
approximately five and a half hours to reach his
destination. He also knew that as soon as he entered the
valley his radio would be ineffective. In order
to communicate with Tel Nef he'd have to use the
EAR'S uplink.
  Spitting out the reed he'd been chewing, Falah
pulled up a few more for later. He tucked them in
the deep cuff of his robe and started out. As he
walked, he ate the map for breakfast.
  Falah was out of condition. When he reached the cave
shortly after noon, his legs felt like sacks of sand
and his once-tough feet were bleeding at the heels.
There were large calluses on the balls of both
feet and his skin was greasy with sweat. But the discomfort
was forgotten as he arrived at his destination. Through the
dense cropse he saw rows of trees and a cave.
Between the woods and the cave, on a sloping dirt
road, was the white van.
  It was covered with a camouflage tarpaulin and was
guarded by two men with semiautomatics. A quarter
mile away was a road-cut which led behind the mountain.
  Falah crouched behind a boulder some four hundred
yards away. After unsholdering his duffel
bag he dug a small hole. He carefully
collected the dirt in a neat pile beside it. Then
he looked around for a large clump of grass.
Finding one, he removed it and set it on top of the
mound of dirt.
  Now that he was ready, Falah turned his attention
to the cave. It was located roughly sixty feet up
the side of a cliff, just above the tree line. It was
accessible only by a sloping dirt road. He
took a quick look at the ground-level terrain.
He knew there would be land mines within and around the
cropse, though he would have no problem finding out just where
those mines were. When Striker arrived, he would
simply surrender to the Kurds.
  They would come and get him. Wherever they walked would
be mine-free.
  As he watched, Falah saw a man emerge from
the cave. The man was dressed in a khaki shirt and
shorts.
  He was followed by a man who held a gun to his
back.
  Someone else was there, although he didn't come out of the
cave. He stood in the shadows of the entrance,
watching. The prisoner was led into the van.
  Falah opened the duffel bag and withdrew
the three parts of the EAR. The computer was slightly
larger than an audio cassette. He set it on
the rock. Then he withdrew the satellite dish.
Folded, it was approximately the size and shape
of a small umbrella. At the press of a
button, the black dish fanned open like a small
umbrella as well. He pressed a second
button, and a tripod shot out from the other side.
He stood it on the rock as well and plugged it
into the computer. Then Falah fished out the earphones.
He plugged them in, turned on the unit, and
guessed the distance to the cave. After fine-tuning it
to within a foot of the entrance way, he listened.
  He heard Turkish being spoken in the front of the
cave. He told the computer to go to the next layer.
  Someone was speaking Syrian.
  "... is the timetable?" a man asked.
  "I don't know," said another man. "Soon.
He has promised the leader to Ibrahim and the women
to his lieutenants."
  "Not to us?" another man grumbled.
  There's evidence of the Turkish and Syrian
Kurdish collaboration, Falah thought. He
wasn't surprised, merely gratified. When he
was finished, he'd transmit the recording
to Tel Nef. From there it would be relayed
to Washington. The American President would
probably inform Damascus and Ankara. The
conversation was also evidence of other captives being
held at this location.
  Before contacting Tel Nef, Falah decided
to probe deeper into the cave.
  He went ten feet at a time. He heard more
Syrian, more Turkish, and finally English. It was
muffled and difficult to understand. Knowing how the Kurds
worked in the hills, the speakers were probably being
kept in prison pits. He picked up only a
few words.
  "Treason..." "sooner die. ... will."
  He listened for a few moments longer, then
programmed new coordinates into the computer.
Sitting sturdily on its tripod, the dish began
to turn. The Israeli communications satellite
Falah needed to contact was in a geostationary orbit
directly over Lebanon and eastern Syria.
  As Falah waited for the dish to establish the
uplink, one of the Arabs ran from the van. He
hurried over to the dark figure standing in the cave
entrance.
  Falah pushed the "cancel" button on
the uplink. Then he physically picked up the dish,
turned it back toward the cave entrance, and entered the
distance into the computer.
  He listened.
  "... turned on a computer inside," the man from
the van was saying. "It told us there was a
satellite dish out there."
  The man in the shadows calmly asked where it was.
  "To the southwest," the other man replied, "within
five hundred yards--"
  That was all Falah needed to 'hear. He knew
there was no way he'd be able to outrun the Kurds and
no way he could take them on. He had only one
option. With an oath, he pressed a button to send
a silent signal back to the base. Then he
folded the satellite dish and tripod and swept the
entire unit into the hole he'd dug. He reached
into the pouch around his waist and dropped the radio in as
well. Finally, he pulled off his sandals and
dropped them in. He filled the hole with the dirt,
then placed the sod on top of it. Unless someone was
looking, they wouldn't see that the soil beneath the grass
had been disturbed. Grabbing his duffel bag,
Falah crept toward the northeast. As he headed
toward the cave he saw over a dozen
Kurdish soldiers run from the cave. They fanned
out in columns of three, carefully avoiding the
mines.
  Falah crawled mostly on grass and stone so
he would leave as few tracks as possible. When he
was roughly one hundred yards from where he'd buried the
dish and radio, the young Israeli lay the duffel
bag on the ground beside him. He put on the other
sandals so his footprints wouldn't match those around the
rock. Then he scooped up his bag and ran off,
reviewing again the details of the life of Aram
Tunas from Semdinli.
  Tuesday, 2:03 p.m., Quteife, Syria
  The Syrian Army base at Quteife was little
more than a few wooden buildings and rows of several
dozen tents.
  There were two twenty-foot-tall watchtowers, one
facing northeast and the other southwest. The perimeter was
surrounded by a barbed-wire fence strung from
ten-foot-high posts. The base had been erected
eleven months before, after Kurdish troops from the
Bekaa Valley had constantly attacked
Quteife for supplies. Since then, the Kurds
had stayed away from the large village.
  The twenty-nine-year-old communications
officer, Captain Hamid Moutamin, knew that the
raids and then the peace were intentional. When Commander
Siriner had decided where he was going to set up his
own base in the Bekaa, he'd wanted the
Syrians to establish a small military presence
close by. Access to the Syrian military was an
important part of Siriner's plans. Once the
base at Quteife had been built, Captain
Moutamin had used his ten years of exemplary
military service to get himself transferred there. That
too was important to Commander Siriner's plan.
When both goals had been accomplished, Commander
Siriner had gone ahead and established his own base
in the Bekaa.
  Moutamin was not a Kurd. That was his strength. His
father had been a traveling dentist who serviced many
Kurdish villages. Hamid was his only son, and
after school or on vacations he often accompanied his
father on short journeys. Late one night, when
Hamid was fourteen, their car was stopped by Syrian
Army troops outside of Raqqa, in the north.
The four soldiers took the gold his father used for
fillings, as well as his tobacco pouch and wedding band,
and sent them on their way. Hamid wanted to resist,
but his father wouldn't let him. A short while
later the elder Moutamin pulled the car over. There,
on the deserted road, under a bright moon, he
suffered a heart attack and died. Hamid
returned to the home of one of his father's Kurdish
patients, an elderly printer named Jalal. He
telephoned his mother and an uncle came to get him.
The funeral was one of sadness and rage.
  Hamid was forced to leave school and go to work
to support his mother and sister. He worked at a radio
factory on an assembly line where he had time
to think. He nursed his hatred of the Syrian
military. He continued to visit Jalal, who, after
two years, cautiously introduced him to other young
people who had had run-ins with the Syrian military.
All of them were Kurds. As they exchanged stories
of robbery, murder, and torture, Hamid came
to believe that it was not just the army but the entire
government that was foul. They had to be stopped.
  One of Jalal's friends introduced him to a young
visiting Turk, Kayahan Siriner. He was
determined to create a new nation in the region where
Kurds and other oppressed people would live in
freedom and peace. Hamid asked how he could
help. Siriner told him that the best way to weaken
any entity was from within. He asked Hamid
to become what he detested. He was to join the
Syrian military. Because of his experience on the
assembly line, Hamid was assigned to the
communications corps.
  For just over ten years Hamid served his Syrian
commanders with seeming loyalty and enthusiasm. Yet
during that time he secretly communicated troop
movements to Syrian Kurds. His information would
help them to avoid confrontations, steal supplies,
or ambush patrols.
  Now he had been given his most important
assignment.
  He was to inform the base commander that by chance he'd
intercepted a message from a Turkish Kurd.
  The man was alone, on the eastern side of the
Anti-Lebanon range. He was a quarter mile
west of the village of Zebdani, just within the
Syrian border. Apparently, said Hamid, the
man had been based there for quite some time and was reporting
on Syrian troop movements.
  Hamid provided the base commander with the
infiltrator's exact location.
  The commander smiled. No doubt he saw a
promotion for himself to a more prestigious base if he
could find and break a Kurd spying for the
Turks. He dispatched a unit, twelve men in
three jeeps, with orders to surround and take the
prisoner.
  Hamid smiled inside. Then he took a break
and made sure the motorcycle he intended to take
was fueled up.
  Tuesday, 2:18 p.m., Zebdani, Syria
  Mahmoud was gently nudged awake after having
slept for over two hours. He opened his eyes and
squinted into a dark face framed by a cerulean sky.
  "The soldiers are near," said Majeed Ghaderi.
"They are coming, just as Hamid said they would."
  "Allah be praised," Mahmoud replied. He
took a moment to stretch on his grassy bed, then
climbed to his feet. He wasn't rested, but the
nap had been enough to take the edge off his exhaustion.
Retrieving his canteen, he turned his face up and
spilled water on his eyes. He rubbed it in
vigorously and looked at Majeed.
  Majeed was Walid's cousin and had been his
devoted aide. He had been instructed not to wake
Mahmoud until it was almost time to attack. The
teenager had been quiet during the ride through the
mountain pass, and his eyes were still red from crying for his
dead cousin. But now that the moment was at hand,
there was strength in those eyes and eagerness in his voice.
Mahmoud was proud of the boy.
  "Let's go," said Mahmoud.
  Mahmoud followed Majeed. They crossed ruts
cut by melting snows and backed carefully around large
boulders to the PKK position.
  There were fourteen Kurdish sharpshooters deployed
in the low peaks. A radio had been placed beside a
rock below. A campfire had been built and
snuffed. The Syrians would spot those. Then,
following regulations, they would leave their Jeeps and
crouch behind them. They would set up a covering fire,
and one soldier would walk ahead to examine the site.
And they would find themselves in a lethal cross fire from
fifty feet above. The Syrians covering the peaks
would be taken out first. By the time the others shifted their
fire to above, they would be dead. As many of the
Syrians as possible would be shot in the head.
Hopefully, their uniforms would not be stained with
blood. The Kurds needed ten of them.
  Mahmoud joined the others. They watched as the
Jeeps moved in. They raised their weapons. They
waited until the soldiers had climbed out and taken
their positions.
  When Mahmoud nodded, they raised their
rifles.
  When he nodded a second time, they fired.
  Many of the Kurds on the cliff hunted wild
turkey, boar, and rabbit to feed their families.
And because bullets were scarce, all of them were
accustomed to hitting their targets on the first shot. The
first volley involved ten Kurds firing at the
soldiers closest to the foothills, including the
soldier who had gone to examine the campsite.
Nine of the Syrians died instantly. A tenth was
wearing a helmet. He took two shots to the
throat before he went down. The remaining Syrians
looked up. They froze for the moment it took them
to spot the gunmen.
  In that moment the remaining Kurds opened fire.
The rest of the Syrians went down.
  Pistol drawn, Mahmoud led a contingent of
Kurds down the hill. All of the Syrians were
dead. Mahmoud waved to the others in the foothills,
and they hurried down. Ten bodies were stripped, and
then all of the dead were piled into one Jeep. Dressed
as Syrian Army regulars, ten of the Kurds
climbed into the remaining two Jeeps. As the rest
of the team covered up all signs of the encounter,
Mahmoud brushed dirt from his colonel's
stripes and led his team through the arid plain.
  Because Turkey and Syria had both closed their
borders to tourists and travelers, the M1 highway
was relatively deserted. Upon reaching the modern
road, Mahmoud and his party of nine turned south for the
twenty-five-minute ride to Damascus... and the
end of over eighty years of suffering.
  Tuesday, 1:23 p.m., Tel Nef,
Israel
  Master Sergeant Vilnai and Colonel
Brett August had been in the underground
cinderblock radio room for over an hour. For
most of that time, they'd looked at detailed aerial
maps of the Bekaa on a computer screen. Beside them,
raven-haired radio operator Gila Harareet
listened for word from Falah.
  A few minutes earlier the men had been joined
by the base commander Major Maton Yarkoni. The
veteran of the 1973 Yom Kipput War had a
bull-like face and a short but powerful build.
August had heard he possessed a disposition
to match. When the major arrived, he began discussing
the Israeli high alert that had gone into effect when
Syria sent its forces northward. If fighting
erupted, Israel stood ready to aid the
Turks.
  "Neither Israel nor NATO can afford to see
Turkey torn apart by warring factions," said
Major Yarkoni.
  "NATO needs a palisade against Islamic
fundamentalists.
  And like Syria, Israel needs the water. It's
worth fighting a war now to keep the nation intact."
  "What will NATO do?" asked Vilnai.
  "I've just spoken with General Kevin Burke in
Brussels," said Yarkoni. "In addition to the
increased U.s. military presence in the
Mediterranean, NATO troops in Italy have
been upgraded to Defcon Two."
  "Smart move," August said. "Before joining
Striker I served with NATO in Italy.
Five'll get you ten that the move to Defcon Two
is to force Greece to choose sides now. Either
they're in this with their NATO allies to help defend
Turkey, or they're going to side with Syria.
  And if Greece joins Syria, they're going
to catch the Italian boot up their butts."
  Master Sergeant Vilnai shook his head
slowly. "The Middle East goes to war and NATO
fractures. The world has become much too
micro-aligned."
  "Tell me about it," August said bitterly.
  "One nation sides with another nation, but factions
within those nations sympathize with factions in other
nations. Soon there'll be no nations."
  "Only special interests," Colonel
August said. "A world of quarreling warlords and
grabby kings."
  As they were speaking, a red light flashed on the
console.
  The radio operator listened intently as a
digital tape recorder captured the message.
The message consisted of two short beeps and a long
one followed by another long one..the message
repeated once and then shut down.
  The radio operator removed her headphones.
She turned to the computer which sat beside the radio.
  "Well?" Yarkoni asked impatiently.
  "It was a coded emergency signal," the youthful
radio operator replied. She replayed the taped
message directly into the computer. A decoded
message appeared on the computer monitor. She
read, "Captives here. Enemy party approaching.
Attempting to evade."
  "Then they spotted him," Yarkoni said.
  The only change in August's demeanor was a
tightening along the jaw. He was not a man who showed
much emotion. "Is there any way we'll be able
to contact him again?"
  "Very unlikely," Vilnai said. "If
Falah's in danger he'll have abandoned the radio.
He can't afford to be captured with it. If he
believes he can outrun the pursuers, he'll try
to do so. If he's successful, perhaps he'll
return to the radio. If he feels that he's
cornered, he'll adopt his Kurdish identity and
present himself to the PKK as a potential new
recruit."
  August looked down at the radio operator.
He didn't see her. He saw the faces of the
ROC crew. Every minute he'd waited had been
haunted by one thought: that when they finally reached the
ROC they'd arrive too late. It had made
sense to wait for intelligence. But now that
intelligence would not be forthcoming, there was no longer
any reason to delay.
  "Major," August said, "I'd like to move my
team in."
  Yarkoni looked into the taller man's eyes.
  "We know where the cave is," August
pressed, "and Master Sergeant Vilnai and I have
studied the approaches from the west and east." The
Colonel moved closer to the Major. His voice
was tense, just above a whisper. "Major Yarkoni,
it isn't only the ROC crew that's at stake.
If this cave is the PKK headquarters, we can
take them out. We can shut down this war before it gets
started."
  Yarkoni lowered his chin." The darkness of those
bull's eyes deepened. "All right. G. And may
God look after you."
  "Thank you," August said. The men exchanged
salutes, after which the American officer hurried up
the stairs.
  Master Sergeant Viihal downloaded the maps
onto diskettes. Then he followed August to the
staging area just inside the barbed-wire barricade.
  Ten minutes later the four Fast Attack
Vehicles were tearing through the hilly, heavily treed
countryside at eighty miles an hour. They were
moving in wedge formation, with two FAV'S in the
front and two behind them at a forty-five degree
angle. They bracketed the six desert bikes which
were arranged in two rows of three.
  The FAV'S" .50-caliber machine
guns and 40ram grenade launchers were armed, the
gunners ready to repulse any attack with warning
fire first, deadly force second.
  Colonel August was in the lead FAV. From
Tel Nef, the ride to the border was twenty
minutes. Israeli gun-ships would take off in
five minutes from Tel Nef and cross the border
to create a distraction. Once the Lebanese and
Syrian troops were drawn away, Colonel
August and his Strikers would be able to drive in. From
there, it would be less than a half-hour drive to their
destination.
  The satellite-generated maps had been loaded
from the diskettes onto the code-operated computers
onboard the FAV'S. As Striker sped through the lush
terrain of north-em Israel, the greenest section
of the country, August and Sergeant Grey reviewed
attack options and exit strategies. If there was
any indication that the hostages were still alive, the
Strikers would use any means necessary to get them out.
If it were possible to save the ROC, they would. If
not, they would destroy it. If they had to kill
to achieve any of these goals, August was prepared
to do so.
  When he and Grey were finished, the
colonel slipped on his sunglasses. He
hadn't been on a combat mission since Vietnam,
but he was ready. He gazed through the thick trees at
the smoky mountains in the distance.
  Somewhere among them Mike Rodgers was a
prisoner.
  Striker would rescue Mike or, if his oldest
friend were dead, August was prepared to do one thing more.
  He would personally take out the sonofabitch who
had killed him.
  Tuesday, 2:24 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  Paul Hood's impression of Damascus was that
it was a gold mine.
  Perhaps he'd been Mayor of tourist-friendly Los
Angeles for too long, or perhaps he'd become
jaded. The mosques and minarets, the courtyards and
fountains were all spectacular, with their ornate
facades and meticulous mosaics. The gray and
white walls surrounding the Old City in the
southeast section of Damascus were at once
battered and majestic. They had helped protect the
city from attacks by the Crusaders in the thirteenth
century, and they still bore signs of those ancient
sieges.
  Long stretches of wall had been
destroyed or breached, and had been left in
historic disrepair.
  But as he looked at the sights from the darkened
window of the embassy limousine, Hood wasn't
thinking about the past. His one thought was that if this region
of the world were at peace, if this nation were not a sponsor
of terrorism, if all people could come and go freely
here, Damascus would be a more popular tourist
destination. With that money Syria could find ways
to desalinize water from the Mediterranean and
irrigate the desert. They could build more schools
or create jobs or even invest in poorer Arab
nations.
  But that isn't the way of things, Hood told
himself.
  Though this was an international city, it was still a city
whose leaders had an agenda. And that agenda was to carry
Syrian role into neighboring nations.
  The meeting with the President was going to take
place in the heart of the Old City, at the palace
built by Governor Assad Pasha al-Azem in
1749. This was partly for security reasons. It was
easier to guard the President behind the still-formidable
walls of the Old City. It was also to remind the
citizens that whether they agreed or disagreed
with their President, a Syrian ruled in a
palace which had been built by an Ottoman
governor. Foreigners were their enemies.
  For the most part, that was propaganda and paranoia.
  Ironically, today it was true. As Bob Herbert
had put it when Hood called Op-Center from the
embassy, "It's like the broken watch that's right
twice a day. Today, the Turkish and Syrian
Kurds are the enemy."
  Herbert told Hood that operatives in
Damascus had reported movement among the
Kurdish underground.
  That morning, beginning at 8:30, most of them had
begun leaving their five safe houses scattered around
the city. These were houses Syria allowed them to keep
to plot against the Turks. Shortly before noon, when
Syrian security forces realized there might be a
plot involving the unified Kurds, they went to the
safe houses. All of them were deserted. Herbert's
people had managed to keep up with a handful of the forty-eight
Kurds. They were all in the vicinity of the Old
City. Some of them were sitting along the banks of the
Barada River, which flowed along the northeastern
wall. Others were visiting the Muslim cemetery
along the southwest wall. None of the
Kurds had gone inside the walls.
  Herbert said that he had not passed this information on
to the Syrians for two reasons. First, it could very
well expose his own intelligence sources in
Damascus.
  Second, it might cause the Kurds to panic.
If there were a plot against the President, then only
the President and those close to him would be targets.
If the Kurds were forced to act prematurely, a
fire fight might erupt in the streets. There was
no telling how many Damascenes might be killed.
  Hood did not bother telling Herbert that he
might be one of those targets close to the Syrian
President.
  The embassy car entered the southwest sector of the
Old City. The walls had fallen along a
five-hundred-yard stretch here, and security was
extremely thick. Jeeps had been parked
fender-to-fender along the edges of the wall, leaving
only a fifty-yard gap in the middle. This area was
lined with over a dozen soldiers, all of them armed with
Makarov pistols and AKM assault rifles.
  Tourist passports were being checked, and locals
had to show identification.
  The ambassador's car was stopped by a
tough-looking corporal. He collected
passports, then used his field phone to call the
palace. After each passenger in the car had been
okayed, they were sent through. Before proceeding to the
palace, the driver waited for the DSA car behind them
to be cleared. They took al-Amin Street
northeast to Straight Street, and went left. They
turned right on Souk al-Bazuriye and drove
three hundred yards. They passed the oldest
public baths in Damascus, the Hamam Nur
al-Din, as well as the nine-domed Khan of
Assad Pasha, a former residence of the builder of the
palace.
  The palace was located just southwest of the Great
Mosque or the Umayyad Mosque. Named for the
Muslims who renovated it early in. the eighth
century, the mosque is built on the ruins of an
ancient Roman temple.
  Before that, three thousand years ago, a temple
dedicated to Hadad, the Aramean god of the sun,
stood on this spot. Though burned and attacked
repeatedly over the years, the mosque still stands and is
one of the holiest sites in Islam.
  The palace is no less imposing than the Great
Mosque.
  Three separate wings surrounded the great court,
a quiet retreat with a large pond and abundant
citrus trees. One wing was for the kitchen and
domestics, another for receiving guests, and the third was
the living quarters. On the south side of the palace
was a spacious public receiving area with marble walls
and floor and a large fountain.
  The palace was typically open to the public, though
the private apartments were shut when the President
came here. Today, the entire palace was closed and the
President's personal security force patrolled
the grounds.
  After parking along the northwest side of the
palace, the DSA agents were shown to a palace
security room while the ambassador and his party were
conducted to a large receiving room down the corridor.
The heavy drapes were pulled and the crystal chandelier
was brightly lit. The walls were covered with dark wood
paneling, ornately carved with religious images.
The room was appointed with richly inlaid
furniture. In the center of the wall opposite the
door was a large rnahmal or pavilion which
contained a centuries-old copy of the Koran.
  Designed to be carried on the back of a camel,
the rnahrnal was covered with green velvet
embroidered with silver. On-top was a large gold
ball with silver fringes. The gold was real.
  Japanese Ambassador Akira Serizawa
was already present, along with his aides Kiyoji
Nakajima and Masaru Onaka. Gray-haired
presidential aide Aziz Azizi was also
present. The Japanese bowed politely when the
American delegation entered. Azizi smiled
broadly. Ambassador Haveles led his group
over and shook each man's hand. Then he introduced
Hood, Dr. Nasr, and Warner Bicking in
turn. After presenting his team to Azizi,
Haveles took the Japanese ambassador
aside. Still smiling, Azizi faced the rest of the
American contingent.
  He had on black-rimmed glasses and a neatly
clipped goatee. He also wore a white earphone
with a wire which ran discreetly along his collar to the
inside of his white jacket.
  "I am delighted to meet you all," Azizi said
in very precise English. "However, I am
familiar by reputation only with the distinguished Dr.
Nasr. I have recently read your book Treasure
and Sorrow about the old Mecca caravan."
  "You honor me," Nasr replied with a
slight incline of his head.
  Azizi's smile remained fixed. "Do you really
believe that the Bedouin would have attacked the caravan and
left twenty thousand people to die in the desert had they not
been driven by despair and starvation?"
  Nasr"...ness head rose slowly. "The Bedouin of that
time and that place were barbarous and greedy. Their needs
had little to do with their misdeeds."
  "If my eighteenth-century ancestors were
barbarous and greedy, as you say," Azizi replied,
"it is because they were oppressed by the Ottomans.
Oppression is a powerful motivator."
  Bicking had been chewing the inside of his cheek.
He stopped and eyed Azizi. "How powerful?" he
asked.
  Azizi was still smiling. "The desire for freedom
can cause frail grass to split a walk or a
root to break stone.
  It is very powerful, Mr. Bicking."
  Hood wasn't sure whether he was listening to an
historical discussion, a foreshadowing of things to come,
or both. Regardless, Azizi was like a cat on a
fence, and Nasr looked like he wanted to find a
shoe. Excusing himself as the Russian contingent
arrived, the presidential aide withdrew.
  "Anyone care to tell me what just happened?"
Hood asked.
  "Centuries of ethnic rivalry just clashed,"
Bicking said. "Egyptian versus Bedouin. Mr.
Azizi's a Hama-zrib, I'll bet.
Successful at adapting to host cultures but very, very
proud."
  "Too proud," Nasr grumbled. "Blind to the
truth.
  His people do have a history of cruelty."
  "Certainly their enemies think so," Bicking said
with a snicker.
  Hood stole a look at Azizi. He was
walking the Russians over. He hadn't done that
when Haveles's group entered.
  "Could his little freedom speech have been a warning
about the Kurds?" Hood asked quickly.
  "The Bedouin and the Kurds are fierce rivals,"
Bick-+ said. "They wouldn't be helping each other,
if that's what you mean."
  "It isn't what I mean," Hood said. "You
saw how he set up Dr. Nasr. Maybe
Ambassador Haveles hit it on the head when
he said we could be used as bait."
  "Maybe he was also being just a touch
paranoid," Bicking said.
  "Ambassadors always are," Nasr remarked.
  After the Russian group of four was introduced,
Azizi said that the President would be joining them
shortly.
  Then he turned and motioned to a domestic who was
standing in the doorway. The domestic motioned to someone
who was standing to the side, out of sight.
  Hood had a photo-flash vision of
camouflage-clad terrorists rushing in with
semi-automatics and cutting them all down. He
was relieved when liveried men in white walked in
carrying trays.
  That's only because the President isn't here yet,
he thought. That was when the terrorists would arrive.
  The Russian Ambassador had lit a
cigarette and, with his translator, had joined the
other two ambassadors in a corner of the room.
Azizi walked over to the door and stood there while
the rest of the men mingled and ate shawarma--finely cut
pieces of lamb--or khubz-spicy, deep-fried
chickpea paste on unleavened bread.
  As the men speculated on the nature of the bombing
in Turkey and the ramifications of the troop
movements, Hood noticed Azizi put
an index finger to the earphone.
  The presidential aide listened for a moment, then
looked into the room.
  "Gentlemen," he said. "The President of the
Syrian Arab Republic."
  "So he really is going to show," Bicking said,
leaning close to Hood. "I'm surprised."
  "He had to," said Nasr. "He has to show he
is fearless."
  The men stopped talking. They turned to face the
door as footsteps clattered smartly down the marble
hallway.
  A moment later the aged President entered the
room. He was tall and dressed in a gray suit,
white shirt, and black tie. His head was uncovered
and his nearly white hair was slicked back. He was
flanked by a quartet of bodyguards.
  Azizi fell in beside the presidential party as
they walked toward the group of ambassadors.
  Standing between Bicking and Nasr, Hood frowned.
  "Hold on. That bodyguard on the left--his
trousers are sticking to his legs."
  "So?" Bicking said.
  The bodyguard looked at Hood as Hood
looked at him.
  "That's static electricity," Hood said. He
began moving toward the bodyguard for a better look.
"On the plane I read an Israeli E-mail
bulletin. It said that electromagnetic fuses in
pants pockets are being used to trigger bombs around
the waist or--"
  Suddenly, the bodyguard shouted something which Hood
didn't understand. Before the other bodyguards could
close ranks, the man was engulfed in a
fireball.
  The blast knocked everyone down and blew the
crystal from the chandelier. Hood's ears rang as
black smoke rolled over him and shards of shattered
glass rained down. He couldn't hear his own coughs
as he lay on the floor choking.
  He felt a hand pull at his jacket sleeve.
He looked to his right. Bicking was waving smoke
away. He shouted something. Hood couldn't hear him.
Bicking nodded. He pointed at Hood and held his
thumb up, then down.
  Hood understood. He moved his legs and arms.
Then he held up a thumb. "I'm okay!" he
shouted.
  Bicking nodded just as Dr.. Nasr came
crawling toward them from the settling smoke.
There was blood on his neck and forehead. Hood
crept over and examined his face and head. Nasr
had been closer to the blast, but the blood wasn't
his. Hood indicated that his colleague should lie
where he was. Then he turned and tapped Bicking
on the top of his head.
  "Come with me!" Hood said. He pointed to himself,
to Bicking, and then to where the presidential party had
been standing. Bicking nodded. Hood motioned with his hand
that the younger man should stay low in case there was shooting
for any reason. Bicking nodded again. Together they
wormed their way toward the door.
  As they neared the blast site, they were hit with the
distinctive, acrid smell of nitrite--like the
lingering smell of freshly ignited matches. A
moment later, the carnage was visible through the rising
smoke. There were sprays of blood on the marble
walls and puddles on the floors. The first body
they encountered was that of the terrorist. He had been
blown over the others. His legs and hands were gone.
Bicking had to stop and look away. Hood continued
on. As he moved along on his elbows, sweeping
aside particles of glass, Hood wondered why
no one had come to investigate the explosion.
  He considered sending Bicking out for
help, but decided against it. He didn't want him
running into overly anxious security forces who
might gun him down.
  Upon reaching the bodyguards, Hood found them all
dead. The blast had dismembered and torn off the
bulletproof vests of the two men nearest the
explosion. Two other men were still tucked inside their
vests, but their heads and limbs were fiddled with two-inch
nails and small ball bearings--the preferred
projectiles of suicide bombers. Hood
crawled around them to where the President and Azizi
lay. The President was dead. Hood moved on
to Azizi. He was alive but unconscious, bleeding
from his chest and right side. Kneeling, Hood gently
began pulling away the bloody fragments of
clothing.
  He wanted to see if the bleeding could be stopped.
  Azizi shuddered and moaned. "I knew--knew this
would happen.."
  "Lie still," Hood said into his ear. "You've
been injured."
  "The President--" he said.
  "He's dead," Hood informed him.
  Azizi opened his eyes. "Nost"
  "I'm sorry," Hood said. Through the
frustrating thickness in his ears he heard shots. It
sounded as if they were coming from outside the palace. were
there more terrorists trying to get in or guards firing
at fleeing accomplices?
  The gunfire grew louder with each new volley.
  Hood began to fear that the shots weren't being
directed away from the palace but toward it.
  Azizi squirmed with pain. "He is not--"
Azizi choked. "He is not the President."
  Hood continued to pull away blood-drenched
pieces of the man's jacket. "What do you mean?"
  "He was... a double," Azizi said.
"To draw... his enemies out."
  Hood scowled as the words sunk in. Score one
for paranoia, he thought. He patted Azizi's
shoulder. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll
see if I can stop the bleeding and then call for an
ambulance."
  "No! "said Azizi. "They must''' come here."
  Hood looked at him.
  "We have been waiting," Azizi said weakly.
  "Watching... for them."
  "For who?"
  "Many..: more," Azizi replied.
  Hood winced as he cleared the last
remnants of shirt from Azizi's chest. Blood was
pumping out in half-inch-high squirts. He
didn't know what to do for the man.
  Sitting back on his heels, he held
Azizi's hand.
  "Why won't you let me call for a doctor?"
Hood asked.
  "They have to... come in."
  "They," Hood said. "You think there may be more
terrorists?"
  "Many," Azizi wheezed. "The bomber...was
Kurd. Many Kurds... missing. Still in
Damascus--"
  Suddenly but peacefully, almost as if he were moving
in slow motion, the Syrian's head rolled to the
side. His breathing slowed as the spurts of blood
continued. A moment later Azizi's eyes closed.
There was a long exhalation and then silence.
  Hood released Azizi's hand. He looked
to his right as Nasr crept through the smoke. He was
followed by the three ambassadors. The Russian
looked stunned. Haveles was holding him by an
elbow and leading him ahead.
  The Japanese Ambassador was walking behind
him, a little unsteady. Their aides, most of
them shell-shocked, walked a few paces behind.
  "My God," Haveles said. "The President
--" "No," said Hood as his ears began to clear.
"A look-alike.
  That's why the President's security forces
haven't come in yet. They used this man to smoke out
a mole."
  "I sold the President short," Haveles
said. "He was expecting to win allies by having us
dead and him alive."
  "He'd have gotten that too if the bomber hadn't
panicked," Hood said.
  "Panicked?" Haveles said. "What do you
mean?"
  Hood watched as the blood stopped pumping from
Azizi's chest. "The infiltrator counted on the
other bodyguards looking ahead and not seeing him. But
he didn't count on someone inside noticing the
static charge when he armed the electromagnetic
fuse." Hood indicated the shattered remains of the
bomber. "He must have been put in place years
ago to have gotten this kind of access."
  "Who was he?" Haveles asked.
  "Azizi thinks--thought he was a Kurd," Hood
said.
  "I agree. There's something going on here that's
larger than sending Syria and Turkey to war."
  "What?" asked Haveles.
  "I honestly don't know," said Hood.
  The shots from outside grew louder and closer.
  "Where are our security agents?" the Russian
ambassador yelled in English.
  "I don't know that either," Hood said, more to himself
than to the Russian. However, he feared the worst.
  He peered through the smoke. "Ambassador
Andreyev, are all of your people all right?"
  "Da," he replied.
  "Ambassador Serizawa!" Hood yelled.
"Are you okay?"
  "We are unhurt!" a member of the Japanese
contingent yelled through the smoke.
  Hood checked the other blast victims. They were
all dead. A half-dozen people and one terrorist had
given their lives to smoke out more terrorists. It was
insane.
  "Warner!" Hood yelled. "Can you hear me?"
  "Yes!" came a muffled response from the right.
  Bicking was probably breathing through a handkerchief.
  "Do you have your cellular?" Hood asked.
  "Yes!"
  "Call Op-Center," Hood said. He listened
as explosions popped in the distance. He thought about the
Kurds that Herbert's people had tracked to the palace.
  "Tell Bob Herbert what happened. Tell
him we may be under siege here." Then he ducked
under the rising tester of smoke and, still stooping, walked
toward the door.
  "Where are you going?" Haveles asked.
  "To try and find out whether we stand a chance of
getting out of here."
  Tuesday, 2:53 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Falah didn't understand it. He was running
quickly.
  Yet as fast as he ran, following a jagged
course through the foothills, the Kurds stayed with
him. It was almost as if they had a spotter in the
mountains, telling them where he was going. But that was
unlikely. The tree cover was thick here and he was
under it more than he was out of it. Still, somehow they were
managing to stay within thirty to fifty yards of him.
  Finally, exhausted and curious, Falah stopped.
He took off his sweat-soaked headdress, grabbed
a stick, and found a patch of grass. Pitching a
small tent with the fabric, he slid his
head under it and pretended to settle in for a nap.
Less than a minute later the Kurds arrived.
They surrounded him in a wide circle, then
tightened it slowly. He opened his eyes, sat up,
and raised his hands.
  "Ala rnalakst" he shouted. "Slow down!"
  They kept coming, stomping through the low brush and moving
around the trees. Only when the eight men were standing
around him shoulder to shoulder, guns pointed down, did
they stop.
  "What are you doing?" Falah asked. "What do
you want?"
  One of the men told Falah to keep his hands behind
him and rise slowly. He obeyed. He started
to ask what they were doing. He was told to be quiet.
He obeyed again. The man tied his hands together and
slipped the other end of the rope around his throat. Then
he patted Falah down. He removed his gun and
passport and handed them to a soldier, who ran
ahead. Then, with his faced pointed toward the sky,
Falah was marched through the rocky foothills to the
cave. As he was led up the dirt road he stepped
as hard as he could. If Striker decided to move
in, they might see his footprints and know where it was
safe to walk.
  He was led past the van. As he walked by he
noticed what he hadn't been able to tell from hiding.
That the van was humming and lights were on inside. Either
the commandos had been schooled enough in electronics
to figure the computers out, which he doubted, or someone
had talked under torture. In either case, he had a
good idea how they'd been able to track him. He was
glad he hadn't been able to send a voice
message to Tel Neff The van would have picked that
up for sure. The short, coded burst he'd
managed to get out might have slipped through the cracks.
Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't mean anything to them.
  Falah was led into the cave.
  The young Israeli knew something about the groups that
worked in this part of the world. The Palestinian groups
Hamas and Hezbollah tended to set up shop in
villages and on farms, where attacks against them would
kill civilians. The Lebanese Freedom
Front, devoted to the overthrow of Syrian rule
in Lebanon, worked in small, mobile pockets.
The PKK worked in somewhat larger groups, but they also
tended to stay mobile.
  Straining to look straight ahead as he reached the
cave, what Falah saw was not a mobile unit.
There were sleeping quarters, electric
lights, racks of weapons, and supplies.
  He also caught a quick glimpse of what they used
to call "Satan's footsteps" in the Sayeret
Ha'Druzim.
  The shallow pits that led from captivity directly
to Hell, since no one ever came out of them alive.
One thing Falah did not wonder was whether he'd be
coming out of this cave alive. His Sayeret
Ha'Druzim training didn't merely emphasize
the positive. It demanded it.
  Still tied, Falah was led down a flight of
stairs to what was clearly the group's command center.
The finished quality of the room surprised him. These
people were not expecting to be driven out. He wondered if
this were where the Kurds hoped to make the heart of a new
nation.
  Not in the eastern part of Turkey, where their nation
had been located centuries before, but in the west.
  Down through Syria and Lebanon with access to the
Mediterranean.
  There was a man seated at the desk reading
documents.
  Another man was sitting behind him. He was
squatting on a low stool, listening to a radio, and
taking notes by hand. The man who had led
Falah here saluted.
  The man at the desk returned his salute, then
ignored Falah as he continued studying what looked
like radio transcripts. After what seemed like two
or three minutes, the man at the desk picked up
Falah's passport. He opened it, studied it
for a moment, then put it aside. He looked at the
prisoner. A jagged red scar ran from the bridge of
his nose to the center of his right cheek. His eyes were
deathly pale.
  "Isayid Aram Tunas," said Commander
Siriner.
  "Mr. Aram Tunas."
  "Aywa, akooya," Falah replied. "Yes,
my brother."
  "Am I your brother?" Siriner asked.
  "Aywa," Falah answered. "We are both
Kurds. "We are both freedom fighters."
  "Then that is why you came here," Siriner said.
"To fight alongside us?"
  "Aywa," Falah replied. "I heard about the
Ataturk Dam. There were rumors that the men behind it
had come to a camp in the Bekaa. I thought I might
seek them out and join their group."
  "I'm honored." Siriner picked up
Falah's gun.
  "Where did you get this?"
  "It is mine, sir," Falah said proudly.
  "For how long has it been yours?"
  "I bought it on the black market in Semdinli
two years ago," Falah replied. That was partly
true. The weapon had been purchased on the black
market two years before, though Falah hadn't been
the one who bought it.
  Sirinet put the gun back down. The radio
operator put fresh transcriptions on
Siriner's desk. The commander continued to look at
Falah. "We detected someone in the foothills
with a radio set," the commander said.
  "Did you happen to hear or see anyone?"
  "I saw no one, sir."
  "Why were you running?"
  "I, sir?" said Falah. "I wasn't
running. I wasddat rest when your men surrounded
me."
  "You were perspiring."
  "Because it was very hot," Falah said. "I prefer
to travel when it's cool. Stupidly, I did not
realize I was so near to my goal."
  Sirinet regarded the captive. "So you
wish to fight with us, Aram."
  "I do, sir. Very much."
  The commander glanced at the soldier standing beside
Falah. "Cut him loose, Abdolah," he
said.
  The soldier did as he was told. As soon as his
head was free, Falah rolled it around. When his
hands were loose, he flexed his fingers. Siriner
pointed to Falah's gun. "Take it," he said.
  "Thank you," Falah said.
  "I have a great deal to do here," Siriner said.
"If you serve under me, you will be required to follow
orders without hesitation or question."
  "I understand," said Falah.
  "Tayib," Siriner said. "Fine. Abdolah,
take him to the prisoners."
  "Yes, sir!" the soldier said.
  "Two of them are American soldiers, Aram,"
the commander said. "One man, one woman.-to would like you
to shoot them in the back of the head with your pistol. When
you are finished, I'll have instructions as to the disposal
of the bodies. Are there any questions?"
  "None, sir," Falah said. He looked at the
pistol. Suddenly, he raised it. He aimed at
the commander's head, and fired. The hammer
clicked on an empty chamber.
  Siriner smiled. Falah felt a gun barrel
pressed to the back of his neck.
  "We watched you from the American van," Siriner
said. "It has a variety of electronic
devices for watching one's enemies. We saw you
run. We knew you were spying on us."
  Falah swore to himself. He'd seen the van there,
the one the Americans were anxious to get back. He
should have remembered it was operational. Those were the kinds
of mistakes which cost lives. Including, it would
seem, his own.
  "It's interesting, isn't it?" Siriner said.
"Most spies would have gone so far as to commit the
murders. You must be Druze or Bedouin. You have a
more sensitive nature."
  Siriner was correct. Israeli operatives
who went deep undercover for long periods of time had
to do whatever it took to gain access. It was a sad but
necessary sacrifice for the greater good. Druze and Bedouin
reconnaissance agents and trackers did not work that
way.
  Siriner smiled as he snatched the .44 from
Falah.
  "Also, I sell these on the black
market in Semdinli.
  Aram Tunas was a good customer of mine. You
look nothing like him. You also think nothing like him. I
only emptied one chamber so the gun would not seem
to weigh less. You should have fired again."
  Falah felt like a fool. The man was
correct. He should have fired again.
  Siriner looked at him a moment longer. "Would you
mind telling me who Veeb is?"
  "I'm sorry?"
  Siriner reached down. He picked up Falah's
radio, Which had been sitting on the floor behind his
desk.
  "Veeb. Whoever you were trying to contact with this."
  Falah had no idea what the man was talking
about.
  But that didn't matter. If he said that, no one
would believe him. So he didn't bother saying
anything.
  "No matter," Siriner said as he called
another man into the room. He handed the newcomer the
.44. "Take this spy outside and execute him.
See that his body is returned to the Israelis.
Also, use the van to inform the Americans that the
corpses of their people will follow if another
rescue is attempted."
  With two guns pointed at the back of his head,
Falah was led up the stairs. In the Sayeret
Ha'Druzim he'd been trained to take out a gun
pointed to his back. You turned clockwise if it
were in the right hand, counterclockwise if it were in the
left hand. You cocked the same-side elbow behind you,
waist high. As you turned, you used your elbow to push
the gun hand in the opposite direction. The turn
left you facing your attacker with the gun pointing away
from you.
  The maneuver worked even if your hands were tied.
  But it only worked with one gun. Sirinet
obviously knew it, which was why he had two guns
trained on the prisoner.
  As he was led from the cave into the sunlight,
Falah knew he had just one option. As soon as
they were outside he'd try to "reap" the men.
He'd drop to the ground, extend his leg back, and
sweep it to the side.
  There was room for that out here, though Falah knew
he probably wouldn't get both men before one was able
to fire.
  While he had grown accustomed to living with death,
he had never grown accustomed to failure.
If he regretted anything, it was that. That and the fact
that Sara, his lovely Kiryat Shmonan bus
driver, would never know what had happened to him. Even
when the Israelis found his body--and they would; the
Israelis will go to almost any length to recover the
bodies of soldiers and spies--they wouldn't say
anything about it. They couldn't admit he'd ever been
in the Bekaa. Falah hated the idea that she might
think he'd just left the village and her.
  The slanting, late-afternoon sunfelt warm as
Falah was marched into it. They stopped on the dirt
road just outside the cave. A guard was stationed a
few yards away, outside the van. He was holding
a .38 at his side and watched the men
dispassionately.
  Blessing his God and his parents, Falah was
prepared to die as he had lived.
  Fighting.
  Tuesday, 2:59 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  The two Jeeps had sped up Straight Street
toward Souk al-Bazuriye. As they approached,
Mahmoud saw smoke rolling from windows on the
southeast side of the palace. He smiled. To the
northeast and southwest, Kurds were already taking up
positions along the wall and firing at the
police. Tourists and shoppers and Old City
merchants were fleeing in every direction, adding to the
chaos. The dozens of Kurds knew who their
targets were. As far as the police were concerned,
any one of the hundreds of people running, walking, or
crawling by could be an enemy.
  Mahmoud stood in the passenger's seat. He
wanted his people to see him, to see how proud he was.
After decades of waiting, years of hoping, and
months of planning, freedom was finally at hand.
Listening to the Jeep radio he'd learned that even
today, the dreaded Mukha-barat secret police had
stopped suspected Kurdish rebels and searched them
for arms. But the Kurds had hidden their weapons days
before. Some of the firearms had been buried in the
cemetery, while others had been placed in
waterproof boxes in the river. Since late
morning, the PKK fighters had stayed close to the
weapons by posing as mourners or simply by lolling
around the Barada. They didn't retrieve them
until after the explosion that signaled the death of the
tyrannical Syrian President and the start of a
new era.
  Gunfire "popped on all sides. Though
Mahmoud and his infiltrators were supposed
to have been right outside the palace when the attack
began, he wasn't concerned.
  His people were fighting bravely and aggressively.
Inside, loyal Akbar wouldn't have detonated the
bomb unless he was sure he could at least get the
President.
  Akbar was a Turkish officer who was Kurdish
on his mother's side and secretly devoted to their
cause. A suicide note left in his locker
indicated that this was his way of avenging decades of
genocide against the Kurds.
  Once Akbar made his move, the PKK man in
the security office would have taken out any agents who
had come with the foreign visitors. All that would remain
for Mahmoud and his team to do was finish off any
presidential security guards who were still alive and
secure the palace. When that was done, Mahmoud would
doff his Syrian disguise and notify Commander
Siriner to come to Damascus. With Syria's forces
gathered in disthe north along the Turkish border, and
Iraq using the distraction to look longingly back at
Kuwait, Kurds from three nations would make their
way to the city. Many would be killed, but many would make
it past the overtaxed military. Speaking in a
voice tens of thousands strong, the Kurds
would tell of the crimes of the Syrians, the Turks,
and the Iraqis. With the eyes and ears of the word upon them,
the Kurdish people would demand more than justice. They would
demand a nation. Some countries would condemn the
methods they'd used to get it. Yet from the time of the
American Revolution through the birth of Israel,
no nation had ever been born without violence.
Ultimately, it was the ju/s of the cause and not the
methods used to which other nations responded.
  Police jumped to the side of the road to let the
Jeeps through. Officers saluted Mahmoud as he
passed. The Syrian police probably thought he
was standing up to give them hope and courage.
  Let them think that, Mahmoud thought. He was here
to help in exactly the same way authorities had
always helped his people, with murder and suppression.
  The Jeeps rolled up to the west side
of the-palace.
  Mahmoud jumped out, followed by his soldiers.
The ten men seemed imperious, braving the gunfire
as they walked toward the ornate iron fence. They were
ushered through the gate by a guard who had been crouching
behind a decorative, half-sized marble camel. The
guard was a city employee and not part of the
presidential security force.
  "What's going on?" Mahmoud asked as
bullets chewed at the dark green grass around his
feet. The Kurdish attackers knew who he was and
wouldn't shoot him or his men.
  The guard hovered behind the camel as a bullet
flew by. "There was an explosion," he said. "It
came from the receiving room in the eastern wing."
  "Where was the President?"
  "We believe the President was in the room."
  "You believe?" barked Mahmoud.
  "We've not had word from inside since before the
explosion," said the guard. "That was when one of the
security guards radioed another to say that the
President was leaving his quarters to attend a
meeting."
  "One of the security guards radioed?" Mahmoud
asked. "Not the President's personal guard?"
  "It was one of the palace police," the sentry
said.
  Mahmoud was surprised. When the President
moved anywhere, whether in the palace or the nation,
all communications and security were handled by his own
elite team. "Has an ambulance been sent for?"
  "I've heard nothing," said the guard.
  Mahmoud looked toward the palace. It
had been over five minutes since the explosion.
If the President had been hurt, his personal
physician would have been sent for. He would have been
here by now. Something was wrong.
  Waving his pistol for his men to follow, Mahmoud
jogged quickly toward the palace entrance.
  Tuesday, 7:07 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  Martha Mackall awoke with a start as her pager
beeped. She looked at the number. It was Curt
Hard-away.
  Martha had spent the night at Op-Center,
napping in the spartan employee lounge. It had
taken her until three a.m. to fall asleep.
Martha admitted it herself: When something annoyed her,
she was like a dog with a bone.
  And having to turn Op-Center over to Paul
Hood's evening counterpart, Curt Hardaway,
annoyed her. Events overseas were just too
delicate to leave to his ham-fisted ways. When
he'd come on duty, Martha had gone so far as
to consult Lowell Coffey's deputy assistant,
Aideen Marley, about who had decision-making
authority if something happened during the night.
Whenever Paul Hood remained at his desk after his
shift was over, he still outranked the night
crew. But according to the charter, an acting director
did not. Until 7:30 a.m., Op-Center
belonged to Hardaway.
  Martha hoped that nothing had happened. Hardaway
was a cousin and protegee of CIA Director
Larry Rachlin, and his appointment had been a necessary
expedience.
  In order to keep Op-Center free of CIA
influence, the President had wanted an outsider
to run it. However, to appease the intelligence
community, he was pressured to put in a veteran as
Hood's backup. Though the Oklahoma-born
Hardaway was an affable man with the intelligence
skills necessary for the job, Martha found him to be
uninspired and uninspiring. He also had a talent for
speaking before thinking things through. Fortunately for
Op-Center, the powerful Hood-Rodgers-Herbert
triumvirate set very rigid policies during the
day, and Hardaway had never been able to muck things
up too badly.
  Martha picked up the phone on the end table beside the
couch. She called Hardaway. He picked up
immediately.
  "You'd better get on over," he said. "This
mess is going to bleed into your shift."
  "I'm coming," she said, and hung up. Hardaway
was as tactful as ever.
  The employee lounge was located near the
Tank, a windowless conference room which sat within an
electronic web. There wasn't a spy device
on Earth that could hear what was discussed inside it.
Turning left from the lounge and walking down the
curving wall would have brought her past the Tank to the
offices of Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers, and
Paul Hood in turn.
  Martha turned right. Walking briskly, she
passed her own office, followed by the office of
FBI and Interpol liaison Darrell
McCaskey, Matt Stoll's computer area--"the
orchestration pit," he called it--and the legal and
environmental sections where Lowell Coffey and
Phil Katzen worked. The psychological and
medical divisions came next, followed by the
radio room, the small Striker office for
Brett August, and Ann Farris's two-person
press department.
  As she hurried along, Bob Herbert came
wheeling up behind her. "Did Curt tell you what's
been going on?"
  "No," she said. "Only that there's a
mess and it's going to hemorrhage all over my
desk."
  "A little raw but true," Herbert said. "All
hell's broken out in Damascus. I got a
call from Warner. They had a suicide bomber at
the Azem Palace. He killed the President's
double."
  "That cobbler?"
  Herbert nodded.
  "Then the President probably isn't even in
Damascus," Martha said. "What about
Ambassador HavelesThat"
  "He was at the palace," Herbert said. "He's
shaken but unhurt. Now the palace is under siege.
Unfortunately, Warner is still in the room where the
bomb went off and can't tell us much. I switched
him over to Curt.
  We're keeping that line open."
  "And Paul?" Martha asked.
  "He left the room to look for the DSA guys
who came with them."
  "He should've stayed put," Martha said. "They
may show up while he's gone and leave without him."
  "I'm not so sure anyone's going anywhere,"
Herbert said. "Not unless they know some
shortcuts by heart.
  Israeli satellite recon shows fighting on
all sides. Looks like about forty or fifty
plain-clothes attackers in the process of breaching
the wall. Syrian Army regulars just showed up
to defend the palace. Ten whole men."
  "That's what they get for sending their troops
north," Martha said. "What's it all mean?"
  "Some of my people think it's a Turkish assault
with Israeli support," Herbert said. "The
Iranians are saying we're behind it. Larry
Rachlin's wanted to take the President down for a
long time because of Syria's involvement with
terrorists. But he swears that CIA undercovers
aren't a part of this."
  "What do you think?" Martha asked as she knocked
on Hardaway's door. It clicked open. She
hesitated before opening it.
  "I'm putting my money on the Kurds,"
Herbert said.
  "Why?"
  "Because they're the only ones who have anything to gain
from all of this," he said. "Also, process of
elimination.
  My Israeli and Turkish contacts
seem as genuinely surprised by what's happening as
we are."
  Martha nodded as the two of them went inside.
  Skinny, bearded Curtis Sean Hardaway was
behind his desk looking at his computer. His eyes were
circled with dark rings, and the trash can was filled with
chewing-gum wrappers. Mike Rodgers's
backup, natty young Lieutenant General
William Abram, was seated in a wing chair. His
laptop was open on his knees. His thick black
eyebrows came together above his nose, and his eyes were
alert beneath them. His thin-lipped mouth was relaxed between
two ruddy cheeks.
  Soft crackling and occasional pops came from the
speaker phone on Hardaway's desk.
  Hardaway snapped his gum and looked over.
"Good morning, Martha. Bob, I haven't heard
a word from Warner since you turned him over to me."
  "Just gunfire," Abram said in a low
monotone, "and static from military communications."
  "So we don't know if Paul found the DSA
operatives," Martha asked.
  "We do not," said Hardaway. "The President
wants extraction options by seven-fifteen, and
frankly there aren't many. We've got the
Marine guards at the embassy, but they've got no
jurisdiction outside the embassy-was
  "Though they can always extricate first and answer
questions later," said Abram.
  "True," said Hardaway. "We've also got a
Delta Team at Incirlik. They can be scrambled
and on the palace roof in forty minutes."
  "Which creates problems if the Turks are behind
this," Abram said, "because we'll be shooting at
allies."
  "To save our ambassador," Martha said.
  "Not if he isn't a target," Abram pointed
out. "So far, we have no indication that he or any of the
other ambassadors are in any danger."
  Hardaway glanced at his watch. "There's one
other option, which is to recall Striker and get them
into Damascus.
  We've spoken with Tel Nef. They can get the
team back and choppered to the palace within thirty
minutes."
  "No!" Herbert said emphatically.
  "Hold on, Bob," Martha said. "Aideen
already cleared it with the Congressional Intelligence
Oversight Committee to have them go to the Middle
East. Of the three groups, they're the
only ones with any kind of authority."
  "Absolutely not," Herbert replied. "We
need them to get our people out of the Bekaa."
  Martha looked at him. "Don't give me
"absoluteIy nots," Bob," she said. "Not
with Paul and our ambassador in the line of fire--
was
  "We don't know if they're in immediate danger,"
Herbert replied.
  "Immediate danger?" Martha yelled. "Robert, the
palace is under attack!"
  "And the ROC and its crew are in the hands of
terrorists!"
  Herbert yelled back. "That danger is real and
Striker's within shouting range of it. Let them finish
the mission they were sent to accomplish. Christ, they
may not even have floor plans of the palace. You
can't send them in blind."
  "Armed and equipped they're hardly blind," Martha
said.
  "But they've studied the Bekaa," Herbert said.
  "They prepared for this mission. Look, you've got
War-net on the line. Wait till Paul gets
back. Let him make the call."
  "You know what he'll say," Martha
replied.
  "Damn right I do," Herbert snapped.
"He'll tell you to keep Striker on target and
your ambition on a short leash."
  "My ambition?"
  "Yeah," Herbert said. "You save the
ambassador and you score big-time brownie points
with the State Department.
  What do you think, I don't know what your career
map looks like?"
  Martha stiffened with rage as she looked down at
Herbert.
  "You talk to me like that and you'll find some
roadblocks on your map--"
  "Martha, calm down," Hardaway said. "Bob,
you too. You've been up all night. And I'm
running out of time here. The Striker issue may be
academic in any case. The President plans
to decide by seven-thirty this morning whether to destroy
the ROC with a Tomahawk missile fired from the
USS Pittsburgh in the Mediterranean."
  "Aw, Christ!" Herbert said. "He was
supposed to give us time!"
  "He did. Now he's afraid the Kurds will
use the ROC against the Syrians and
Turks."
  "Of course they will," Abram said, "if they
aren't using it already."
  "You're assuming they've figured out how,"
Herbert said. "Getting the ROC up and running
isn't like starting a goddamn rental car."
  "If someone shows them how, it is," Abram said.
  Herbert glared at him. "Watch it, Bill--"
  "Bob," Abram said, "I know you and Mike are
close. But we have zero intelligence on what the
terrorists might have done to persuade our people
to talk."
  "I'm sure your brother officer would
appreciate that vote of confidence."
  "This isn't about Mike," Martha said. "There are
three civilian hostages as well. They aren't
made of the same stuff Mike is."
  "Not many people are," Herbert said. "Which is all the
more reason to get him the hell out! We need him.
  And we owe it to the others we sent over there."
  "If feasible," Martha said. "It may not be."
  "Especially if we give up!" Herbert
barked. "Jesus, I wish we were all on the same
page here."
  "So do I," Martha replied coldly.
"The question is whether the hostages are lost to us and
whether we should redirect our assets
to Damascus."
  "Martha's right," Hardaway said. "If that
missile is launched we'll have no choice but
to abort the Striker mission. Otherwise, the entire
unit may get tagged along with the ROC and its
crew."
  Herbert folded his hands tightly in his lap.
"We've got to give Striker time. Even if the
Tomahawk flies, it'll take at least a half
hour to reach its target. That may be time enough to get the
ROC crew out. But if you withdraw Striker,
Mike and the others are dead. Period.
  Is there anyone in this room who disagrees with that?"
  No one spoke. Hardaway looked at his watch
again.
  "Two minutes from now I've got to give our
recommendation to the President regarding the situation
at the palace. Martha?"
  "I say we divert Striker," she said.
"They're equipped, they're in the field, and they
are the only legally defensible option we have."
  "Bill?"
  "I agree," said Abram. "I also
think they're better trained than Delta,
certainly better than the Marine guards at the
embassy."
  Hardaway looked at Herbert. "Bob?"
  Herbert rubbed his hands on his face. "Leave
Striker alone. They can still get clear of the
Tomahawk with a window of five minutes to impact.
That gives them at least a half hour to get the
ROC crew out."
  "We need them in Damascus," Martha said
slowly.
  Herbert pressed his fingertips to his forehead.
Suddenly, he dropped his hands to his lap. "What
if I can get someone else to help Paul and the
ambassador?"
  "Who?" she asked.
  "It's a long shot," he said. "I don't know
if the Iron Bar will let me have them."
  "Who?" Martha repeated.
  "People who can be there in about five minutes."
  Herbert picked up a secure phone on a
small table near the wing chair. He pressed an
unlit line and told his assistant to put him through
to Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa.
  Hardaway looked at his watch.
"Bob, I've'got to call the President."
  "Tell him to give me five more minutes,"
Herbert told the hollow-eyed Assistant
Deputy Director of Op-Center.
  "Tell him I will get Paul and the ambassador
out without using Striker, or my resignation will be on
Martha's desk before noon."
  Tuesday, 12:17 p.m., the Mediterranean
Sea
  The Tomahawk is a cruise missile which can be
fired from torpedo tubes or from specially constructed
vertical launch tubes. There are four kinds of
Tomahawk: the TASM or antiship missile;
the TLAM-N or land-attack missile
equipped with a nuclear warhead; the TLAM-C, a
land-attack missile with a conventional warhead; and the
TLAM-D, a land-attack missle equipped with
low-yield bomblets.
  After the twenty-five-foot-long Tomahawk
has been launched via rocket booster, small
wings snap from the sides and lock into place. The
rocket shuts down within a few seconds of firing
and the missile's turbofan engine kicks in.
By then, the Tomahawk has attained its flying
speed of over five hundred miles an
hour. As it scoots low over the land or ocean, its
guidance unit keeps it on target with input from a
radar altimeter. Following a computerized flight
path, the Tomahawk quickly reaches its
pre-landfall waypoint. This is the site which enables
the missile to spot and lock on its first navigation
point--typically a hill, a building, or some
other fixed structure. After that, the onboard
Terrain Contour Matching system or TERCOM
carries the Tomahawk from point to point, often through
sharp turns, sharp ascents, or dizzying dives.
Corroboration of the course is provided by the
Digital Scene Matching electro-optical
system, a small television camera which compares the
actual visuals to those stored in the TERCOM'S
memory.
  If there is any discrepancy, such as a parked
track or new structure, the DSMAC and
TERCOM will quickly determine whether the rest of the
image is correct and that the missile is
on-target. If not, it sends a signal home which
can be answered with one of two commands: continue or
abort.
  The TERCOM data is prepared by the Defense
Mapping Agency and then forwarded to a Theater
Mission Planning Center. From there, it is
transmitted via satellite uplink to the launch
site. When previously unmapped regions are
targeted, up-to-the-minute satellite imagery
is employed by the DMA. Depending upon the
accuracy of the mapping, the Tomahawk is precise
enough to destroy a car-sized target thirteen hundred
miles away.
  Presidential Directive M-98-13 was
received by the communications shack of the USS
Pittsburgh at 12:17 p.m. local time. The
encrypted order was sent digitally, via secure
satellite uplink, and was quickly decoded and
hand-carried to the submarine's Captain George
Breen.
  The task directive gave Captain Breen his
mission, his target, and his abort code. One of the
twenty-four Tomahawks his submarine was carrying was
to be launched at 12:30 p.m. local time toward
a target in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley. The
precise coordinates were provided, backed up
by the DMA TERCOM data for the missile itself. If
the target were moved, the Tomahawk would switch to a
fallback guidance program. The missile would
search to the horizon for visual,
microwave, electromagnetic, and other
characteristics which in combination could only describe the
target. It would then lock onto the object and
destroy it. The only way to order the missile
to self-destruct before reaching its target was if the
captain received the abort code HARDPLACE.
  Captain Breen signed the directive and
passed it to Weapons Officer E.b. Ruthay.
Stationed in the control room, he worked with Console
Operator Danny Max to load the flight data
into the Tomahawk's computer. After it was downloaded
and checked, the USS Pittsburgh slowed to a speed
of four knots. It rose to periscope depth.
Captain Breen gave the order to launch the
missile.
  The hydraulically operated doors of one of the
submarine's twelve forward-located vertical
launch system tubes was opened. The pressure
cap used to protect the missile was ordered
withdrawn. The Tomahawk was ready for firing.
  Captain Breen was informed of the missile's
status.
  After making sure that there were no hostile
aircraft or surface ships within detection
range, he ordered Ruthay to fire at
will. Acknowledging the order, the weapons officer
inserted his launch key into the console, turned it, and
pressed the firing button. The submarine shook
perceptibly as the missile took off on its
455-mile journey.
  Within five seconds of ascertaining that the
Tomahawk was airborne, Captain Breen gave
the order for the submarine to depart the region at
once. As the crew took her deeper out to sea,
Console Operator Max continued to monitor the
missile's progress. During the next
thirty-two minutes, he would not leave his station.
If the command came from the captain or weapons
officer for the mission to be aborted, it would be Max's
responsibility to input the code for the satellite
uplink and then push the red "destruct" button.
  The USS Pittsburgh had a long history of
firing Tomahawks.
  This included, most proudly, a flurry of
missiles launched during Desert Storm. During
that time, all of the Tomahawks had struck their
targets. In addition, the submarine had never received
an abort command.
  This was Max's first firing of a non-test
missile. His palms were damp and his mouth
was dry. It was a matter disof pride that
Tomahawk's ninety-five-percent accuracy
rate not catch up to the submarine's
one-hundred-percent success rate on his watch.
  He glanced at the digital countdown clock.
Thirty-one minutes.
  Max also hoped that he wouldn't have to pull the plug
on his bird. If he did, it would take weeks
for the rest of the crew to let up dison the "firing
blanks" and "unleaded pencil" jokes.
  He watched the data stream in from the blazing
missile as it prepared to cross two narrow time
zones.
  Thirty minutes.
  "Fly, baby," Max said quietly, with a
paternal smile.
  Tuesday, 3:33 p.m., the Bekaa Valley
  Phil Katzen sat at Mary Rose's station
inside the ROC. An armed, English-speaking
Kurd stood on either side. Each time Katzen was
about to turn something on, he had to explain what it
was. One man took notes while the other
listened. All the while, sweat trickled down
Katzen's ribs. Exhaustion burned his eyes.
And guilt churned inside of him.
Guilt, but not doubt.
  Like most boys who'd ever played soldier or
watched a war movie, Phil Katzen had asked
himself the question often: How do you think you'd hold up under
torture?
  The answer was always: Probably okay, as long
as I was just being beaten or held underwater or maybe
electrified.
  As a kid you think about yourself. You never think: How
would you hold up if someone else were being tortured?
The answer was very badly. And that had surprised him.
But a lot had happened between the days when he'd
played soldier in the backyard and now.
  He had gone to college at Berkeley. He'd
seen the campus paralyzed by student marches for
human rights in China and Afghanistan and Burma.
He'd helped care for students who were weakened
by hunger strikes against the death penalty. He himself
had partaken in fish-free weeks to protest
Japanese fishing tactics which netted dolphins
along with tuna. He'd even gone shirtless for a day
to call attention to the plight of sweatshop workers in
Indonesia.
  Upon obtaining his doctorate, Katzen had worked
for Greenpeace. Then he'd worked for a
succession of environmental organizations whose funding
came and went. In his free time he built houses
alongside former President Jimmy Carter, and
worked at a homeless shelter in Washington, D.c.
He learned that the suffering of parents who couldn't feed
their children or the oppression of good souls opposed
to tyranny or the pain inflicted on dumb
animals was worse than one's own physical
pain. It was magnified by empathy and worsened
by helplessness.
  Katzen had felt sick when Mike Rodgers was
being tortured. But he'd felt humanized because
Sondra DeVonne had been forced to watch, told
that her own punishment would be worse. In
retrospect, Katzen knew that that was what had
broken him. The need to get some of that dignity back
for himself and for her. He. also knew that the pain he'd
caused Mike Rodgers was greater than the torture
inflicted by the Kurds. But as he'd discovered with
Greenpeace, nothing good came without a price. If
you saved the harp seals, you robbed fur traders of
their livelihood. If you protected the spotted
owl, you put loggers out of work.
  Now here he was, showing the people who had tortured
Mike how to work the ROC. If he
stopped telling them what he knew, his colleagues
in the pits would suffer. If he continued, scores of
people might be injured or killed--starting with that poor
soul the ROC'S there-male-imaging system had shown
lurking in the foothills.
  Yet an equal number of Kurds might also be
saved.
  Nothing good came without a price.
  Most importantly, Katzen had bought time for his
fellow hostages. With time came hope, and the
hope-sustaining knowledge that Op-Center had not abandoned
them. If something could be done to help them, Bob
Herbert would find it.
  Yet Katzen had also had the basic "SandS"
courses--eighty hours of safety and security.
All Op-Center personnel were required to take
them. Traveling abroad, American government
officials were tempting targets.
  They had to know the fundamentals of psychology, of
weapons and self-defense, of survival. Katzen
knew that to survive, it was vital to be alert.
However tired he was, however unsettled he felt
about what was happening, he had to be aware of his
surroundings. Hostages could not always count on
rescuers to pull them out. Sometimes they had
to seize on the distraction of a counterattack
to escape. Sometimes they had to counterattack on their
own.
  Because Katzen had faith in Bob Herbert, he
had decided to buy time by working as slowly as possible.
  He'd also decided to turn on equipment that would
useful to him. Radios, infrared monitors,
radar, and the other basics. Since his two captors
understood English, he was careful to avoid the
Striker frequency. He would record it and listen
later, if possible.
  It was Katzen who had inadvertently alerted the
Kurds to the presence of the lone spy in the
foothills. The man had been listening to them with a
sophisticated radio, possibly a
TACSAT-3. With the help of the ROC'S laser
imaging system, the Kurds had been able to follow
him easily as he tried to get away. Every move
he'd made had been radioed to the pursuers in the
field. What the Kurds didn't know was that the man
had been prepared to beam a signal to Israel.
Katzen had watched the man's parabolic dish
search for the uplink. As soon as he saw where the dish
was headed--there was only the Israeli satellite in
that sector of the sky--Katzen had switched
to a simulation program which showed a field
operative attempting to contact a recon group,
code-named Veeb.
  Veeb, for Victory Brigade, was a group of
unknown' size and an indeterminate nationality in an
unspecified region of the Syrian-Israeli
border. The point of the simulation was to use ROC
software to find out who and where they were.
  After the man was taken, Katzen had used the
ROC to listen to everything which transpired in the cave.
The man had been speaking in Arabic to the commander, so
Katzen had no idea what had passed between them. His
two guards understood, of course. Their smug
expressions told him that, though they said nothing. When
Katzen stole a 1ow-tech look out the front
window of the van and saw the prisoner being led out, he
had no doubt that the man was going to be executed.
He might have been a spy. Or perhaps he'd been a
scout for Striker.
  andmiddot; Katzen took a nervous breath. The
air-conditioner had been cut down to conserve fuel.
He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. He'd
risked his life for seals and bears, for dolphins and
spotted owls. He wasn't about to stay in the van and
let this happen.
  "I need some air," Katzen said suddenly.
  "Work," the man on his right commanded.
  "I need to breathe, dammit!" he said. "What do
you think I'm going to do? Run away? You know how
to follow me on this"--he pointed to the monitor--"and
where the hell would I go anyway?"
  The man on his left pursed his lips. "Only
for a moment," he said. "There isn't much time."
  "Fine," Katzen said. "Whatever you say."
  The Kurd grabbed the back of Katzen's collar
in his fist. He tightened it to a knot and yanked him
up. He put his .38 to Katzen's head. "Come,"
he said, and walked his captive to the closed door
of the van.
  They started down the two steps, the Kurd pushing
Katzen ahead. Katzen opened the door. As he
did, he drew on the survival training which had
taught him how to use stairs to his advantage.
He crouched. For a moment, the gun was pointing at the
empty air above him.
  Making sure he was low and centered, Katzen
reached across his chest with his left arm. He grabbed the
arm fabric of the jacket his captor was wearing. Then
he tugged the fabric toward his shoulder, dipped his
shoulder down, and pulled the Kurd over.
  The man tumbled head-first over Katzen. He
landed on the ground, on his back, and Katzen leapt
toward him. The Kurd was already getting up when
Katzen landed on him. Katzen's head was facing the
Kurd's feet, the gun hand to his right. He
turned, raised his fist, and pounded the side hard oft
the man's wrist. The fingers opened reflexively.
Katzen grabbed the .38.
  The American took a moment to turn and look
for the two men and their prisoner. They had stopped down
the road, about twenty yards behind the van. One of the
men had turned to look at him.
  "Yu aft" he cried. "Stop!"
  Katzen heard the other Kurd in the van running
toward the doorway. Katzen regarded the Kurd on
the ground. He'd come out here to save a life, not
to take one. But if he didn't do something his own
life would be lost. Still facing the Kurd's feet,
Katzen raised the .38 and put a slug through the
man's right foot.
  As the Kurd shrieked, Katzen glanced toward the
two executioners. The one who'd looked back at
the van turned his pistol toward Katzen. The moment
he did so the prisoner twisted like a top to his
right, literally rolling his neck off the
barrel of the other man's gun. Simultaneously,
he cocked his right arm like a chicken wing and raised the
elbow head-high. As he turned he rolled the
elbow behind him, using it to push the gun aside. For a
moment, neither weapon was trained on the captive. The
prisoner kept turning until he was at the side
of his would-be executioners, facing him. As the
gunman turned to retarget the prisoner, the
captive lifted his hands so they were on either side of the
gunman's wrist--palms turned to one another as
though he were about to clap. Then the palms flashed
toward the gunman's forearm, one slightly closer
to his elbow than the other. When they came together they
kept moving, snapping the man's wrist between them.
Katzen could hear it break. The gun fell. The
captive bent to retrieve it.
  All of that happened in an instant, and it was all
Katzen saw. Behind him he could hear the Kurd in his
heavy desert boots clomping down the steps of the
ROC.
  There were shouts coming from the cave to his left. In a
moment they'd have him pinned in a three-way cross
fire. There was only one avenue open to him:
straight ahead, toward the edge of the dirt road.
There was a drop on the other side, he
didn't know how far, but a fall could be more forgiving
than a rain of bullets. He opted to take it.
Hopping off the writhing Kurd, Katzen dropped
to his side, rolled several yards, and went over the
ledge.
  He never seemed to hit the steep slope so much as
roll alongside it. Branches cracked as he
went down and rocks punched him as he rolled over
them. He held tight to the gun and covered his face
with that arm as he tried to stop his fall with the other. He
heard several gunshots, muted by distance and by the sound
of sliding dirt and splitting twigs. But he
didn't think that anyone was firing at him. The shots
were too far away to be coming from the ledge.
  Katzen stopped with a jolt. He'd landed on his
back in the crook of a tree growing sideways from the
slope.
  It not only punched the air from him, it felt like it
broke a rib. He lay there for just a moment as he
drew a slow, painful breath. There were more shots, and
Katzen squinted up at the solid blue sky. As
he did, someone looked down at him. It was the man
who had stayed behind in the van. After a moment, the
face was joined by a gun.
  Katzen still had the gun he'd taken. His
arm was dangling beside him, and when he tried to raise it
pain ripped across his chest. His arm shuddered as he
tried to lift it again. He let it drop back
down.
  Panting, Katzen waited for the bullet to strike.
But before the man could fire, his head seemed to bounce
to the right. It bounced again, and this time it also turned
around. The head drooped, the gun fell, and then
another head appeared. This time it was the man who had
been marched from the cave. He motioned for Katzen
to stay where he was.
  "As if I can go anywhere," Katzen said to himself.
  The man swung over the ledge, sat with his legs
stretched before him, and followed them down as if he were
on a slide. He held his arms in front of him
and jerked them up and down for balance. There was a gun
in each. As he neared the tree, he put his feet
sole-down and slowed to a stop. Crawling under it for
protection, he set the guns down, placed
Katzen's .38 beside them, and helped the injured
American off the tree. Katzen put his hands under
his body and tried to brace himself. He sucked air
through his teeth as each move caused fresh pain.
  "I'm sorry," said the newcomer. "I wanted
to get you under the tree for cover."
  "It's okay," Katzen said as he eased to the
ground.
  "Thanks."
  "No," said Falah. "My thanks to you. Because
of the distraction you caused, I was able to deal with the men
who were going to kill me. I also managed to finish the
men who had you."
  Katzen felt a flash of sadness. Because he'd
left the van, four men were dead instead of one. It was
a quantitative judgment, nothing more. But it was still
a weight on his soul.
  "There are more men inside," Katzen said.
"Maybe twenty Kurds and six of my own people."
  "I know," said the man. "My name is Falah and
I'm with--"
  "No!" Katzen interrupted. "The machine's still
recording audio up there. They don't know how
to replay it, but there's no guarantee we'll get
it back."
  Falah nodded.
  Katzen straggled onto one elbow. "My name's
Phil,"
  he said "Were you scouting this location for anyone'?"
  He nodded again. He pointed to Katzen and
saluted.
  My troops, Katzen thought. Striker. That must
have -- been who he was trying to radio.
  "I see," Katzen said. "What where they
supposed to do if they didn't hear anything from..."
  Katzen fell silent as his companion suddenly
pushed him back. Then Falah lay flat beside him.
Katzen heard it now too: boots crunching on the
dirt. He turned his face around so he could look
up the slope. A semiautomatic weapon was
poked over the side. As Falah huddled close
beside Katzen under the tree, the gun was fired.
Bullets tore into the tree as well as the earth
around them. It continued for only a second, though it
seemed much longer.
  Katzen looked at Falah to make sure he was
all right.
  He looked up. Broken bark was sticking off the
tree at odd, ugly angles. Katzen couldn't
help but think that that was the first time a tree had ever
saved an environmentalist.
  But for how long? he wondered.
  Falah brought both guns around. Still lying flat,
he held them in front of him, pointing them up the
slope.
  There were more footsteps, followed
by silence. And then a horrifying thought hit Katzen.
He'd left the goddamn infrared imaging system
on in the ROC. It was still running at Mike
Rodgers's station. Even though the men who had been
taught how to run some of the ROC equipment were dead,
anyone could go inside and have a look at the
monitor. And anyone who was within two hundred
yards of the cave would show up as a red figure on the
screen. Bodies hit by gunfire would leak warm,
detectable blood.
  He and Falah weren't bleeding and the Kurds would
know it.
  Katzen leaned over so his mouth was right beside
Falab's ear. "We're in trouble," he said. "The
van can see us the way they saw you. The infrared--
they know we're not dead."
  After a short silence there were more footsteps. There
was a high-pitched whimper. Katzen twisted his face
so he could look up. A moment later he saw
Mary Rose standing at the edge of the slope. Someone
was standing behind her. All Katzen could see were his legs
through hers.
  "You men down there!" shouted a voice from above.
  "You have a count of five to surrender. If you
don't come up your people will be shot in turn,
beginning with this woman. Onest"
  "He'll do it," Falah whispered to Katzen.
  "Twost"
  "I know," Katzen replied. "I've seen how
they work this drill. I've got to give myself up."
  "Threest"
  Falah put a hand on his arm. "They'll kill
you!"
  "Fourst"
  "Maybe not," Katzen said. He got up
slowly, painfully.
  "They still need me." He looked up. They were
doing a fast count, the bastards. "I'm hurt!" he
shouted.
  "I'm coming as fast as I can!"
  , ,Five.t,, "No, waitst" Katzen
screamed. "I said--"
  Suddenly, blood exploded from the top of the
slope and sprayed darkly across the blue sky.
  "Nost" Katzen screamed, his face distorted as
Mary Rose fell to her knees and the blood rained
toward them.
  "God, nost"
  Tuesday, 3:35 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  The floor of the palace security
office was slippery with blood.
  The Diplomatic Security Agents were dead.
So were the two- and three-agent security forces for the
Japanese and Russian ambassadors
respectively. They had been gunned down in the
small office, a dark and windowless room with two
stools and a large, slanting console consisting of
twenty small black-and-white television
monitors.
  The images showed bedlam at nearly every entrance,
every room.
  The man who presumably had shot them, a
blue-uniformed palace guard whose station this must have
been, was also dead. There was an automatic rifle
on the floor beside him and a pair of bullet holes
in his forehead.
  One of the Russians had been able to draw his own
pistol. Apparently, the head shots were his.
  Paul Hood did not want to linger in the
security office.
  He checked the men for signs of life. Finding
none, he remained on his hands and knees and poked his
head into the hallway. The sounds of gunfire were all
around him. They were no longer distant. The reception
room, though only about two dozen yards
away, seemed incredibly far. In the other
direction, the outside door was much closer. But he
wouldn't leave without the others.
  Tactically, it would make more sense if he could
get them here.
  Then he remembered Warner Bicking's cellular
phone.
  Hood turned back into the room. The DSA
agents both had cellular phones. One had been
shattered by gunfire. The other had been busted when the
man fell.
  None of the other agents had phones. Hood sat
back on his heels. He looked around.
  This is a security office, goddammit! he
told himself.
  They have to have a telephone.
  He ran his hands along the console. They did have
one. It was in a lidded recess to the right of the lowest
right-hand monitor. Hood lifted the receiver. The
lighted numbers were on the handset. He held it in
his trembling palm and punched in Bicking's number.
Bicking was probably still on the line with
Op-Center. Hood wondered if anyone else in
history had ever used call waiting in the middle of a
firefight.
  Hood went back to watching the monitors as the
phone range. It beeped twice before Bicking
picked up.
  "Yes?"
  "Warner, it's Paul."
  "Jesus God," Bicking laughed nervously,
"I'd hoped it wasn't a wrong number. What'd
you find?"
  "They're all dead in here," Hood said.
"Anything from Op-Center?"
  "They've got me on hold while they try
to get someone to us," he said. "Last I heard was from
Bob. He told me something's up but couldn't tell
me what."
  "He was probably afraid the lines are being
monitored." Hood shook his head. "I'm looking
at the monitors, though, and I don't see how
anyone's going to--hold it."
  Hood watched as what looked like a contingent of
Syrian Army troops made their way through one of the
corridors.
  "What's going on?" Bicking asked.
  "I'm not sure," Hood said, "but the cavalry
may have arrived."
  "Where?"
  "Looks like it's the other end of the corridor from
where I am," Hood said.
  "Closer to us?"
  "Yes."
  "Should I go out and try to meet them?" Bicking
asked.
  "I don't think so," said Hood. "Seems like
they're headed right toward you."
  "They probably have orders to get the
ambassadors out," Bicking said. "Maybe you'd
better come back."
  "Maybe," Hood agreed.
  The gunfire was growing louder at the other end of the
hall, away from the reception room. It wouldn't be
long before the rebels reached the security office.
  Hood continued to watch the monitors. The
troops weren't checking other rooms, nor had they
set up any kind of flank watch. They were moving
ahead with surprising confidence. Either they had courage
or they didn't have a clue as to how bad things were.
  Or, Hood thought, they aren't afraid of being
attacked.
  It was part of Hood's job to do what he called
the "PC thing," to presume conspiracies. Part of
Op-Center's mission was constantly to ask
"What if?."
  when faced with a murder by a lone assassin or a
rebellion by a hitherto underarmed faction. Hood was
not obsessed with conspiracies, but he wasn't
naive.
  The soldiers continued to move ahead
purposefully.
  Hood watched as coverage shifted to another
monitor.
  "Paul?" Warner said. "Are you coming?"
  "Hold the line," Hood said.
  "I've got Op-Center still holding--"
  "Stay on the line!" Hood ordered.
  He bent lower to the monitors. A few
seconds later he saw two men with black
kaffiyehs, brandishing what looked like Makarov
pistols, cross the hall behind them.
  One of the soldiers looked back briefly. He
didn't even break his stride.
  "Warner," Hood said urgently, "get out of
there."
  "What? Why?"
  "Get everyone together and move!" he said. "Bring
them here. I don't think the cavalry is on our
side."
  "Okay," Bicking said, "I'm moving."
  "And if they won't leave, don't argue with them.
Just get out."
  "Understood," Bicking said.
  Hood squeezed the phone. More attackers
passed with impunity behind the troops. Either the
Syrian military was in on this, or these men were
only masquerading as Syrian Army regulars.
In either case, the situation had just gone from dangerous
to deadly.
  "Shit!" Hood said as the soldiers turned down
the last corridor. "Warner, stay put!"
  "What?"
  "Stay where you are!" Hood shouted. He'd no
longer have to watch the attackers on the monitor.
To see them, all he'd have to do was stick his head out the
door. His head or- Hood looked down at the
blood-soaked marble. The Russian guard's
pistol was there along with the Syrian killer's
automatic rifle. All that Hood knew about
firing guns was what he'd been taught in the
required courses at Op-Center. And he hadn't
done terribly well at those.
  Not with Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert
casually ticking off bull's-eyes at the
firing stations on either side of him. But what Hood
knew might be enough. If he could drive the
Syrians back, that might buy Warner and the others
enough time to get out of the reception room.
  "Warner," Hood whispered loudly into the phone,
"there are soldiers coming toward you. Probably
hostile.
  Hunker down until you hear from me.
Acknowledge."
  "Hunkering down," Bicking said.
  Hood let the phone drop. He lifted the
automatic rifle from the thin layer of blood
carpeting the marble floor.
  He got up quickly and felt dizzy. He
wasn't sure if it was because he'd gotten up too
fast or because his hands and the soles of his shoes were
sticky with someone's blood. It was probably a little
of both. Moving quickly, Hood stepped over the
outstretched arm of one of the DSA men. He stood just
behind the doorjamb.
  His heart was a mallet, thick and heavy. His
arms trembled slightly. He had taken mandatory
weapons training, but he had never shot at anyone
before. He wouldn't fire to kill. Not at first. But
there was no guarantee he wouldn't have to.
He'd been the Mayor of Los Angeles and a
banker. He'd signed on at Op-Center for a
think-tank-type desk job. Crisis
management, not wallowing in blood.
  Well, things freakin' change, Hood, he
pep-talked to himself as he took a slow breath. Either
you fire if necessary, or your family attends a
funeral. He leaned into the hallway and looked at
the soldiers walking toward the reception room. He
had the framework of a plan.
  First, to find out if he could communicate with these people.
Second, to see how they'd react to a challenge.
  "Do any of you speak English?" Hood asked.
  The soldiers stopped. They were nearly twenty
feet from the reception room, about three-dozen yards
from him. Without turning around, the leader said something to a
man behind him. The man stepped forward.
  "I speak English," said the man. "Who are
you?"
  "An American guest of the President,"
Hood replied.
  "I just spoke with the commander of the presidential
guard by phone. He's asked that all loyal forces
meet him in the north gallery at once."
  The man translated for the leader. The
leader gave an order to a man behind him. Two
soldiers left the group and went back the way
they'd come.
  He's got to check, Hood thought, but he's not
using his field radio. If there are presidential
guards out there, this man doesn't want them to know
he's here.
  As the two men trotted around a corner, the leader
issued a new order. The group split up again.
The leader and four men continued toward the reception
area while three men moved toward Hood. Their
weapons were in their hands. They weren't coming to rescue
him. The question was, did they intend to take the men
hostage or kill them? They had already taken several
lives in a failed effort to assassinate the
President. And they'd killed all the men in this
booth. Even if they were taking disprisoners, which
Hood doubted, he didn't want to subject his
country, his family, himself, or the men in the other
room to an extended hostage ordeal. As Mike
Rodgers had once put it, "In the long run,
that's just a different way to die."
  Hood hugged the automatic rifle to his
waist, the magazine resting along his thigh. Aiming the
barrel low, he swung into the corridor and
fired at the floor just in front of the group's
leader. Hood was startled as casings flew at him from
the ejection port, but he continued to hold the trigger.
The men down the hall retreated. The three men who
were coming toward the security room threw themselves against the
wall, behind a large bronze horse, and returned
fire.
  Hood stopped firing and ducked back behind the
jamb. His knuckles were bone-white around the pistol
grip. His breathing was fast and his heart was hammering
harder than before. The men down the hall also stopped
firing. The automatic rifle felt light,
nearly empty. Hood picked the bloody pistol
up off the floor and checked the magazine. It was about
one-third empty.
  He bad seven or eight shots.
  Hood knew that there wasn't much time. He'd have
to go back into the hallway and fire again, this time aiming
higher. He checked the monitor. The leader and his
group were hanging back. They'd been joined by a
ragtag group of Syrians with guns. The leaders
of both groups were conferring. Hood knew that if he
waited any longer he'd fall to sheer force of
numbers.
  He sidled up to the jamb and held both
guns facing up. He didn't feel like John
Wayne or Burt Lancaster or Gary Cooper.
He was just a frightened diplomat with guns.
  One who's responsible for the lives of men
trapped down the hallway. He listened. He
heard no movement outside. Holding his breath this
time, he dropped both guns hip-high and swung
into the hallway.
  And stopped as a soldier stepped right into his
face and shoved a pistol barrel up under his chin.
  Tuesday, 3:37 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Before joining Striker, Sergeant Chick Grey
had been Corporal Grey of the elite
counterterrorist Delta Force.
  He'd been a private when he'd first reported
for training at Fort Bragg. But Grey's two
specialties had enabled him to climb the ratings
ladder to private first class and then corporal in a
matter of months.
  His first skill was in HALO operations--
high-altitude, low-opening parachute jumps. As
his commander at Bragg had put it when recommending
Grey's boost from private to PFC, "The man can
fly." Grey had the ability to pull his
ripcord lower and land more accurately than any
soldier in Delta history. He attributed that
to having a rare sensitivity to air currents. He
believed that also helped with his second skill.
  Grey's second skill was marksmanship. As
the late Lieutenant Colonel Charles
Squires had written when insisting that Mike
Rodgers recruit him for Striker, "Corporal
Grey is not only a sharpshooter, General. He
could put a bullet clean through one of your
bull's-eyes."
  The report didn't note that Grey could also go
without blinking for as long as necessary. He'd developed
that ability when he realized that all it took was the
blink of an eye to miss the "keyhole," as he
called it. The instant when your target was in perfect
position for a takedown.
  A few seconds before, perched in a treetop,
Grey had been staring through the twelve-power
Redfield telescope mounted on top of his
Remington 7.62 mm M401 sniping rifle. It
had been twenty-odd seconds since he'd
blinked. Twenty-odd seconds since the terrorist
had walked from the cave holding a gun to the head of
Mary Rose Mohalley. Twenty-odd
seconds since Colonel Brett August had
told him to take the subject out at will. During that
time, Grey had not only watched everything that
transpired, he'd also listened carefully through
ear-phones plugged into a six-inch-diameter
parabolic dish.
  The clip-on dish had been attached to a branch
beside him and provided clear audio from the area
surrounding the idle ROC.
  There is an instant in every hostage situation when a
marksman makes an emotional rather than just a
professional commitment to doing what must be done. A
life must be taken in order to rescue a hostage.
It isn't a point of no return; hostage
situations are fluid and one must always be ready to stand
down. But it is a form of peacemaking with oneself. If
the guilty party doesn't die--swiftly,
painlessly--an innocent one may. That realization is
black and white. It comes without passing judgment on
the larger matter, the merits of the terrorist's
cause. At that point, an almost supernatural
calm comes over the marksman. Those last seconds
before firing are moments of cold and frightening
efficiency.
  The first seconds afterward are moments of
equally dispassionate acceptance with just a hint of
professional pride.
  Sergeant Grey waited until the gunman had
uttered the last number of his count before firing. His
single shot struck the terrorist in the left
temple. The man jerked hard to the right on impact,
twisted slightly, and then dropped to his back. His
blood sprayed out over the ledge and then poured with him
as he fell. When the man's arms went limp,
Mary Rose fell to her knees. No one rushed out
to claim her. A moment later, someone began
clambering up the slope. Grey didn't wait
to see the outcome.
  Privates David George and Terrence
Newmeyer were standing under the tree. The instant the
terrorist went down, Sergeant Grey lowered the
dish and headphones to Private George, handed his
rifle to Private Newmeyer, and climbed down.
As he stowed his gear, Sergeant Grey felt only
one thing. That there was still a lot to be done.
  The three men joined Colonel August and the
others.
  The Strikers had left their vehicles a quarter
mile back so the engines would not be heard. Two
Strikers had remained behind to protect the
FAV'S and motorcycles, while the others had
moved forward through the tops of the close-growing trees.
They'd executed an infrared scan and hadn't
detected sentries, so the off-ground
  andmiddot; mute served a double purpose. First,
it would keep them from tripping any mines that guarded the
cave. Second, if the ROC were working, the reading
would indicate that something was moving in the trees--though
at this distance the Kurds might think they were some of the
vultures that were indigenous to the region.
  For the three minutes that Sergeant Grey had been
in the tree, Colonel August and Corporal
Pat Prementine had been using field glasses
to watch what was happening on the ledge
approximately three hundred yards away. The
other eleven Strikers had been gathered in a tight
group behind them. When Sergeant Grey arrived with the
two privates, the group absorbed them without
seeming to expand.
  August looked back at the newcomers.
Corporal Prementine, the boy genius of
infantry tactics, continued to look out at the
ledge.
  "Good work, Sergeant," August said.
  "Thank you, sir."
  "Sir," said Prementine, "no one's gone after
the woman."
  August nodded. "We're going to have to move that,"
he whispered. "To bring you up to date, we think that's
Phil Katzen and our contact at the foot of the
slope. We'll be going out in one or two groups.
One group if we need to storm the cave to get our
people out. Two if the hostages are--"
  "Colonel," Prementine interrupted, "the men
are coming out. The bastard's've gone half-and-half."
  August swung his binoculars around. Sergeant
Grey also squinted back toward the cave. Three
of the hostages had been thrown face-down in the dirt
outside the cave. Grey could see men inside the
cave, but they were hidden by the deep shadows.
  "Corporal, mask up and get A-Team over
there now." August snapped. "Take them inside.
We'll handle the perimeter."
  "Yes, sir," Prementine said. He moved out
with seven Strikers crouching low behind him, single
file, as they ran toward the ledge.
  "George, Scott!" August barked.
  "Sir?" both men replied.
  "RAC "em."
  "Yes, sir," said George.
  The two privates moved to the equipment locker
they'd hauled from the FAV. As David George
assembled a charcoal-gray mortar, Jason
Scott pulled four shells of RAC--
rapid-acting incapacitant--from their insulated
storage bag. Within two seconds of exploding, the
amber-colored gas would knock out everyone within a
twenty-foot radius. Private Scott
assisted with the heavy baseplate, and in just over
thirty seconds the grenade launcher was loaded and
assembled. While Private George peered through
the sight, Scott adjusted the traversing and
elevating handles to fix the line of fire.
  "Sergeant Grey," August said, "back in
harness.
  Night vision. Tell me what you can see inside
the cave."
  "Right away, sir."
  While Grey grabbed his rifle and headed back
to the tree, Newmeyer pulled the night-vision
goggles from his backpack. The strap was preset
to slip over Grey's helmet and hang over both
eyes. The Redfield telescope had been fitted
with an adaptor to slip over either eyepiece.
  "Sergeant," August said, "it looks
like the hostages" feet are tied to ropes inside.
See if you've got a shot at whoever's holding
those ropes."
  "Yes, sir," Grey replied. He began
climbing back toward the large branch which gave him
a clear view over the other trees.
  As he ascended, Grey heard Private Ishi
Honda's radio beep. The communications
operator answered, listened for several seconds,
then put the caller on hold.
  "Sir," Honda said calmly, "it's Mr.
Herbert's office with an AE update."
  AE meant "all ears." Though that usually meant
that an immediate evacuation was being ordered, Grey continued
to climb.
  "Shoot," August said.
  "Mr. Herbert reports that seven minutes
ago, a Tomahawk missile was fired from the
USS Pittsburgh. It will be reaching the ROC in
twenty-five minutes. We are advised
to abort."
  "Advised, not ordered," August said.
  "No, sir."
  August nodded. "Private George."
  "Sir?"
  "Let the sons of bitches have it."
  Tuesday, 3:38 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  When the revolver was pressed under his chin, Paul
Hood did not see his life race by. As the other
two men disarmed him, Hood was overcome with an almost
dreamlike light-headedness. The mind's way of
dealing with incomprehensible shock? But he was lucid
enough to disask himself what the hell he'd been thinking
when he'd decided to take on the terrorists. He
was a desk jockey, not a fighter. And he'd been
so preoccupied with the leader--where he was going and what
he was doing-that he'd forgotten all about the men
creeping along the wall. As usual, Mike
Rodgers had been right about these things. War, he'd
often said, was unforgiving.
  The men with Hood's guns stepped back. One of
them turned. Hood watched the leader move his band
forward.
  There was nothing smug or triumphant about his
opponent's manner. He seemed purposeful--no
more, no less--as he stopped by the door and looked
down the corridor. He nodded once. The man who
was watching him turned back. He said something to the
soldier in front of Hood. The soldier grunted
and looked at Hood.
  Unlike the leader, this man smiled.
  Hood shut his eyes. He said a mental
good-bye to his family. Saliva had collected
in his throat. He wished he could swallow, but the
pressure from the gun barrel was preventing it. Not that
it mattered. In a moment he would never again swallow
or smile or close tired eyes or dream- A
shot cracked along the corridor and Hood started.
  He heard groaning and opened his eyes. The man
who'd been standing in front of him was on the floor,
holding his left thigh. As Hood watched in shock,
the other two men went down. Bullets had punched
ugly holes in their legs and lower back. Both men
were dead.
  Hood looked down the hallway and saw the band of
ragtag Syrians striding forward. They were a wall
of guns and multicolored robes and intense
expressions. As Hood stood there, surprised
to be alive and uncertain what to do, the Kurdish
leader froze. His men stopped behind him. They were just a
few steps away from the door of the reception room.
The leader looked at his three fallen soldiers,
then turned and began screaming at the Syrians.
  Ignored for a moment, Hood ducked back into the
security office. Even as he stepped
inside, he kicked himself for not thinking to grab one of the
fallen men's guns. But it was too late for that, and
at least he was alive. Like they used to say in the
stock market, bears and bulls can prosper. Pigs
don't.
  Hood grabbed the phone. "Warner, are you there?"
  "Of course!" Bicking said. "What's
happening?"
  "I'm not sure," Hood said. "Some of those
soldiers were just shot by Syrians."
  "Great--"
  "It may be," Hood said. "I still don't think
they were here to help us. Can you hear what the leader's
saying?"
  "Hold on," said Bicking. "Let me get
closer." A moment later Bicking came back.
"Paul? His name is Mahmoud al-Rashid and he
wants to know what the Syrians are doing.
Apparently he'd already told them he was a
Kurdish leader, not a Syrian Army regular."
  "What did the Syrians say?"
  "Nothing," Bicking replied.
  Hood looked at the monitor. "Warner,
I've got a feeling those Syrians didn't
mistake the Kurds for soldiers.
  I think they knew exactly who they were."
  Mahmoud shouted again.
  "What's he saying now?" Hood asked.
  "He's ordering the men to identify themselves,"
Bicking said. "He also wants them to take care of the
men they shot."
  Hood's heart began to beat faster as he watched
the screen. "Mahmoud's raising his gun," he said.
"Warner, I'll bet my life they're not with him."
  "Maybe they're presidential security
forces," Bicking said. "Those guys are long
overdue."
  "I don't know," Hood said. "Listen,
Warner. Get back to Op-Center and tell them
what's happening. See if they know anything about an
undercover counter-strike."
  "Wouldn't they have told me?"
  "Not on an open line," Hood said.
"Security won't matter now."
  Mahmoud stopped talking. There was a very short
silence, and then the Syrians suddenly fell back
a few paces. They opened fire, shooting as one
at the main body of Mahmoud's group.
  "Shit!" Bicking screamed into the phone.
"Paul, I can't hear anything! Too much
noise!"
  Several of Mahmoud's men fell before they could
return fire. Mahmoud himself was unable to shoot because
his men were in the way. Instead, he motioned the
surviving members of his group back. As they ran
around him he covered their retreat, driving the
Syrians back with a waist-high burst of fire.
A few were knocked back, but must have been wearing
bullet-proof vests.
  They got back up again. Mahmoud, however, was not
wearing a vest. He appeared to take several
bullets before turning and hobbling toward the reception
room. As soon as he'd turned, the shooting
stopped. The Syrians rushed forward again.
  When it was quiet, Hood got back on the
phone.
  "Warner, forget about OpCenter. Get to cover.
The Kurds'll be there in a second!"
  There was no answer.
  "Warner, do it now!" Hood said. "Warner, do you
hear me?"
  "I hear you," he said. "But maybe there's something
I can do--"
  "There isn't," Hood said, "except to get your
ass into hiding!"
  Hood was still watching the monitor as five
Kurds entered the reception room. They were followed
by their wounded leader. Hood didn't say anything
else. If Bicking had managed to hide somewhere,
Hood's voice coming over the phone might give him
away. He set the phone on its side and continued
to stare at the monitor.
  As Hood waited, he heard more shots just
outside his door. He saw someone coming down the
hall. He looked over just as the man who had been
about to execute him slid past his door, lying on his
back and arching like a worm. He turned onto his
side, grimacing horribly for a moment, and then he
curled into a tight ball. There were three bloody
holes in his chest. His breathing was labored for a
moment, and then stopped. His expression did not
relax as he died.
  Hood felt sick
  A moment later one of the Syrians stepped over
the body. He was a big man, about
six-foot-five, with a white kaffiyeh and a full,
black beard. The 9mm para-bellum at his
side was smoking slightly, and there were two bullet
holes in the chest of his khaki jacket. He stood
there, his frame filling the doorway on
all sides.
  "You are Hood?" he asked in stilted English.
His gravelly voice seemed to come from a cave.
  "Yes," Hood said.
  The man kicked over the gun that had belonged to the
dead man. It spun over on a sheet of blood.
"Keep this," he said as he pulled the bottom of his
kaffiyeh across his face. "Use it if you must."
  Hood picked it up. "Who are you?"
  "Mista'aravim," he replied. "You stay
here."
  "I want to go with you," Hood said.
  The man shook his great head. "I was told that
Mr. Herbert will personally kick my ass if
anything happens to you." He pulled a fresh
ammunition clip from the deep pockets of his pants
and replaced the spent clip in his parabellum.
  "What about the others?" Hood asked.
  "Look for videotapes in here," the big man
said. "If you find them, take them."
  "All right," Hood said. "But the ambassador,
my associates--"
  "I'll see to them," the man said, "and I'll be
back for you." With that, he turned and walked back
along the corridor.
  There was a sudden surge of gunfire in other parts
of the palace. Save for the man's heavy footsteps,
it was unnervingly quiet in this wing.
  Hood returned to the monitor. He watched as
the big man rejoined the others. The Mista'aravim
were deep-cover Israeli Defense Force commandos
who masquerade as Arabs. Herbert had very close
contacts with the Israeli military, and had
probably asked for help here.
  Their undercover nature was why the operative
wanted Hood to look for tapes: There mustn't be a
record of his face.
  The five men stood along the wall on either side
of the reception room door. They had divided
into two groups and were putting something on the marble
walls.
  Hood suspected that it was C-4. They'd use
the plastic explosive to distract the Kurds while
at the same time creating an opening through which they could
fire.
  Hood began searching for the tapes. He found two
half-inch videotape machines in a cabinet under the
console.
  He popped the tapes from each. Then he stopped
and swore.
  The tapes weren't the only records of the
Mista'ara-vim.
  The Kurds had seen them too. For that, they would have
to die. And to make absolutely certain that they
did, the Israelis would probably pepper the
room with gunfire before they went in. That was how the
Israelis worked. Sometimes the good had to be
sacrificed with the bad for the benefit of the rest.
  But that wasn't how Hood worked. He picked up
the phone.
  "Warner," he whispered, "if you can hear me,
stay put. I think all hell's about to--"
  An instant later all hell did break
loose. The alabaster walls exploded chest-high
on both sides of the door and the masked Israelis
stood at the openings. As the Kurds opened fire
on them, the faster, more powerful Israeli rifles
replied with one, deadly voice.
  Tuesday, 3:43 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  When he saw the spray of blood, Phil
Katzen" screamed curses at Kurds.
Oblivious to the sharp pains in his side, he tried
to crawl up the slope to the roadway.
  Falah laid his guns down. He put
his arms around the American's waist and held him
back. "Wait!" he cried.
  "Wait! Something is not right--"
  Katzen pressed his forehead to the dry earth. "They
killed her. Shot her without a thought!" He pounded his
fists slowly on either side.
  "I don't think so," Falah said. "Shhh...
I think I hear her."
  Katzen quieted. He heard the grinding of gears
as the ROC drove off. Then he heard whimpering from
the ledge. "Mary Rose?" Katzen wondered
aloud. Other than the sobbing, there was absolute
silence. Katzen glanced over at Falah. "If
she's alive, something must have happened to the man who was
going to shoot her."
  "That is true," Falah said. He retrieved
his guns. "It was probably his blood we saw."
  "But how?" Katzen asked. "I don't see how
any of the other prisoners could have escaped. There were
iron grates on those pits."
  "No one escaped," said Falah. "If they had
there would be shouts, running around. Just the opposite
has happened. No one is moving." He looked
off to the south. He squinted. "If it was the Kurd
who was shot, he had to have been picked off.
I shut down the radio an hour ago. That would have enough
time for a quick "g"' decision and rapid-deployment
ingress."
  Striker, Katzen thought. He followed
Falah's gaze.
  Before Katzen could scan the trees for movement,
someone shouted from above. He was yelling in English,
threatening to kill three hostages.
  "He's not talking to us," Falah said. "Someone
sniped the killer. He's talking to them."
  "If that's true," Katzen said, "the ROC
may spot whoever's out there."
  "We can't even take the ROC out," Falah
said. "It seems the Kurds have moved it." He
climbed over Katzen and handed him one of the guns.
"You stay here.
  I'm going to try and find them, warn--"
  Before he could move farther, there was a faint pop and
then a whistle from the southeast. Katzen looked up as
a small, black projectile rocketed toward the
cave.
  Another came seconds later, followed by a
third. They exploded in rapid succession, sending
out thick copper-colored clouds.
  "Neo-phosgene!" Katzen said.
  "What?" Falah asked.
  "A new lung agent," Katzen said. "It
induces asthma-like effects for about five minutes.
Striker's the only team that has it."
  At full dispersion the gas seemed to freeze, like
cotton.
  Within moments the liquid content evaporated and the
remaining vapor sunk to the ground in a thick pan
cake. The edges of the pancake crept toward the
edge of the slope and spilled over. The men watched as
Mary Rose fell forward. Her torso dropped
over the ledge and she lay there gasping for breath.
  "Come on," Katzen said. "The cloud itself will
turn white and non-toxic in about two minutes.
We may be able to get our people out before the Kurds
recover."
  "No," Falah said. "You stay here. Your
broken ribs will slow us both down."
  "Horseshit," Katzen said. "I'll look after
Mary Rose, but I'm coming up."
  Falah agreed, and began clawing up the slope.
His speed and dexterity momentarily took Katzen
aback. Being out of the field so much these days, he
sometimes forgot the breathtaking skill with which indigenous
people maneuvered in their native terrain.
  Stretching out his leg on the side with the broken
rib, Katzen tried to immobilize that side as much
as possible.
  Tucking the gun in his belt, he began crawling
up. All the while he cast looks above, to the
south, and below.
  Despite being out of the field, he didn't forget
the swiftness and surprise with which Striker struck.
If neo-phosgene gave them a five-minute
window to get in and wrap things up, they'd be here with
everything wrapped up in five minutes or less.
  As he was looking south, Katzen heard
footsteps on the road above. He looked up.
Falah was still climbing and the gas was still brownish, still
potent. He couldn't see the road itself, but he saw
the edges of the cloud swirl as though people were moving through
it. Then someone appeared beside Mary Rose. He was
wearing a camouflage uniform and a gas mask. He
knelt beside her, put his arms around her shoulders, and
carefully pulled her from the slope. Then he put
her over his shoulder and was gone.
  Falah practically vaulted up the last few
yards to the ledge. Standing just outside the clearly
defined edge of the gas, Falah looked back at
Katzen. The Israeli smiled
enthusiastically, gave Katzen a thumbs-up, then
ran in the direction of the cave.
  There was no longer any need for Katzen to continue
his climb. With pain stabbing him from jaw to waist, he
gladly settled belly-down on a soft patch of
grass. He breathed using the "Buddha" technique
he'd learned in first aid. He expanded his belly rather
than his chest to minimize the pain of the broken rib.
  As he lay there, contentedly listening to a concerto of
faint but regular wheezing and the stop-and-start crunch of
boots on dirt and pebbles, he was shocked alert
by the sound of gunfire. From the echo, it sounded as if
it were coming from deep within the cave.
  Pulling one knee and his palms underneath him,
Katzen struggled to drag himself the rest of the way up
the slope.
  Tuesday, 3:45 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  Mahmoud had been leaning with both hands against a
table beside the mahmal when the wall of the reception
room blew in. He'd wanted to be a part of the
defense of their small bastion, but he hadn't the
strength. He hadn't even been able to check the room
for stragglers who might have survived the blast
engineered by their suicide bomber, Saber Mohseni.
  Already weakened by a bullet in the leg and
another in his left side, Mahmoud was shaken to the
ground by the blast. Though shamed by his infirmity, he
avoided the scythe of gunfire which slashed once across
the room chest-high, and then once back again
knee-high. The other Kurds were not so lucky.
They'd taken up positions behind chairs and columns
in the center of the room, braced for an attack. But
the powerful Turkish-made G3 rifles cut them
apart.
  Lying with his cheek on the cold tile, Mahmoud
listened as the gunfire died along with his troops.
Unhurt in the latest fusillade, he left his
eyes open just a crack.
  He stared across the floor covered with shattered
crystal and broken bodies. He watched as a
face appeared in each of the wall-openings. The
bottom of their kaffiyehs had been pulled across the
nose and mouth of each man.
  Mahmoud had suspected that these were not the
President's elite bodyguard. Now he was
certain. These men did not wish to be identified.
Also, the President's bodyguards didn't shoot
to kill. They used gas to debilitate foes so they
could capture and torture them. The Syrian
President liked to know about possible
conspiracies and his inquisitors couldn't question a dead
man. Finally, these men had shot blindly into a room
containing the holy mahmal. No Muslim would have
dared commit such sacrilege.
  No, these men were not Syrians. Mahmoud
suspected that they were Mista'aravim, Israelis
who masqueraded "as Syrians.
  Mahmoud's gun was lying beside him in the dark. He
picked it up. He could still help to make the goal a
reality. His fingers tensed around the butt. His index
finger slid through the trigger guard. There were still
Syrian Kurds in the building and they were fighting
on. So would he.
  The men strode into the reception room. One man
remained behind to watch the corridor while the others
fanned out. Two men moved along the northern
wall, two along the southern wall. They were all
walking toward him as they peered through the dark, quickly
checking the bodies as they made their way to the rear
wall. They seemed to be looking for someone.
  Mahmoud was dizzy from the loss of blood, but he
fought to stay alert. The men were about twenty feet
away. The two walking along the southern wall were
making toward an alcove in the rear. The men moving
along the northern wall passed a pair of
ottomans. The backs of the divans had been
splintered by their rifle fire. There were two small
cedars in ceramic planters, one on either side of the
ottomans. The trees had been chewed nearly in
half.
  Suddenly, something stirred behind the farthest tree.
  "Watch out!" a voice cried in Syrian.
  The voice was drowned out as Mahmoud opened fire
on the two men near the planters. He put two
rounds into the leg of the man nearest him. Then he shot
at the second man, who fell, a bullet in his
thigh. But as Mahmoud turned to fire at the men on
the other side of the room, a dark form descended on
him. A strong hand pinned Mahmoud's gun hand to the
floor while a fist struck his jaw.
  "Get back!" a different voice yelled.
  The dark form jumped away. Mahmoud saw two
rifles swing toward him. A moment later a shower of
9mm shells ripped into his body. His eyes
closed reflexively as bullets punched his right
shoulder, his back, his neck, his jaw, and his side.
But there was no pain. When the shooting ended there was no
sensation of any kind. Mahmoud was unable to move or
breathe or even open his eyes.
  Allah, I've failed, he thought as
he was overcome by sadness. But then consciousness gave
way to oblivion and failure, like success, no
longer mattered.
  Tuesday, 3:51 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  Warner Bicking rose. He held up his hands,
one of which was bloodied from the punch he'd delivered
to the Kurd's prominent jaw.
  "I'm on your side," Bicking said in
Syrian. "Do you understand?"
  A short man with a high, scarred forehead hoisted
his rifle into his armpit. As he walked toward
Bicking, he motioned for his companion, a giant of a
man, to go to the others. Bicking stole a glance to the
right as the big man effortlessly picked up one of the
men who'd been shot in the leg. He tossed the man
over his shoulder, then lifted up the second.
  "I'm an American," Bicking went on, "and
these men are my colleagues." He cocked his head
toward the planter, where Haveles and Nasr had also
sought refuge.
  They rose.
  The man standing watch at the door turned
suddenly.
  "People are coming!"
  The short man looked at his big
companion. "Can you manage?"
  The giant nodded as he shifted the weight of the
man on his right shoulder. Then he held his rifle so
it was pointing straight ahead, between the man's legs.
  The short man turned to Bicking. "Come with us."
  "Who are you people?" Haveles asked. The
ambassador stepped forward unsteadily. He
reminded Bicking of a car-crash victim who was in
glassy-eyed shock but still insisted that he was okay.
  "We were sent to collect you," the short man said.
  "You must come now or remain here."
  "The representatives of Japan and Russia
are in the room as well," Haveles said.
"They're in the alcove over--"
  "Only you," the short man said. He turned
toward the door and motioned to the man standing who was there.
The man nodded and headed left down the corridor.
  The short man turned back. "Now!"
  Bicking took the ambassador by the arm.
"Let's go.
  The palace guard will have to handle the rest of this."
  "No," said Haveles. "I'll stay with the
others."
  "Mr. Ambassador, there's still fighting--"
"I'll stay," he insisted.
  Bicking saw that there was no point arguing. "All
right," he said. "We'll see you later at the
embassy."
  andmiddot; Haveles turned and took stiff,
mechanical steps toward the dark alcove which doubled
as a bar area. He joined the other men who had sought
safety in the shadows.
  The big man headed to the door, followed by the
smaller man.
  "Our train is pulling out," Nasr said as he
walked past Bicking.
  Bicking nodded and joined him.
  The man who'd gone down the hall returned with
Paul Hood. Hood handed the videotapes to the
short man, and the group started down the hall. Two
of the masked men were in front and the giant was in the
rear.
  "Where are the ambassadors?" Hood asked.
"Is everyone all right?"
  Bicking nodded. He glanced at his red
knuckles. He hadn't punched anyone in six
years. "Almost every one," he said, thinking about the
Kurd.
  "What do you mean?"
  "The Kurds are all dead and
Ambassador Haveles is slightly shaken
up," Bicking said. "But he decided to stay. Our
escorts here were pretty specific about who they were
willing to take."
  "Only our group," Hood said.
  "Right."
  "And it probably cost Bob Herbert a lot of
chits to get that."
  "I'm sure," Bicking said. "Well,
diplomatically, it's probably the smart thing for the
ambassador to have done. There'd be a major
international shitstorm if a rescue attempt
favored Washington. Not that Japan or Russia
would spit on an American diplomat if he were
burning."
  "You're wrong," Hood said. "I think they
would."
  The men continued down the corridor to a gold
door.
  It was locked. The man in front shot off the
knob and kicked the door in. They entered, the man
in the rear closed the door, and the man in front
turned on a flashlight.
  The group proceeded quickly through a grand
ballroom.
  Even in the near-dark Bicking could feel the
weight of the gold drapes, smell their long
history.
  There was a sudden clattering of boots outside the
door. The three men of the Mista'aravim froze,
their weapons turned toward the hallway. The
flashlight was doused and the short man hurried back
to the gold door.
  "Continue straight ahead and wait by the kitchen,"
the giant man whispered to Hood, Nasr, and
Bicking.
  They did as they were told. As they walked,
Hood looked back. The small man peeked through
the hole where the knob used to be. When no one
entered, the masked men rejoined them.
  The small man said something to the others in
Syrian.
  "Presidential guards," Bicking translated
for Hood as they ran through the enormous kitchen.
  "Then this whole thing was a kabuki, as the
ambassador suggested," said Nasr. He pushed
back his wavy gray hair, which had become
disheveled in the excitement. It immediately fell
back over his forehead.
  "What do you mean?" asked Hood.
  "The Syrian President expected this
to happen," Nasr said, "just as Ambassador
Haveles 'predicted. He allowed his stand-in and the
foreign ambassadors to take the heart of the
attack, protected only by palace guards--"
  "Who are like museum or bank security
personnel in the U.s.," Bicking interjected.
"They're trained for one-on-one response. If
there's big trouble they have to call for help."
  "Correct," said Nasr. "When the President
was certain the Kurds had sent in the bulk of their
force, he had his elite guards close the door on
them."
  "The President uses other nations as a buffer
against his enemies," Bicking said. "He uses
Lebanon to throw terrorists against Israel,
Greece to fight Turkey, and helps Iran
to create trouble around the world2 We should have been
prepared for him to do the same with people."
  The sounds of gunfire increased. Hood imagined
phalanxes of well-armed soldiers moving through the
corridors, gunning down any and all opposition.
Though wounded Kurds would be captured, he couldn't
imagine any of them surrendering. Most would find
death preferable to incarceration.
  The men stopped at another door. The short
leader told the others to wait. After withdrawing a
small slab of C-4 from his pocket along with a
timed detonator, he opened the door and exited.
These people might not be the most personable men Bicking
had ever met, but he was impressed by how prepared they
were.
  "Is Ambassador Haveles going to be
safe?" Hood asked.
  "That's difficult to say," Nasr admitted.
"Whatever happens is a win-win situation for the
Syrian President.
  If Haveles dies, it's the Kurds"
fault and the U.s. declines to support them in the
future. If he lives, then the elite guards
are heroes and the President gets concessions from the
U.s."
  The short man returned and motioned the others
ahead. The group passed through a large pantry to a
door which led to a small outdoor garden. It was
surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone fence with a
ten-foot-high iron gate at the south end. They
walked along a slate path through an
immaculately manicured waist-high hedge.
  When they reached the end of the path, the short
man stopped them. They waited some twenty feet from
the gate. A moment later the lock exploded,
blowing a hole in the gate and in the fence. Almost at
once, a large truck with a canvas back pulled
up to the cuib. The short man ran ahead of the
others.
  The street was free of pedestrians. Either the
fighting or the local police had chased them away.
The street was also clear of news crews, which could not
go anywhere without the government's consent. Though as
Bicking thought about it, he realized that the government
might have sent undercover operatives to the scene. That
was probably why the group had taken the long way
around. The men didn't want to be photographed.
  The short man pulled the rear flap to one side.
Then he motioned to the men at the gate.
  As the men approached the truck, they were struck
by the strong smell of fish. But that didn't stop them
from boarding. Hood, Bicking, and Nasr climbed in
first.
  They helped the giant man carry on his two
wounded companions. Then the rest of the team got in.
The wounded men lay on empty canvas sacks,
while the other men sat on greasy wooden barrels
which lined the back. In less than a minute
the truck was on its way, headed southeast toward
Straight Street. Turning left, the driver sped
past the sixteen hundred year-old Roman Arch
and the Church of the Virgin Mary. Straight Street
became Bah Sharqi Street, and the truck continued
northeast.
  Nasr peeked out the back flap of the truck.
"As I expected," said Nasr.
  "What?" asked Hood.
  Nasr shut the flap and leaned close to Hood.
"We're avoiding the Jewish Quarter."
  "I don't understand," Hood said. "What does
that mean?"
  Nasr bent even closer. "That we are almost
certainly in the hands of the Mista'aravim. They would
never operate out of that section of the city. If they were
ever found out, the repercussions against the Jewish
population would be severe."
  Bicking had also leaned toward Hood. "And
I'll bet everything I own that there's more than fish in
these barrels. There's probably enough firepower in this
truck to wage a small war."
  The truck slowed as it made its way through the very
narrow and twisted paths. Tall, white houses
hung over the road at irregular distances
and angles, their once-white walls burned an
unhealthy yellow by the sun. Low dormers and even
lower clotheslines robbed the canvas top of the
track, while bicyclists and compact cars moved
at their own unhurried pace and made it even more
difficult to maneuver.
  Eventually, the track pulled into a dark,
dead-end alley. The men got out and walked over to a
wooden door on the driver's side of the alley.
They were greeted by two women who helped carry the
wounded men in to a dark, spare kitchen. The injured
men were placed on blankets on the floor. The
women removed their kaffiyehs and trousers, then
washed the wounds.
  "Is there anything we can do?" Hood asked.
  No one answered.
  "Don't take it personally," Nasr said
quietly.
  "I didn't," said Hood. "They've got
other things on their minds."
  "They'd be this way even if their men hadn't been
shot," Nasr whispered. "They're paranoid about
being seen."
  "Understandably," said Bicking. "The
Mista'aravim have infiltrated terrorists
groups like Hamas and Hez-bollah.
  They have safe houses like these when they need to work in
absolute security. But if they were to be seen here
it could cost them their lives and--much worse in their
minds--compromise Israeli security. They
certainly can't be very happy about having had to come out
to save a bunch of Americans."
  Even as the men spoke, the track driver and the
three masked men rose. While the short man
made a telephone call, the others hugged the
women. Then they left the dark room. Moments
later the gears rattled and moaned as the truck
backed from the alley.
  One of the women continued to tend to the injured.
  The other woman stood and faced the three
newcomers.
  She was in her middle-to-late twenties and
stood about five feet-two. Her auburn hair was
worn in a tight bun, and her thick eyebrows
made her brown eyes seem even darker. She had
a round face, full lips, and olive skin.
  She wore a blood-stained apron over her
black dress.
  "Who is Hood?" she asked.
  Hood raised a finger. "I am. Will
your men be all right?"
  "We believe so," she said. "A doctor has
been sent for. But your associate is correct.
The men were not happy about going out. They are even
less happy that two of their men have been hurt. Their
absence and their wounds will not be easy to explain."
  "I understand," Hood said.
  "You are in my cafe," the woman said. "You were a
delivery of fish. In other words, you cannot be seen
outside this room. We will get you to the embassy when
we close for the day. I can't spare the people until
then."
  "I understand that as well."
  "In the meantime," she said, "you've been asked
to telephone a Mr. Herbert when you arrive. If
you don't have your own telephone I'll have to get you
one. The call cannot appear on our bill here."
  .bicking reached into his pocket and pulled out his
cellular phone. "Let's see if this one's still
working," he said as he flipped it open. He turned
it on, listened for a moment, then handed the phone
to Hood. "Made in America and good as new."
  "Also not secure," Hood said. "But it will have
to do."
  Hood walked over to a corner and
called Op-Center.
  He was put through to Martha's office, where she,
Herbert, and members of their staff had been waiting
for word about the operation. Because it was an open line, he
would only use first names.
  "Martha--Bob," Hood said, "it's Paul.
I'm on a cellular but I wanted you to know that
Ahmed, Warner and I are fine. Thanks for everything
you did."
  Even standing a few yards away Bicking could hear
the cheers rising from the telephone. His eyes moistened
as he thought of the incredible relief they all must be
feeling.
  "What about Mike?" Hood asked, being as
discreet as possible.
  "He's been found," Herbert said, "and Brett
is there.
  We're still waiting to hear."
  "I'm on the cellular," Hood said. "Call
me the instant you hear anything."
  Hood hung up. As he briefed the others, the
doctor arrived. The three men stepped to a corner
well out of the way. Then they watched in silence as the
doctor gave the wounded men injections of local
anesthetics. The woman who had spoken
to them knelt beside one man.
  She lay a wooden spoon between his teeth, then
held his arms pressed to his chest to keep him from
flailing.
  When she nodded, the doctor began cutting the
bullet from his leg. The other woman used a
washcloth and a basin of water to wipe away the
blood.
  The man began to wriggle from the pain.
  "I've always found that the toughest part about being a
diplomat is when you have to say and do nothing,"
Bicking said softly to Hood.
  Hood shook his head. "That isn't the toughest
part," he whispered. "What's tough is knowing that
compared to the people in the front lines, what you do is
nothing."
  At the doctor's request, the woman stopped
cleaning the wound to hold the man's leg still. Without
asking, Hood handed Bicking the phone, then hurried
over. He picked up the cloth, maneuvered his arm
between the three bodies, and dabbed at the blood as
deftly as possible.
  "Thank you," said the woman who had spoken to them.
  Hood said nothing, and Bicking could see that it was
very, very easy.
  Tuesday, 3:52 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  The Strikers had taken only what they needed from
the FAV'S. They were wearing their Kevlar vests beneath
their uniforms and their gas masks. Their equipment
sacks were packed with neo-phosgene grenades,
flares, and several bricks of C-4. They were
armed with Beretta 9mm pistols with extended
magazines and Heckler and Koch MP5 SD3
9mm submachine guns with additional ammunition.
They were also carrying plastic thumb-cuffs.
  These small, lightweight cuffs incapacitated
individuals by locking them thumb-to-thumb,
knuckle facing knuckle. The cuffs could also be
used to create a daisy chain of prisoners.
  The team had its orders, which had been given to them
during the flight from Andrews Air Force Base.
  Since they knew that the target was going to be a
cave or a base rather than a moving target, they would
separate into two teams. The first team would muscle
its way inside and incapacitate the enemy. The
second team would back them up. The second team
would also be responsible for preventing enemy troops
from escaping or reinforcements from getting in.
  If there were a difference between Colonel
August and his predecessor, Lieutenant
Colonel Squires, it was that August advocated
team play. Squires invariably broke his unit
into heavily armed pairs or individuals, each of
which had specific goals in a master plan. If
any of the tactical goals were not met, one of three
things happened. An alternate plan was shifted
into place, a backup team went in, or the mission
was aborted. In his years of strike force command,
Squires had never had to abort a mission. His
infiltration techniques were unobtrusive,
effective, and always left the target naked and
surprised. But August was different. He
preferred to hit hard and keep up the pressure.
Instead of causing dominoes to fall in succession,
he believed in shaking the table.
  Corporal Prementine's A-Team, eight
soldiers strong, quickly made their way up the dirt
road toward the mouth of the cave. They moved single
file behind their submachine guns with orders to shoot
first and never mind the questions. By the time they reached the
slab of coppery neo-phosgene, it had sunk from
waist-high to just below the knees. It swirled thickly
as the Strikers walked through--like stirred house paint,
Prementine thought. The wiry corporal
sent Private William Musing-cant, the
company medic, to find and assist the woman the
Kurds had been planning to execute.
  Before Musicant could fall out, a voice came
from their left, from the side of the slope.
  "I will dwell in this land!"
  Prementine stopped the Strikers with five fingers
held face-high, palm-back. If he closed his
fist, it would mean to open fire. The Strikers stood
with their submachine guns ready. Though the correct
password had been given, Prementine knew that it
could have been forced from one of the prisoners. He'd
wait for the challenge to be answered before continuing.
  They watched as a man climbed up past the cloud
of neo-phosgene. His hands were raised. His gun
hung by the trigger guard, which was around his left-hand
index finger.
  "Identify yourself!" Prementine said from under his
mask.
  "The Sheik of Midian," the man replied.
  "Hold where you are," Prementine said. The
corporal turned his hand sideways, thumb-back.
Everyone was to continue what they'd been doing.
Private Musicant went to the slope, while the
Strikers pressed along the cliff leading
to the mouth of the cave. They were less than twenty
yards away.
  The corporal made his way through the gas, which was
now ankle-high. He stopped a few feet from the
newcomer. The man kept his hands raised, but
pointed down with his free index finger.
  "Another of the hostages is down there alive,"
he said. "The other five are still inside. I have no
idea where your van is. They moved it a few
minutes ago.
  Possibly inside. I believe there's also an
area in back to which they could have taken it."
  Prementine kept his gun on the man as he
looked over. He saw Phil Katzen less than
ten feet down. He was painfully making his way up
the slope. The environmentalist looked up and gave
the Striker an okay sign. Below him, August and
his team were just arriving.
  They fanned out along the bottom of the slope, and
four of the eight soldiers began to climb. They would
take up positions along the slope. To the right, the
Strikers had divided. Three of them somersaulted
together through the gas to other side of the cave. No one from
inside fired at them.
  The corporal regarded the man standing in
front of him. "Do you know where the prisoners are?"
  "Yes," the man replied.
  As they were speaking, Musicant returned. He
had set Mary Rose down on the road, clear of the
gas.
  "Report," Prementine said.
  "She's groggy but alive," Musicant
replied.
  "Take her down to Colonel August's group,
then help Mr. Katzen," said Prementine. "And
give the Sheik your mask."
  "Yes, sir," Musicant replied. He was
clearly disappointed not to be going in, but his manner
was one of aggressive efficiency.
  Musicant handed his gas mask to the man.
Falah slipped his gun in his belt and pulled the
mask on. As he did, Prementine turned to the
Strikers at the mouth of the cave. As two Strikers
set up a covering fire into the cave, shooting
shoulder-high bursts, the other four pulled the wheezing
Kurds and former hostages to one side. Clear of the
gas, the Kurds were cuffed. Prementine leaned over
the slope and held up two fingers. Two Strikers
near the top of the slope scurried up to help
recover the ROC personnel. There
wasn't time to get them clear of the area. They would be
killed with the rest of them if the Tomahawk struck.
For now, however, they were moved to the foot of the slope,
out of the line of fire.
  The six A-Team Strikers regrouped on either
side of the cave. They all watched the colonel as
he held his hand face-high, palm-forward. An
instant later he dropped it. The first two
Strikers on either side of the cave tossed flares,
then moved in behind them. They hugged the inside wall as
the next two Strikers moved in behind them.
  The flares revealed five choking Kurds
sprawled beneath a thin blanket of neo-phosgene.
As the first two Strikers fired short, high bursts
into the dying light, the two Strikers behind them moved in
to cuff the enemy personnel. Once they'd been
taken, the last group of two moved in to drag the
prisoners out. When that was done, the two lead
Strikers tossed neo-phosgene grenades ahead of
them. As they exploded with a dull hiss, the
Strikers threw in additional flares and repeated the
maneuver.
  Outside the cave, Prementine looked at his
watch. The Tomahawk was due in seven minutes.
He sought out August at the bottom of the
slope and held up seven fingers.
  August nodded.
  Then he held up four fingers.
  August nodded again.
  Prementine looked at his companion. "We've
got four minutes to get in and get the prisoners
out." He pointed to the gun. "Use that if you have to.
I want my people out of there."
  "So do I," said Falah as he started toward the
cave.
  Tuesday, 3:55 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Mike Rodgers was standing in the eight-foot-deep
prison pit. He stood with his arms stretched above
him, his fingers wrapped through the checkerboard grate.
That was the only way he could prevent the burns up
and down his arms from touching the burns along his sides.
  As it. was, the salty trickle of sweat
caused pain which made Rodgers's entire body
shake.
  Colonel Seden was in the pit beside him. The
Turkish officer was awake but in pain. Private
DeVonne had been feeding him rice and water
until she, Coffey, and Priedeaate Pupshaw had
been taken away. Except for an
occasional moan from Seden and the nervous gum-chewing of the
guard, the prison area was quiet.
  Rodgers wished he knew why the others had been
taken away. He suspected that they had been brought
to the ROC. That bastard Phil Katzen must have
turned it on and told the Kurds all that he knew
about its operation.
  Then they'd brought out Mary Rose to force her
to talk. Rodgers thought he'd heard a gunshot when
they had her out there. He hoped they hadn't murdered
the poor woman as an object lesson before bringing
out the others. He hoped that almost as much as he hoped
that the Kurdish commander remained alive until he
could kill him.
  Rodgers distracted himself by pushing his palms up
against the grate to test it. It was unyielding. He
poked a finger through the mesh fence that lined the pit, and
dug at the dirt beneath the grate. The chicken wire
didn't allow him to push his finger very far, and he
gave up.
  Then the shells exploded outside the cave.
Rodgers stood there, listening. He thought he
recognized the distinctive pop of Striker's
NQ'-DOUBLEBut--THE Not Quite Big Bertha, their
nickname for the compact cannon--but he
couldn't be sure. The blast was followed by shouts from the
front of the cave and from the sleeping quarters.
  As he listened to the commotion, Rodgers took his
hands from the grate. He stood unsteadily.
  "Colonel Seden," Rodgers said, abandoning
any pretense about their real identities.
"Colonel, can you hear me?"
  The colonel didn't answer. But neither did the
guard.
  The fact that he hadn't told Rodgers to be
quiet indicated that something unexpected had
happened. Rodgers listened closely for a moment.
He couldn't hear the pop ping of the man's gum. The
guard wasn't even there.
  "Colonel Seden!" Rodgers yelled.
  "I hear you," he responded weakly.
  "Colonel, can you tell me what's going on out
there?"
  "They were... shouting about a gas attack," said
the Turk. "The Kurds... were trying to get to their
masks."
  Then it is gas, Rodgers thought. Colonel
August's first-stage attack against a stationary
position was to use neo-phosgene gas
to incapacitate the enemy. Things were going
to be happening quickly.
  Encouraged and revitalized and wanting to join the
fray, Rodgers pushed up on the grate again.
Though it sat there like a perforated manhole cover,
he couldn't push it up because of the bolt lying across the
center.
  He tried pushing up one side and then the other, but
it was too high. He couldn't muster the necessary force.
" He attempted to pull it down, but hanging there
didn't put enough stress on the grate.
  Standing under it, looking up, Rodgers suddenly
realized that he needed torque to dislodge it.
Painfully pulling off his shoes and socks, he fed
the socks through the grate. One on the left side,
one on the right. He pulled the ends back in and tied
the top of each sock to its own bottom. Then he
slipped his fingers through one end of the grate. Pulling
himself up, he slid his feet into the stirrups he'd
made from the socks.
  Rodgers was in agony. His burned skin stretched
and bled. But he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let
Striker find him caged like an animal waiting
to die. He took a deep breath to increase his
body weight. Then he jerked down with his arms while
simultaneously kicking up with his feet.
He felt the grate shudder. He pulled down with his
hands and kicked up again. The center of the grate
scraped roughly against the bar. The grate sunk a
little on one end, rose a little on the other. Rodgers
dropped down, his arms aching.
  There were sounds of gunfire now. They were short
bursts, cover fire. Striker had definitely
arrived.
  The top of the pit was rimmed by a metal hoop to which
the chicken wire had been nailed. The hoop was
slightly smaller than the grate and prevented it from
turning further. But the rim was made of brass, which
was thinner and softer than iron. The grate was already
hugged the inside wall as the next two Strikers
moved in behind them.
  The flares revealed five choking Kurds
sprawled beneath a thin blanket of neo-phosgene.
As the first two Strikers fired short, high bursts
into the dying light, the two Strikers behind them moved in
to cuff the enemy personnel. Once they'd been
taken, the last group of two moved in to drag the
prisoners out. When that was done, the two lead
Strikers tossed neo-phosgene grenades ahead of
them. As they exploded with a dull hiss, the
Strikers threw in additional flares and
repeated the maneuver.
  Outside the cave, Prementine looked at his
watch. The Tomahawk was due in seven minutes.
He sought out August at the bottom of the slope and
held up seven fingers.
  August nodded.
  Then he held up four fingers.
  August nodded again.
  Prementine looked at his companion. "We've
got four minutes to get in and get the prisoners
out." He pointed to the gun. "Use that if you have to.
I want my people out of there."
  "So do I," said Falah as he started toward the
cave.
  Tuesday, 3:55 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Mike Rodgers was standing in the eight-foot-deep
prison pit. He stood with his arms stretched above
him, his fingers wrapped through the checkerboard grate.
That was the only way he could prevent the burns up
and down his arms from touching the burns along his sides.
  As it was, the salty trickle of sweat caused
pain which made Rodgers's entire body shake.
  Colonel Seden was in the pit beside him. The
Turkish officer was awake but in pain.
Private DeVonne had been feeding him rice and
water until she, Coffey, and Private
Pupshaw had been taken away. Except for an
occasional moan from Seden and the nervous gum-chewing of the
guard, the prison area was quiet.
  Rodgers wished he knew why the others had been
taken away. He suspected that they had been brought
to the ROC. That bastard Phil Katzen must have
turned it on and told the Kurds all that he knew
about its operation.
  Then they'd brought out Mary Rose to force her
to talk. Rodgers thought he'd heard a gunshot when
they had her out there. He hoped they hadn't murdered
the poor woman as an object lesson before bringing
out the others. He hoped that almost as much as he hoped
that the Kurdish commander remained alive until he
could kill him.
  Rodgers distracted himself by pushing his palms up
against the grate to test it. It was unyielding. He
poked a finger through the mesh fence that lined the pit, and
dug at the dirt beneath the grate. The chicken wire
didn't allow him to push his finger very far, and he
gave up.
  Then the shells exploded outside the cave.
Rodgers stood there, listening. He thought
he recognized the distinctive pop of Striker's
NQ'-DOUBLEBut--THE Not Quite Big Bertha, their
nickname for the compact cannon--but he couldn't be
sure. The blast was followed by shouts from the front
of the cave and from the sleeping quarters.
  As he listened to the commotion, Rodgers took his
hands from the grate. He stood unsteadily.
  "Colonel Seden," Rodgers said, abandoning
any pro-tense about their real identities.
"Colonel, can you hear me?"
  The colonel didn't answer. But neither did the
guard.
  The fact that he hadn't told Rodgers to be
quiet indicated that something unexpected had
happened. Rodgers listened closely for a moment.
He couldn't hear the pop ping of the man's gum. The
guard wasn't even there.
  "Colonel Seden!" Rodgers yelled.
  "I hear you," he responded weakly.
  "Colonel, can you tell me what's going on out
there?"
  "They were... shouting about a gas attack," said
the Turk. "The Kurds... were trying to get to their
masks."
  Then it is gas, Rodgers thought.
Colonel August's first-stage attack against a
stationary position was to use neo-phosgene gas
to incapacitate the enemy. Things were going to be
happening quickly.
  Encouraged and revitalized and wanting to join the
fray, Rodgers pushed up on the grate again.
Though it sat there like a perforated manhole cover,
he couldn't push it up because of the bolt lying across the
center.
  He tried pushing up one side and then the other, but
it was too high. He couldn't muster the necessary force.
  He attempted to pull it down, but hanging there
didn't put enough stress on the grate.
  Standing under it, looking up, Rodgers suddenly
realized that he needed torque to dislodge it.
Painfully pulling off his shoes and socks, he fed
the socks through the grate. One on the left side,
one on the right. He pulled the ends back in and tied
the top of each sock to its own bottom. Then he
slipped his fingers through one end of the grate. Pulling
himself up, he slid his feet into the stirrups he'd
made from the socks.
  Rodgers was in agony. His burned skin stretched
and bled. But he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let
Striker find him caged like an animal
waiting to die. He took a deep breath to increase
his body weight. Then he jerked down with his arms
while simultaneously kicking up with his feet.
He felt the grate shudder. He pulled down with his
hands and kicked up again. The center of the grate
scraped roughly against the bar. The grate sunk a
little on one end, rose a little on the other. Rodgers
dropped down, his arms aching.
  There were sounds of gunfire now. They were short
bursts, cover fire. Striker had definitely
arrived.
  The top of the pit was rimmed by a metal hoop to which
the chicken wire had been nailed. The hoop was
slightly smaller than the grate and prevented it from
turning further. But the rim was made of brass, which
was thinner and softer than iron. The grate was already
askew. Weight applied to one spot now might
cause the hoop to bend and allow the grate to swing
in.
  Rodgers stood under the grate where it dipped into the
pit. He forced his fingers through the tight spot between the
hoop and the grate's edge. Holding tight, he
hung straight down. Sweat burned his wounds, and
he used the pain to fan his rage. He pulled his
knees to his chest and dropped them
suddenly. That added force to the downward pull. He
waited a moment, then did it again. This time there was a
loud screech as the edge of the grate pressed against the
inside of the hoop. Rodgers felt the hoop give
slightly. He continued to hang on the grate as it
forced its way through the metal. After a few seconds
Rodgers was able to squeeze through the opening.
  Fire from his wounds continued to fuel his determination.
  Though the grate was suspended nearly straight
down now, Rodgers hung on. He extended one
hand and grabbed the bar in the middle--the bar which had
locked him in but now offered a way out. As soon as
he had a grip on it, he reached out with the other hand.
He hung there for a moment, as though preparing to do a
chin-up. His arms were weary and shook violently.
  His fingers were cramped. But if he let go, he
knew he wouldn't be able to jump high enough to reach the
bar.
  With a cry of hurt and anger, Rodgers lifted
himself up so that his waist was bent against the bar. He
rested there for a moment, then hoisted a leg over it.
He lay flat, arms and legs wrapped around the
bar, and shimmied the short distance to the side. When he
reached the side of the pit, he stood.
  And he screamed. He screamed from the
suffering he'd endured, and he kept screaming with the
inarticulate voice of triumph. Before the scream
had died he'd snatched the bar from between the uprights of his
former prison.
  "I'll come back for you, Colonel," Rodgers
said as he strode disdown the deserted corridor.
There was an engine puttering somewhere in the north. When
Rodgers reached the turnoff to the main tunnel, a
flare erupted well to his right. He turned. Not
to the south, to the flare and the opening of the cave. He
knew what was down there. Instead, Rodgers turned
to the left.
  He moved along the corridor with his back
close to the wall. He stuck to the shadows and walked
with his knees bent. That allowed him to shift his weight
from whichever leg was moving and enabled him to put his bare
foot down as quietly as possible.
  About fifteen yards in, Rodgers saw empty
gun racks and two Kurdish soldiers. One
soldier was talking on an old shortwave radio.
From his agitated manner Rodgers surmised that he
was either briefing a field force on the situation here
or else calling for reinforcements. He was armed with a
holstered pistol. The other soldier was standing guard with
an AKM assault rifle. He was
drawing hard on his hand-rolled cigarette. Well
behind them were a pair of portable generators venting through
hoses which ran along the floor deeper into the
cavern.
  Rodgers was no more than ten yards from the men.
  He continued along the wall, moving sideways.
He tightened his hold on the iron bar. The pain in
his arms and sides made him intensely alert. He
stopped. The single overhead bulb lit a wide
area around them. If he came any closer he'd be
seen.
  Rodgers took a moment to decide on the best
approach.
  Then he extended his right arm diagonally so that the
tip of the bar nearly touched the ground. He would have one
shot.
  He flicked his wrist back and then snapped it
forward hard, releasing the iron bar. It flew
ahead, striking the armed guard in his right shin and bending
him hard to that side. A moment after he threw the bar,
Rodgers ran at the men. He was there when the guard
bent, and he had his hands on the AKMC before the man
could straighten and bring it to his shoulder. Rodgers
pushed the butt into the man's groin, doubling him
over. Then he pounded the side of his fist
on the back of his head.
  The guard released the weapon and went down.
Rodgers drove the stock into the back of his neck and
pointed the barrel at the radio operator.
  The Kurd raised his hands. Rodgers disarmed the
man and motioned for him to get up. He obeyed.
Rodgers paused to take the cigarette from the fallen
Kurd and poked it between his own lips. Then he
retrieved the iron bar and walked the radio
operator toward the back of the tunnel where there was a
hint of daylight and the generators still puttered
noisily.
  Tuesday, 3:56 p.m., the Bekaa Valley,
Lebanon
  The A-Team Strikers stopped when they noticed
the neo-phosgene gas rising above a portion of the
floor of the main cavern. The two point men held
up their hands for the others to wait, then went to explore
the area.
  Corporal Prementine stood with Falah in the
mouth of the cave and watched in the dying light of the
flare.
  The section of yellow gas was floating slightly
above the rest in an almost rectangular shape.
Only heat would cause it to rise like that.
Heat from a room underground.
  An occupied room.
  Prementine looked at his watch. The
Tomahawk would arrive and detonate in six
minutes. If the ROC were within a quarter mile of the
cave, in any direction, the explosion would still take
them out with it. They didn't have time to get clear. There
were still two hostages to locate.
  The point men knew that too. One of them reached
into his kit and cut off a small block of
C-4. He placed it on the door, jabbed in a
small timer, and motioned the men back. They all
lay flat in the fast-dissipating gas.
  He joined them a moment later. Five seconds
after that the charge detonated.
  Iron fragments blew in all directions,
zipping over the heads of several Strikers and barely
missing Prementine.
  Gunfire erupted from underground. It drove
Prementine from the mouth of the cave and prevented the
Strikers inside from advancing.
  Prementine realized that PKK fighters must have
been able to get to gas masks and bunker down below.
It was going to be difficult to get them out. There were
no lights and the Strikers didn't have a
clear shot down the stairs. Grenades weren't
guaranteed to take down the enemy, and for all they
knew Mike Rodgers and the Turkish officer were being
held down there.
  The Strikers were going to have to take the room, and
quickly. That would entail four men moving forward.
  Two Strikers would jump down one after the other,
quickly identify targets, and open fire. With any
luck, their bullet-proof vests would take the
brunt of the initial barrage. With a bit more luck
they would be able to take out the enemy before anyone
realized the Strikers were wearing vests. Once they'd
established a beachhead, the other two men would have go
down and help finish the job.
  It was the most dangerous kind of operation. But
given the amount of time left, it was the only option
they had.
  Prementine moved cautiously into the mouth of the
cave. The flares had died and he knew that he. was
brightly backlit against the blue sky. But no one
shot at him. He was far enough back so that the men in the
underground room couldn't see him. He raised his
hands to give the order which would put the four Strikers
on alert: two fingers on each hand pointed up. The
point men acknowledged the order with a low
thumbs-up. But before Prementine could point his fingers
ahead and send the men crawling over, he saw
movement in the back of the cave.
  He made two fists to put the men on hold,
then watched as one figure and then another emerged
slowly from the darkness. The man in front was a
Kurd. He held two large, red plastic
containers. The man in behind him held a rifle and a
bar with a white handkerchief tied to the end. A lit
cigarette hung from his lips. Prementine waited
anxiously as they came closer to the light.
  "General Rodgers!" he said softly as the
bare-chested man came closer to the light. The man
with him couldn't be the Turkish officer. Rodgers had
the gun barrel pointed to the back of his head.
  "He's been tortured," Falah said.
  "I see," said Prementine.
  "As soon as you can, you should get him out of there,"
Falah said. "I'll go in to get the other
hostage."
  Rodgers put the white flag down and raised a
fist. He wanted the Strikers to wait.
Prementine looked at his watch. The Tomahawk
would be arriving in five minutes. They had to notify
Op-Center in three minutes in order to have
time to abort the detonation. The corporal knew that
Colonel August would not make the call unless the
area had been taken: If the ROC had been moved
to some other site, August would be hard-pressed
to explain why he ordered the abort. It was not a
valid excuse to say, "To save the team and the
hostages." In enemy hands, the ROC could be far more
lethal in the long term.
  His forehead and collar soaked with sweat,
Premen-fine watched as the Kurd walked through the
now-harmless white neo-phosgene. He set the
containers down a foot behind the opening and unscrewed the
caps.
  Rodgers stepped up next to him. He motioned
for the Kurd to raise his arms. The frightened radio
operator did so. Rodgers put the rifle barrel
under his chin. Using his bare foot, he gently
knocked one container over, then the other. The clear
contents spread over the floor and poured into the opening.
  Rodgers pulled the Kurd back several
paces, then casually dropped the cigarette into the
gasoline. He continued to walk back as the room
below lit up with a loud whoosh.
  A rippling wave of heat poured up the stairs,
forcing the Strikers to scurry backwards.
Shrieks and flame shot up next, followed
by burning bodies rushing wildly, sometimes blindly for the
stairs.
  "Help them!" Corporal Prementine shouted as
he ran into the cave. The A-Team rose and
Falah rushed in.
  Together, they pulled bodies from the steps as they
emerged. Prementine dodged flames as he raced
around the pit to Rodgers's side.
  "Glad to see you, sir," he said, saluting.
  "Corporal, Colonel Seden is in the back
in one of the prison pits," Rodgers said. "The
ROC is back there too, down the eastern fork of the
tunnel. There are six or seven Kurds guarding
it."
  Prementine looked at his watch. "There's a
Tomahawk due to impact in less than four
minutes," he said.
  "That gives us two minutes to take the ROC."
He turned. "A-Team, this way!" he shouted.
  The Strikers stopped what they were doing and ran
forward. As Prementine waved them down the eastern
fork, he pulled his radio from its belt-strap.
  "Colonel August," he said, "we need
B-Team here as backup. General
Rodgers requires medical assistance and there are
a lot of wounded Kurds. We're moving ahead to the
ROC. Please open the recall line."
  "Acknowledged, Corporal," said August.
  Prementine saluted Rodgers again as he started
down the tunnel. When he arrived, one of "his
men was already cuffing the Kurd Rodgers had knocked
down. The others had continued to the back of the tunnel.
The corridor jogged left and right, then opened into a
gorge. While the men hugged the wall behind him,
Prementine looked out. The ROC was there, roughly
fifty yards away. It was sitting under a ledge and
facing them. There were two Kurds crouched on the dry
brush close to the ROC on either side. At least
two men were inside. It didn't appear as if
anyone was using the ROC'S electronics.
  Perhaps they didn't know how.
  The Strikers had a little over a minute left to
"disinfect" the ROC. It was still possible that the
Strikers could step on a mine and the Kurds would be
able to simply drive the ROC away. The team had
to own the vehicle before they called Op-Center.
  It struck Prementine as damned ironic that the
ROC was bullet-proof and fire-resistant. The
only contingency plan which had been designed
to deal with a situation like the ROC falling under enemy
influence was to destroy it with a missile. Once again
he was faced with a situation in which his men would have to charge
armed and fortified opponents. And win in sixty
seconds.
  dis"...Corporal to was
  Prementine turned as Colonel August
arrived with Privates David George and
Jason Scott.
  "Yes, sir!" Prementine responded.
  "Step aside," August said as the men set down
and quickly assembled what they were carrying, their partially
dismantled NQ'-DOUBLE B mortar.
  "Yes, sir," Prementine said. "But
Colonel, that may not--"' His
  "Stow it, Corporal," August said. "I've
debriefed Mr. Katzen. He didn't tell the
hijackers anything about the ROC'S exterior
capability."
  "Understood," said Prementine.
  "Grey, Newmeyer," August said, "set up
a cross fire on the ROC. If they fire,
fire back. But make sure you don't hit the
van or you'll blow our bluff."
  "Yes, sir," both men replied as they
went to opposite sides of the cave. They stayed just
within the shadows.
  One of the Kurds fired a short burst at
Private New-meyer, who returned fire. No
one was hit.
  When Privates George and Scott were
finished, August took a deep breath. He
looked at the two men. "We have to allow the enemy
to see us," he said. "I'll draw first fire, you
follow."
  The men acknowledged the order. August drew his
Beretta from its holster and stepped from the dark at the
side of the cavern. He moved quickly toward the cave
mouth followed by the men.
  Prementine looked at his watch. They had
thirty seconds to place the call to Herbert.
Radio operator Ishi Honda crouched beside him.
  "Are you ready, Private?" the Corporal
asked nervously.
  "I've got Mr. Herbert on the line," he
said, "and Mr. Herbert's got the White House
on another line. I've briefed him. He knows
our situation."
  Prementine raised his submachine gun, ready
to support the team. But his mind was on the
missile and what its warhead would do to all of them if
it detonated.
  Bullets chewed into the cave floor as August
came into view. He aimed at the ROC, fired,
and kept walking.
  Prementine and Musicant also shot at the
gunmen, and the Kurds were forced back. Privates
George and Scott quickly set up the mortar.
George aimed it at the van.
  Colonel August holstered his Beretta. He
faced the van and held up his ten fingers so the men in
the window could see.
  "Ten!" he shouted, and folded a thumb in.
"Nine!"
  he shouted, and dropped his pinky. "Eight...
Seven...
  six... five... four ...."
  When he brought down the thumb of the other hand, that was
obviously enough for the Kurds. The men on the side of the
van scattered into the gorge. The two men who were
inside the ROC ran for the passenger's side
door. They jumped out and joined their comrades.
  "Grey, Newmeyer, cover us!" August
shouted.
  "Striker, advance!" he cried as he
led the charge to the van.
  Prementine remained behind with Honda. There were
'ten seconds left on the corporal's watch.
Someone fired at August from a hillside, Grey
shot back at the gunman and August kept
running. He reached the door of the ROC and swung
inside, followed by Privates Musicant,
Scott, and George.
  Prementine's heart drummed as he looked at
his watch. There were five seconds left.
  August leaned out the door. "It's ours!" he
cried.
  "Do it!" Prementine said to Honda.
  "This is Striker B-Team!" Honda said into the
phone.
  "The ROC is ours! Repeat! The ROC is
ours!"
  Tuesday, 8:00 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  Bob Herbert actually had two lines open to the
White House, just in case one of them went down.
Martha Mackali's desk phone and also the
cellular phone on his wheelchair were both connected
to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff. Herbert was using the cell phone while
Martha listened in on the other line.
  They were alone now, the night crew having left
and the rest of the day team focusing on tensions which were still
at a peak in the Middle East.
  "Striker has retaken the ROC," Herbert
told General Ken Vanzandt. "Request immediate
Tomahawk abort."
  "Acknowledged and hold," said Vanzandt.
  Herbert listened as what he called the "ball and
chain of command" made its way from the people at the site,
through the military bureaucracy, back to the site
again.
  He would never understand why the soldiers on the
scene, the people whose lives were at risk, couldn't
simply radio the HARDPLACE abort order to the
missile.
  Or at least to Commander Breen on the USS
Pittsburgh.
  By this time, Vanzandt should have passed the word to his
Naval liaison. With any luck, he would call
the submarine directly. And promptly. The
missile was due to strike in just over two minutes,
and there was no window for error or delay. The time it
would take a member of this relay team to sneeze could
bring the Tomahawk an eighth of a mile closer
to its target.
  "This is madness," Herbert grumbled.
  "This is a necessary checks-and-balances," Martha
said.
  "Please, Martha," Herbert said. "I'm tired
and I'm scared for our people there. Don't talk to me like
I'm a goddamned intern."
  "Don't act like one," Martha replied.
  Herbert listened to the silence on the other end of the
phone. It was only slightly more frustrating than
Martha.
  General Vanzandt came back on. "Bob,
Commander Breen has the order and is passing it to his
weapons officer."
  "That's another fifteen-second delay--"
  "Look, we're moving this as fast as we can."
  "I know," Herbert said. "I know." He looked
at his watch. "It'll take them at least another
fifteen seconds to transmit. Longer if they're
--shit!"
  "What?" said Vanzandt.
  "They can't use a satellite to relay the
abort code," Herbert said. "The ROC has a
window of interference that's going to screw up the
download from the satellite."
  Vanzandt echoed Herbert's oath. He
got back on the phone to the submarine.
  Herbert listened as the general spoke to Captain
Breen. He wanted to wheel himself into a closet and
hang himself. How could he have forgotten to mention that?
How?
  Vanzandt came back on. "They realized the
satellite wasn't responding and switched
to direct radio transmission."
  "That cost us some time," Herbert said through his teeth.
"The missile's due to impact in one minute."
  "There's still a bit of a window in there," said
Vanzandt.
  "Not much of one," Herbert said. "What'd they
pack in that Tomahawk?"
  "The standard thousand-pound high-explosive
war-head," said Vanzandt.
  "That'll take out ground zero plus a fifth of a
mile in every direction," Herbert said.
  "Hopefully, we can pull the plug well before
then," said Vanzandt. "And if we do, then just the
missile blows. Not the warhead. The team should be
okay."
  Herbert felt a jolt. "That's not true. What
if the missile blows in the cave?"
  "Why would it?" Martha asked. "Why would
the missile even go into the cave?"
  "Because the new generation of missile operates via
LOS," Herbert said. He was thinking aloud, trying
to figure out if he was right. "In the absence of
geographical data, the Tomahawk identifies
its target through a singular combination of visual,
audio, satellite, and electronic data. The
missile probably won't have visual contact because
the ROC is behind a mountain, and the satellite's
been shut down. But it will pick up electronic
activity--probably through the cave, which is the most
direct path. And the missile will go after it along that
route. Sensors in the nose will warn it to stay away
from everything which isn't the ROC, such as the sides of the
cave."
  "But not people," Martha said.
  "The people are too small to notice," Herbert
said.
  "Anyway, it isn't the impact I'm worried
about. It's the abort itself. Even if the order is
transmitted in time, it'll come when the missile is
already inside the cave. Everything in the cave will be
caught in the explosion."
  There was a short silence. Herbert 19oked at
his watch.
  He grabbed the phone to Ishi Honda.
  "Private, listen to me!" Herbert said.
  "Sir?"
  "Take cover!" he yelled. "Any cover!
There's a chance the missile's going to abort in your
laps!"
  Tuesday, 4:01 p.m., the Belaa Valley,
Lebanon
  Mike Rodgers had no desire to watch the
B-Team Strikers help the Kurds. They were
pulling burning bodies from the hell of the burning
headquarters. The Strikers used dirt from the floor
of the cave and even their own bodies to extinguish
flaming clothes and hair and limbs. Then they began
carrying them outside, to the light, where they could be
given at least basic first aid.
  Rodgers turned his own burned body from the
rescue effort. He didn't like what he was thinking
and feeling--that he hoped they suffered. Each one of
them. He wanted them to hurt the way he did.
  The general let his head roll back. Pain
continued to flare along his arms and sides. Pain
caused by a willful disregard for every legal and moral
code. Pain ordered by a man who demeaned his
cause and his people by inflicting it.
  Rodgers walked back into the cave. He would
rescue Seden later. Right now, he wanted to see
if there was anything he could do to help take back the
ROC. The ROC which had been his to command, which he had
lost.
  He listened as he approached. There were
gunshots, followed by Colonel August counting
down. He arrived just as Ishi Honda radioed
Op-Center that the ROC had been retaken.
  Rodgers faded back against a wall. This was
August's triumph and he had no right to share in it.
He looked down and listened. He could hear the
relief in the voices of the Strikers as A-Team
moved in to secure the van.
  He felt nearly alone, though not quite. As the
Italian poet Pavese had once written,
"A man is never completely alone in this world. At
the worst, he has the company of a boy, a youth, and
by and by a grown man--the one he used to be."
Rodgers had the company of the soldier and the man he'd
been just a day before.
  After what was only a few seconds but seemed
much longer, Rodgers heard Private Honda
call for Colonel August.
  "Sir," Honda said quickly, "the
Tomahawk may strike" the ROC or abort in
the cave in approximately forty seconds.
We're advised to seek cover--"
  "Strikers assemble on the double!" August
yelled.
  Rodgers ran toward them. "Colonel, this
way!"
  August looked at him. Rodgers was already
running down the other fork.
  "Follow the general!" August cried. "Ishi,
radio B team to get down the slope with the
prisoners!"
  "Yes, sir!"
  Rodgers reached the prison section even as they
heard the bass horn roar of the Tomahawk racing
toward the cave. The general ordered the men to throw
open the grates and jump into the pits. He opened
Colonel Se-den's prison himself, making sure
that no one hurt him as they climbed in.
  Private Honda was the last Striker into a
pit. As soon as he was crouched down, his arms over
his head, Rodgers stepped back. He stood in the
end of the cave, listening to the bellowing as it grew
louder. He felt proud of his countrymen as he thought
of the Tomahawk, the result of applied
American intellect, skill, spirit, and purpose.
  He felt that way about the ROC as well. Both
machines had worked exactly as they were designed to.
  They did their jobs. So had the Strikers and he
was deeply proud of them as well. As for himself, he
would have wished for the blast to consume him, whatever form it
took, were it not for the fact that his own job was not yet
finished.
  The walls and floor of the cavern shook.
Particles of rock fell from the cave ceiling. The
low thrum of the rocket engine grew deafening as the
missile entered the cave.
  No sooner had the walls of the main cavern begun
to glow with the missile's exhaust than the Tomahawk
exploded.
  The glow became an instant of white light, then
a fierce red glow as the roar shook down rocks and
dirt.
  Rodgers clapped his hands over his ears in a
failed effort to block out the sound. He watched as
flame rolled down the main corridor and fragments
of the Tomahawk bounced, skidded, and flew along the
cavern. Large and small pieces struck the mouth
of the fork and ricocheted off the walls. Some were
knife-edged sheets spinning
edge-over-edge. Others were clumsy, smoking slag.
  Most fell to the ground before they reached the pits.
One popped the light bulb, throwing the tunnel
into darkness.
  Rodgers was forced to duck and turn his face to the
wall, not to escape the shrapnel but to protect his
face from a massive fist of heat which pounded him. From
the time the intense temperatures surrounded him, it
hurt to move and especially to breathe.
  The sound died first, followed by the flames. A
short time later the stifling heat released him.
Rodgers heard coughing from the pits. He stood
slowly and walked over.
  "Is anyone hurt?"
  There were a flurry of negatives. Rodgers
reached down and pulled up the first soldier whose hand he
could find. It was Sergeant Grey.
  "Help the others," Rodgers said, "then put a
detail together to find and secure the warhead. I'm
going to see about the ROC."
  "I think Colonel August already did that,
sir," Grey said.
  "What do you mean?" Rodgers asked. "Where is
he?"
  "He didn't come with us," Grey said.
"He wanted to move the ROC farther away. He
thought it'd give us a better chance if the
Tomahawk hit it."
  Rodgers told him to help the others out, then
jogged toward the main corridor. He took the gun
from his belt so he wouldn't lose it.
  The cave had resisted the United States
Navy's efforts to shut it down. There were chunks of
still-burning missile embedded in the walls and strewn
on the floor. It reminded Rodgers of Gustave
Dore's etchings of Dante's Inferno. But the
cavern was still whole and still navigable. He turned
left, toward the gorge, drawing on the last
reserves of stamina to reach his friend.
  Rodgers saw the west-side mouth of the cave.
He didn't see the ROC. As he came closer
he looked out at the thick trees, the surrounding
hills, flaming pieces of the missile, and long,
late afternoon shadows. He didn't see the ROC.
Then he noticed the dirt path which led to the
road-cut. The ROC was parked about two hundred
yards away. August was running back.
  "General!" he yelled. "Is everyone all
right?"
  "A little scorched," Rodgers replied,
"but otherwise okay."
  "What about the warhead?"
  "I sent Sergeant Grey and a small detachment
to look for it."
  August reached Rodgers's side. He grabbed
his wrists and drew him gently toward the wall beneath the
ledge.
  "There are still some armed Kurds in the hills," he
said.
  He pulled his radio from his belt. "Private
Honda?"
  "Sir?"
  "Let me have Corporal Prementine."
  The NCO was on the radio a moment later.
  "Corporal," said August, "is B-Team
all right?"
  "I'm with them now," he said. "They evacuated
themselves and the surviving Kurds before the Tomahawk
arrived. There were no injuries."
  "Very good," August said. "I want you and three
other men out here with the ROC on the double."
  "What about an HP to find the rest of the enemy
force?" Prementine asked.
  "Negative on the hunting party," August said.
"I want to get the ROC back on the
road with everyone onboard as soon as possible.
We're getting out of here."
  "Yes, sir."
  August replaced the radio. He looked at
Rodgers.
  "Let's get you some medical attention, food,
and rest, General."
  "Why?" Rodgers asked. "Do I look that
burned out?"
  "Frankly, sir, yes. You do. Literally."
  It took a moment for Rodgers to realize what
August had said. When he did, he didn't
smile. He couldn't. A piece of the process was
missing. Rodgers could feel the hole, a void where
his pride had been. You couldn't laugh at yourself if
your self-worth wasn't strong enough to take the blow.
The men walked to the cave in silence.
  Inside the main tunnel, Sergeant Grey and his
team had found the warhead. It had been slammed into the
ground when the missile aborted. Remarkably, the
war-head--which was located just forward of the fuel section,
behind the TERCOM system and DSMAC Camera--was
relatively intact. The detonation works were in a
modular compartment atop the explosives. By following
printed instructions inside the casing, the
detonator could easily be reprogrammed or
removed. August told Sergeant Grey to input
a countdown, but not to start it until he gave the
order.
  Upon reaching the front of the cave, Colonel
August and General Rodgers made their way down
the road to the bottom of the slope. As they walked,
August told Rodgers how Katzen had saved the
Israeli's life by tackling his would-be murderers.
By rescuing Falah, Katzen had made it possible
for the Strikers to get inside as quickly as they did.
  Rodgers felt ashamed of himself for having doubted
the environmentalist. He should have realized that
Katzen's compassion came from strength, not weakness.
  At the base of the slope, Private
Musicant, Falah, and members of the B-Team
were tending to the injured Kurds as best they could. The
thumb-cuffed prisoners had "recovered from the
neo-phosgene attack and were seated beneath a tree,
their backs to the trunk. They were bound man-to-man,
unable to run. The seven burn victims were spread
out on the grass. Following Musicant's
instructions, the Strikers used piles of branches
to elevate the men's legs and help straighten their
air ways.
  The medic had already given what little plasma he
had to the more seriously burned. Now the men who had
gone into hypovolemic shock were being given injections
of an epinephrine solution. Falah, who had had
some medical training in the Mista'aravim, was handling
that.
  With the exception of Colonel Seden, who was being
cared for by Private DeVonne, the rest of the
liberated ROC crew was sitting on boulders and
leaning against trees close to the main road. They were
looking out at the valley and were unaware of
Rodgers's arrival. He wanted it that way for
now.
  "Private," said August, "I'd like you to have a
look at General Rodgers as soon as possible."
  "Yes, sir."
  Rodgers looked over at Colonel Seden.
Private DeVonne had removed his tattered
shirt and was washing out his gunshot wound with alcohol.
"I want him cared for first," Rodgers said.
  "General," said August, "those wounds of yours
need to be dressed."
  "After the colonel," Rodgers said firmly.
"That's an order."
  August glanced down. Then he looked
at Musicant.
  "See to it, Private."
  "Yes, sir," said the medic.
  Rodgers turned and stood over the Kurds. He
looked down at a man on the far left. He was
unconscious, with dark, leathery burns on his chest
and arms. His breath came in irregular wheezes.
"This man pointed a gun at Colonel Seden's
head when he and I were first waylaid.
  His name is Ibrahim. He held the gun while
his companion Hasan burned the colonel with a
cigarette."
  "Unfortunately," said Musicant, "I
don't think Ib-rahim is going to be standing trial
for what he did. He's got third-degree
burns on the anterior and posterior trunk and he
has suffered possibly severe inhalation injuries.
  Circulating blood volume appears to be way
down."
  Rodgers usually felt bad for fighting men who
had been wounded, regardless of their beliefs. But this
man was a terrorist, not a soldier. Everything he
had done, from blowing up an unfortified dam
to ambushing the ROC, had been worked in whole or in
part against unarmed civilians. Rodgers
felt nothing for him.
  August was looking into Rodgers's eyes.
"General, come on. Sit down."
  "In a minute." Rodgers moved to the next
man. He had red, mottled burns on his arms,
legs, and upper chest. He was awake and staring at the
sky with angry eyes.
  Rodgers idly pointed at him with the gun. "What
about this one?" he asked.
  "He's the healthiest of the bunch," Musicant
replied.
  "Must be their leader. People were protecting him.
He's got second-degree burns and mild
shock. He'll live."
  Rodgers stared at the man for a moment, then
squatted beside him. "This is the man who tortured
me," he said.
  "We'll bring him back to the U.s. with us,"
August said: "He'll stand trial. He won't
get away with what he did."
  Rodgers was still looking at Sirinet. The man was
dazed, but those eyes were unrepentent. "And when he
does stand trial," Rodgers said, "Americans
working in Turkey will be kidnapped and executed.
Or an American plane bound for
Turkey will be blasted from the air. Or a
corporation which does business with Turkey will be
bombed. His trial and even a conviction will become
America's ordeal. And do you know what's
ironic?"
  Rodgers asked.
  "No, General," August answered warily.
"Tell me."
  "The Kurds have a legitimate complaint."
Rodgers stood. He was still looking down at
Sirinet. "The problem is, a trial will give them
a daily forum. Because they've been oppressed, the
world will regard this man's terrorism as understandable or
even necessary. Holding a torch to a man's body and
threatening a woman with violent abuse become acts
of heroism instead of sadism.
  People will say he was driven to it by the suffering of his
people."
  "Not all people will say that," said August. "We'll
see to it."
  "How?" Rodgers asked. "You can't reveal who
you are."
  "You'll testify," August said. "You'll talk
to the press. You're articulate, a war hero."
  "They'll say we made things worse
by spying on them. That I invited retribution
by killing one of them in Turkey. They'll say we
destroyed their--what will they call this? A refuge.
A bucolic retreat."
  The hum of the ROC'S eight-cylinder engine
reached them as it emerged from the road-cut. August
stepped between Sirinet and General Rodgers.
  "We'll talk about this later, sir," August
said. "We accomplished our mission. Let's take
pride in that."
  Rodgers said nothing.
  "Are you okay?"
  Rodgers nodded.
  August stepped away cautiously and turned on
his field radio. "Sergeant Grey," he said,
"stand by to initiate countdown."
  "Yes, sir!"
  August faced the Strikers. "The rest of you
prepare to--"' His
  August jumped as Rodgers's pistol fired.
The colonel looked over. Rodgers's bare arm was
extended almost straight down. Smoke twisted from the
barrel and rose into Rodgers's unblinking eyes.
He was staring at Siriner as blood oozed slowly from
a raw hole in the commander's forehead.
  August spun and pushed the gun up. Rodgers
didn't resist.
  "Your mission was finished, Brett, not mine,"
Rodgers said.
  "Mike, what've you done?"
  Rodgers looked at him. "Got my pride
back."
  When August released his arm, Rodgers walked
calmly toward the road. The rest of the ROC crew
had stood up at the gunshot and were looking over.
Rodgers was able to smile now, and he did. He was
looking forward to apologizing to Phil Katzen.
  His face ashen, August ordered Musicant
to finish with the Kurds and treat Colonel Seden as
soon as they were onboard the ROC. Then he handed the
gun to Private DeVonne, who had been looking
at her fellow Strikers.
  "Sir," she said urgently, "we didn't see
that. None of us did. The Kurd was killed in a
firefight."
  August shook his head bitterly. "I've known
Mike Rodgers for most of my life. He's never
told a lie. I don't think he's planning on
starting now."
  "But they'll break him for this!" said
DeVonne.
  "I know!" August snapped. "That's what I was
worded about. Mike is going to do exactly what he was
afraid the Kurd would do. He's going to use his
court-martial as a forum."
  "For what?" DeVonne asked.
  August took a quick, shaky breath. "For showing
America how to deal with terrorists, Private, and for
telling the world that America has had it." He headed
for the road as the ROC arrived. "Let's move it
ou.t" he shouted. "I want to blow this goddamn
cave to Hell ...."
  Tuesday, 6:03 p.m., Damascus, Syria
  A convoy of presidential security force cars
pulled up at the American Embassy in
Damascus at 5:45 p.m. Ambassador
Haveles was escorted to the gates, where he was met
by two United States Marine guards. A hearse
took the bodies of the dead DSA operatives around
to the back of the embassy. Haveles went
directly to his office, composed despite the fright
still in his eyes, and telephoned the Turkish
Ambassador in Damascus. He explained to him
his first-hand knowledge of what had happened in the palace, and
also told him that it had been PKK
soldiers, not Syrians, who had been behind the theft
of the border patrol helicopter, the attack on the
Ataturk Dam, and the incident at the Syrian
border.
  He urged the ambassador to brief the military
and ask them to stand down. The ambassador said he would
pass along the information.
  Paul Hood arrived a few minutes later.
He, Warner Bicking, and Professor Nasr had
been dressed in kaffiyehs and sunglasses and
escorted to a bus stop. Hood had always found the
idea of disguises a theatrical extravagance when
they appeared in movies and novels.
  In real life, he walked the third of a mile as
if he were born and raised on Ibn Assaker
Street. He had to. If he were recognized by a
journalist or foreign official, it would
jeopardize the two women who had come with him.
  But he wasn't spotted. Though buses were being
diverted around the Old City, the three men reached the
embassy in just a half hour. Stopped by two
Marine guards, Hood felt like Claude Rains
in The Invisible Man as he unwrapped his disguise
to show the sentries that he was who he said he was.
Watching the front gate on
closed-circuit camera, a DSA agent hurried
out to usher the three men inside.
  Hood went directly to the nearest office
to telephone Bob Herbert. He shut the door of
Deputy Ambassador John LeCoz's
chambers and stood alone beside the old mahogany
desk. The heavy, drawn drapes cloaked the
small office in deep dark and muted silence.
Hood felt safe. As he punched in the number of
Herbert's wheelchair phone, it flashed through his mind
that Sharon and the kids might have heard about events in
Damascus.
  They might be worried. He hesitated, then
decided he'd call them next. He didn't
want to rush them off the phone, but he had to know about the
ROC.
  Herbert answered on the first ring. He was
uncharacteristically subdued as he told Hood the good
news.
  The Tomahawk had been aborted. Striker had
gone in, rescued the ROC and its crew, and all
were now safely back at Tel Nef. Syrian
Army forces had been alerted about the wounded Kurds
and had gone to collect them.
  In a short interview with CNN, the
leader of the SAA force had ascribed the explosion
at the cave to PKK mishandling of munitions--but
only after the U.s. had agreed to allow Syrian
security officials to interrogate the survivors
while insisting there weren't any. They wanted to know
everything about how Syrian security had been breached
in Damascus and at Qamishli. Hav-eles's
deputy ambassador had agreed to that after consulting
with General Vanzandt.
  Hood was elated until Herbert informed him of
Mike Rodgers's torture and his execution of the
Kurdish leader who ordered it.
  Hood was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Who
witnessed the killing?"
  "That's not going to fly," Herbert said. "Mike
wants people to know what he did and why he did it."
  "He's been through Hell," Hood said
dismissively.
  "We'll talk to him after he's rested."
  "Paul--"
  "He'll budge on this," Hood said. "He
has to. If Mike is court-martialed, he'll
be forced to talk about what he was doing in Turkey and
why. He'll have to reveal contacts, methods, talk
about other operations we've mounted."
  "In situations involving national security, the
records of the court-martial can be sealed."
  "The press will still cover it," Hood said, "and
they'll be all over us. This could literally bring down
American intelligence operations in the Middle
East.
  What about Colonel August? He's Mike's
oldest friend.
  Can't he do anything?"
  "Don't you think he tried?" Herbert asked.
"Mike told him that terrorism is a greater threat
than anything else America is facing today. He
says it's time we fought fire with fire."
  "He's got to be in shock," Hood concluded.
  "He was checked at Tel Neff" Herbert
replied. "He's sound."
  "After what the Kurds did to him?" Hood said.
  "Mike's been to Hell a whole 1otta times
and made it back okay," Herbert replied.
"Anyway, the Israeli medics say he's
mentally fit and Mike himself says he's thought this
through."
  Hood reached for a pen and pad. "What's the
telephone number at the base? I want to talk
to him before he does anything he'll
regret."
  "You can't talk to him," Herbert said.
  "Why not?"
  "Because he's already done the 'anything," "Herbert
said.
  Hood felt his insides tighten. "What did
he do, Bob?"
  "He phoned General Thomas Esposito, the
Commander in Chief, U.s. Special Operations
Command, and confessed to the killing," Herbert said.
"Mike's now under armed guard at the infirmary in
Tel Nef waiting for military police and legal
counsel to arrive from the Incirlik Air Base."
  Hood suddenly became aware of the mstiness of the
drapes. The room no longer seemed safe. It was
suffocating.
  "All right," Hood said calmly. "Give me
some options. There have got to be 9Ptions."
  "Only one that I can think off" Herbert said, "and
it's a long shot. We can try to get Mike a
Presidential pardon."
  Hood perked up. "I like that."
  "I thought you would," Herbert said. "I already
called General Vanzandt and Steve Burkow and
explained the situation to them. They're with us.
Especially Steve, which surprised the hell out of
me."
  "What are our chances?" Hood asked.
  "If we can keep the story from breaking for a few
hours, we've got a slim chance," said Herbert.
"I've got Ann watching out for that. Once the
press gets it, the President won't consider
acting until after the case has been heard. An
American general cold-bloodedly executes a
wounded, unarmed Kurd--the political risks at
home and abroad are just too great."
  "Sure," Hood said disgustedly. "Even though the
Kurd took a blowtorch to the general."
  "The general was a spy," Herbert reminded him.
  "World opinion ain't gonna be with us on this one,
Paul."
  "No, I guess it won't," Hood said.
"Who else can we get to try and persuade the
President?"
  "The Secretary of Defense is with us, and he's
meeting with the Vice President in about ten minutes.
We'll see what happens. So far, Ann says
that reporters haven't been asking much about the seven
Kurds who were injured in the Bekaa. They bought the
story the SAA commander gave them. As long
as the press is fixated on what they're calling the
Border Buildup, that story may slip through the
cracks. If it does, we may slip through with it."
  "Work the pardon, Robert," Hood said. "I
want you and Martha to call in every chit you have."
  "We will," Herbert promised.
  "Christ," Hood said, "I feel completely
useless being stuck out here. Is there anything I can
do?"
  "Just one thing," Herbert said, "something I really
don't think I'll have time to do."
  "What's that?" asked Hood.
  "Pray," Herbert said. "Pray hard."
  Tuesday, 12:38 p.m., Washington, D.c.
  Bob Herbert sat in his wheelchair reading an
Eyes Only copy of the single-page document. It
was addressed to the Attorney General of the United
States and printed on White House letterhead.
  Behind his desk the President read a copy of the
document as well. Scattered around the Oval
Office, standing or sitting, were National Security
Advisor Burkow, Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff General Vanzandt, White
House legal counsel Roland Rizzi, and Martha
Mackall. Each was reading a printout of the
paper. Herbert, Rizzi, Burkow, and Vanzandt
knew the document well. They had spent the last
ninety minutes drafting it, after hearing from Rizzi
that the President would consider signing a paper which
pardoned General Mike Rodgers.
  The President cleared his throat. After reading the
paper once, he went back to the top to read it
aloud. He always did that, to hear how it would sound as
a speech--in case he ever had to defend in
public what he'd done.
  "I hereby grant a full, free, and
absolute pardon to General Michael Rodgers
of the United States Army.
  This pardon is for confessed actions which he has or
may have committed while loyally serving his country in a
joint intelligence effort with the Republic of
Turkey.
  "The government and people of the United States have
benefited immeasurably from the courage and leadership
of General Rodgers throughout his long and unblemished
military career. Neither this nation nor its institutions
would be well or responsibly served by a further
scrutiny of actions which, from all accounts, were heroic,
selfless, and appropriate."
  The President nodded and tapped his
index fingers absently on the paper. He looked
to his left. The stout, balding Roland Rizzi was
standing beside the desk.
  "This is good, Rollo."
  "Thank you, Mr. President."
  "What's more"--he smiled--"I believe it. I
don't often get to say that about documents which I'm
asked to sign."
  Martha and Vanzandt chuckled.
  "The dead man," said the President. "He was a
Syrian citizen shot in Lebanon."
  "That's correct, sir."
  "Should they decide to pressure us, what
jurisdiction do Damascus and Beirut have in this
matter?"
  "Theoretically," said Rizzi, "they could demand
General Rodgers's extradition. Even if they
did, however, we would not accede to that."
  "Syria has given sanctuary to more international
criminals than any nation on earth," said Burkow.
"I, for one, would love for them to ask just so we could
tell them no."
  "Could they make things rough for us in the press?"
  asked the President.
  "They'd need proof for that, sir," said
Rizzi. "And also to push for General Rodgers's
extradition."
  "And where is that proof?." the President asked.
  "Where is the body of the dead Kurdish leader?"
  "It's in the cave that used to be their
headquarters," said Bob Herbert. "Before they left
the area, Striker blew it up with the Tomahawk
warhead."
  "Our press department put out the story that he was
killed in an explosion at his headquarters,"
Martha said.
  "No one will question that, and it will satisfy the Kurds
who followed him."
  "Very good," said the President. He picked up
a black fountain pen from his blotter. He
hesitated. "Do we know that General Rodgers will
toe the mark? I don't have to worry about him writing
a book or talking to the press?"
  "I'll vouch for General Rodgers," said
Vanzandt.
  "He's a company man."
  "I'll hold you to that," the President said as he
affixed his signature to the bottom of the document.
  Rizzi removed the pardon and the pen from the
President's desk. The President
rose and the group began moving to the door. As they
did, Rizzi walked over to Herbert and handed the pen
to him. The intelligence chief held it tightly,
triumphantly, before tucking it into his shin
pocket.
  "Remind General Rodgers that whatever he does
henceforth not only affects him but the lives and careers
of the people who believed in him," Rizzi said.
  "Mike won't have to be told," Herbert said.
  "He went through quite an ordeal in Lebanon,"
Rizzi said. "Make sure he gets some rest."
  Martha walked over. "We'll see to it, of
course," she said. "And thank you, Roland, for
everything you've done."
  Martha and Herbert left, Herbert waving
playfully at Deputy Chief of Staff Klaw,
who had come to escort them out.
  As the group made their way in silence through the
carpeted corridor, Herbert had confidence in what
General Vanzandt had said. Mike Rodgers would
never do anything to compromise or embarrass those who
had fought for him today. But Rizzi was also right:
Rodgers had been through a lot. Not just the torture.
When Rodgers returned with Striker the next day,
what was going to bother him more was the fact that the
ROC had been captured on his watch. Rightly or
wrongly, he would blame himself for the near-loss of the
facility and the physical suffering and psychological
wounds endured by the ROC crew and Colonel
Seden. He would have to live with the knowledge that Striker was
nearly wiped out by friendly fire because of what he
hadn't anticipated.
  According to psychologist Liz Gordon, who had
bumped into Herbert as he left Op-Center to come
to the White House, those were going to be the toughest
crosses to bear.
  "And there's no sure way of treating that guilt,"
she'd told him. "With some people you can reason it out. You
can convince them that there was nothing they could have done
to prevent the situation. Or at least you can make them
feel good about other things they've accomplished, their
positive body of work. With Mike, there's black
and there's white. Either he screwed up or he
didn't. Either the terrorist deserved to die or he
didn't.
  Add to that the loss of dignity he and his people
suffered-and their suffering was his suffering, you can be very sure
of that--and you've got a potentially very knotty
psychosis."
  Herbert understood only too well.
He was intelligence point man for the CIA in
Beirut when the embassy was bombed in 1983.
Among the scores of dead was his wife. Not a day
passed when he wasn't troubled by guilt and
what-ifs. But he couldn't let them stop him. He
had to use what he'd learned to try and prevent
future Being-ruts.
  Herbert and Martha made their way from the White
House entrance to the specially equipped van in which
Herbert traveled around Washington. As he rolled
up the ramp into the back, he had just one hope. That
a little time, a lot of distance, and a great deal of
camaraderie would get Rodgers through this. As Herbert
had put it to Liz, "I learned the hard way that not
only is life a school, but the classes get
damned difficult and more expensive as you move through
it."
  Liz had agreed. Then she'd added, "Still, Bob
--it does beat the hell out of matriculation."
  That was true, Herbert thought as Martha's driver
maneuvered from the right parking lot toward
Pennsylvania Avenue. And over the next few
days or weeks or however long it took he would
make it his mission to convince Mike Rodgers of that.
  Wednesday, 11:34 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
  Ibrahim al-Rashid opened his eyes and peered
through the dirty window of the prison hospital ward.
His nostrils filled with the smell of disinfectant.
  Ibrahim knew that he was in Damascus in the
custody of Syrian security forces. He also
knew that he was seriously injured, though he didn't
know how seriously.
  He knew these things because when he drifted out of
sleep he heard the male nurses and guards
talking about him. He heard them distant and muffled
through the bandages which covered his ears.
  During the short periods when he was awake,
Ibrahim was dimly aware of other things. He was
aware of being talked to by a man in a uniform but being
unable to answer. His mouth seemed frozen, incapable
of being moved. He was aware of being carried to a bath
where parts of his body were stripped and scrubbed. His
skin seemed to come off in pieces, like hardened candle
wax.
  Then he was bandaged and brought back here again.
  When he slept, the young Kurd had much clearer
visions.
  He had memories of being with Commander Sir iner
at Base Deir. Ibrahim could still hear
the leader shouting, "They will not fire a shot in these
headquarters!"
  He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with the commander
and shooting at the enemy to keep them from entering. He
remembered shouting defiance, waiting for the attack--and
then there was the fire. A lake of it pouring down on
them. He remembered fighting the flames with his arms,
helping Field Commander Arkin beat a path with their
own bodies so that Commander Siriner could get through.
He remembered being pulled up, covered with dirt,
carried somewhere, seeing the sky, and then hearing a
gunshot.
  A tear formed in his eye. "Commander--?"
  Ibrahim tried to turn and look for his comrades.
But he couldn't. The bandages, he realized. Not that
it mattered.
  He sensed that he was alone in this place. And the
revolution? If it had succeeded, he would not be here
with the enemy.
  So many people counting on us and we failed, he thought.
  Yet did they fail? Is it failure if you
plant a seed which others nurture? Is it
failure to have begun a thing which had daunted the best
and the bravest for decades? Is it failure to have
called the attention of all humanity to the
plight of his people?
  Ibrahim closed his eyes. He saw Commander
Siriner and Walid, Hasan and the others. And he
saw his brother Mahmoud. They were alive and watching
him and they seemed to be content.
  Is it failure if you are united in Paradise
with your brothers-in-arms?
  With a quiet moan, Ibrahim joined them.
  Wednesday, 9:37 p.m., London, England
  Paul Hood spoke to Mike Rodgers while
Hood was in London enroute to Washington.
Rodgers was about to leave the infirmary at Tel
Nef to join the Strikers for the flight back
to Washington.
  The men had a short, uncommonly strained
conversation.
  Whether he was afraid of releasing rage,
frustration, sadness, or whatever else he was
feeling, Rodgers wasn't letting go of anything.
Getting the general to answer questions about his health and the
accommodations at Tel Nef took very specific
questions. And even then his answers were terse, his voice
flat. Hood ascribed it to exhaustion and the
depression that Liz had warned them about.
  When he'd placed the call, Hood
hadn't intended to tell Rodgers about the pardon.
He'd felt that that was something best done when Rodgers
was rested and surrounded by the people who had orchestrated the.
amnesty.
  People whose judgment he respected. People who could
explain that it had been done to protect the national
interest and not to bail Rodgers out.
  Ultimately, however, Hood felt that
Rodgers had a right to know what had transpired.
He wanted him to use the flight to plan for his
future in Op-Center and not an imagined future
in court.
  Rodgers took the news quietly. He asked
Hood to thank Herbert and Martha for their efforts.
But as he spoke, Hood had an even stronger
sense that there was something else taking place, something
unspoken that had come between them. It wasn't bitterness
or rancor.
  It was something almost melancholy, as if he'd been
doomed rather than saved.
  It was almost like he was saying good-bye.
  After hanging up with Rodgers, Hood called
Colonel August. Rodgers and the Striker commander
had grown up together in Hartford, Connecticut.
Hood asked him to use whatever stories
or jokes or reminiscences it took to keep
Rodgers diverted and amused. August promised that
he would.
  Hood and Bicking bid a warm farewell
to Professor Nasr at Heathrow, and promised
to come and hear his wife play Liszt and Chopin.
However, Bicking did ask him to have the pianist
consider replacing the Revolutionary Etude with
something less politically charged.
  Nasr did not disagree.
  The State Department flight from London had
been relaxed and filled with uncustomarily sincere
compliments for Hood. They were nothing like the
surface-deep congratulations which he sometimes received
at meetings and receptions in Washington.
Officials on the plane seemed delighted with
rumors that Striker had broken a slew of secular
laws in the Bekaa Valley. They were almost as
happy with that as they were that the Ataturk terrorists
had been found and neutralized and that Turkish and
Syrian troops had withdrawn from their common
border. As Deputy Assistant Secretary of
State Tom Andrea put it, "You get tired of
playing by the rules when everyone else isn't."
  Andrea also pressed for details on who
had helped Hood, Bicking, and Nasr escape the
palace assault in Damascus. But Hood
only sipped the Tab Clear he'd picked up in
London and said nothing.
  The plane landed at 10:30 p.m. on
Wednesday. An honor guard was waiting for the
fallen DSA operatives, and Hood stayed with them
on the tarmac until the coffins had been unloaded
and driven away. Then he got in the limousine which was
waiting to take him and Warner Bicking home. The
car had been sent by Stephanie Klaw at the
White House, who had also sent along a note.
  "Paul," it read, "welcome home. I was
afraid you might take a cab."
  The car took Hood home first. He held
Bicking's hand between his before climbing out.
  "How does it feel to have been the pawn of two
Presidents?"
  Hood asked.
  The young Bicking smiled and replied,
"Invigorating, Paul."
  Hood spent an hour lying in bed with his kids.
After that, he spent two hours making love to his
wife.
  And after that, with his wife curled beside him,
her hand in his, he lay awake wondering if he'd
made the mistake of his life telling Mike
Rodgers about the pardon.
  Thursday, Icc01 a.m., Over the
Mediterranean Sea When Mike Rodgers had first
enlisted in the Army, he had a drill sergeant named
Messy Boyd. He never found out what Messy was
short for, but it had to be short for something. Because
Messy Boyd was the meanest, most punctilious,
most disciplined man that Rodgers had ever met.
  Unfailingly, Sergeant Boyd drilled two
things into his men. One was that bravery was the most
important quality a soldier could have. And the other,
that honor was even more important than bravery.
"The honorable man," he had said, paraphrasing
Woodrow Wilson, "is one who has squared his
conduct by ideals of duty."
  Rodgers took that to heart. He also borrowed the
copy of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations
Boyd kept on his desk.
  That started him on his twenty-five-year love
affair with the wisdom of the great statesmen, soldiers,
scholars, and others. It turned him into a rapacious
reader, devouring everyone from Epictetus to St.
Augustine, from Homer to Hemingway. It
made him think.
  Maybe too much, he told himself.
  Rodgers sat on the wooden bench in the bumpy
fuselage of the C-141B. He was absently
listening to Colonel August tell Lowell
Coffey and Phil Katzen about their Little League
home-run rivalry with each other.
  Rodgers knew that he had never acted in a
cowardly way, nor had he ever behaved with dishonor.
Yet Rodgers also knew that because of what had
happened in the Middle East, his career as a
soldier was over. He had thought it ended when he
failed to retake the ROC f left-brace from the
Kurds at the Syrian border. That had been
clumsy and stupid, the kind of mistake a man in
his position could not afford to make. But with the death of the
PKK leader he had found new life. Not as a
soldier in the field, but as a soldier in the fight
against terrorism. What would have begun in the
courtroom would have become a brave and honorable
battle against a terrible scourge.
  Now, he thought, there's nothing.
  "General," August asked, "what was the name of that
catcher who ended up beating us both out in fifth
grade?"
  "Laurette," Rodgers replied. "I forget
her last name."
  "Right," said August. "Laurette. The kind of
girl you wanted to sop up with a biscuit. She was that
lovely, even behind her catcher's mask, glove,
and a wad of Bazooka bubble gum."
  Rodgers smiled. She was cute. And that
home-run showdown had been quite a race. But races
ended with one winner and several losers.
  Like the race we just ran in the Middle East.
  The winner there had been Striker. Their performance
had been exemplary. The losers? The Kurds, who
had been crushed. Turkey and Syria, which still had
millions of restless citizens within their borders.
And Mike Rodgers, who had bungled security,
escape, judging the character of a loyal coworker, and
handling a prisoner of War.
  America had lost too. It had lost by tucking
Mike Rodgers back in his Op-Center cubicle
instead of supporting him in the war against terrorism.
  And it is a war--or at least it needs to be.
  As he'd lain there in the infirmary, Rodgers had
sharpened his thinking about that. He'd planned to use the
podium of his court-martial to declare that any nation which
attacked our people anywhere, in any way, had
effectively declared war on us. He'd further
planned to urge the President to declare war on any
nation which kidnapped our citizens or blew up our
aircraft or bombed our buildings. Declaring war
did not necessarily mean we'd attack the people and
soldiers of those nations. But it would leave us free
to blockade their ports and sink any ships that tried
to get in or out. To shut down their airports and
roadways with missiles. To halt commerce,
destroy their economy, and topple the regime which
had backed terrorists.
  When the terrorism ended, the war would end.
  That was what Rodgers had planned. If
executing the Kurd could have been the first shot across the
prow of terrorism, he would have regained his honor.
As it was, having killed the unarmed man who had
tortured him was just revenge. There was no honor or
bravery in that.
  As Charlotte BrontEvery had once written,
vengeance was "as aromatic wine it seemed, on
swallowing, warm and racy; its after-flavor,
metallic and corroding."
  Rodgers looked down. He didn't wish he
could take the bullet back. Killing the Kurdish
leader had spared the nation the agonies of the
trial, of Op-Ed justice and handwringing. It had
also given the Kurds a martyour instead of a loser.
But God, how he wished the bullet had taken them
both. He had been trained to serve his country and
to protect its integrity and its flag at all
costs.
  The pardon was a blot on both. By showing him
charity, his nation had lost sight of a more important
quality: Justice.
  The error was made by well-meaning people. But for the
sake of his country's honor, it was an error which had
to be undone.
  Rodgers stood stiffly, constricted by the bandages
around his arms and torso. He steadied himself on "the
rope which ran shoulder-high along the fuselage.
  August looked up. "You okay?"
  "Yes." He smiled. "Just going to the
bathroom."
  He looked down at the uncharacteristically
effervescent Colonel August. He was proud of
him and glad he'd won the race. Rodgers turned
and headed to the back.
  The bathroom was a cold room with a hanging
light-bulb and a toilet. There was no door, one of
those small touches designed to keep the
weight of the aircraft down.
  On the way back, Rodgers passed aluminum
shelves which carried Striker's equipment. He
stopped. His own gear was in a duffel bag he'd had
in the ROC. There was still one way to regain his
honor.
  "It's not there," said a voice from behind him.
  Rodgers turned. He looked into Colonel
August's long, apostolic face.
  "The gun you used to execute the terrorist,"
August went on. "I took it."
  Rodgers squared his shoulders. "You had no right
to go into another officer's grip, Colonel."
  "Actually, sir, I did. As the ranking
officer not a party to a confessed crime, it was my
duty to confiscate evidence for the court-martial."
  "I've been pardoned," Rodgers said.
  "I know that now," August replied. "I
didn't know it then. Would you like the gun back,
sir?"
  Their eyes remained locked. "Yes," Rodgers
said. "I would."
  "Is that an order?"
  "Yes, Colonel. It is."
  August turned and squatted beside the
lowest of the three shelves. He opened the first of the
five cases which contained Striker's handguns. He
handed the pistol to Rodgers. "There you are, sir."
  "Thank you, Colonel."
  "You're welcome, sir. Is the general
planning to use it?"
  "That's the general's business, I think."
  "It's a debatable point," August said.
"You're seriously overwrought. You're also threatening
my superior officer, a general of the United
States Army. I'm sworn to defend my fellow
soldiers."
  "And to follow orders," Rodgers said. "Please
return to your seat."
  "No, sir," August said.
  Rodgers stood with the gun at his side. Half a
plane away, Private DeVonne and Sergeant
Grey had gotten off the bench. They looked like they
were ready to rush over.
  "Colonel," Rodgers said, "the nation made a
grave mistake today. It forgave a man who neither
deserved nor wanted forgiveness. In so doing it
endangered the security of its people and institutions."
  "What you're planning won't change that,"
August said.
  "It will for me."
  "That's damned selfish, sir," August said.
"Permit me to remind the general that when he came in
second to Laurette What's-Her-Name, he
didn't think he could live with that either. As she rounded
the bases he swung an angry bat so hard that had
he not been stopped by his frightened best friend, he would
have struck himself in the back of the head and probably
suffered a serious concussion. But life went on and the
former first baseman saved countless lives in
Southeast Asia, Desert Storm, and more recently
in North Korea. If the general intends to hit
himself in the head again, be advised that the former second
baseman will stop him again. This nation needs him
alive."
  Rodgers looked at Colonel August.
"Does it need that more than it needs honor?"
  "A nation's honor is in the hearts of its people,"
August said. "If you still your heart, you rob the nation
of what you claim you want to preserve. Life
hurts, but we've both seen enough death. We all
have."
  Rodgers's gaze returned to the Strikers. There
was something alive in their faces, in their posture.
Despite everything they'd endured in
Lebanon, despite the death of Private
Moore in North Korea and Lieutenant
Colonel Squires in Russia, they were still fresh
and enthusiastic and hopeful. They had faith in themselves
and in the system.
  Slowly, Rodgers put the gun on the shelf.
He didn't know if he agreed with August about the
rest of it. But what he'd been about to do would have
killed their enthusiasm stone-cold dead. That in itself
was enough to give him pause.
  "Her name was Delguercio," Rodgers said.
"Laur-ette Delguercio."
  August smiled. "I know. Mike Rodgers
doesn't forget anything. I'd just wanted to see if
you were paying attention to the story. You weren't. That's
why I followed you back here."
  "Thanks, Brett," he said quietly.
  August pursed his lips and nodded.
  "So," Rodgers said softly. "Did you tell
them how I clutch-hit in the last running of the last
game to beat yours and Laurette's home-run
butts the following season?"
  "I was about to," August said.
  Rodgers patted the colonel on the shoulder.
"Let's go," he said, edging around him.
He winced as the bandages chafed.
  With a nod to DeVonne and Grey, Mike
Rodgers returned to the hard bench to listen to Brett
August talk about a time when Little League was the world
and a shot at another season was a damn good reason
enough to live.
  Friday, 8:30 a.m., Washington, D.c.
  The Homecoming, as Southern-bred Bob Herbert
had dubbed it, was as low-keyed as always.
  Whenever Op-Center's officers came back from
dangerous or difficult assignments, fellow
staffers made sure that business went on as usual.
It was a way of easing people quickly back into an
efficient routine.
  The first day back for Paul Hood began with a
meeting in Hood's office. While flying in from
London, he'd reviewed material modemed up
to him by his assistant Bugs Benet. Some of it
required immediate attention, and he'd E-mailed
Herbert, Martha, Darrell McCaskey, and
Liz Gordon to inform them about the morning meeting.
Hood did not believe in easing in and out of jet
lag.
  He believed in waking up when the alarm went off,
local time, and getting to the business at
hand.
  Mike Rodgers was the same. Hood had phoned
him at home at 6:30 a.m. to welcome him
back, expecting to find the ringer off and the answering
machine on.
  Instead, he got the wide-awake general.
Hood told him about the meeting, and Rodgers
arrived shortly after Herbert and McCaskey. There
were handshakes, welcome backs, and one "You look
like shit" from Herbert to Rodgers. Martha and Liz
arrived a minute later. Rodgers took a moment
to give terse thanks to Herbert and Martha for their
help in getting him his pardon. Sensing his discomfort,
Hood got right to the matters at hand.
  "First," he said, "Liz--have you had a chance
to talk to our local heroes?"
  "I spoke with Lowell and Phil last night,"
she said.
  "They're taking today off but they're all right.
Phil's got a pair of broken ribs, and
Lowell's got a bashed-up ego and the 'I'm
forty" blues, but they'll survive."
  "I was looking forward to ragging on the birthday
boy," Herbert said.
  "Monday," the thirty-two-year-old
Ph.d. replied.
  "I'm sure the target will be just as sensitive."
  "What about Mary Rose?" Hood asked.
  "I stopped by to see her last night," the
psychologist said. "She's going to need some time off,
but she'll be okay."
  "The bastards used her pain to try and control us,"
Rodgers said darkly, "over and over."
  "Believe it or not," Liz said, "there can be
something positive in what she suffered. People who
survive one incident like that tend to attribute it
to fate. If they get through two or more, they start
thinking that maybe they have some steel in them."
  "She does," said Rodgers.
  "Exactly. And if we nurture that, she's
going to be able to apply it to her daily life."
  "I always thought she had butt-kick potential
behind those soft Irish eyes," Herbert said.
  Hood thanked Liz, then looked at Herbert.
"Bob," he said, "I also want to thank you for the
support you gave me, Mike, and Striker. If
it weren't for the timely arrival of your people over there,
myself, Warner Bicking, Dr. Nasr, and
Ambassador Haveles would have been coming home in
boxes."
  "Your Druze soldier was also exceptional,"
Rodgers said. "Without him, Striker wouldn't have found
the ROC in time."
  "Those people over there are the best," Herbert said.
  "I hope you'll remind Congress of that at
budget time."
  "Senator Fox will get a full and confidential
report," Hood said. "I'll keep after her."
  "While you're at it," Herbert said, "Stephen
Viens is going to need our'help. A Special
Prosecutor is going to be appointed to look into the
NRO'S black budget.
  He feels that he's going to take the brunt of the
scapegoating, and I agree. For the record, he and
Matt Stoll and their teams worked through the night to get
our satellites back on-line."
  "I know he's a friend, Bob," Hood said, "and
we'll do what we can. Mike, who's overseeing the
return of the ROC?"
  "I'm going to work with the Tel Nef commander and
Colonel August on that," he said. "It's safe
at the base right now. As soon as things finish
quieting down in the region, the colonel and I will
go back and get it."
  "Fine," said Hood. "Then if you can
spare some time today--you too, Bob--I'd like to sit
down and put together a file of the money and lives
Viens has saved.
  thanks to his work at the NRO. Maybe we can
even pull in the accounting department to satisfy the
number crunchers on the Hill."
  Rodgers nodded.
  "I'll have our bean-counters start pulling together the
figures," Herbert said.
  Hood turned to Martha and Darrell
McCaskey, who were sitting together on the leather
sofa. Darrell was his usual stoic, FBI self,
but Martha was shaking a crossed leg impatiently.
  "You two," he said, "will not be able to help with any
of this. You're going to Spain tomorrow."
  Martha perked up.
  "Bugs sent me a report on the flight back
from London," Hood said. "The police in
Madrid have been arresting Basque nationals and
picking up hints of something big about to happen.
Something with serious international consequences."
  McCaskey's expression didn't change, but
Martha was beaming. She relished any chance to test her
diplomatic skills and flex her international
muscles.
  "The national security chief over there has asked
for diplomatic and intelligence help," Hood
went on, "and you're both elected. Bugs and the
State Department are putting together materials for you.
They'll be ready before you leave."
  "And I'll lend you my Berlitz tapes,
Darrell," Herbert said.
  "We'll be fine," Martha said. "I speak the
language."
  Hood's eyes were on Herbert, and Herbert must
have felt them. He squirmed a little in his wheelchair
and said nothing. Bugs had E-mailed him about the
tension between the two, and Hood knew he'd have to do
something about that while Martha was away. Just what, he
didn't know. He had a feeling that preventing a war
between Bob Herbert and Martha Mackall was going
to prove a whole lot more difficult than averting
war between Turkey and Syria.
  The meeting was adjourned, and Hood asked
Rodgers to stay behind. As Bob Herbert exited and
shut the door, Hood came from around his desk. He
sat in an armchair across from the general.
  "It was pretty rough, wasn't it?" Hood
asked.
  "You want to know what's funny?"
Rodgers asked.
  "I've been through rougher. It was more thafi just what
happened over there that got to me."
  "Care to tell me about it?"
  "Yes," said Rodgers, "because it has to do with my
resignation."
  Hood stared with open surprise as Rodgers
pulled a business envelope from inside his jacket.
He leaned forward stiffly and placed it on the desk.
"I was working on that when you called this morning," he
said. "It'll be effective as soon as you find a
replacement."
  "What makes you think I'll accept it?"
Hood asked.
  "Because I won't be any good to you here,"
RO-DGERS said. "No, scratch that. I just think
I'll be more good to the country somewhere else."
  "Where?" Hood demanded.
  "I don't want to sound apocalyptic,
Paul," Rodgers said, "but the Middle East
really brought this home for me. Amercia's facing a
streetwise and very dangerous enemy."
  "Terrorism."
  "Terrorism," he said, "and the unpreparedhess it
preys on. The government is bound
by treaties and economical concerns. Groups like
Op-Center and the CIA are spread too thin.
Airlines and companies doing business abroad and
armed forces stationed in foreign.
  nations can also only do so much to protect their people.
  We need more human intelligence instead of
electronic and satellite surveillance, and we
need a more effective way of acting on
it--preventatively. I spoke with Falah, the
Israeli Druze who assisted us in the Bekaa.
He was semi-retired from reconnaissance work and
didn't realize how much he missed it. He's
ready to go back into action. I'll talk to allies
in other countries, to some of Bob's contacts.
Paul, I believe this more strongly than I've ever
believed anything. We need a streetwise and
equally dangerous force to fight terrorism?"
  Hood looked at him intently. "I'm going
to try and talk you out of doing this."
  "Don't bother," Rodgers said. "I'm
determined."
  "I know," Hood said, "and I know how you get.
  What I mean is, I'm going to try and talk you
out of resigning. Why not set up this unit of yours
at Op-Center?"
  Now it was Rodgers who seemed taken aback.
It was several seconds before he could answer.
"Paul, do you realize what you're saying? I'm not
talking about different uses for Striker. I'm
talking about a dedicated unit."
  "I understand," Hood said.
  "But we could never get that into an amended charter."
  "Then we don't."
  "How would you get the financing?"
  "We can learn from some of the mistakes Stephen
Viens made," Hood said. "I'll find a way
to finance it through here. Ed Colahah can be trusted with
that. Hell, I think he'd enjoy it. The CFO'S
jealous of all your cloak-and-dagger stuff. We've
also learned from our mistakes in Turkey. We can
review the data, figure out how to use the ROC
more efficiently. Keep it in the field permanently
instead of only where it's needed."
  "A mobile stealth operation," Rodgers said.
  "With stealth warriors," Hood said. "It's got
possibilities.
  And you've got the passion to pull it off."
  Rodgers shook his head. "What about the actions
themselves? I executed a terrorist in Lebanon.
It was irnperium in imperio, jackboot
law. I judged him and I shot him. I'm not going
to sit here and tell you for certain that I wouldn't do it
again. The lives of innocent Americans come first."
  "I know," Hood replied. "And I won't
say that I disagree."
  Rodgers snickered. "Really? That isn't you,
Paul.
  You're not even for the death penalty."
  "You're right, Mike," Hood said. "But that's the
thing you learn about managing a team like' ours or a
city like Los Angeles or even a family. It
isn't about what you're for or against. It's a question of
what's best.
  Mike, you're going to do this anyway. I've already
half got a picture in mind of you in desert
patriarch'robes with a staff in one hand and an Uzi
in the other, hunting down terrorists. That wouldn't be
the best thing for either of us. I trust you and I want
to help you."
  Hood reached over to the desk and removed the
envelope.
  He held it out. Rodgers looked at it, but
did not reach for it.
  "Take it," Hood said.
  Rodgers looked at him. "Are you
sure this offer isn't about keeping an eye on me so
that I don't go off and become the Moses who
smiteth?"
  "The way you move around," Hood said, "I
couldn't watch you even if I wanted to.
Actually, what this is about is how to keep Bob
away from Martha. He'd love' to work on a
project like this."
  Rodgers smiled. "I'll think about it. I've
got a lot to think about. A few hours ago I
wanted to drop out of this whole damned race. I had
people running to my rescue, not letting me get out of the
trouble I created or face the music myself i"
  "Which is what you've always done," Hood said.
  "That's right," Rodgers said. "And proudly so."
He fell quiet for a long moment as he sat staring
into space.
  "But then this very old teammate of mine reminded me
that even though you run the race alone, it doesn't
mean you are alone."
  "He was right," Hood said. "Didn't Benjamin
Franklin have something to say about that?"
  "He told the Continental Congress, "We must
indeed all hang together, or, most assuredly, we
shall all hang separately.""
  "Right," Hood said. "Who are you to argue with
Benjamin Franklin? Besides, didn't he and
John Adams and the Sons of Liberty do something not
unlike what we're talking about?" He was still
holding out the envelope.
  "I don't want to pressure you, but my arm's
getting tired and I don't want to lose you. What
do you say? Do we hang together?"
  Rodgers looked at the envelope. With a suddenness
which surprised Hood, he snatched it back and put
it in his pocket. "All right," Rodgers agreed.
"Together."
  "Good," Hood said. "Now let's see if we
can help find a way to save our friend Viens from the
vultures."
  Hood called Herbert back in, and they sat
down to work with a level of enthusiasm and cooperation
he'd never before encountered in his group. Hood was not
about to thank the PKK for that. However, as they waited
for Chief Financial Officer Ed Colafan
to arrive with his data, words from a different time and a
different enemy flashed through Hood's mind. They were
the words of Japanese Admiral Yamamoto.
After having led the attack on Pearl Harbor, an
attack which was supposed to crush American
resistance in the Pacific, Ya-mamoto was moved
to comment, "I fear all we have done is to awaken a
sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible
resolve."
  After authorizing Rodgers to discuss his idea with
Herbert, Hood could not remember a time when any of
them were more awake... or more resolved.
  ABOUT THE CREATORS
  Tom Clancy is the author of The Hunt for
Red October, Red Storm Rising, Patriot
Games, The Cardinal of the Kremlin, Clear and
Present Danger, The Sum of All Fears,
Without Remorse, Debt of Honor, and
Executive Orders. He is also the author of the
nonfiction books Submarine, Armored Cav,
Fighter Wing, and Marine.
  He lives in Maryland.
  Steve Pieczenik is a Harvard-trained
psychiatrist with an M.d. from Cornell
University Medical College. He has a
Ph.d. in International Relations from M.i.t.
and served as principal hostage negotiator and
international crisis manager while Deputy
Assistant Secretary of State under Henry
Kissinger, Cyrus Vance, and James
Baker.
  He is also the bestselling novelist of the
psycho-political thrillers The Mind Palace,
Blood Heat, Maximum Vigilance, and Pax
Pacifica.




















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
