Games of State - Tom Clancy [129]
Perhaps sensing Hood's discomfort, Hausen asked, "Did your father serve?"
Hood said, "My father was a medic. He was stationed at Fort McClellan in Alabama setting broken bones and treating cases of"-- he looked at Elisabeth-- "various diseases."
"I understand," Hausen said.
"So do I," Elisabeth put in.
The woman gave him a half-smile. Hood returned it. He felt as if he was back in Op-Center trying to walk the tightrope between political correctness and sexual discrimination.
"And you never wanted to be a doctor?" Hausen asked.
"No," Hood said. "I wanted to help people and I felt that politics was the best way. Some people of my generation thought revolution was the answer. But I decided to work with the so-called establishment."
"You were wise," Hausen said. "Revolution is rarely the answer."
"What about you?" Hood asked. "Did you always want to be in politics?"
He shook his head. "From the time I was able to walk I wanted to fly," he said. "When I was seven, on our farm near the Rhine in Westphalia, my father taught me to fly the 1913 Fokker Spider monoplane he'd restored. When I was ten and attending boarding school in Bonn, I switched to a Bucker two-seat biplane at a nearby field." Hausen smiled. "But I always saw beauty from the air turn to squalor on the ground. And like you, when I came of age, I decided to help people."
"Your parents must have been proud," Hood said.
Hausen's expression darkened. "Not exactly. It was a very complicated situation. My father had quite definite ideas about things, including what his son should do for a living."
"And he wanted you flying," Hood said.
"He wanted me with him, yes."
"Why? It isn't as though you turned your back on a family business."
"No," Hausen said, "it was worse. I turned my back on my father's wishes."
"I see. And are they still furious?"
"My father passed away two years ago," Hausen said. "We were able to talk shortly before his death, though much too much was left unsaid. My mother and I speak regularly, though she hasn't been the same since his death."
While he listened, Hood couldn't help but think back to Ballon's comments about Hausen being a headline grabber. Having been a politician himself, Hood understood that good press was important. But he wanted to believe that this man was sincere. And in any case, there wasn't going to be press coverage in France.
A politician's Catch-22, he thought wryly. No one to report on our triumphs if we succeed, but no one to report on our arrest and humiliation if we fail, either.
As Hood was about to return to the cabin, he had an urgent summons from Stoll.
"Come here, Chief! Something's happening on the computer!"
There was no longer a frightened tremolo in the voice of Op-Center's technical genius. Matt Stoll's voice was thick, concerned. Hood made his way quickly across the soft white carpet.
"What's wrong?" Hood asked.
"Look what just hacked its way into the game I was playing."
Hood sat beside him on the right. Nancy moved from her seat on the other side of the cabin and sat on Stoll's left. Stoll pulled down the window shade so they would have a better view. They all looked at the screen.
There was a graphic of a vellum-like scroll with gothic-style printing. A white hand held it open on the top, another on the bottom.
"Citizens, hear ye!" it read. "We pray you will forgive this interruption.
"Did you know that according to the Sentencing Project, a public-interest group, one third of all black men between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine are in prison, on probation, or on parole? Did you know that this figure marks a ten percent rise from just five years ago? Did you know that these blacks cost the nation over six billion dollars each year? Watch for us in eighty-three minutes."
Hood asked, "Where did this come from, Matt?"
"I have no idea."
Nancy said, "Don't break-ins usually occur through interactive terminal ports or file-transfer ports--"
"Or E-mail ports, yeah," Stoll said. "But this break-in isn't originating at Op-Center. This scroll came