Games of State - Tom Clancy [73]
"Liz," Rodgers said, slightly annoyed, "those are exactly the guarantees I need."
"Sorry," she said. "The irony is, I'm not concerned that the Strikers would be afraid to act. To the contrary. I'm worried that they would overact, a classic Guilt Counterreaction Syndrome. They would put themselves at risk to make certain that someone else isn't hurt, to ensure that what happened in Russia doesn't happen again."
"Is there anyone you're particularly worried about?" Rodgers asked.
Liz said, "Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw are the shakiest, I think."
Rodgers tapped a finger on the desk. "We've got mission plans for bare-bones, seven-person teams. Do I have seven people, Liz?"
"Probably," Liz said. "You probably have at least that."
"That still doesn't help me."
"I know," she said, "but right now I just can't give you any assurances. I'm going back this afternoon for individual sessions with several of the Strikers. I'll be able to tell you more then."
Darrell McCaskey knocked and was told to come in. He sat down and opened his power book.
"All right," Rodgers told Liz. "If you're unsure about anyone, give them leave. I'll call Shooter and have him second four or five backup members from Andrews. He can bring them up to speed in several key positions and move them in if he has to."
Liz said, "I wouldn't have him bring them to the base just yet. You don't want to demoralize the people who are struggling to overcome guilt and grief."
Rodgers loved and respected his Strikers, but he wasn't sure that Liz's way was the best way. Back in the sixties, when he was in Vietnam, no one gave half a damn about sadness and syndromes and God knows what else. Your buddy died in an ambush, you made sure you got your platoon the hell out of there, had a meal, a sleep, and a cry, and were back on patrol the next morning. You might still be weeping, and you were sure as shit a bit more careful or a little angrier or burning to inflict some collateral damage, but you were still out there with your M16, ready to work.
"Fine," Rodgers said sharply. "The backup personnel can drill at Quantico."
"One thing more," Liz said. "It might not be a good idea for me to give anyone leave. A report ascribing AWL to even low-level bereavement like this can be pretty stigmatizing. It would be better," she went on, "if I got Dr. Masur to find something physically wrong with them. Something they can't check themselves, like anemia. Or maybe a bug some of them picked up in Russia."
"Jesus," Rodgers said, "what am I running here, a kindergarten?"
"In a way, that's exactly what you're doing," Liz said testily. "I don't want to get too heavy, but we relate a great deal in our adult lives to losses or hurts we suffered in our childhood. And that's what comes out in times of stress or suffering, the lonely kid in us. Would you send a five-year-old into Russia, Mike? Or Korea?"
Rodgers wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. First it was coddling, now he was lying and playing games with his own people. But she was the psychologist, not him. And Rodgers wanted to do what was best for his team, not what was best for Mike Rodgers. Frankly, though, if it were up to him he'd spank a five-year-old who didn't do what he was told, and they'd be better for it. But then, that kind of fathering went out with the sixties too.
"Whatever you say, Liz," Rodgers said. He looked at McCaskey. "Tell me something healing, Darrell."
McCaskey said, "Well, the FBI's pretty happy."
"The Baltic Avenue?" Rodgers asked.
McCaskey nodded. "It went off perfectly. They got the Pure Nation group and their computer. It's got names, addresses, couple of bank accounts, right-wing subscription lists, weapons caches, and more."
"Like what?" Rodgers asked.
"The big catch was their plans to attack a Chaka Zulu Society