Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [174]
"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. "Laurette 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 inning 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. "Lets 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.
* * *
SIXTY-FIVE
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