Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [46]
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 CH53E 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 eschewed 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 lunch-time 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