Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [73]
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.
* * *
TWENTY-TWO
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 DSAs--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 tea 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 said, "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.