Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [82]
Mike Rodgers.
"Private," August said, "is there any way this could have come from the ROC?"
"Yes, sir," Honda said. "They could have used one of the phones built into the computer."
"It would have to have been turned on, with someone typing the number into the keys."
"That's right, sir," Honda said. "Or they could have patched a cell phone into the computer and pumped it out through the dish. That might have been easier to key up in private."
August nodded. The ROC was being powered up again. One of the crew would probably have to have done that. Their hands would have to be free, which meant they might have had time to get out a message.
"Op-Center should have gotten this message as well," August said. "See what they make of it."
"Right away," Honda replied.
The radio operator sat down next to August. As Private Honda phoned Bob Herbert's office, August didn't even try to concentrate on the maps,while he waited for Honda to see what Op-Center made of it. But the fact that it was in code and very, very short did not give him a good feeling about Rodgers's situation.
* * *
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, 10:38 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
This time, Mike Rodgers did not have a choice.
Mahmoud had the desire to kill. Rodgers could see it in his eyes. The general didn't even wait the full count of three. As soon as Hasan had translated the order to cooperate, Rodgers had held up his hands.
"All right," he said firmly. "I'll tell you what you want to know."
Hasan translated. Mahmoud hesitated. Rodgers stared into his eyes.
Mahmoud clearly liked having his foot on Rodgers's neck. Rodgers had allowed him to enjoy it even more by capitulating at once. For the Syrian, knowing that he'd won decisively might be all that prevented him from killing Mary Rose out of vengeance or pique. And there might still be a way to stop the Kurds, especially if Op-Center received and understood Rodgers's telephone message. The general had slipped the cellular phone from his shirt pocket where Hasan had placed it earlier that evening. He'd programmed it when he was bent over the pit. A few minutes later, when he'd stood and leaned against the computer station, he'd slipped the phone into its cradle. That automatically jacked it into the uplink. The connection overrode the phone's internal battery; it wouldn't start dialing until the computer came back on.
When Rodgers went back to the pit he connected the battery to several of the ROC's noisiest systems. When the computer snapped back to life, so did the ROC air-conditioner and the security system, which beeped unobtrusively because a window was open. The Syrians did not hear the faint click of the telephone dialing and redialing. Two minutes later all of the batteries were connected. Rodgers swung his bound legs from the battery well.
"Hasan," Rodgers said gently, "would you tell your colleague that everything is ready and that I'm going to cooperate? Tell him I'm sorry for having misled him about the nature of the van. Promise him that it won't happen again."'
Rodgers let his gaze slip down to Mary Rose. The poor woman was breathing slowly. She looked as if she were trying not to vomit.
Mahmoud pulled her up by the hair.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Private Pupshaw grunted, tugging against his bonds.
"Stow that, Private," Rodgers warned. He was trying to ignore the knot of outrage in his own gut.
Hasan nodded approvingly in Rodgers's direction. "I am pleased that you see this our way now."
Rodgers didn't say anything. There was nothing to be gained by explaining how he felt about a gun-wielding man threatening a bound, unarmed civilian. All the general wanted to do right now was keep the terrorists in the front of the van, away from the computer station.
Mahmoud handed Mary Rose to Ibrahim, who held her tightly with one arm across her chest. The Syrian leader approached Rodgers. As he did, the general hopped forward. He stopped