Tom Clancy's op-centre_ mirror image - Tom Clancy [45]
"As I told you, we don't agree on that," Rodgers said. "Ms. James had to be disciplined by her own superior. She's certainly not going to listen to Squires. But you're back, and you're in command." He looked around the table. "I've finished everything on my agenda. Thank you, everyone, for your attention."
Hood also looked around. "Any other business?"
"Yes," said Herbert. "I think Mike Rodgers and Lynne Dominick and Karen Wong deserve friggin' medals for the silk purse they made from a sow's ear last night. While everyone else in the country was runnin' around wringing their hands about the explosion, those three figured out who did it and probably why. Instead of a Purple Heart, though, we just kicked Mike in the pants. I'm sorry, but I just don't get it."
"Because we disagree with him," said Lowell Coffey, "that doesn't mean we think any less of what he did."
"You're tired and p.o.'d, Bob," said Liz Gordon. "This wasn't about Mike. It was about living in the world of today."
Herbert grumbled his disapproval of the world of today as he rolled away from the table.
Hood rose. "I'll contact you all individually during the morning to check on your progress," he said. Then he looked at Mike Rodgers. "Once again, in case anyone missed it, no one in this room could've done the job that Mike did last night."
Rodgers gave him a little nod, then buzzed open the door and followed Bob Herbert from the Tank.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Monday, 8:00 P.M., St. Petersburg
As the digital clock in the comer of the computer monitor rolled over from 7:59:59, a change came over the Operations Center. The blue hue that had filled the room from the more than two dozen computer screens was replaced by a flood of changing colors which were reflected on the faces and clothes of everyone in the room. The mood changed too. Though no one applauded, the release of tension was palpable as the Center came alive.
Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba looked at Orlov from his lone console on a table tucked into the front right corner. A smile broke through the young man's neatly trimmed black beard and his dark eyes gleamed. "We have one hundred percent go, sir," he said.
Sergei Orlov was standing in the middle of the large, low-ceilinged room, his hands locked behind his back as his eyes ranged from screen to screen. "Thank you, Mr. Buriba," Orlov said, "and well done, everyone. All stations, double-check your data before we inform Moscow that the countdown to operations has begun."
Orlov began walking slowly from side to side, looking over the shoulders of his staff. The twenty-four computers and monitors were arranged in a semicircle on a tightly curved, nearly horseshoe-shaped tabletop. Each monitor was manned by an operator, and he relaxed a little at 8 P.M. exactly, as the blue of each screen was replaced by a strewn of data, photographs, maps, or charts. Ten of the monitors were dedicated to satellite surveillance, four were tapped into a worldwide intelligence database that included reports legal as well as "hacked" from police departments, embassies, and government agencies, nine others were hooked to radios and cellular telephones and received reports from operatives around the world, and one was linked directly to the office of the Ministers in the Kremlin, including Dogin. This link was manned by Corporal Ivashin, who was handpicked by Colonel Rossky and reported directly to him. All but the map screens were filled with phrases in code. The words meant nothing to Orlov, to the person at the next monitor, or to anyone else in the Center. Each station had its own code so that the damage a mole might cause would be minimized. In the event that an operative was sick, a code-breaker program could be activated by both Orlov and Rossky, each of whom knew half of the two-part password.
When the screens came to life after weeks of checking and debugging, Orlov felt the same he had each time one of the huge rockets roared to life beneath him: relief that everything came on, as scheduled.