During Link’s stewardship, the Garage appeared in fewer and fewer internal CIA memos. Over time, the warehouse virtually became Link’s own private black ops repository and staging area.
The fifty-year-old Van Wezel was devoted to Admiral Link. Together, over the years, they built a small network of off-the-books counterespionage agents code named Mechanics. Most of them were former SEALs loyal to the former admiral. Today, the Mechanics remained on the Company’s stealth payroll. But they were available to their friend and mentor for special jobs. They knew his heart, and they knew that it belonged to an uncompromising patriot. They recognized that Kenneth Link would never ask them to do anything that was not in the nation’s best interests.
One of these people was Jacquie Colmer, a former captain on the admiral’s staff. The thirty-six-year-old woman was fearless. When Link shifted to the CIA, he made certain that she was appointed the new navy liaison with the Garage. She and Van Wezel got together once a week to review inventory. That list was sent to Link, along with the whereabouts of the Mechanics. Jacquie also went out on the rare local jobs Link requested. Most of those were surveillance. A few were more hands-on.
Link had informed both Van Wezel and Jacquie about this new operation he needed done. The job was risky, and it was extreme. Both of the Garage veterans had grave reservations about the target. But they had read the newspapers. They understood what was at stake.
They would do what the admiral asked.
Van Wezel had two other functions at the Garage. One was intentionally visible. He maintained a small fleet of nondescript vehicles. These were “the means.” The trucks and vans were owned and operated by the Herndon Road Services Company, a shell company controlled by the CIA. The HRSC rented vehicles to local firms in order to appear legitimate. Van Wezel wore white coveralls and could frequently be seen taking care of his half-dozen vehicles, washing and servicing them and waving to the locals when they passed.
Van Wezel’s third job was to give operatives “the ways” to do their jobs. He maintained a large computer database of logos from utilities and local companies. He used these to make photo ID badges for the field ops. More often than not, he had the right one for the right job already at hand. He regularly checked the web sites of the firms to make sure the design had not changed.
For this particular mission, Van Wezel needed a badge for the Country-Fresh Water Corporation. The CFWC had a contract to provide water to the coolers in all local government agencies. He had called the CFWC, pretending to be the client, to make sure this was not a regular delivery day. It would be disastrous if the real provider showed up while Jacquie was there. Then he called the client to schedule a delivery for today. Van Wezel already had a badge prepared for another agent. It was an easy matter for him to put Jacquie’s photograph on that ID. He also had a small sign with the CFWC logo. He slipped that into a frame on the side of the van. If the guard asked, this was a loaner while the real truck was being repaired.
Van Wezel was confident about the ways and means. He also had the “ends,” one that was developed by the Air Force for air drops into power plants. It would accomplish the admiral’s goal with a minimum of event-injuried allies. Despite their differences, the men and women of Op-Center were also Americans. Link had no desire to hurt them. He had only one objective: to stop them.
TWENTY-NINE
Like dinner the evening before, lunch with Kat was a welcome respite from angry thoughts. She was a sophisticated young woman with an eye firmly on the future but also a critical eye on the past. She had not only been influenced by her police family, but her journalistic background had given her broad political exposure. Kat Lockley knew how the system worked. More importantly, the New York native obviously knew how to work the system.
“Being New Yorkers, how did you ever hook up with the senator?” Rodgers asked. “You said he was an old friend of your father… ”
“Army days. They drifted later, but never far or for long. When my dad was on the police force, he helped set up a program called Vacation Swap, when kids from the city went to some other place and vice versa,” Kat said. “He and one of their other army buddies, Mac Crowne — a Park Avenue dentist, fittingly — took kids out to the Orr Ranch a couple of times a year. They were as different as could be, which is probably why they got along so well.”
“Did you ever go?”
“A couple of times,” she said. “Good thing, too.”
“Why?”
“Senator Orr says he would never entirely trust a person who was uncomfortable around horses,” she replied.
“The admiral does not strike me as an equestrian,” Rodgers noted.
“He isn’t. But he hunted sperm whales as a teenager in Newfoundland, before it was banned. That registered big on the Orr machismo scale.”
“I hope the senator realizes I have nothing to offer along those lines—”
“But you do,” Kat commented. “Tanks. Big beasts, difficult to tame. To the senator, tank warfare is like a medieval joust. Very manly.”
“I see,” Rodgers said.
Kat was absolutely a good person to have on the team. Experienced, enthusiastic, energetic. It was not just Kat, though. The entire conversation felt good. It was full of insights and compliments, camaraderie and hope. When it was over, Rodgers decided to go back to Op-Center and clean out his desk. Though he was still technically on the payroll, he wanted no part of the organization. He did not want to hold on to the anger Hood had made him feel. He would say his good-byes to those who wanted to hear them, and then Mike Rodgers would do exactly what Kat Lockley was doing: use the considerable experiences of his lifetime to look ahead. Rodgers could not imagine that Paul Hood would want or need him for anything over the next few days.
He walked Kat back to the office building, then drove out to Andrews Air Force Base — possibly for the last time. Mike Rodgers was not sentimental that way. Yet he did wonder if, on the whole, this had been a positive experience. So much good had been done but at an extraordinary cost. For himself, the sadness of the people he had lost would probably be stronger in his memory than the goals they had achieved. He also believed, as he had since Op-Center was chartered, that he would have done a better job running it than Hood had done. He would not go so far as to say that good things had happened in spite of the director. But he would say that Hood had not been as proactive as he would have been.
Hell, I was the one who assigned myself to the North Korea mission, Rodgers thought.
If he had not, Hood might have refused to let Striker act as aggressively as it did. His CIOC-friendly methods may have allowed Tokyo to vanish under a barrage of Nodong missiles. Waiting for approvals and charter revisions was the way to build a legal and clean-living entity, not necessarily the most effective one. It would be like soldiers in the field asking the president or secretary of defense to okay each maneuver. Rodgers always felt it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
The air force guard standing near the elevator saluted smartly. Rodgers saluted back. Nothing in the young woman’s eyes betrayed knowledge of what had gone on below. Perhaps she did not know. Op-Center’s grapevine tended to grow, and remain, underground.
The initial discomfort of employees in the executive section had passed. They greeted Rodgers warmly as he made his way to his office. Rodgers told Liz Gordon and Lowell Coffey that he had decided to accept Senator Orr’s offer and would be working on the campaign. Both wished him well. Rodgers did not know how he would respond to Hood if he saw him. The general could — and would — ignore his replacement, Ron Plummer. The political liaison had not won that job, it had been granted to him by default. That made Plummer neither enemy nor rival, just a man with a catcher’s mitt. Paul Hood was a different matter. He was the one who had made the default call. Rodgers imagined everything from ignoring him to grabbing the front of his lightly starched white shirt, slamming him against a wall, and spitting in his wide, frightened eye. What stopped him, when they did meet, was the realization that Hood was finally doing what Rodgers had wished he would do for years: telling the CIOC to screw its own rules and doing what he thought was best for Op-Center. It was only too bad his newly found courage came at Admiral Link’s expense.