"Right." Despite the comfortable air-conditioning in the room, the diminutive Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was perspiring. "We ran a Conflict Exercise of a scenario similar to this a while back, after Jimmy Carter went to North Korea for his little chat with Kim Il Sung. Given the military situation in China and psychological profiles of its leaders— which your people provided, Paul— we found that if we loosened restrictions on business investments in China, and concurrently authorized the shipment of arms to anti-Chinese factions in Nepal through India, the Chinese would be unlikely to become involved."
"How unlikely?" the President asked.
"Eighty-seven percent chance of sitting on the sidelines."
"We came up with a slightly different percentage in our own SAGA simulations," Colon said, "about seventy percent. But the Studies, Analysis, and Gaming Agency didn't have up-to-date psych profiles, so I'm inclined to go with Mel's findings."
Though Hood was listening intently, his expression impassive, he found himself somewhat anxious about Liz's findings. He had a great deal of respect for his Staff Psychologist, just as he held his Operations Support Officer Matt Stoll in high regard. But he put computer analyses and psychology in the place and show slots, respectively, after good old-fashioned intuition. His Press Officer Ann Farris joked that he never met a gut feeling he didn't like, and she was right.
The President glanced at the clock on the bottom of the monitor, then steepled his hands. Colon motioned to the secretary to clear the screen, and Hood watched as screen saver missiles flew left and right across the monitor.
"Gentlemen," the President said after a long silence, "I would like all of you to serve on the Korean Task Force for the duration, and Paul" — he looked squarely at Hood— "I want you to head it up."
He caught the Op-Center Director off-guard— as well as everyone else in the room.
"You'll bring me an Options Paper in four hours. Barring further acts of terrorism or aggression, you'll proceed under the assumption that there will be some level of graduated deployment but no military action for the first twenty-four hours. That should give your people and the rest of the Task Force time to evaluate intelligence and write me an addendum." The President rose. "Thank you all. Av— meet me in the Oval Office at six so we can discuss the situation with our allies. Ernie, Mel— we'll brief the cabinet and members of the Armed Services Committee at seven. And, Paul, I'll see you at nine-thirty."
The President left, trailed by the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Av Lincoln walked over to Hood.
"Congratulations, Paul. I sense an ass-kicking." He leaned close. "Just make sure it isn't your ass that gets kicked."
He was right. The President had never given Op-Center a foreign crisis, and doing so now meant that he intended to strike hard and decisively, if given the chance. Should anything go wrong, he could pin it on the new kids on the block, shut down the agency, and suffer only minimal political damage. Then Hood could take a low-paying position at the Carter Center or the United States Institute of Peace, a convert to pacifism, a reformed sinner trotted out for public scourgings at dinners and symposia.
Av gave him a thumbs-up as he left, and after collecting his thoughts, Hood followed him to the elevator. In addition to having to take the fall for any failure, Hood wasn't keen on having to spend the next four hours playing ringmaster to a bureaucratic turf war as he teleconferenced with everyone who had been in attendance, formulating a cohesive strategy from six people with six very different agendas. It was part of the job, and he did it well, but he hated the way people did what was best for party and agency first and second, and for the country a distant third.
Still, there was the bright side to look at, the chance that he might just pull all this off. And as he contemplated that, the adrenaline began to flow. If the President was willing to take risks with Op-Center, Hood had to be willing to take greater risks to make sure that Op-Center earned its international credentials once and for all. Like one of his heroes, Babe Ruth, when you got your turn at bat you swung for the home run, not the double, and you didn't think about striking out. Even if, like the Babe, you did that sixty percent of the time you stepped to the plate
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The battle was long and hard-fought, bodies falling everywhere, faces twisting in anguish, commands and cries shattering the early morning silence.
"They're such assholes," Melissa Squires said to the other wives around the picnic table. She tapped the back of her husband's pager. "You'd think they could just have fun with this."
"The kids are," said one woman, wincing as she watched her daughter fall from her father's shoulders in the middle of the in-ground pool. "Oooh that'll leave David in a bad mood today. He and Veronica were out there at four forty-five practicing their moves."
The eight women watched and picked at the bacon, eggs, and muffins that were fast becoming cold. The daily pool war had run over, but they knew better than to call their husbands to the table before it was through. They'd only get pissed off, and they wouldn't come anyway: not with their honor at stake.
There were just two chicken fighters left: lean Lt. Col. Charlie Squires and his spindly son Billy and pumped Private David George and his son Clark. The kids pushed hair from their eyes as their fathers circled each other slowly, each watching for an opening, for a kid who lost his balance, made a clumsy offensive maneuver, shivered and broke his concentration.
Sgt. Grey's wife Lydia said, "Last week, when we were visiting my folks in Alaska, Chick and I got stuck in a snowbank and he refused to call for a tow. He told me to put the car in neutral, then he got behind and lifted it out. He walked bent over for two days after, but he wouldn't admit he was sore. Not Hercules."
There was a shout from the pool as Clark lunged at Billy. Instead of stepping back, as he usually did, Lt. Col. Squires moved in: while Clark was leaning forward, Billy grabbed his outstretched arm, pulled down, and the boy flopped back-first into the water. Private George stood there, aghast, as he looked from his son to Squires. There was a smattering applause from the side of the pool, where the other defeated chicken fighters had been watching the showdown.
"That's it, sir?" George said to Squires. "Lor-dee, that was shorter than the first Clay-Liston fight."
"Sorry, Sonny," Squires winked. He reached up and high-fived his son.
"And when did you work that one out, sir?"
"While we were suiting up. Made sense, don't you think? Guy expects a retreat, gets an advance— he's gotta be surprised."
"He was, sir," George mumbled, wading toward the shallow end of the pool, his son in his wake.
"Nice fight," Clark said to Billy as he dog-paddled after his father.
"Don't talk like that," George muttered as he lumbered up the steps with the bearing and disposition of Gorgo. "You'll lose your edge for tomorrow."
Squires followed him out, his eyes drawn to headlights shining through the living-room window of his home in the base family quarters. He snatched a towel from a chaise lounge as the lights snapped off, then watched as a lone figure walked around the one-story cottage, silhouetted by the light blue horizon. No one could have gotten to this quarter without passing through the gate that separated his crew from the FBI Academy, and no one could have gotten through the gate without a call to him directly.
Unless they were from Op-Center.
Draping the towel over his shoulders and slipping on his sandals, the Lieutenant Colonel walked quickly toward the house.