War of Eagles (4 page)

A nondescript navy blue sedan pulled into the driveway at exactly seven forty-five. The tall, lean neurosurgeon had delayed going to the hospital to hug his wife before she left. The woman, five foot seven and jogging-slender, pressed her head to his chest. He put a big hand around her short-cropped white hair. Morgan Carrie had earned a bronze star for her work with the 312th Evac unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam—where she met her husband—and later ran special intelligence ops behind enemy lines in the Persian Gulf. Yet when her husband held Carrie like this, she felt like an alabaster doll, fragile and fair, and not a commander of fighting men and women. Which was fine. When her husband sat on the sofa with her and watched Italian operas on DVD, he was not a confident surgeon but a teary schoolboy with trembling hands. Forget sex: this comfort level was really what marital intimacy was about.

The doctor gave his general a parting kiss on the forehead and wished her well. She grabbed her leather briefcase from its spot beside the door. There was nothing in it but pens and a notepad and the originals of her letter. She knew it would not be so empty when she came home. The general stepped into the bright morning. The driver was standing beside the car and opened the door. He introduced himself as Angel Jimenez and told her there was an iced tea in the cup holder in the backseat.

“How did you know that is my drink, Angel?” the general asked.

“I sent the question up the ladder until someone knew the answer,” the young man replied.

“And that person was?” she asked.

“Actually, General, no one knew. They called your military driver.”

“I see.” She smiled. “Well done.”

“Thank you, General,” Angel replied.

General Carrie slid into the unfamiliar car.

“There is a folder on the seat for you,” the driver said.

“I see it. Thank you.”

The general picked it up. She tore the red paper seal with an index finger. After years of riding in a Cutlass, the Saturn seemed small. Certainly the leather seat needed breaking in. But she did recognize the heavy-bottomed ride as the result of armor plating and the thick windows as bulletproof. She did not know if she were more or less a target than before, but she understood that the precaution was necessary.

General Carrie looked at the folder. The outside said Eyes Only. Inside were sealed manila envelopes. Each contained a concise dossier on the personnel of her new command. She flipped through them, looking for familiar names. As expected, there were only two: Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens. She knew Bob and his late wife Yvonne from the Middle East, and Viens from his years with the National Reconnaissance Office. Both were solid professionals, though she had heard that Herbert was more of a loose cannon than ever.

No matter. President Debenport wanted her to reconfigure Op-Center, to run a tighter command. Either Herbert would fall in, or he would be replaced.

Carrie started scanning the files to familiarize herself with the personnel she would be meeting today. Former political liaison, now deputy director Ron Plummer. FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey. Director of Tech Operations Matt Stoll. Psychologist Liz Gordon. The evaluations written by Paul Hood and his former number two Mike Rodgers suggested that they were all rather individualistic, what the army called rogues.

Hood seemed to like and encourage that. Rodgers did not. Carrie sided with Rodgers.

It would be a challenge to bring them around, but that was what Carrie had been waiting for her entire career. She did not intend to blow it. Besides, the general was representing more than just women in her new position. She was also a standard-bearer for the military. It was flattering, it was terrifying, and it was invigorating, all at once. And the only way she would get through this was to remember something her dad, a newspaper editor in Pittsburgh, had told her when she went off to enlist. He knew her better than anyone when he said, “The job is not about you or having something to prove, honeypot. It’s about serving your nation.”

She began reading the dossiers in greater detail as the car merged smoothly onto the Capital Beltway.

There was an unusual calm in the West Wing as Hood arrived.

The offices and corridors were never as busy as they were fictionalized on TV, people dashing here and there with purpose bordering on panic. But there seemed to be a bubble around Hood as he made his way through the security checkpoint and was greeted by the president’s assistant executive secretary. Eyes would come near him and then slide away, like sand off a beach ball.

Maybe it was his imagination. Or paranoia. In D.C., those were not hindrances; they were tools.

Hood was taken directly to the Oval Office, where Chief of Staff Lorraine Sanders was leaning over the desk, talking with the president. Debenport waved Hood in, and Sanders disappeared into an adjoining office. When she returned, she was followed by a man in a white jacket. He was wheeling a two-tiered brass cart into the room. The wheels squeaked loudly.

The president rose and offered Hood his hand. Debenport was a slope-shouldered man of average build. He had thinning straw-colored hair and a quick smile. He looked like a country pastor. His centrist views and unflappable nature made him a dramatic contrast to his predecessor, who was tall and dynamic—and had come close to a psychological breakdown from which Op-Center had rescued him. Hood and the NCMC had also been instrumental in helping Debenport get elected, fighting off a threat from corrupt third-party candidate Donald Orr. That battle had earned Op-Center the deadly EMP attack.

“It belonged to FDR,” the president said, nodding his chin at the cart. “I’m told the president wouldn’t let his staff oil the wheels. They made his own wheelchair seem quieter, more presidential.”

Hood believed it. On such details were image and power built.

“Sit,” the president said, gesturing toward a red leather armchair.

Hood did so. The president waited until Sanders sat before he did. With any other president that would have been a power move. The equation was, “The taller the figure, the greater his authority.” With the former South Carolina senator, it was simply good manners.

The president asked Hood about his children as coffee was poured and the tray of pastries was uncovered. More politeness, Hood suspected. Until the server was gone, they could not discuss national security matters. Hood told him that Harleigh and her younger brother Alexander were doing well.

“I can’t believe it’s been over two years since the United Nations siege,” Sanders remarked. She was a lean five-footer with a frowning and intense look. “I was deputy director of the State Department’s New York office at the time. We were working with the FBI to put a SWAT scuba team into the East River when you and General Rodgers ended the siege.”

“Mike was really the one who ended it,” Hood said. “I was just trying to get my daughter out.”

Hood’s voice choked as he spoke. He and Rodgers had been through a lot. He owed the general a lot. The men had not spoken for six months, ever since the general had become the head of the military-industrial firm Unexus, an international cooperative formed by Australian, British, Russian, and American interests.

The server left, and the door to the other room was shut. The president took a sip of tea and leaned forward.

“Paul, I asked you here because I need a favor,” Debenport said. “I need you to take on a project for me.”

The president had a talent for personalizing things. That made it difficult to refuse a task without insulting him.

“Mr. President, do you need Paul Hood or Op-Center?” Hood asked.

“I need you, Paul!” Debenport replied. His exuberant tone was the equivalent of a slap on the back. “I would like you to become special envoy to the president. The position entails international intelligence troubleshooting, unaffiliated with any group but with access to the resources of all of them. Your office would be down the hall from this one, and you would report directly to me through Ms. Sanders, not through the executive secretary.”

Hood thought the last six months had been a lot to process. This was complete information overload. Hood found himself with a lemon pastry in his hand. He did not remember reaching for it.

“Mr. President, I’m flattered,” was all Hood could think to say.

“Then you’re on board?” the president pressed.

“I’d like to think a bit, sir. This would be a big change.”

“I need someone
now,
Paul,” the president told him. “Someone I can rely on. I want it to be you.”

“What about Op-Center, sir?”

“No longer your concern,” the president replied bluntly.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I have given the post to General Morgan Carrie, formerly of G2,” the president said, leaning forward. “Her commission is effective immediately.” Debenport spoke now with some of the steel Hood remembered from his days as chairman of the CIOC. The pastor was gone, replaced by a higher authority.

“You’re saying, Mr. President, that either I accept reassignment, or I’m fired,” Hood said.

“Not at all, Paul,” the president told him. “You can resign, effective as of eight-thirty A.M. this morning. You can say it was always part of your plan to get Op-Center on its feet and move on.”

“At the risk of belaboring something you want to see over and done, sir, are you saying you need me here, or are you saying you need me
out
of Op-Center?” Hood asked.

“Both. Paul, the military is not happy with some of the budget initiatives this administration is taking. I have to equal the ledger.”

“By giving them Op-Center?”

“In a word, yes.” The president leaned back. “You’re not a neophyte, Paul. You know that this is how things work. As for the new position, that’s
my
way of maintaining balance. I need someone who will continue to interact with Op-Center on a personal level and who will form close relationships with personnel at other intelligence agencies here and abroad.”

“You are saying, sir, that you want a personal intelligence officer.”

“Cabinet level without the title,” the president said. “And don’t look so glum, Paul. That’s a promotion.”

“I understand, sir. Doesn’t that interfere with the NSA and their mission?” Hood asked.

“You’ve met General Carew,” the president said. He looked at Sanders. “How did the vice president describe him?”

“He said the general has brass ballistics,” she replied.

“That’s right,” the president said. “And Vice President Perry ought to know. They served together in Vietnam. The point is, whatever Carew knows, the DoD will know.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, sir,” Hood said. “How will General Carew take my being here?”

“He will like it about as much as General Rodgers liked serving under a civilian,” the president replied. “But he will have to live with that. Your only contact with the general will be when you require information from the NSA. You will not be at their disposal.”

“I see. What about staff, sir?”

“We have budgeted two assistants, both off premises,” Lorraine Sanders replied. “We felt it best to have your telephones and computers located in a less trafficked area. We have assigned them space in the renovated basement of the Winder Building at 600 Seventeenth Street.”

“The U.S. trade rep has offices there,” Hood said.

“Correct.”

“But the basement,” Hood said. “Isn’t that also where they held prisoners during the Civil War?”

“As I said, it’s been renovated,” Sanders replied.

“Right.” Hood had gone from one basement to another. “Have you already hired the staff?”

“No,” Sanders replied. She smiled. “We want you to be comfortable with your associates.”

“This office will not be looking over your shoulder,” President Debenport assured him. “What do you say? I need my own intelligence resource, my own confidant. I need Paul Hood.”

Damn him,
Hood thought.
Damn the president for making something expedient sound desirable
. And damn him for leaving Hood unemployed if he declined the offer. He had alimony and child support. Hood would not let indignation over the process affect his responsibilities.

“I accept the post,” Hood told him.

“Thank you,” the president replied, rising.

Debenport sounded sincere, which was something. It made Hood feel marginally better about having been shanghaied. Besides, the president was right. This was Washington, and Hood would have been lucky to make a lateral move, let alone enjoy an upkick in a new administration.

It still had not really hit him that he would not be returning to Op-Center, that the responsibility of running it—and the privilege—had been taken from his shoulders. Unlike the ending of his marriage, there was no sense of relief to counterbalance the sudden, encroaching emptiness.

Hood forced himself not to dwell on that. He had just accepted a new job. That was where his attention must go.

Hood and the chief of staff rose. Sanders told the new special envoy that she would show him to his office and come back around three, after she had arranged for help to organize and equip the Winder Building space. He thanked her while the president was still within earshot. Hood may have come from Los Angeles, but he had good manners as well.

As they walked down the corridor, the sense of avoidance Hood had felt earlier was gone. It had been replaced by a sense of courteous attention. Maybe it was all in his imagination, or maybe it was something palpable in his walk or his carriage, a stalwart if unconscious evidence of his new access to power.

Whatever it was, Hood resolved to ignore it. Yesterday he was the director of Op-Center. Today he was a special envoy to the president.

Tomorrow he could be indicted over a cheese Danish.