that would enable them to target and take out the Scud.
Breen and his hogs moved on to their target. Everything went well until the return trip. The Marines reached the cave early in the afternoon and hunkered down until sunset. Then they moved to the communications tower, spliced in the satellite interceptor, and went back along the original route. They had to circle wide around the still- smouldering wreckage of the Su-7, but the Iraqis did not see them.
Unfortunately, a sudden sandstorm had grounded the Apache fleet. The hogs had two choices. They could stay in the foothills and wait for as long as it took for flying conditions to improve, or they could hitch a ride back with a tank that was going to lead part of the charge into Iraq as the hidden Jolly Rodgers advance team picked off advancing Iraqi armor.
Breen did not want to ride back with army personnel, but it had been an arduous trek, they were very low on supplies, and there was no telling how long the sandstorm would last. He put the safety of his team above pride. The Marines agreed to a nearby rendezvous point and left after sunset. They connected at midnight, forty-eight hours after jumping into Iraq.
The man who drove the hogs back was then-Colonel Mike Rodgers. The Marines rode on the outside of the M1A1 Abrams. The trip took six hours, and it was the bumpiest, dustiest journey Breen had ever experienced. The men alternately sat and lay belly down on the rear of the turret or on the forward armor, over the fuel tank. They each had a canteen and foil-wrapped turkey jerky to sustain them. Even worse than the ride, though, was the fact that Colonel Rodgers was an absolute gentleman. He did not rag on the Marines for accepting a lift from the army. In fact, he commended the hogs for sticking to their planned objective instead of going for the trophy Scud.
'You saved a lot of lives,' was Rodgers's final comment.
When they reached the staging area in Saudi Arabia, a Marine troop transport truck was waiting to take them to their own home base.
Colonel Rodgers walked them to the vehicle.
'I'll see you when this is over,' Rodgers said, saluting the Marine and then clasping his hand. 'Where can I reach you?'
'Pendleton,' Breen said. He grinned as his men climbed into the truck.
'I'll probably be with the base chiropractor getting my back realigned.'
It was then that Rodgers took his one and only jab at the Marines. 'You semperfi guys are proud of your sea legs. I've always found a strong army ass to be much more valuable.'
'We'll have to test that one day,' Breen said. 'What about you? Where are you going?'
'I've been overseas half my life. I'd like to find something stateside.'
'Let me know where that is,' Breen told him. 'When we get together, dinner's on me.'
'Not dinner,' Rodgers told him. 'Never dinner. I'm like Don Corleone.
I hold out for favors.'
'You've got it,' Breen replied.
The men did get together after the war, right after Rodgers had accepted a deputy directorship at the newly formed Op-Center. They had a great night on the town in Washington with one of Rodgers's new coworkers, Bob Herbert. Op-Center picked up the tab. Rodgers never called in his chit.
Until now.
The voice mail message did not tell Breen what Rodgers needed, only that he might require intelligence- gathering support in nearby San Diego. Whatever it was, Mike Rodgers would get it. And when this little adventure was all over, General Breen would provide Rodgers with something he had been waiting fifteen years to give him: a high-speed ride on the bumpiest, wettest motorized rubber raft he could find.
THIRTY-FIVE
Washington, B.C. Tuesday, 5:43 p.m.
At this moment, Alexander Hood's bedroom was more technologically capable than the bulk of Op-Center. That thought demoralized Paul Hood, though it was not as if they were starting from zero.
The exception was the Tank. Hood was there now. He was not helping to get the facility marginally operational. He was not helping the search-and-dispose team from Andrews look for other explosives. He was
