'I copy on the sims, and the only new development is that the President put us in charge of the Task Force. He wants to play hardball.'
'Good.'
'We'll debate that over pizza and beer when it's all over. Right now, your orders are to continue to your destination. We'll radio if there are any updates or changes.'
'Roger.'
'And, Mike?'
'Yes?'
'Let the kids do the heavy lifting, Middle-Aged Man.'
The men signed out and Rodgers sat back, chuckling over their favorite Saturday Night Live character. Yet what really got him was the pizza reference. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but Hood had an uncanny instinct for picking up people's vibes about things. Rodgers often wondered if Hood had developed those talents in politics or whether he'd been drawn to politics because of it. Whenever Rodgers felt like kicking Hood in the ass, he reminded himself that the guy got the top spot for a reason? however much he wished he'd been offered it himself.
He also wished Hood would join him at the track once in a while, instead of doing the Family Man of the Year drill. They could probably make a fortune together, and some of the girls he knew might loosen Hood up a bit— make everyone's life a little less uptight.
Slipping off the headset, Rodgers lay back against the cold, vibrating aluminum rib of the transport plane. He ran a hand over his graying black hair, freshly buzz-cut the day before.
He knew that Hood couldn't help being what he was any more than Rodgers could change himself, and that probably wasn't a bad thing. What was it that Laodamas had said to Odysseus? 'Enter our games, then; ease your heart of trouble.' Where would any of them be without competition and rivalry to spur them on? Had Odysseus not participated in and won the discus throw, he would not have been invited to the palace of Alcinous and been given the gifts that proved so important on his journey home.
'Sir,' said Squires, 'do you want to start going over our playbook? We'll need a couple of hours.'
'Absolutely,' said Rodgers. 'It'll ease my heart of trouble.'
Squires shot him a puzzled look as he scooted closer on the bench and looked down at the oversize looseleaf binder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Liz Gordon was sitting in her small office, decorated only with a signed photograph of the President, a carte de visite of Freud, and, on the closet door, a Carl Jung dartboard given to her by her second ex-husband.
Across the Spartan metal desk, Associate Staff Psychologist Sheryl Shade and Assistant Psychologist James Solomon both worked on laptops that were plugged into Liz's Peer-2030 computer.
Liz used her old Marlboro to light a fresh one as she stared at her computer monitor. She blew smoke. 'It would appear that our data adds up to the President of North Korea being a pretty solid citizen. What do you say?'
Sheryl nodded. 'Everything is right in the middle of the chart, or toward the better adjusted. Relationship with his mother is strong? long-term girlfriend? remembers birthdays and anniversaries? no sexual aberrations? diet normal? drinks very moderately. We even have that cite from Dr. Hwong about how he uses words that communicate ideas rather than trying to impress people with his vocabulary, which is extensive.
'And there's nothing in the files of any of his executive staff that suggests they'd go against him,' Sheryl added. 'If we're dealing with a terrorist, he or she is not a member of the President's inner circle.'
'Right,' Liz said. 'Jimmy, what've you got?'
The young man shook his head. 'We've got a flat line on aggression in Zhonghua Renmin Gonghe Guo. In private conversations monitored here and by the CIA since we did our last report— the most recent at 0700 yesterday— the President, Premier, General Secretary of the Communist Party, and other leading figures in the People's Republic of China have all expressed a desire to sit out any kind of confrontation on the peninsula.'
'Which all boils down to, we were right in the first place,' Liz said through a stream of smoke. 'The methodology is right, the conclusions are right, you can take our findings to the goddamn bank.' She took another long drag, then told Solomon to fax the names of the most militant Chinese leaders to Ambassador Rachlin in Beijing. 'I don't think we have anything to worry about from them, but Hood wants to cover all his bases.'
Solomon flung her a two-fingered salute, unplugged his laptop, and hurried to his office. He shut the door behind him.
'I think that just about covers what Paul wanted,' Liz said. She drew hard on her cigarette while Sheryl closed her computer and unplugged the cable. Liz watched her carefully. 'What've we got here, Sheryl— seventy-eight people?'
'You mean at Op-Center?'
'Yes. There are seventy-eight here, plus another forty-two support personnel we share with DOD and the CIA, and the twelve Striker team members and the people they borrow from Andrews. Figure a hundred forty in all. So why, with all those people— so many of whom are friendly and open-minded and very, very good at what they do— why do I give a fig what Paul Hood thinks about us? Why can't I just do my job, give him what he asks for, and go have a double espresso?'
'Because we seek the truth for its own sake, and he looks for ways to manage it, use it for control.'
'You think so, huh?'
'That's part of it. You're also frustrated by that male mindset of his. You remember his psych profile. Atheist, hates opera, never did mind-expanding drugs in the sixties. If he can't touch it, assimilate it in his day-to-day productivity, it's not worth the effort. Though that is a saving grace in one respect.'
'How's that?' Liz seemed tired as her computer beeped for attention.
'Mike Rodgers is the same way. If they didn't have that in common, they'd maul each other to death with looks and innuendo— worse than they do now.'
'The Bligh and Christian of Op-Center.'
The rail-thin blonde pointed a finger. 'I like it.'
'But you know, Dr. Shade, I think it's something else—'
Shade looked interested. 'Really? What?'
Liz smiled. 'Sorry, Sheryl. Thanks to the magic of E-mail, I see that I'm wanted at once by Ann Farris and Lowell Coffey II. Maybe we'll finish this later.'
With that, the Staff Psychologist turned the key in her computer, dropped it in her pocket, and walked out the door— leaving a confused assistant behind her.
As she walked briskly down the corridor to the press office, folding more gum, more pure chewing satisfaction, into her mouth, Liz had to suppress a smile. It wasn't fair to have done what she did to Sheryl, but it was a good exercise. Sheryl was new, fresh out of NYU and brimming with book learning— kilobytes more than Liz had had at her age, ten years before. Yet she didn't have very much life experience, and her thinking was much too linear. She needed to explore some mental territory without a roadmap, discover routes of her own. And a puzzle like Liz left her with— why does my boss care so much what her boss thinks— will help take her there, make her go through the process of 'Does she have a crush on him? Is she unhappy with her husband? Does she want a promotion, and if so how will that affect me?' A trail like that could take her to any number of interesting places, all of which would be beneficial to her.
The truth was, Liz enjoyed her espressos a great deal and didn't think about Hood when she had them. His inability— or unwillingness— to grasp the clinical soundness of her work didn't bother her. They crucified Jesus and locked Galileo away, and none of that changed the truth of what they taught.
No, what frosted her was how he was the consummate politician before the shit hit the fan. He courteously and conscientiously heard her out and incorporated snippets of her findings into policy papers and strategies— albeit not because he wanted to. That was what Op-Center's charter demanded. But because he didn't trust her
