War of Eagles

powerless without a uniform of some kind. The retired general had come to this job after serving on the abortive presidential campaign of Senator Donald Orr of Texas. It was the murder of a British computer magnate, William Wilson, that precipitated the senator’s downfall. The founder of Unexus, industrialist Brent Appleby, knew Wilson well. Appleby attended the trial and was impressed with Rodgers’s frankness and composure. He asked the retiring general to become president of the new operation. Rodgers accepted with a handshake on the steps of the District of Columbia Federal Circuit Courthouse on Madison Place NW.

Rodgers returned to his desk with the can of soda and a cork coaster. In addition to the usual distractions, Mike Rodgers was not sure how he felt about calling Paul Hood. Rodgers had been allowed to resign from Op- Center after it was downsized. Though the cutbacks were not Hood’s fault, Rodgers felt the director had not fought hard to keep him. He understood why. Paul Hood had the larger picture in mind, the continuation of Op-Center in the wake of severe budget cuts. Striker had been decommissioned after a successful but costly intervention in Kashmir. At that time there was not a great deal for an army general to do.

But understanding and forgiving were not the same.

Now Paul Hood had been replaced. Maybe the White House position was better for Hood in some ways. But it was still a very sudden take-it-or-leave-it offer, not the kind of move that fattened a man’s ego. Rodgers did not need to gloat. That was in Bob Herbert’s nature, not his own. However, he also did not want to be a friend to Hood. That was a status Hood had never earned.

As soon as there were no other emergencies to handle, Rodgers was finally able to call the White House switchboard. They put him right through. That was how Rodgers knew that Hood was reporting to the Oval Office. He had been given cabinet-level treatment. Someone had literally walked his extension information to the switchboard rather than E-mailed it, where it might go unattended for hours. The name Paul Hood had been placed before the bank of operators so they knew who he was, where he was, and what his title was.

It also puts the president’s fingerprints all over Hood, Rodgers reflected. Unlike Op-Center, where a man was measured by his abilities, Hood’s fate was tied to that of the new chief executive. Whatever Hood himself did, he could be elevated or scapegoated at the whim of Dan Debenport.

“This is Paul Hood.”

“Christ, Paul. Didn’t they even give you an assistant?”

It took a moment for Hood to place the voice. “Mike?”

“It is,” Rodgers replied. “Bob told me where to find you.”

“Jeez, I’m glad he did! How the hell are you?”

“I’m doing terrific,” Rodgers assured him. “The change has been good for me.”

“I can imagine,” Hood said. “Unexus ain’t small potatoes.”

“No. Lots of starch here,” Rodgers joked, glancing at his jacket.

“How does it feel being in the private sector for the first time?”

“I’m happy, and my bank account is happy,” Rodgers admitted. “Speaking of changes—”

“Yeah. This is a big one. A sudden one,” Hood said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tucked in the corridors of power without an assistant,” Hood said. “I’m told there will be a couple of them waiting in my other office down the road. An office that has a window, I hope.”

“That would be nice,” Rodgers said. He had a fleeting screw you moment as he looked out his own large floor-toceiling window. The Washington Monument rose in the distance, stone white against a cloudless blue sky.

“Bob tells me you’re enjoying what you’re doing,” Hood went on.

“I’m still fighting with powers from across the sea but usually with less bloodshed,” Rodgers said. The banality of this conversation was painful. Still, after six months of silence the quasi-hail-fellow-well-met dialogue was necessary. “So what can you tell me about this new position of yours?”

“Not a hell of a lot, yet,” Hood said. “New is the operative word. The job is just some five or six hours old.”

“Has it got a title?”

“A lofty-sounding one. I’m special envoy to the president.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Rodgers asked.

“Well, I’m still a bit unclear about that,” Hood admitted. “The position was described as ‘an international intelligence troubleshooter, unaffiliated with any group but with access to the resources of all of them.’ ”

“What about political access through the president?”

“You mean working heads of state?” Hood asked.

“Exactly. In particular, I wonder if that includes getting the ear of the Chinese prime minister?”

“I don’t know. Does it pertain to intelligence troubleshooting?”

“It does,” Rodgers said.

“Impacting the private or public sector?”

“Public there, private here.”

“ ‘Here’ meaning Unexus.”

“Right,” Rodgers said.

“Maybe you had better give this to me from the top,” Hood suggested.

Paul Hood had never been an evasive, cover-your-ass bureaucrat, and that was not what was happening here. He sounded like a man who really did not know the mechanics, let alone the parameters of his job. Since it had only been in existence for one morning, that was understandable.

Rodgers told him what had happened with Le Kwan Po and the Xichang space center and the exclusion of the Guoanbu from the equation. Hood seemed surprised to hear that. Unlike Washington, Chinese intelligence agencies shared information with each other and with the impacted ministries.

“What you really need to know is whether the prime minister has specific information or concerns that your satellite may be a target,” Hood said.

“Their satellite, our subcontract,” Rodgers said.

“Right. Sorry. I thought we could shorthand it.”

“I’m a little sensitive about that,” Rodgers said. “When I was a general, they were the enemy.”

“Aren’t they still?” Hood asked. “Or is North Korea funding its own nuclear program?”

“I’ve got a new office, Paul, one with a window,” Rodgers replied. “Things look different. They have to.”

The comment came out more explosive than illuminating. Rodgers might still be looking at things from a general’s perspective if Hood had not forced him to change offices. He decided to ignore his own minioutburst.

“It’s three days until launch,” Rodgers continued. “I’m hoping the prime minister is just being cautious. But I would like to know.”

“What does Bob say about all this?” Hood asked.

“He’s going to sniff around from downwind,” Rodgers said. “But you know what our HUMINT resources are like.”

Like most intelligence agencies, Op-Center had cut back on expensive human intelligence and relied primarily on ELINT, electronic intelligence. That was fine, as long as adversaries used cell phones and E-mails, or spoke in public places where the agencies had VARDs — videographic or acoustic reconnaissance devices. If not, the analog fish slipped through the digital net.

“Lorraine Sanders will be here in a few minutes,” Hood said. “Let me talk to her about this, see what she thinks.”

“She’s a smart lady,” Rodgers said. “I assume she’s helping you to integrate into the system.”

“That, plus I’ll be reporting to the president through her,” Hood said.

Rodgers was surprised. “Does she have veto power over your operations?”

“No. Only the president, to whom I report.”

“But if the chief of staff controls the flow of information—”

“Conveying information in a timely fashion is part of her job description,” Hood replied sharply. “Mike, is there something we need to talk about? Apart from this, I mean?”

“No,” Rodgers said. “Why?”

“Because that’s the second kick in the ass you’ve given me in as many minutes,” Hood replied.

“That was not my intention,” Rodgers assured him. “I’m sorry if it came out that way.”