'I was just about to call and tell you, but I wanted to make sure we couldn't get anything,' Viens continued.
'There are newer materials inside, probably Sheet rock and aluminum, but the brick is soaking up whatever's coming off them.' 'What about cars?' McCaskey asked.
'We don't have a clear enough shot at them,' said Viens. 'Too many trees, hills, and overpasses.' 'So we're screwed.' 'Basically,' said Viens.
McCaskey felt as if he were in command of the world's most sophisticated battleship in dry dock. He and Rodgers and Herbert had always bemoaned the lack of on-site human intelligence, and this was a perfect example of why it was needed. 'Billions for modern hardware but none for Mata Hari,' as Herbert had once put it.
McCaskey thanked Viens and hung up. How he yearned to be a man in the field on this one, to be the intelligence linchpin of a major operation with everything depending on him. He envied Matt Stoll, in whose hands the intelligence gathering rested. It was too bad that Stoll probably didn't want the job. The computer jockey was a genius but he didn't function well under pressure.
McCaskey went back to his computer, sent the photographs right to memory, then booted the Pentagon SITSIM, situation simulation, for an ELTS: European Landmark Tactical Strike. The residual political fallout of destroying national treasures was extremely high. So it was the policy of the United States military not to damage historical structures, even if it meant taking casualties. In the case of the Demain factory, acceptable 'injury' as they called it— as though the structures were living things— would be 'single-round defacement of stone or discoloration capable of complete restoration.' In other words, if you stitched a wall with bullets you were in deep trouble. And if you stained it with blood, you'd better be packing a bucket and mop.
Dipping into the French architectural database, he brought up a layout of the fortress they had to enter. The diagram was useless: it showed the way the place had looked in 1777 when the adjacent Vieux Pont bridge was constructed. Dominique had made some changes since then.
If he had obtained permits, none of them were filed anywhere. If he had submitted blueprints, none of those were on hand either. It had been easier getting plans of the Hermitage out of St. Petersburg for the Striker incursion.
This Dominique had obviously been greasing a lot of palms over many, many years.
McCaskey returned to the NRO photographs, which still showed him nothing. He envied Stoll, but he had to admit that the man would have something to be nervous about.
Even with Ballon's help, they would be seriously outgunned if the situation degenerated to that. They would also be too restrained. The file on the New Jacobins was skimpy, but the information it contained had chilled him, details of methods they used to ambush or kill victims and tortures they devised to intimidate or extract information. He would have to forward that data to Hood if they went in. And he would point out that even Melvin Purvis and Eliot Ness would have thought this one over before going in.
There's no time to get Striker into position, McCaskey thought, and the only tactician we have close to the site, Bob Herbert, is incommunicado.
He punched in Mike Rodgers's number to tell him the bad news about the fortress… and to try to figure out if there were anything they could do to keep their bold but inexperienced field force from being butchered.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Bob Herbert had gone through two emotional phases during his rehabilitation.
The first was that his injury wasn't going to beat him.
He was going to shock the experts and walk again. The second— which he entered when he got out of the hospital and his therapy became full-time— was that he was never going to be able to do a damn thing.
When he started working on strengthening his arms, his lower back, and his abdomen, they hurt like the Devil's own pitchfork digging into his sinew. He wanted to give up, let the government pay him disability, and watch TV and not move from his house. But a pair of saintly nurses alternately prodded and pushed him through rehabilitation. One of them, in a less saintly moment, showed him that he could still have a gratifying sex life. And after that, Herbert never wanted to give up on anything again.
Until now.
Because he didn't want anyone in the camp to know he was coming, he wasn't able to use the small, powerful headlights Op-Center's Chief Electrician Einar Kinlock had built into his wheelchair. The ground was uneven and rough.
Sometimes it sloped sharply, other times it ended in sheer drops. In the dark, the chair was constantly getting caught in the undergrowth. Herbert had to push hard to escape, and twice he ended up on the ground. Righting the chair and climbing back in were the toughest things he'd ever had to do, and getting up the second time left him drained. As he settled into the leather seat, his shirt was wet with cold perspiration and he was so tired he was shaking.
He wanted to stop and call for help. But he reminded himself that he couldn't be sure of anyone. That fear was more like the old Nazi Germany than anything he had encountered.
He continually checked the phosphorescent pocket compass he carried. But after more than an hour of pushing himself, he saw headlights about an eighth of a mile to the southwest. He stopped and watched carefully where the vehicle went. It was moving slowly along the rough road Alberto had told him about, and he waited as it passed.
Though the brake lights were dim, he saw them flash in the distance. The interior lights went on, dark figures moved away from him, and then there was blackness again, and silence.
Obviously, that was where he needed to be.
Herbert moved over the lumpy ground toward the car.
He avoided the road in case anyone else was coming, his arms nearly numb with the effort of crossing this last stretch of woods. He only hoped that Jody didn't take him for a neo- Nazi and drop from a tree.
Upon reaching the car, a limousine, he edged forward.
The Skorpion was still in his lap, so he tucked it under his leg where it wouldn't be seen. He could still grab it quickly if he had to. As he neared, he saw the tops of tents with smoke from campfires rising beyond them. He saw young men standing between the tents, looking toward the fires.
And then he saw at least two or three hundred people facing a clear spot by the lake, a spot where a man and a woman stood alone.
The man was speaking. Herbert wheeled himself behind a tree and listened, able to understand most of the German.
'…that this day ends an era of struggling at cross purposes. From tonight forward, our two groups will work together, united by a common goal and a single name: Das National Feuer.' The man shouted the name not just for effect but to be heard. Herbert felt his strength return as well as his anger rise as the crowd cheered. They whooped and raised both arms high as if their team had just won the World Cup.
Herbert wasn't surprised that these people eschewed the Nazi salute and cries of Sieg Heil! Though they surely wished for salvation and victory, and though they had ruffians and killers among them, they were not the Nazis of Adolf Hitler.
They were far more dangerous: they had the advantage of having learned from his mistakes. However, almost everyone was holding something aloft, either a dagger or a medal or even a pair of boots. They were probably the artifacts stolen from the movie trailer. So Hitler wasn't entirely unrepresented in this new Nuremberg rally.
Herbert turned from the fires so his eyes would again adjust to the darkness, and peered around for Jody.
When the cheering died, he heard a voice whisper behind him, 'I waited for you.' Herbert turned and saw Jody. She looked nervous.
'You should've waited for me back there,' Herbert whispered, pointing the way he'd come. 'I could've used some help.' He took her hand. 'Jody, let's go back. Please.
