State of Siege

from the bay and Mohalley had to hold his cap to keep it from blowing off. Hood didn’t feel it. The anger roiled inside, burning more intensely than his fear and frustration. His muscles were cable-taut and his mind was on fire. Yet his fury was not just directed at this outrage and at the continuing ineffectiveness of the UN. Like oil feeding deep-smoldering fires, his anger spilled everywhere. He actually found himself mad at Op-Center for having intruded so much on his life, at Sharon for not being more supportive, and at himself for having managed it all so badly.

Lieutenant Solo, the military police brigade commander, walked forward to meet them. The lieutenant was a short, beefy, balding man in his late thirties. He had unyielding eyes and a no-nonsense face.

Mohalley caught up to Hood and introduced himself to the colonel. Then he went to introduce Hood. But Hood had already walked past the officers toward the ring of MPs. Frowning, the colonel turned and strode after him. Mohalley followed the colonel.

Hood stopped just short of shouldering his way through the MPs — but it was a very short stop. Enough common sense remained to remind Hood that if he fought these people, he was going to lose.

The lieutenant eased in front of Hood. “Excuse me, sir—” he said.

Hood ignored him. “Mike, are you all right?”

“Been in worse spots,” he said.

That was true, Hood had to admit. Perspective joined common sense and Hood relaxed slightly.

“Mr. Hood,” the lieutenant said insistently.

Hood looked at him. “Lieutenant Solo, these servicemen report to me. What are your orders?”

“We’ve been instructed to make certain that all Striker personnel are put back on board the C-130 and to remain at our post until the aircraft returns to Andrews,” Solo informed him.

“Fine,” Hood said with open disgust. “Let Washington bench the only hope the UN’s got—”

“This was not my decision, sir,” Solo said.

“I know, Lieutenant,” Hood said, “and I’m not angry at you.” He wasn’t. He was angry at everyone. “But I do have a situation that requires the presence of my second-in-command, General Rodgers. The general is not a member of the Striker unit.”

Lieutenant Solo looked from Hood to Rodgers, then back to Hood. “If that’s true, then my instructions do not pertain to the general.”

Rodgers stepped away from the Strikers and moved through the tight circle of MPs.

Mohalley scowled. “Hold on,” he said. “The general order I was given does pertain to all security and military personnel, including General Rodgers. Mr. Hood, I’d like to know what the situation is that requires the general’s presence.”

“It’s personal,” Hood replied.

“If it pertains to the situation at the United Nations—”

“It does,” Hood said. “My daughter is being held hostage there. Mike Rodgers is her godfather.”

Mohalley regarded Rodgers. “Her godfather.”

“That’s right,” Rodgers said.

Hood said nothing. It didn’t matter whether the DOS security officer believed him. All that mattered was that Rodgers be allowed to go with him.

Mohalley looked at Hood. “Only immediate family are allowed to go into the waiting room with you.”

“Then I will not go to the waiting room,” Hood said through his teeth. He’d had enough of this. He had never hit a man, but if this functionary didn’t step aside, Hood was going to push him aside.

Rodgers was standing directly beside the shorter State Department officer. The general was watching Hood. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind. It seemed much louder now in the silence.

“All right, Mr. Hood,” Mohalley said. “I’m not going to hold your feet to the fire on this one.”

Hood exhaled.

Mohalley looked at Rodgers. “Would you like a ride, sir?”

“I would, thank you,” Rodgers said.

Rodgers was still looking at Hood. And Hood suddenly felt like he did when they used to sit in his office at Op-Center. He felt reconnected, tapped into a network of devoted friends and coworkers.

God help him. In the midst of everything, he felt whole again.

Before leaving, Rodgers turned to the Strikers. They came to attention. Colonel August saluted him. Rodgers saluted back. Then, on August’s command, the Strikers returned to the C-130. The circle of MPs parted to let them through. The police remained on the landing strip as Hood, Rodgers, and Mohalley returned to the car.

Paul Hood didn’t have a plan. He didn’t imagine that Mike Rodgers had one, either. Whatever Rodgers might have been thinking of doing would have involved Striker. But as the State Department sedan turned from the Marine Air Terminal and the towering C-130, Hood was slightly less anguished than he had been before. It wasn’t entirely Rodgers’s presence that comforted him. It was also a reminder of something he’d learned from running Op-Center: that plans made in moments of calm rarely worked in a crisis anyway.

There were only two of them, but they were backed by the strongest team in the world, and they’d think of something.

They had to.

TWENTY-THREE

New York, New York

Saturday, 11:11 P.M.

“I absolutely can’t allow you to do this!” Colonel Mott was practically shouting at Secretary-General Chatterjee. “It’s insanity. No, it’s worse than insanity. It’s suicide!”

The two were standing by the head of the table in the conference room. Deputy Secretary-General Takahara and Undersecretary-General Javier Olivo were standing several feet away beside the closed door. Chatterjee had just hung up with Gertrud Johanson, the wife of the Swedish delegate, who was at home in Stockholm. Her husband had attended the party with his young executive assistant, Liv, who was still in the Security Council chamber. Mrs. Johanson would be flying over as soon as possible.

It was both sad and ironic, Chatterjee thought, that so many political wives ended up with their husbands only after the men were dead. She wondered if she would be doing this if she were married.

Probably, she decided.

“Ma’am?” the Colonel said. “Please tell me you’ll reconsider.”

She couldn’t. She believed that she was right. And believing that, she could do nothing else. That was her dharma, the sacred duty that came with the life she had chosen.

“I appreciate your fears,” Secretary-General Chatterjee said, “but I believe that this is our best option.”

“It is not,” Mott said. “We should have video images of the Security Council in a few minutes. Give me a half hour to have a look at them, and then I’ll take my team in.”

“In the meantime,” the secretary-general pointed out, “Ambassador Contini will die.”

“The ambassador will die anyway,” Mott said.

“I don’t accept that,” Chatterjee said.

“That’s because you’re a diplomat and not a soldier,” Mott said. “The ambassador is what we call an operative loss. That’s a soldier or unit you can’t get to in time unless you risk the security of the rest of the company. So you don’t try. You can’t.”

“A company is not at risk, Colonel Mott,” Chatterjee said. “Only me. I’m going to the Security Council and going inside.”

Mott shook his head angrily. “I think you’re doing this to punish yourself, Madam Secretary-General, and you have no reason to. You did the right thing trying to radio the terrorists.”

“No,” Chatterjee said. “I did the shortsighted thing. I didn’t think to the next step.”

“That’s easy to say now,” Deputy Secretary-General Takahara suggested. “No one here had a better idea. And if we had thought of this option, I would have argued against it.”

Chatterjee looked at her watch. They only had nineteen minutes before the next deadline. “Gentlemen, I’m