Mission of Honor by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Political, War stories, Adventure stories, Government investigators, Intelligence service, English Fiction, Kidnapping, Adventure fiction, Spy fiction; American, Botswana, Crisis Management in Government - United States, Crisis Management in Government, Government investigators - United States, Diamond Mines and Mining
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else most of them share,” Hood said.
“I’m missing whatever it is,” Rodgers admitted.
“Except for Aideen, none of them ever served in the military,” Hood said. “And none of them is in it now.”
“I’m still not following you,” Rodgers said apologetically.
“These people are not governed by the CIOC resolution or by CCP restrictions,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we get back in the field, but we don’t do it with a military team. We don’t replace Striker.”
“Infiltration,” Rodgers said. Now he got it. “We defuse situations from the inside rather than the outside.”
“Exactly,” Hood replied.
Rodgers sat back. He was ashamed that he had been so slow on the uptake. “Damn, that’s good,” Rodgers said.
“Thanks,” Hood said. “We have an absolute mandate to collect intelligence. The CIOC doesn’t control that,” he went on.
“So we run this as a black ops unit. Only you, Bob Herbert, and one or two others know about it. Our people fly commercial airlines, work with cover profiles, move around in daylight, in public.”
“They hide in plain sight,” Rodgers said.
“Right,” Hood said. “We run an old-fashioned HUMINT operation.”
Rodgers nodded. He was annoyed that he had sold his boss short. Yet this was a side of Paul Hood he had never seen. The lone wolf in sheepish team player’s clothes.
Rodgers liked it.
“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.
“Not at the moment,” Rodgers said.
“Any questions?” Hood asked.
“Just one,” Rodgers replied.
“I already have the answer to that,” Hood said. He smiled. “You start right now.”
SEVEN
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.
It felt good to breathe again.
For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the oven like convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.
After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygen deprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.
Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.
The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.
The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury’s hood was lifted scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.
In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone’s back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury’s body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to
“I’m missing whatever it is,” Rodgers admitted.
“Except for Aideen, none of them ever served in the military,” Hood said. “And none of them is in it now.”
“I’m still not following you,” Rodgers said apologetically.
“These people are not governed by the CIOC resolution or by CCP restrictions,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we get back in the field, but we don’t do it with a military team. We don’t replace Striker.”
“Infiltration,” Rodgers said. Now he got it. “We defuse situations from the inside rather than the outside.”
“Exactly,” Hood replied.
Rodgers sat back. He was ashamed that he had been so slow on the uptake. “Damn, that’s good,” Rodgers said.
“Thanks,” Hood said. “We have an absolute mandate to collect intelligence. The CIOC doesn’t control that,” he went on.
“So we run this as a black ops unit. Only you, Bob Herbert, and one or two others know about it. Our people fly commercial airlines, work with cover profiles, move around in daylight, in public.”
“They hide in plain sight,” Rodgers said.
“Right,” Hood said. “We run an old-fashioned HUMINT operation.”
Rodgers nodded. He was annoyed that he had sold his boss short. Yet this was a side of Paul Hood he had never seen. The lone wolf in sheepish team player’s clothes.
Rodgers liked it.
“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.
“Not at the moment,” Rodgers said.
“Any questions?” Hood asked.
“Just one,” Rodgers replied.
“I already have the answer to that,” Hood said. He smiled. “You start right now.”
SEVEN
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.
It felt good to breathe again.
For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the oven like convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.
After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygen deprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.
Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.
The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.
The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury’s hood was lifted scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.
In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone’s back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury’s body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to
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