With just twenty minutes until drop time, Rodgers called Puckett over and asked him to raise Hood.

The Director was edgier than Rodgers had ever remembered hearing him, and it was refreshing.

"Mike, it's beginning to look like you're going to be in the thick of it."

"What happened?"

"The President doesn't buy it, but we're convinced that a South Korean team is behind all this, and we've also learned that a pilot took two men from a ferry in the Sea of Japan. Guy was so nervous he cracked up his plane on landing and spilled his guts to the sea patrol. He said he took the men to Kosong."

"Kosong? That's just a three-pointer from the Nodongs."

"Exactly. And there were two bodies on the ferry. The dead men were carrying gambling money from Japan to North Korea. Tens of thousands of dollars."

"That's decent bribe money up North. Most of those bastards would sell their kids for a grand."

"That's what Bob Herbert says. It's a big leap of faith to assume that someone from the South is planning to use that money to get control of the Nodong site, but we can't afford to overlook the possibility."

"Which means we've got to get in there and find out for sure."

"Right. I'm sorry, Mike."

"Don't be. This is what we signed on for. To paraphrase George Chapman, being threatened is what turns us into lions."

"Sure. And like Kirk Douglas said in Champion, 'Ours is like any other business, only here the blood shows.' Take care of yourself, and tell Charlie and the boys to do the same."

"Ten minutes!" Squires called back.

"That's it, Paul," Rodgers said. "I'll radio you when we have something. And if it's any consolation, I'd rather be dodging bullets than the press on this one. Good luck to you too."

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Wednesday, 7:20 A.M., the DMZ

General Schneider forgot his dream the instant his orderly entered. All he remembered was that he was on skis somewhere and liking it very much. Reality, and the dry night air, always brought him back with an unpleasant jolt.

"Sir, there's a phone call from Washington."

"The President?" he said.

"No, sir. Not that Washington. A Mr. Bob Herbert from Op-Center."

Schneider muttered an oath. "They probably want me to straitjacket poor Donald." Sliding into his slippers, the General went to his desk. With an air of relief, he inserted himself in the swivel chair and picked up the phone. "General Schneider."

"General, this is Bob Herbert, Intelligence Officer at Op-Center."

"I've heard of you. Lebanon?"

"Yes. That's quite a memory you have."

"Bob, I never forget when we do something stupid. Goddamn Embassy had a 'kick me' sign on it for terrorists. No heavy barricades out front, nothing to stop a bomber bent on driving a truck to Allah's doorstep." He leaned back in the chair and raised his eyelids to stretch the sleep from them. "But enough about old mistakes. You're calling to stop a new one from being made."