A former college all-star athlete, Dayna had twice won Olympic gold in the controlled mayhem known as white-water kayaking. She took her code name from the Rogue River in Oregon, where she’d first learned to run rapids. Her current job as a consultant at one of the nation’s foremost outdoor sports-training centers gave her both flexibility and the perfect cover for her OMEGA assignments.
Especially this one. Eighteen-year-old golf prodigy Wu Kim Li was one of those international celebrities everyone loved to hate. Incredibly skilled, obnoxiously temperamental, the North Korean won as many fans by sinking a long putt as she turned off by her tirades when she missed a short one. But it was the golfer’s father who had captured OMEGA’s attention.
“What’s the story on Dr. Wu?” she asked. “I know he’s some kind of a scientist working on hush-hush stuff.”
Nick flicked a switch and filled the Control Center’s wall-size screen with the intent, unsmiling face of Wu Kim Li’s father.
“This is our most recent photo of Dr. Wu Xia-Dong. The photo was hard to come by, as he hasn’t traveled outside North Korea in almost a decade. His government keeps him on a short leash. No surprise, considering he’s one of their foremost nuclear weapons engineers.”
“Uh-oh. I’m guessing that doesn’t make him real popular with the White House.”
“To put it mildly.”
Relations between the United States and North Korea, always shaky, had deteriorated steadily in recent months over Korea’s stubborn determination to develop nuclear weapons. The situation had become so tense that the State Department had warned U.S. citizens to think twice about doing business with or traveling to North Korea. As Dayna studied the face on the screen, she wondered how much Dr. Wu had contributed to those tensions.
“What’s the thinking?” she asked. “Why did Kim Li whisper that urgent message about her father’s attendance at the golf tournament in Scotland?”
“The CIA has picked up subtle vibes that Wu is chafing under the constraints his government imposes on him. They’re convinced he wants to defect. Your task will be to find out if that’s true and, if so, effect the escape.”
Nick didn’t have to tell his agent how absolutely vital this op was to U.S. national security. Her low whistle indicated she’d grasped the implications immediately.
“What about the daughter? Is she in on this, too?”
“We think so.”
He brought another photo up on the screen. This one captured Wu Kim Li in midswing, displaying the perfect form and incredible power that had led the media to christen her Tigress Wu.
“As you well know,” Nick said, “she makes millions in product endorsements. Since she lives in a Communist state, however, only a fraction of those revenues come to her personally.”
“If that,” Dayna commented. “I’ve competed against athletes from Communist countries. The State produces them, the State reaps the reward. Particularly North Korea. They won’t let their athletes train anywhere but in their own country.”
“Precisely. And Wu has more than product endorsements to tempt her. She’s hinted that she’s interested in a possible career in the movies.”
“She certainly has the face and figure for it,” Dayna agreed. “Too bad she’s such a little bitch. Hollywood will have trouble casting her as anything but a werewolf.”
Nick left the photo on the screen as he studied his field agent. Wu Kim Li wasn’t the only athlete with the face and figure to make it big in Hollywood. Rogue’s shoulder-length tumble of honey-colored hair framed a face dominated by sculpted cheekbones and wide, forest-green eyes. Regular and strenuous exercise had honed her body to a perfect symmetry of line and curve. Posters of her lithe form molded by the wet suit she’d worn in her last run for Olympic gold still sold for megabucks on eBay.
“Think you can get past Wu’s bitchiness and gain her trust?”
“The first task, sure. The second task might be tougher. I’ll find some way to connect, though.”
Lightning nodded. Rogue was one of his top operatives. If anyone could crack through Wu Kim Li’s ring of bodyguards and watchdogs, she could.
“While you work the daughter, Hawkeye will work the father.”
Surprised, Rogue flicked a glance at the world map on the wall of the Control Center. Signals sent via GPS satellites pinpointed the exact location of the three OMEGA agents currently in the field. One of them was Mike Callahan, code name Hawkeye.
“Isn’t Hawk in Algeria?”
“He is, but he’s about to wrap things up there. He’ll fly from Algiers and connect with you in Scotland.”
“Good. We work well together.”
No surprise there, Nick thought. A former military cop and world-class sharpshooter, Mike Callahan had racked up almost as many trophies and titles in his field of expertise as Dayna had in hers. They had nothing but respect for each other—on and off the job.
Now, for the tricky part.
Hitting the switch, Nick took Wu Kim Li’s face off the screen and replaced it with an aerial map of Scotland. The town of St. Andrews sat midway up the east coast, at the tip of a peninsula that jutted into the North Sea. Zooming in, Nick focused on the Royal Air Force Base a few kilometers from the town.
“If you confirm the Wus want to defect, the best place for the extraction is here, at RAF Leuchars.”
Dayna agreed with his assessment. “It’s been years since I played St. Andrews, but I remember seeing British fighters landing and taking off from the base.”
“British fighters aren’t the only planes bedded down at RAF Leuchars. The U.S. also has a detachment of B-2 Stealth bombers there.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Few people do. The British government is under intense fire for its support of the Iraqi War. A growing antiwar movement doesn’t want to see that support continue or expand. When word leaked that the B-2s might go in at RAF Fairford, in the south of England, suspected al-Qaeda sympathizers infiltrated what began as a peaceful protest march and turned it into a near riot. As a result, the U.S. and U.K. governments decided to bed the B-2s down farther north, outside St. Andrews. So far the presence of the bombers at RAF Leuchars has remained an unconfirmed rumor among the local populace.”
He swiveled his chair, turning away from the screen to watch Rogue’s reaction to his next comment.
“We have a detachment of USAF aircrews and support personnel at RAF Leuchars. One of the pilots is Captain Luke Harper.”
Rogue was good. Damned good. Her green eyes showed only a bare flicker of emotion.
“Luke and I are ancient history.”
Not that ancient. The romance between one of America’s most promising—and photogenic—athletes and her handsome young lieutenant had made for great TV spots during the hype leading up to the 2004 Olympics. They were the perfect
