by Tom Clancy
"Go ahead," Herbert said. He hit the mute button on the phone.
Herbert and Hood continued to look at the overhead map. Hood was studying the area at the foot of the plateau.
"Bob, if we move the satellite will we be able to look into this valley?" Hood asked, pointing at a grid marked "77."
"I don't know," Herbert told him. He glanced over at his boss. "Paul, I want to find Mike too. But we only have the one satellite in the region. Do we want to tie it up looking for him?"
"Mike could have lost or damaged his radio in the fall," Hood said. "If he's alive there might be something he can do for Brett. We need every resource we can get over there."
"Even if they're two thousand vertical miles and God knows how many as-the-crow-flies miles away?" Herbert asked.
"We don't know for certain where Mike is," Hood pointed out. "We need to find out."
Before the intelligence chief could consider what Paul Hood had said, Viens came back on the line.
"Bob, are you looking at the new satellite photos?" Viens asked.
Herbert killed the mute function. "No," he replied and immediately jumped back to the feed from the OmniCom. "Is there a problem?"
"Maybe," Viens said. "Even when the cell was under the ledge we always caught a glimpse of a head or arm so we knew we still had them. What do you see now?"
Herbert and Hood both leaned closer to the monitor as the image formed. The picture looked psychedelic, like something from the sixties. Hot, red shadows were spilling out along a field of green-colored rocks and snow.
The shadows of only three people.
"What the hell's going on there?" Herbert asked.
"I don't know," Viens admitted. "Some of the terrorists could have been lost along the way."
"It's also possible they turned on Friday and the Indian officer," Herbert thought aloud. "Maybe there were casualties. We should try and get them on the radio."
"No," Hood said. "Contact August and let him know there are three individuals ahead. Tell him they may be hostile and that he is to use discretion whether to shadow rather than engage. Stephen, can you get me a look at grid 77 on file map OP-1017.63?"
"I'll bring that map up, see if it's in the OmniCom's focal range," Viens replied. "It'll only take a minute."
"Thank you," Hood said.
Herbert shook his head. "What reason would the cell have for attacking Friday?" he asked.
"Maybe it was Friday who turned against the cell," Hood said. Then he straightened. "Wait a minute," he said. "It could be possible that none of the above happened."
"What do you mean?" Herbert asked.
"Ron Friday must have told the cell that the Indian soldiers were coming toward them," Hood said.
"Right," Herbert said.
"The Pakistanis could not know there was a threat until Friday joined them," Hood went on. "They did not know that getting Nanda to Pakistan was the only way they might be able to stop a nuclear exchange. What would you do with that knowledge, especially if you were also told that an American strike force was coming to link up with you?" Hood said. "If you were smart and bold and probably a little desperate you would try something unexpected."
"Like splitting your forces and using one group to draw the Indian soldiers away," Herbert said.
"Right. Which means that the other four people may be somewhere else, probably holding to the original course," Hood said.
"If that's true, it means we don't want August and Musicant linking up with the splinter group, since they're probably going to want to draw fire from the Indians," Herbert said.
"Correct. Bob, let August know what we're thinking," Hood said. He leaned back over the computer and returned to the NASA map. "Stephen, I need to see into that valley."
"I've got your map up now," Viens said. "I'm looking to see if the coordinates are in the OmniCom computer."
Meanwhile, Herbert punched in Striker's TAC-SAT number. "Paul, you can't be thinking what I think you are," Herbert said.
"I'm sure I am," Hood informed him.
"Assuming he's all right, you don't even know if you can talk to him," Herbert said.
"One thing at a time," Hood said.
"I can do it!" Viens shouted. "I'm sending up the order now. No guarantees about cloud cover and visibility, Paul, but I'll have you in the valley in ninety seconds."
"Thank you," Hood said.
"What are we looking for?" Viens asked.
"A parachute," Hood said. "One that may have Mike Rodgers on the end of it."
THIRTY-NINE
The Mangala Valley
Thursday, 5:30 P.M.
During the Strikers' descent, the AN-12 had made a quick turn to the south. A powerful downdraft from the fast-departing transport had driven Mike Rodgers toward the center of the parachutists. As a result, he was protected from the main thrust of the flak attack. But Rodgers had heard the explosions. He had seen the results as his teammates fell around him. By the time the general had guided himself toward the target, only he and one other striker were still aloft. Despite the heroic efforts of one of the strikers on the ledge, Rodgers had failed to reach the plateau. He had struck his shins and then his right hip and torso on the ledge. Fortunately, his equipment vest took the brunt of the chest hit. But Rodgers was dropping too fast and was not able to hold on. He was also unable to see what happened to the last aloft teammate. At least that chute was on the correct side of the plateau. If he or she were able to disengage from the chute it would probably be all right.
As the rock target disappeared from view, Rodgers studied the terrain immediately below. He had not given up trying to join the others and looked for a ledge he could reach. Unfortunately, Rodgers could not stay as close to the mountain as he would have liked. There were so many rough outcroppings that he ran the risk of snagging and ripping the parachute. Reluctantly, he made the decision to ride the chute to the valley.
While Rodgers descended, he looked for signs of other parachutes below. He had seen the Strikers fall and did not think any of them could have survived the plunge. If he were able to land near them he could be certain. Rodgers refused to think about the soldiers who were almost certainly lost. There would be time to grieve later. All that mattered now was the mission and Rodgers had to find a way of getting back into it.
The currents diminished the lower Rodgers dropped. As he descended into the valley the shroud stopped its side-to-side swaying. The officer hung as straight as a plumb line, protected by the mountains from the fierce winds that raced through the outer range. He floated down through the wispy clouds.
Rodgers glanced at his large, luminous watch. He had been aloft for nearly fifty minutes. He was at a low enough altitude to remove his breathing apparatus and goggles. He strapped them to his belt. The water vapor in the clouds condensed on Rodgers's exposed face. It cooled the hot perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, invigorating him. Below him the clouds began to thin. He could see the terrain rushing up.
This was not going to be easy.
Technically, the formation below was a valley. It was an elongated lowland between two mountain ranges. A shallow, fast-running river cut through the center. To Mike Rodgers, however, the small, barren formation was just a rocky depression in the rugged foothills. The sloping, sharp-edged terrain made a soft landing impossible and a safe landing problematic at best. At least the air was calm. He could work the chute to try to avoid the most precarious spots.
As he dropped under the last level of clouds he saw the first of the Striker parachutes. It was bunched like an orchid in the middle of the river. The Striker was apparently below it. A moment later Rodgers saw the other chutes. Two of them were tangled together at the foot of one of the mountains. The Strikers were sprawled beside them. Their cold-weather outfits were smeared with blood. He saw the fourth Striker beyond and above them. The canopy was caught on a small outcropping about thirty feet up. Sondra DeVonne was suspended close beneath it. She was rocking gently at the end of the shroud lines.
Further beyond, to the south, he saw smoke curling up from behind a turn in the valley. Something had either exploded or crashed there. He did not think it was the AN-12. If the aircraft had been hit, the Strikers probably would have heard and certainly would have seen it go down. He glanced briefly to the north. He could see the foot of the glacier ahead. That was why this valley was so damned cold. The glacier had probably cracked this place from the mountains eons ago.
The ground was coming up quickly. As much as he did not want to hit the slopes, Rodgers did not want to land in the water. With the sun setting, his suit would freeze in a matter of minutes. He also did not want to hit one of the ragged slopes bordering the river. That was a good way to rip his cold-weather uniform or break some bones. Unfortunately, the cliffs tapered so sharply toward the river there was not much of a bank to land on.
That left him one other option. It was one that Rodgers did not want to take. But the choices in war were never easy. The general made his decision and forced it to go down.
Rodgers guided himself toward the downed parachute that had blossomed in the lake. The fabric straddled the shore on the eastern side. There were glints of ice around the edges still in the water. The shroud looked as though it would be stiff enough to take his fall without dumping him into the river. Hopefully, Rodgers would be able to stay on his feet and jump to the narrow shore before the canopy folded altogether.
With just seconds to impact, Rodgers positioned himself over the chute. On one side he could see an arm lying underwater. The flesh was blue-white. Rodgers did not want to land on the Striker's body. He kept his eyes on the other side of the canopy.
The target site loomed larger and larger. Its rapid approach created the distinct sensation that gravity had really grabbed Rodgers. Now he felt as if he were falling, not floating.
Rodgers landed lightly on the canopy. The rigid fabric gave in the middle where he landed, but the fringes remained flat. Rodgers managed to remain on his feet. He immediately popped his chute and let it blow away. He turned to the side nearest the shore. It took just over a second for the canopy to sink enough for water to begin flowing over the sides. By that time Rodgers had stridden several steps and leaped over the water to solid ground. The foot of the brownish-white granite cliff was less than four feet away. Rodgers walked toward it so that he could see further along the valley.
Landing on the shroud had caused it to drift slightly downriver. As Rodgers looked back he saw a body lying facedown underwater. The dead Striker's clothing was bloated by the water. The shroud lines were the only things moving.
Rodgers did not move him. He did not have time. He reached into his equipment vest and opened a flap to retrieve his radio.
At least, what was left of it.
Mike Rodgers looked at the unit in his gloved hand. The faceplate was shattered. Yellow and green wires were sticking up from the cracked plastic. Several shards of black casing along with broken chips were rattling in the bottom of the radio. The unit must have been damaged when Rodgers's right side collided with the ledge.
Rodgers glanced at the dead striker's equipment vest. The radio pouch was underwater. Even if he took off his uniform to keep it dry and retrieved the radio, it was not likely to work. He looked downriver at the tangled parachutes of the other two Strikers. The partly inflated canopies were rolling back and forth in the brisk wind. The bodies beyond were on the narrow, rocky stretch of dry land on his side of the river. Rodgers jogged toward them. His right side and his leg hurt but he refused to let that slow him down.
Private Terry Newmeyer and Corporal Pat Prementine lay inert at the other end of the chutes. Newmeyer was on his right side. Rodgers gently rolled him to his back. His uniform and cheek were soaked with thick, nearly frozen blood. Like his body, Newmeyer's radio was crushed. It looked as if it had caught a piece of shrapnel. The general gave the dead man's shoulder a gentle pat then moved over to Prementine. The corporal was sprawled on his back. One eye was shut, the other was half-open. Prementine's left arm was lying across his chest, the right was twisted beneath him. But his radio seemed intact. Removing it from the pouch, Rodgers turned toward the valley wall. As he walked toward the cliff, the general switched the radio on. The red light on the top right corner glowed. At least something else in this goddamn valley was still alive, Rodgers thought bitterly.
The general raised the radio to his lips. He pressed "speak."
And he hoped the Indian army was not monitoring this frequency.
FORTY
The Great Himalaya Range
Thursday, 5:41 P.M.
Brett August and William Musicant had begun moving southward along the plateau. A fierce, cold wind was blowing toward them as the air cooled and the thermal currents stopped rising. The men had to put their goggles back on to keep their eyes from tearing as they worked their way toward the ledge some four hundred meters ahead. According to the NRO, that was the northern artery of the same ledge the Pakistani cell was traveling on.
The colonel halted when the TAC-SAT beeped. He crouched and picked up the receiver. It was Bob Herbert. The intelligence chief instructed the men to wait where they were.
"What's going on?" August asked.
"There's a chance the cell may have divided," Herbert informed him. "The group that's coming toward you may be bait to draw the Indian soldiers to the northwest."
"That would make sense," August said.
"Yes, but we don't want you to be caught in the middle of that," Herbert said. "There's also a chance that there may have been a struggle of some kind. We just don't know. We want you to proceed to a forward point that you can defend and then wait there."
"Understood," August said. The point where the plateau narrowed would be ideal for that.
"Paul has asked Stephen Viens to have a look around the area northeast of the plateau," Herbert went on. "We have reason to believe the rest of the cell may be headed that way."
"That's where Mike went down," August said.
"I know," Herbert said. "Paul's thinking is if we can locate Mike he can help us find the branch cell—"
A firm, low, intermittent beep began to sound in a pocket of August's equipment vest.
"Bob, hold on!" August interrupted. "I've got an incoming point-to-point radio transmission."
"Careful, Brett," Herbert said.
The colonel set the phone down. He plucked his radio from the equipment vest and punched it on. He would not let himself hope that it was a Striker. More likely it was someone who'd found one of the radios or an Indian army communications officer cutting into their frequency.
"Atom," August said. That was the code name he had selected. It was derived from the first initial of his last name. The Strikers used code names when they were uncertain about the origin of a call. If any of them were taken prisoner and forced to communicate they would use a backup code name based on the initial of their first name.
"Atom, it's Reptile," the caller said.
August did not feel the wind or the cold. The world that had felt so dead suddenly had a faint pulse.
"Are you okay?" August asked.
"Yeah," Rodgers replied. "But I'm the only one. You?"
"Midnight and I are fine," he replied. As he was speaking, August pulled the area map from a vest pocket. These were specially marked with coded grids. He laid it on the ground and stepped on one end while he held the other. "Do you have your map?" August asked.
"Getting it now," Rodgers said. "I'm at 37–49."
"Three-seven-four-nine," August repeated. "I copy that. Are you secure at that location?"
"I seem to be," Rodgers replied.
"Very good," August said. "I'm going to relay that information home. We may have new instructions."
"Understood," Rodgers said.
Colone
l August set the radio on the map and picked up the TAC-SAT receiver. As he did he gave Musicant a thumbs-up. The medic smiled tightly. But at least it was a smile.
"Bob, it was Mike," August said. "He's safe in the valley, about three miles from the foot of the glacier."
"Thank you, Lord," Herbert said. "Other survivors?"
"Negative," August told him.
"I see. All right, Colonel," Herbert said. "Set up your perimeter, hang tight, and tell Mike to do the same. I'll pass the update to Paul."
"Bob, keep in mind that there is some very rough terrain out here and it's going to get dark and cold pretty fast," August said. "If we're going to send Mike on any search-and-recon missions, he's only got another forty minutes or so of visibility."
"I'm aware of the situation," Herbert said. "Tell him to get a good look at the landscape. We'll get back to you ASAP."
August hung up the TAC-SAT and briefed Rodgers. The general was his usual stoic self.
"I'll be okay down here," Rodgers replied. "If I have to move north it's a pretty straight shot to the glacier. I'll just follow the river."
"Good. Is your suit intact?" August asked.
"Yes," Rodgers replied. "There's only one thing I need. It's probably the same thing you need."
"What's that?" August asked.
Rodgers replied, "To find whoever sold us out and make them regret it."
FORTY-ONE
Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 8:30 A.M.
Paul Hood was on the phone with Senator Barbara Fox when the interoffice line beeped.
Now that the mission was beyond the point of recall, and politics would not get in the way of international security, Hood briefed the senator on the status of Striker and its mission. Several years before, the senator had lost her own teenage daughter in a brutal murder in Paris. Hood had expected her to respond with compassion and to give her support to the personnel who were still in the field.
She did not. The senator was furious.