by Tom Clancy
"Tell me something, Samouel," Rodgers said. "You wired some of the bombs and remote detonators for Sharab, didn't you?"
"Yes," Samouel said softly.
"Do you have experience with radios?" Rodgers asked.
"I have worked with all kinds of electronics," the Pakistani told him. "I did repair work for the Islamabad militia and—"
"On handsets too?" Rodgers interrupted.
"Walkie-talkies?" Samouel asked.
"Not just walkie-talkies," Rodgers said. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. His questions and plans were racing ahead of the answers. "What I mean is this. If there is a satellite dish on the ledge would you be able to hook a cell phone to it?"
"I see," Samouel replied. "Is it a government cell phone with safeguards of any kind?"
"I don't think so," Rodgers said.
"Then I can probably rig something as long as you can expose the satellite cable," Samouel told him.
"What kind of tools would you need?" Rodgers asked.
"Not more than my pocket knife, I would imagine," Samouel said.
"Very good," Rodgers said. "Now tell me more about the ledge. Was there any way to get to the dish? Ledges, projections, handholds."
"I don't think so," Samouel told him. "It looked like a straight climb up a smooth wall."
"I see," Rodgers said.
The general had become slightly disoriented in the dash to save Nanda. He needed to get his bearings again. He turned himself completely around so he was facing what he believed was the back of the enclosure. He crouched on the balls of his feet.
"Friday, are you still at the slab?" Rodgers yelled.
Friday was silent.
"Say something!" Rodgers screamed.
"I'm here!" Friday said.
Rodgers pinpointed Friday's voice. He kept his eyes on the dark spot. At the same time, he reached into his vest and removed the cell phone. He gave the unit to Samouel.
"If Colonel August calls, tell him to keep the line open," Rodgers told Samouel.
"What are you going to do?" the Pakistani asked.
"Try and get to that dish," Rodgers replied. "How are you set for ammunition?"
"I have a few rounds and one extra clip," Samouel told him.
"Use them sparingly," Rodgers said. "I may need the cover when I start up the slope."
"I will be very careful," Samouel promised.
Mike Rodgers flexed his cold, gloved fingers then put his hands on the ground. He was anxious. A lot was riding on what he knew to be a long shot. He was also concerned about Ron Friday, about something the NSA operative had said earlier. Even if they got through this impasse Rodgers wondered if a deadlier one lay ahead. But that was not something he could afford to worry about now. One battle at a time.
After pausing to take a long, calming breath, the general once again began moving crablike across the rugged terrain.
FIFTY-NINE
The Siachin Glacier
Friday, 2:42 A.M.
Ron Friday listened as someone approached. He assumed it was either Rodgers or Samouel.
Probably Rodgers, the NSA operative decided. The go-get'em warrior. The general would have a plan to salvage this mission. Which was fine with Friday. No one wanted a nuclear war. But barring such a plan, Friday also cared about getting the hell off this glacier and into Pakistan. And then from Pakistan to somewhere else. Anywhere that was upwind from the fallout that would blanket the Indian subcontinent.
Friday wanted out of here not because he was afraid to die. What scared him was dying stupidly. Not for a trophy or a jewel but because of a screwup. And right now they were in the middle of a massive screwup. A side trip that should never have happened. All because they had trusted the bureaucrats in Washington and Islamabad.
Friday waited behind the slab. The Indians must have heard the movement too because fresh gunfire pinged around the perimeter. There was not a lot of it. They were obviously conserving ammunition. They fired just enough to keep the person low and on the move.
Friday peered out at the blackness. His own weapon was drawn. His nostrils and lungs hurt from the knife-edged cold. His toes and fingertips were numb, despite the heavy boots and gloves. If he were shot, he wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze.
But most of all Friday was angry. It would not take much for him to point the gun at Rodgers and pull the trigger. The NSA operative was trying to figure out if anything could be gained by surrendering to the Indians. Assuming the Indians would not shoot the group out of hand, they might appreciate the American bringing them one of the terrorists who had attacked the marketplace. Surrender might well trigger the feared Indian nuclear strike against Pakistan. It might also save him from dying here.
The figure arrived. It was Rodgers. He crawled behind the slab and knelt beside Friday.
"What's going on?" Friday asked.
"There might be a way to get Nanda's confession on the air without entering the silo," Rodgers said.
"A silo. Is that what this place is?" Friday asked.
Rodgers ignored the question. "Samouel thinks he saw a satellite dish about ten feet up the slope," Rodgers continued.
"That would make sense," Friday replied.
"Explain," Rodgers said.
"When the flares came on I got a good look at the wall over the entrance," Friday said. "From about ten feet up on this side they'd have a clear shot across the opposite slope."
"That's what I was hoping," Rodgers said. "If there is a dish there, and we can get to the satellite cable, Samouel might be able to splice a connection to the cell phone."
The men heard movement from the other side of the clearing. Friday did not think the Indians would move against them. They would wait for the helicopter to return. But they might try to position themselves to set up a cross fire. If the Indians got Nanda the game was over. So were their own lives.
"We're going to have to get a good look at the dish before we do anything," Friday said.
"Why?" Rodgers asked.
"We need to see where the power source is," Friday said. "This is a good spot for a battery-driven dish. Oil companies use them in icy areas. The power source doubles as a heater to keep the gears from freezing. If that's the case, we don't have to go up to the ledge. We can expose the line anywhere and know it's the communications cable."
"But if the power source is inside the silo we have to get to the dish and figure out which cable it is," Rodgers said.
"Bingo," said Friday.
"I'll tell you what," Rodgers said. "You stay down and keep your eyes on the ledge."
"What are you going to do?"
Rodgers replied, "Get you some light."
SIXTY
The Siachin Glacier
Friday, 2:51 A.M.
Mike Rodgers moved to the far end of the clearing. He stopped when he reached the slope. Crouching and moving as quietly as possible he made his way along the wall. He wanted to be far enough from the slab so that Friday was protected. He did not need to be protected from what Rodgers was planning but from how the Indians might respond.
Rodgers hoped that Friday got a good look at the dish. Chances were good that Rodgers himself would not be seeing much. He would be busy looking for a place to hide.
The general stopped about twenty yards from Friday. That was a safe distance. He opened his jacket and removed one of the two flash-bang grenades he carried. The weapon was about the size and configuration of a can of shaving cream. He removed his gloves and held them in his teeth. Then he put his right hand across the safety spoon and slipped his left index finger through the pull-ring. He placed the canister on the ground and squatted beside it. Rodgers moved his right foot along the ground to make sure where the ice cliff was. He would need that to guide him. Then he pulled the ring, released the spoon, and rose. He turned and put his bare left hand against the slope. He felt his way around the thick bulges and barren stretches. He wanted to move quickly. But if he fell over something he
might be exposed when the grenade went off.
Rodgers counted as he moved. When the general reached ten, the nonlethal grenade went off.
The nonlethal flash-bang grenade was designed to roll in a confined area, distracting and disorienting the occupants with a series of magnesium-bright explosions and deafening bangs. In this case, Rodgers was hoping the grenade would brighten the perimeter just enough for two things. For Friday to see the dish and Rodgers to find a place to duck.
There was a series of round-topped ice formations three feet ahead. They were about waist high and as thick as a highway pylon. They had probably once been much taller but looked as if they melted and refroze daily, gaining in girth what they lost in height. Rodgers did not run for them. He dove.
Rodgers hit the ground hard. He lost his breath, his gloves fell from his teeth, and he did not quite reach the barricade. But he got close enough so that he was able to scramble across the ice in a heartbeat. Fortunately, the heartbeat was still a measure of time he could use as bullets from Indian rifles chewed up the ice where he had been standing. As soon as he was down and safe he looked over at Ron Friday. Crouched behind the slab, the operative gave him a thumbs-up. Rodgers glanced at the ledge. There was a large black casing behind the base of the dish. Rodgers was glad Friday knew what it was. He himself would have had to go up and pry the cover off to try to read the cables.
As the light of the grenade died Rodgers looked over at Samouel and Nanda. The Pakistani was still lying down. But he had turned to look back at the other men. Rodgers needed to get him over with Nanda and the cell phone. This was probably the best time to do it.
Rodgers took out his weapon and indicated to Friday to do the same. Then he moved to the far side of the ice barricade. That gave him the clearest line of sight to Samouel. He held up three fingers. The Pakistani understood. He was to move out on a count of three. Rodgers gave the man a moment to prepare.
Samouel moved Nanda away from the boulder where they were lying. The Pakistani helped her to her knees and then to a crouching position. She seemed to be cooperating, aware of what she must do. Samouel looked toward Rodgers. The general quickly extended his fingers one at a time. At three, Samouel got up and pulled Nanda with him. She was in front, the Pakistani shielding her with his body. As the two ran forward, Rodgers and Friday immediately stood and began firing toward the Indians. The infantrymen were out of range but obviously did not know that. They ducked down immediately, giving Samouel time to cover most of the distance to the silo entrance.
As darkness enveloped the clearing a few more shots were fired from the Indian side.
"Don't return fire!" Rodgers shouted to Friday.
The general was afraid of hitting Samouel and Nanda in the dark.
The men listened to the crunch of the approaching boots. The gait was near but uneven. That was due, possibly, to the icy, unknown terrain. The sound skewed toward Rodgers's right, away from the silo. He crept to that side of his position and waited.
A few seconds later someone dropped beside Rodgers. The general reached out to pull whoever it was to safety. It was Nanda. Still on his knees, Rodgers wrapped his arms around her. He literally hauled her in and around him. Then Rodgers turned back to his right. He heard grunting a few feet away. The general crept over. He found Samouel near the front of the barricade. The Pakistani was on his belly. Rodgers grabbed the man under his arms. His bare right hand felt a thick dampness. The general pulled Samouel back behind the stumps of ice.
"Samouel, can you hear me?" Rodgers said.
"Yes," the Pakistani replied.
Rodgers felt around the man's left side. The dampness was spreading. It was definitely blood.
"Samouel, you're wounded," Rodgers said.
"I know," Samouel said, "General, I've 'screwed up.' "
"No," Rodgers said. "You did fine. We'll fix this—"
"I don't mean that," Samouel said. "I… lost the telephone."
The words hit Rodgers like a bullet.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the left. The short burst had come from Ron Friday.
"Our buddies are on the move again!" Friday said.
"Get down!" the general shouted.
Rodgers had no time for them. He reached into his vest and removed one of the two cylindrical "eight ball" grenades he carried. Those were the ones no one wanted to find themselves behind, the shrapnel-producing grenades. Without hesitation the general yanked the pin, let the no-snag cap pop off, and stiff-armed the explosive across the clearing. He did not want to kill the Indians but he could not afford to waste time. Not with Samouel injured.
Rodgers ducked and pulled Nanda down. Several seconds later the eight ball exploded, echoing off the walls and shaking the ground. Even before the reverberations stopped, Rodgers had pulled the nine-inch knife from his equipment vest. He had immediately begun prioritizing. Stop the Indians. Stop Samouel's bleeding. Then he would worry about the phone.
"Don't bother with me," Samouel said. "I'm all right."
"You're hit," Rodgers said.
The general cut into the man's coat. He put his right hand through the opening. He felt for a wound.
Rodgers found it. A bullet hole just below the left shoulder blade. He reached out to the right and felt for his gloves. He found them, cut out the soft interior linings, and placed them on the wound. He pressed down hard. He could not think of anything else to do.
The clearing was silent as the reverberation of the grenade subsided. There were no moans from the other side, no shouting. There was just deadly silence as time and options slipped away. Without the cell phone they could not communicate with August or hook up to the dish. Finding the unit in the dark would be time consuming, if it was even possible. Going out with a torch was suicide. And if they lost Samouel, none of it even mattered.
It had been a good plan. Ironically, they would have been better off following the instincts of a man who might well be a traitor.
Mike Rodgers crouched there, his arms held low. He continued to press on the makeshift bandage, hoping the blood on the underside would freeze. When that happened he would have to try to recover the phone, even if it cost him his life.
As Rodgers waited, his right elbow knocked into something in his belt.
He realized at once what it was.
Possible salvation.
SIXTY-ONE
Siachin Base 3, Kashmir
Friday, 3:22 A.M.
The Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter set down on its small, dark pad. The square landing area was composed of a layer of asphalt covered with cotton and then another layer of asphalt. The fabric helped keep the ice from the lower layer from reaching the upper layer.
No sooner had the pilot cut the twin rotors than he received a message over his headset.
"Captain, we just received a message from Major Puri," the base communications director informed him. "You're to refuel, deice, and go back out."
The captain exchanged a disgruntled look with the copilot. The cockpit was poorly heated and they were both tired from the difficult flight. They did not feel like undertaking a new mission.
As the pilot looked over, he glanced past his companion. Through the starboard window of the cockpit he could already see ground crews approaching. There were two trucks crossing the landing area. One was a fuel tank, the other a truck loaded with high-volume hoses and drums of a solution of sodium chloride-ferric ferrocyanide.
"What is the objective?" the captain asked.
"The cell you were tracking before," the BCD replied. "One of Major Puri's units has them cornered. The unit estimates that there are four individuals but they do not know how heavily armed they are."
The captain felt a flush of satisfaction at the news. Although he had admired the way one man, armed with a pistol, had driven them back, he did not like being outsmarted.
"Where are they?" the captain asked. At the same time he punched up the topographical map on the computer.
"The Upper Chittisin Plateau
," the officer replied, and provided the coordinates.
The pilot entered the figures. The criminals had simply followed the mountain. It was a particularly high, cold, inhospitable section of the glacier. He wondered if they had gone there intentionally or ended up there by accident. If intentionally, he could not imagine what was there. Perhaps a safe house of some kind, or a weapons cache.
Whatever it was, he could take the chopper around the glacier on the southwest side and be there in forty-five minutes.
"When we find them, what are our orders?" the captain asked.
"You are to retrieve Major Puri's team and then complete your previous mission," the BCD informed him.
The captain acknowledged the order.
Ten minutes later he was in the air heading toward the target. This time, he would not fail to exterminate the terrorists.
SIXTY-TWO
The Siachin Glacier
Friday, 3:23 A.M.
Samouel's blood was beginning to freeze. Rodgers felt it in his fingertips. They were the only part of his hands that had stayed warm.
As soon as that happened he picked up his knife and leaned close to Nanda. "I want you to come with me," he said.
"All right," she replied.
Together, they crept across the area between the ice barricade and the entrance to the silo.
"I'm coming in with Nanda," Rodgers said in a loud whisper. He did not want Friday thinking it was the Indians circling around.