Line Of Control (2001)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 08

"But then why would they have left the radio?" the sergeant wondered aloud. "They could easily have gotten it down. Then no one would know there were survivors."

  "Maybe we were meant to find it," Puri said. "That way they could feed us miscommunications." Yet even as the major said that, he knew it did not make sense. The Americans could not have known that a reconnaissance unit was en route to the site.

  Puri began to consider likely scenarios. The helicopter was probably in the valley to support the clandestine American operation. Perhaps it was there to extract the soldiers when their mission was completed. That was why there was no immediate flight profile. Perhaps the Americans were only supposed to link up with the Pakistanis and see them as far as the border.

  And then it hit him. Maybe that was still the objective.

  "Sergeant, can you make your way to that heat source double-time?" Major Puri asked.

  "Of course," Baliah replied. "What do you think is going on, sir?"

  "I'm not sure," Major Puri told him. "It's possible that some of the Americans survived the drop and joined the Pakistani cell on our plateau. But other paratroopers may have been blown clear of the valley."

  "And you think the two may be trying to stay in touch point-to-point in order to find each other?" Sergeant Baliah asked.

  "That's possible," Puri replied.

  The major looked up at the plateau his men were getting ready to climb. The peak was dark but he could see the outline by the way it blocked the clouds above. Except for the presence of the American paratroopers he did not know for certain that the cell was up there. What if they were not? What if the American drop had been a feint? The shortest way to Pakistan from this region was across the Siachin Glacier, Base 3 sector.

  Right through his command.

  "Sergeant, pursue the Siachin element," Puri decided. "I'm going to request immediate air support in that region."

  "At night?"

  "At night," Puri said. "Captain Anand knows the region. He can get a gunship to the target. I want you there in case an enemy is present and he digs in where the rockets can't get him."

  "We're on our way, sir," the sergeant replied. "We'll have a report in two hours or so."

  "That should be about the time the chopper arrives," Puri said. "Good luck, Sergeant."

  Baliah thanked him and clicked off.

  The major walked over to his communications officer and asked him to put in a call to the base. Puri would brief Captain Anand and get the air reconnaissance underway. Puri would make certain that the operation be as low-key as possible. Anand was to take just one chopper into the field and there would be no unnecessary communications with the base. Even if the Pakistanis could not interpret the coded messages, a sudden increase in radio traffic might alert them that something was going on.

  While the major waited for Captain Anand he told the lieutenant in charge of the ascent to finish the preparations but to put the operation itself on hold. They could afford to wait two hours more before risking the climb. The Pakistanis on the plateau were not going anywhere.

  If there really were Pakistanis on the ledge.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:00 A.M.

  When Mike Rodgers was in boot camp, his drill instructor had told him something that he absolutely did not believe.

  The DI's name was Glen "the Hammer" Sheehy. And the Hammer said that when an opponent was punched during an attack, the odds were good that he would not feel it.

  "The body ignores a nonlethal assault," the Hammer told them. "Whatever juices we've got pour in like reserves, numbing the pain of a punch or a stab or even a gunshot and empowering the need to strike back."

  Rodgers did not believe that until the first time he was in a hand-to-hand combat situation in Vietnam. U.S. and Vietcong recon units literally stumbled upon each other during a patrol north of Bo Duc near the Cambodian border. Rodgers had suffered a knife wound high in the left arm. But he was not aware of it until after the battle. One of his friends had been shot in the butt and kept going. When the unit returned to camp and the medics had put the survivors back together, one of Rodgers's buddies gave him a black bandanna with a slogan written in red grease pencil. It said, "It only hurts when I stop fighting."

  It was true. Moreover, there was no time to hurt. Not with more lives depending upon you.

  The reality of losing the Strikers was with Rodgers every moment. But the pain had not yet sunk in. He was too busy staying fixed on the goal that had brought them here.

  Rodgers was leg-weary as his group made its way across some of the starkest landscape Rodgers had ever encountered. The ice was glass-smooth and difficult to navigate. Nanda and Samouel slipped with increasing regularity. Rodgers was glad he still had his crampons, heavy though they were. Rodgers continued to help Apu Kumar along. The farmer's left arm was slung across Rodgers's neck and they were on a gradual incline. Apu's feet had to be dragged more than they moved. Rodgers suspected the only thing that kept the elderly man moving at all was a desire to see his granddaughter reach safety. The American officer would have helped the farmer regardless, but he was touched by that thought.

  That was not a sentiment Ron Friday seemed to share.

  Friday had stayed several paces behind Rodgers, Apu, and Nanda. Samouel continued to hold the point position, turning the flashlight on at regular intervals. At just under an hour into the trek, Friday stepped beside Rodgers. He was panting, his breath coming in wispy white bursts.

  "You realize you're risking the rest of this mission by dragging him along," Friday said.

  Though the NSA operative spoke softly, his voice carried in the still, cold air. Rodgers was certain that Nanda had heard.

  "I don't see it that way," Rodgers replied.

  "The delay is exponential," Friday continued. "The longer it takes the weaker we become, slowing us down even more."

  "Then you go ahead," Rodgers said.

  "I will," he said. "With Nanda. Across the border."

  "No," she said emphatically.

  "I don't know why you're both so willing to trust those bastards in Washington," Friday went on. "We're at our closest approach to the border. It's just about twenty or thirty minutes north of here. Troops have probably been pulled out to man the incursion line."

  "Some," Rodgers agreed. "Not all."

  "Enough," Friday replied. "Heading there makes more sense than going another hour northeast to God-knows-where."

  "Not to the guys we report to," Rodgers reminded him.

  "They're not here," Friday shot back. "They don't have on-site intelligence. They aren't in our shoes."

  "They're not field personnel," Rodgers pointed out. "This is one of the things we trained for."

  "Blind, stupid loyalty?" Friday asked. "Was that also part of your training, General?"

  "No. Trust," Rodgers replied. "I respect the judgment of the men I work with."

  "Maybe that's why you ended up with a valley full of dead soldiers," Friday said.

  Mike Rodgers let the remark go. He had to. He did not have the time or extra energy to break Friday's jaw.

  Friday continued to pace Rodgers. The NSA agent shook his head. "How many disasters have to bite a military guy in the ass before he takes independent action?" he asked. "Hell, Herbert isn't even a superior officer. You're taking orders from a civilian."

  "And you're pushing it," Rodgers said.

  "Let me ask you something," Friday went on. "If you knew you could cross the line of control and get Nanda to a place where she could broadcast her story, would you disobey your instructions?"

  "No," Rodgers replied.

  "Why?"

  "Because there may be a component to this we're not aware of," Rodgers replied.

  "Like what?" Friday asked.

  "A 'for instance'?" Rodgers said. "You flew out here with an Indian officer instead of waiting for us to join the cell, against instructions. Well, you hate taking orders. Maybe you were being headstrong. Or maybe you're
working with the SFF. It could be that if we follow your short hop toward the border we'll end up not reaching Pakistan at all."

  "That's possible," Friday admitted. "So why didn't I cut you down back at the valley? That would have made certain I get things my way."

  "Because then Nanda would have known she's a dead woman," Rodgers told him.

  "Can you guarantee that won't happen if she crawls across a glacier with you?"

  Rodgers did not answer. Friday had a sharp, surgical mind. Anything the general said would be sculpted to support Friday's point of view. Then it would be fired back at him. Rodgers did not want to do anything that might fuel doubts in Nanda's mind.

  "Think about this," Friday continued. "We're following the directions of Washington bureaucrats without knowing where we're going or why. We've been running across the mountains for hours without food or rest. We may not even reach the target, especially if we carry each other around. Have you considered the possibility that's the plan?"

  "Mr. Friday, if you want to cross the line of control you go ahead," Rodgers told him.

  "I do," Friday said. He leaned in front of Rodgers. He looked at Nanda. "If she goes with me, I'll get her to Pakistan and safety."

  "I'm staying with my grandfather," the woman said.

  "You were ready to leave him before," Friday reminded her.

  "That was before," she said.

  "What changed your mind?"

  "You," she replied. "When my grandfather was kneeling and you walked over to him."

  "I was going to help him," Friday said.

  "I don't think so," she said. "You were angry."

  "How do you know?" he asked. "You couldn't see me--"

  "I could hear your footsteps on the ice," she said.

  "My footsteps?" Friday said disdainfully.

  "We used to sit in the bedroom and listen to the Pakistanis on the other side of the door," Nanda told him. "We couldn't hear what they were saying but I always knew what they were feeling by how they walked across the wooden floor. Slow, fast, light, heavy, stop and start. Every pattern told us something about each individual's mood."

  "I was going to help him," Friday repeated.

  "You wanted to hurt my grandfather," Nanda said. "I know that."

  "I don't believe this," Friday said. "Never mind your grandfather. Millions of people may go to hell because of something you did and we're talking about footsteps."

  Mike Rodgers did not want to become involved in the debate. But he did not want it to escalate. He also was not sure, at this point, whether he even wanted Ron Friday to stay. Rodgers had worked with dozens of intelligence operatives during his career. They were lone wolves by nature but they rarely if ever disregarded instructions from superiors. And never as flagrantly as this. One of the reasons they became field operatives was the challenge of executing orders in the face of tremendous odds.

  Ron Friday was more than just a loner. He was distracted. Rodgers suspected that he was driven by a different agenda. Like it or not, that might be something he would have to try to figure out.

  "We're going to save Nanda's grandfather as well as those millions of people you're concerned about," Rodgers said firmly. "We'll do that by going northeast from here."

  "Damn it, you're blind!" Friday shouted. "I've been in this thing from the start. I was in the square when it blew up. I had a feeling about the dual bombers, about the involvement of the SFF, about the double-dealing of this woman." He gestured angrily at Nanda. "It's the people who pull the strings you should doubt, not a guy who's been at ground zero from the start."

  Friday was losing it. Rodgers did not want to waste the energy to try to stop him. He also wanted to see where the rant would lead. Angry men often said too much.

  Friday fired up his torch again. Rodgers squinted in the light. He slowed as Friday got in front of them and faced them.

  "So that's it, then?" Friday said.

  "Get out of the way," Rodgers ordered.

  "Bob Herbert barks, Mike Rodgers obeys, and Op-Center takes over the mission," Friday said.

  "Is that what this is about?" Rodgers asked. "Your resume?"

  "I'm not talking about credit," Friday said. "I'm talking about what we do for a living. We collect and use information."

  "You do," Rodgers said.

  "Fine, yes. I do," Friday agreed. "I put myself in places where I can learn things, where I can meet people. But we, our nation, need allies in Pakistan, in the Muslim world. If we stay on this glacier we are still behind Indian lines. That buys us nothing."

  "You don't know that," Rodgers said.

  "Correct," Friday said. "But I do know that if we go to Islamabad, as Americans who saved Pakistan from nuclear annihilation, we create new avenues of intelligence and cooperation in that world."

  "Mr. Friday, that's a political issue, not a tactical military concern," Rodgers said. "If we're successful then Washington can make some of those inroads you mention."

  With Apu still clinging to him, Rodgers started moving around Friday. The NSA operative put out a hand and stopped him.

  "Washington is helpless," Friday said. "Politicians live on the surface. They are actors. They engage in public squabbles and posturing where the populace can watch and boo or cheer. We are the people who matter. We burrow inside. We make the tunnels. We control the conduits."

  "Mr. Friday, move," Rodgers said.

  This was about personal power. Rodgers had no time for that.

  "I will move," Friday said. "With Nanda, to the line of control. Two people can make it across."

  Rodgers was about to push past him when he felt something. A faint, rapid vibration in the bottoms of his feet. A moment later it grew more pronounced. He felt it crawl up his ankles.

  "Give me the torch!" he said suddenly.

  "What?" Friday said.

  Rodgers leaned around Friday. "Samouel--don't turn on the light!"

  "I won't," he said. "I feel it!"

  "Feel what?" Nanda said.

  "Shit," Friday said suddenly. He obviously felt it too and knew what it meant. "Shit."

  Rodgers pulled the torch from Friday. The NSA agent was surprised and did not struggle to keep it. Rodgers held the torch above his head and cast the light around him. There was a mountain of ice to the right, about four hundred yards away. It stretched for miles in both directions. The top of the formation was lost in the darkness.

  Rodgers handed the torch to Nanda.

  "Go to that peak," he said. "Samouel! Follow Nanda!"

  Samouel was already running toward them. "I will!" he shouted.

  "My grandfather--!" Nanda said.

  "I'll take him," Rodgers assured her. He looked at Friday. "You wanted power? You've got it. Protect her, you son of a bitch."

  Friday turned and half-ran, half-skated across the ice after Nanda.

  Rodgers leaned close to Apu's ear. "We're going to have to move as fast as possible," he said. "Hold tight."

  "I will," Apu replied.

  The men began shuffling as quickly as possible toward the peak. The vibrations were now strong enough to shake Rodgers's entire body. A moment later, the beat of the rotors was audible as the Indian helicopter rolled in low over the horizon.

  FIFTY-THREE

  The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:53 A.M.

  The powerful Russian-made Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter soared swift and low over the glacier. Its two-airman crew kept a careful watch on the ice one hundred and fifty feet beneath them. They were flying at low light so the chopper could not be easily seen and targeted from the ground. Radar would keep them from plowing into the towers of ice. Helmets with night-vision goggles as well as the low altitude would allow them to search for their quarry.

  The Mi-35 is the leading attack helicopter of the Indian air force. Equipped with under-nose, four-barrel large-caliber machine guns and six antitank missiles, it is tasked with stopping all surface force operations, from full-scale attacks to infiltration.

  The aircrew was
pushing the chopper to move as quickly as possible. The men did not want to stay out any longer than necessary. Even at this relatively low level the cold on the glacier was severe. Strong, sudden winds whipping from the mountains could hasten the freezing of hoses and equipment. Ground forces were able to stop and thaw clogged lines or icy gears. Helicopter pilots did not have that luxury. They tended to find out about a problem when it was too late, when either the main or the tail rotor suddenly stopped turning.