Line Of Control (2001)
Page 32
Fortunately, the crew was able to spot "the likely target" just seventy minutes after taking off. The copilot reported the find to Major Puri.
"There are five persons running across the ice," the airman said.
"Running?" Major Puri said.
"Yes," reported the airman. "They do not appear to be locals. One of them is wearing a high-altitude jump outfit."
"White?" Puri asked.
"Yes."
"That's one of the American paratroopers," Puri said. "Can you tell who is with him?"
"He is helping someone across the ice," the airman said. "That person is wearing a parka. There are three people ahead. One is in a parka, two are wearing mountaineering gear. I can't tell the color because of the night-vision lenses. But it appears dark."
"The terrorist who was killed in the mountain cave was wearing a dark blue outfit," Puri said. "I have to know the color."
"Hold on," the airman replied.
The crew member reached for the exterior light controls on the panel between the seats. He told the pilot to shut down his night-vision glasses for a moment. Otherwise the light would blind him. The pilot and copilot disengaged their goggles and raised them. The copilot turned the light on. The windshield was filled with a blinding white glow reflected from the ice. The airman retrieved his binoculars from a storage compartment in the door. His eyes shrunk to slits as he picked out one of the figures and looked at his clothing.
It was dark blue. The airman reported the information to Major Puri.
"That's one of the terrorists," the major said. "Neutralize them all and report back."
"Repeat, sir?" the airman said.
"You have found the terrorist cell," Major Puri said. "You are ordered to use lethal force to neutralize them--"
"Major," the pilot interrupted. "Will there be a confirming order from base headquarters?"
"I am transmitting an emergency command Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight," Puri said. "That is your authorization."
The pilot glanced at his heads-up display while the copilot input the code on a keyboard located on the control panel. The onboard computer took a moment to process the data. Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight was the authorization code of Defense Minister John Kabir.
"Acknowledge Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight authorization," the pilot replied. "We are proceeding with the mission."
A moment later the pilot slid his goggles back into place. The copilot switched the exterior lights off and replaced his own night-vision optics. Then he descended through one hundred feet to an altitude of fifty feet. He flipped the helmet-attached gunsights over his night-vision glasses, slipped his left hand onto the joystick that controlled the machine gun, and bore down on the fleeing figures.
FIFTY-FOUR
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:55 A.M.
Mike Rodgers's arm was hooked tightly around Apu's back as he looked out on terrain that was lit by the glow of the helicopter's light. The American watched helplessly as Nanda fell, slid, and then struggled to get up.
"Keep moving!" Rodgers yelled. "Even if you have to crawl, just get closer to the peaks!"
That was probably the last thing Rodgers would get to say to Nanda. The rotor of the approaching chopper was getting louder every instant. The heavy drone drummed from behind and also bounced back at them from the deeply curved slope of ice ahead.
Ron Friday was several paces ahead of Nanda and Samouel was in front of him. Before the lights from the helicopter were turned off, Rodgers saw both men look back then turn and help the young woman. Friday was probably helping her to further his own cause of intelligence control or whatever he had been raving about. Right now, however, Mike Rodgers did not care what Ron Friday's reasons were. At least the man was helping her.
Friday was wearing treaded boots that gave him somewhat better footing than Nanda. As the lights went out, Friday scooped the woman up, tugged her to her feet, and pulled her toward the peak.
Though the ice was dark again Rodgers knew they were not invisible. The aircrew was certainly equipped with infrared equipment. That meant the nose gun would be coming to life very soon. Rodgers had one hope to keep them alive. The plan required them to keep going.
An instant later the nose gun began to hammer. The air seemed to become a solid mass as the sound closed in on all sides. Rodgers felt the first bullets strike the ice behind him. He pulled Apu down and they began to roll and slide down the incline, parallel to the icy wall.
Hard chips of ice were dislodged by bullets hitting the ice. Rodgers heard the "chick" of the strikes then felt hot pain as the small, sharp shards stung his face and neck. Time slowed as it always did in combat. Rodgers was aware of everything. The cold air in his nose and on the nape of his neck. The warm perspiration along the back of his thermal T-shirt. The smell and texture of Apu's wool parka as Rodgers gripped him tightly, pulling him along. The fine mist of surface ice kicked up as he and Apu rolled over it. That was to be the means of their salvation. Perhaps it would still help Nanda and Ron Friday. Rodgers stepped out of himself to savor all the sensations of his eyes, his ears, his flesh. For in these drawn-out moments the general had a sense that they would be his last.
The two men hit a flat section of ice and stopped skidding. The fusillade stopped.
"On your knees!" Rodgers shouted.
The men were going to have to crawl in another direction. It would take the gunner an instant to resight the weapon. Rodgers pulled Apu onto his knees. The two men had to be somewhere else when fire resumed.
The men were crouching and facing one another in the dark. Apu was kneeling and half-leaning against Rodgers's chest. Suddenly, the farmer clutched the general's shoulders. He pushed forward. With nothing behind him, Rodgers fell back with Apu on top of him.
"Save Nanda," Apu implored.
The gunning restarted. It chewed up the ice and then drilled into the back of the farmer. Apu hugged Rodgers as the bullets dug into the older man's flesh. The wounds sent damp splashes onto Rodgers's face. He could feel the thud of each bullet right through the man's body. Rodgers reflexively tucked his chin into his chest, bringing his head under Apu's face. He could hear the man grunt as the bullets struck. They were not cries of pain but the forced exhalation of air as his lungs were punctured from behind. Apu was already beyond pain.
Rodgers brought in his knees slightly and kept himself buried beneath Apu's body. He was thinking now and not simply reacting. And Rodgers realized that this was what Apu had wanted. The farmer had sacrificed himself so Rodgers could stay alive and protect Nanda. The devotion and trust inherent in that gesture made them as pure as anything Rodgers had ever experienced.
Rodgers heard several bullets whistle by his head. He felt a burning in his right shoulder. One of the shots must have grazed him. His arm and back warmed as blood covered his cold flesh.
Rodgers lay still. Their flight and Apu's sacrifice had kept the helicopter occupied for a short time. Hopefully, it had been long enough for Nanda, Friday, and Samouel to reach the peak.
The gunfire stopped. After a few moments the sound of the helicopter moved over Rodgers's head. The chopper was heading toward the icy slopes. It was time for Rodgers to move.
Apu was still holding him. Rodgers grasped the elbows of the man's parka and gently pulled them away. Then he slid to the right, out from under the dead man. Blood from Apu's neck trickled onto Rodgers's left cheek. It left a streak, like warpaint. The elderly man had not given his life in vain.
Rodgers got to his feet. He paused to remove the dead man's parka then ran toward the slope. The helicopter was moving slowly and the American paced it. He stayed behind the cockpit and out of view. He was waiting for the Mi-35 to get a little closer. That was when things should start to happen.
The nose gun began to spit fire again. The red-yellow flashes lit the slope like tiny strobes. Rodgers could see Nanda and the two men running along the curving base, away from the aircraft. The gentle turn in the slope kept the chopper from having a clear shot.
Rodgers reached the base of the ragged slope. He felt his way along. The winds from the tail rotor were savage, like waves of ice water. Rodgers shielded his eyes as best he could. He would be able to see as soon as the guns resumed firing. He was going to have to move quickly when they did.
The chopper continued to creep along the glacier. The throaty sound from the rotors knocked loose powder from the crags. Rodgers could feel it hitting his bare cheeks.
That was good. The plan might work.
A few moments later the guns came to life. Rodgers saw the cliff light up and started running toward the others. As he expected, this close to the slope, the sound of the guns and the rotor shook particles of ice from the wall. The area around the helicopter quickly became a sheet of white. And the flakes did not fall. The winds kept them whipping around in the air, adding layer upon layer. Within moments visibility had diminished to zero.
The guns shut down just as Rodgers raced around the front of the helicopter. Even with their night-vision goggles, the crew would not be able to see him or their quarry.
Rodgers had judged the distance between himself and the others. He guided himself toward them by running a hand along the slope. Though his legs were cramping he refused to stop.
"We've got to move!" Rodgers shouted as he neared the spot where he had seen the group.
"What's happening?" Nanda cried.
"Keep going!" Rodgers yelled.
"Is my grandfather all right?" she demanded.
From the sound of her voice Rodgers judged the woman to be about thirty yards away. He continued running hard. A few seconds later he bumped up against one of the refugees. Judging from the height of the individual it was Friday. They had stopped. Rodgers made his way around him. The general reached for Nanda, who was next in the line. The woman was facing him.
"Grandfather?" Nanda shouted.
"Everyone move!" Rodgers screamed.
In a crisis situation, an individual's fight-or-flight mechanisms are in conflict. When that happens, the shout of an authority figure typically shuts down the combative side. A harsh command usually closes it just enough to let the survival instinct prevail by following the order. In this case, however, Rodgers's cry killed Nanda's flight response. Friday stopped moving altogether as Nanda became as combative as Rodgers.
"Where is he?" the woman screamed.
"Your grandfather didn't make it," Rodgers said.
She screamed for the old man again and started to go back. Rodgers stuffed Apu's parka under his arm then grabbed Nanda's shoulders. He held them tight and wrestled her in the opposite direction.
"I won't leave him!" she cried.
"Nanda, he shielded me with his body!" Rodgers shouted. "He begged me to save you!"
The young woman still grappled with him as she attempted to go back. Rodgers did not have time to reason with her. He literally hoisted Nanda off her feet, turned her around, and pulled her forward. She fought to keep her feet beneath her, but at least those struggles kept her from fighting with him.
Rodgers half-carried, half-dragged the woman as he ran forward. She managed to get her balance back and Rodgers took her hand. He continued to pull her ahead. She went with him, though Rodgers heard her sobbing under the drone of the oncoming chopper. That was fine, as long as she kept moving.
The slope circled sharply toward the northeast. Samouel was still in the lead as they rushed to stay out of the helicopter's line of sight. But without the added drumming of the guns to dislodge fresh ice particles, the pilot would soon be able to see them. Rodgers was going to have to do something about that.
"Samouel, take Nanda's hand and keep going!" Rodgers said.
"Yes, sir," Samouel said.
The American held the woman's arm straight ahead as the Pakistani reached behind him. He found Nanda's hand and Rodgers released her. The two continued ahead. Rodgers stopped and Friday ran into him.
"What are you doing?" Friday asked.
"Give me the torches and the matches. Then go with them," Rodgers said as he took Apu's parka from under his arm.
The NSA operative did as he was instructed. When Friday was gone, Rodgers took one of the torches, lit it, and jammed it into a small crack in the slope. Then he hung Apu's coat on a crag just behind it. Removing his gun from his equipment vest, Rodgers moved away from the ice wall. He got down on one knee, laid the torch across his boot to keep it dry, then pointed his automatic up at a sixty-degree angle. That would put his fire about sixty feet up the cliff. He could not see anything above twenty feet or so but he did not have to.
Not yet.
Within moments the helicopter crept around the curve in the glacier. The pilots stopped to kill their night-vision goggles. Otherwise, the fire would have blinded them. They switched on their exterior light, illuminating the side of the cliff. As soon as the chopper opened fire on what they thought was one of the terrorists, Rodgers also began to shoot. His target were bulges of ice nearest the top of the chopper. The nose gun ripped up the torch, dousing the flame. The roar also tore away more surface ice. At the same time Rodgers's barrage sent larger ice chips flying into the rotor. The blades sliced the ice into a runny sleet that rained down on the cockpit. The slush landed on the windshield and froze instantly.
The chopper stopped firing.
So did Rodgers.
While the chopper still had its lights on, Rodgers briefly considered taking a shot at the cockpit. However, since Afghanistan and Chechnya, the Russians had equipped many of the newer Mikoyan assault choppers with bullet-proof glass to protect them from snipers. Rodgers did not want the flashes from his muzzle to reveal his position.
The general crouched in the open, waiting to see what the helicopter would do. He calculated that it had been in the air at least ninety minutes. The pilot had to allow for at least another ninety minutes of flying time to return to base. That would strain the Mi-35's fuel supply. It would also put extreme stress on the chopper's thermal tolerance, especially if the crew had to fight an ice storm each time they fired their nose gun. Even though the windshield would defrost in a minute or two, the ice would chill the external rotor casing.
Rodgers watched as the chopper hovered. His heart was thumping double-time due to anticipation and cold. Except for being a hell of a lot warmer, Rodgers wondered if the young shepherd David felt the same after letting his small pebble fly against the Philistine champion Goliath. If successful, David's gamble could result in victory for his people. If it failed, the boy faced an ugly, obscure death in the dusty Vale of Elah.
The chopper's exterior lights snapped off. The glacier was once again in darkness. All Rodgers could do now was wait and listen. It took exactly fifteen heartbeats for him to hear what he had been waiting for. With a sudden surge of power, the Mi-35 turned and swung back along the glacier. The beat of the rotor retreated quickly behind the wall of ice.
Rodgers waited to make certain that the helicopter was really gone. After another minute or so the glacier was silent. Slipping his gun into his vest, he took the matches from his jacket pocket and lit the torch. He held it ahead of him. The flame cast a flickering orange teardrop across the ice. It dimly illuminated the ice wall. And with it, the fallen torch and the shredded parka.
"Thank you, Apu, for saving me a second time," Rodgers said. Throwing off a small salute, he turned and followed the others to the northeast.
FIFTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:30 P.M.
Paul Hood watched the clock turn on his computer. "Make the call, Bob," he said.
Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were both in the office with Hood. The door was closed and Bugs Benet had been told not to interrupt the men unless the president or Senator
Fox was calling. Herbert picked up the wheelchair phone to call Brett August. Coffey was seated beside Herbert in a leather armchair. The attorney would be present for the remainder of the mission. His job was to counsel Hood regarding international legal matters that might come up. Coffey had already strongly informed Hood that he was very unhappy with the idea on the table. That an American military officer was leading a team consisting of a Pakistani terrorist, an NSA agent, and what amounted to two Indian hostages. And he was taking them into what was apparently a Pakistani nuclear missile site that had been erected in disputed territory. The idea that this constituted an ad hoc United Nations security council team still wasn't working for him.
Hood agreed that Ambassador Simathna's plan was not a great idea. Unfortunately, it was the only idea. Bob Herbert and Ron Plummer both backed Hood up on that.