Line Of Control (2001)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 08

  Just then, Rodgers noticed movement along the dimly lit wall behind Samouel. Shadows were shifting on the ice near the northeast slope. The movement was being caused by the torchlight. But the shadows were not being cast by the mounds of ice. The shadows of the ice piled near the walls were moving up and down. These shadows were creeping from side to side.

  Right beside the entrance to the enclosure.

  "Friday," Rodgers said quietly but firmly, "kill the light and move away from me fast."

  The urgency in Mike Rodgers's voice must have impressed Ron Friday. The NSA operative shoved the torch into a fissure headfirst and jumped to his left, away from Rodgers.

  "Samouel, get behind something!" Rodgers shouted.

  The general's voice was still echoing through the enclosure as he ran forward. Rodgers was afraid the phone would fall from his pocket so he tucked it into his equipment vest. A moment later he tripped on a small pit and banged his left shoulder on a chunk of ice. Instead of getting up again he moved ahead on all fours, crablike. It was the only way to negotiate the uneven terrain without falling. He kept moving toward where he had last seen Samouel and Nanda. He did not feel pain. The only thing that mattered was getting to Nanda. And hoping that he was wrong about what he saw.

  He was not.

  A moment later the fire of automatic weapons sent deep pops and dull sparks bouncing from the icy walls.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:00 P.M.

  Hood's office was supernaturally silent when Herbert's phone beeped. His heart had begun to race just moments before, as though he knew the call was coming. Or maybe he was just getting more anxious as the minutes crept by. Even if nothing was happening, Herbert did not like being out of touch.

  The intelligence chief jabbed the audio button. Wind screamed from the tiny speaker. It seemed to draw Herbert into the Himalayas. Or maybe he was feeling something else. A sense of exposure. The sound was being sucked from Herbert's armrest to the speakerphone on Hood's desk. The intelligence officer was unaccustomed to working with an audience. He did not like it.

  "Go ahead," Herbert shouted.

  "Bob, I think something just happened at the missile site," Colonel August informed him.

  Herbert fired a glance at Hood's phone. Then he looked at Hood. Herbert wanted his boss to mute the damn thing.

  "Mike's ass is on the line," Herbert said through his teeth.

  "The damage is already done," Hood said softly as he nodded toward the speakerphone on his desk where the Pakistani ambassador was still on the line. He raised his voice. "Colonel, what's the situation?" Hood asked.

  "I'm not certain, sir," August said. "I heard gunfire and shouting. Then there was nothing. I hung on for a few minutes before deciding to call. I thought I could use the downtime to get the codes in case Mike came back on."

  "Colonel, was there any indication who might be firing at who?" Herbert asked.

  "No," August replied. "Before it started, all I heard was someone shouting for the others to duck and take cover. I assume it was General Rodgers."

  "Are you still secure?" Herbert asked.

  "Nothing has changed here," August replied.

  "All right," Herbert said. "Hold on."

  Hood turned to the speakerphone. "Mr. Ambassador, did you hear the colonel's report?"

  "Every word," Ambassador Simathna replied. "It does not sound like a happy situation."

  "We don't know enough to say what the situation is exactly," Hood pointed out. "I do agree with Colonel August about having the codes ready to give to Mike Rodgers. Perhaps if he can get inside the silo--"

  "I cannot agree," Simathna interrupted.

  "Why is that, sir?" Hood asked.

  "Almost certainly those are Indian troops attacking the general's group," Simathna said.

  "How do we know they aren't Pakistani troops protecting the site?" Herbert asked.

  "Because the mountain troops that monitor the glacier have remained on our side of the line of control," Simathna informed him. "They were told of your incursion."

  " 'Our' incursion," Herbert said. He did not even attempt to conceal his disgust. "There's a Pakistani on the team."

  "He is under the command of an American military officer," Simathna reminded him.

  "How do we know your mountain troops obeyed their instructions?" Herbert pressed.

  "I am telling you they have," Simathna replied.

  Hood scowled and dragged the back of his thumb across his throat. He was telling Herbert to kill the discussion he had opened. Herbert would rather kill the ambassador. They were trying to save this man's country from vaporization and he would not do a thing to help Mike Rodgers.

  "Mr. Ambassador," Hood said, "we have to assume that General Rodgers and his people will prevail. When they do they'll need to get into the silo as quickly as possible. It would be prudent to give Colonel August the codes."

  "Again, I cannot allow that," Simathna replied. "It is unfortunate enough that our enemies may learn of this strategic site. But at least the safeguards are still in place."

  "What safeguards?" Hood asked.

  "Removing the ice block on top of the silo will trigger a timed explosive within the hatch," the ambassador told him. "Unless the proper code is entered within sixty minutes the bomb will detonate. It will trigger a series of conventional explosions that will destroy the surface area."

  "Killing the enemy but leaving the silo intact," Herbert said.

  "That is correct," the ambassador told him.

  "Mr. Ambassador, we are still facing a nuclear attack on Pakistan," Hood pressed.

  "We understand that, which is why we must protect our silos from discovery," Simathna told him.

  That remark got Herbert's attention. It got Hood's attention, too, judging from his expression. The ambassador had just revealed that there were other silos, probably in other remote areas. That was not an accident. He had wanted Op-Center to know that, and to know it now.

  Herbert knew it would be pointless to ask how many silos there were or where they were located. The question was whether revealing that information to New Delhi would trigger an immediate nuclear strike against the region or whether it would force India to stand down. Probably the latter. If Indian intelligence did not already know about the silos they would not know where to strike. Perhaps that was why Simathna had mentioned it. The information would sound more authentic if it were leaked to New Delhi from a branch of U.S. intelligence.

  Of course, as with everything else Simathna told them, Herbert had no way of knowing if this were true. For all they knew, there was only the one silo. And there was no way of knowing if there were even a missile inside. Perhaps it was still in the process of being built.

  "Ambassador Simathna, I'm going to ask Colonel August to free up his telephone line now," Hood said. "He'll let us know as soon as he hears from General Rodgers."

  Hood looked at Herbert. Herbert nodded and told August to sign off until he had reestablished communication with Rodgers. Then Herbert punched off the telephone and sat back.

  "Thank you," Simathna said. "Please try to understand our position."

  "I do," Hood insisted.

  So did Herbert. He understood that Rodgers and August were risking their lives for people who weren't going to do anything to help. He had been in this business long enough to know that covert operatives were considered expendable. They were at the front line of disposable assets.

  Except when you knew them.

  When they had names and faces and lives that touched yours every day.

  Like Rodgers and August.

  Like Striker.

  The room was silent again, and still.

  Except for the desperate racing of Herbert's heart.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:35 A.M.

  White and red flares exploded in the skies above the clearing. Rodgers could now see the soldiers who were firing at them. They were a handful of Indian r
egulars, probably out from the line of control. The four or five men took up positions behind ice formations near the entrance.

  Rodgers immediately dropped to his belly and began wriggling through the broken terrain. Friday was behind the slab at the entrance to the missile silo. He was firing at the Indians to keep them down. Rodgers watched the entrance for signs of additional troops. There were none.

  The flares also enabled Rodgers to see Samouel and Nanda. The two were about thirty feet away. They were lying on their sides behind a thick chunk of ice. The barricade was roughly three feet tall and fifteen feet wide. The Pakistani was stretched out behind the woman. He was pushing her face-first against the ice, his arm around her, protecting her on all sides. Rodgers did not have the time to contemplate it, but the irony of a Pakistani terrorist protecting an Indian civilian operative did not escape him.

  Bullets pinged furiously from the top of the formation. The onslaught showered the two with ice. As the barrier was whittled down Samouel looked around. Mike Rodgers was behind and slightly to the right of the two. The Pakistani did not appear to notice him.

  "Samouel!" Rodgers yelled.

  The Pakistani looked over. Rodgers sidled to his right, behind a boulder-shaped formation. He wanted Nanda as close as possible, in case they managed to get inside the silo.

  "Come back here!" Rodgers shouted. "I'll cover you!"

  Samouel nodded. The Pakistani pulled Nanda away from the ice and bundled her in his arms. Crouching as low as possible, Samouel ran toward Rodgers. The general rose and fired several rounds at the Indians. But as the light of the flares began to fade, and the last streaming embers fell to earth, the soldiers stopped shooting. Obviously, they wanted to conserve both their flares and their ammunition. Though Rodgers kept his automatic trained on the entrance there was no further exchange of gunfire. The ice walls kept even the wind outside. An eerie stillness settled on the enclosure. There was only the crunch of Samouel's boots on the ice and a deep, deep freeze that caused the exposed flesh around Rodgers's eyes to burn.

  Samouel and Nanda reached the ice boulder. The Pakistani slid to his knees beside Rodgers. He was breathing heavily as he sat Nanda with her back to the ice. The young woman was no longer in the near-catatonic state she had been in earlier. Her eyes were red and tearing, though Rodgers did not know whether it was from sadness or the cold. Still, they were moving from side to side and she seemed to be registering some awareness of her surroundings.

  Samouel moved toward Rodgers. "General, I saw something when the flares went off," Samouel panted.

  "What did you see?" Rodgers asked.

  "It was directly behind the place where you and Mr. Friday were," the Pakistani said. "On one of the lower ledges of the slopes, about nine or ten feet up. It looked like a satellite dish."

  An uplink, Rodgers thought. Of course.

  "Maybe that has something to do with why we were sent to this place," Samouel continued.

  "I'm pretty sure it does," Rodgers said. "Was the dish out in the open?"

  "Not really," Samouel said. "It was set back, in a little cave. About five or six feet it seemed." The Pakistani shook his head. He sighed. "I can't say for sure that it was a dish. There was white lattice, but it could have been icicles and a trick of the light."

  "Would the site have been visible from the air?" Rodgers asked.

  "Not from directly overhead," Samouel told him.

  Rodgers glanced back. It was too dark to see the ice wall now. But what Samouel just said made sense. If there were a video setup somewhere inside the Pakistani missile silo, then there had to be an uplink somewhere on the outside. The dish or antenna did not have to be on the top of a peak. All the dish needed was an unobstructed view of one area in the sky. A single spot where a communications satellite, possibly Russian or Chinese built-and-launched, was in geosynchronous orbit. The cables connecting the relay to the silo would probably be relatively deep inside the ice wall. Whoever designed an uplink for this area would not want the wiring too close to the surface. Melting ice might expose the cables to wind, sleet, or other corrosive forces, not to mention leaving it visible to passing recon aircraft.

  "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 mov
ement 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.