"None of which helps us get Mike out of there," Coffey said gravely.
The phone beeped as Herbert was talking. Hood picked it up. It was Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office.
"Paul, if Mike is still out in the Chittisin Plateau, we've got something on the wide-range camera he should know about," Viens said.
Hood punched on the speakerphone and sat up. "Talk to me, Stephen," he said.
"A couple of minutes ago we saw a blip moving back into the area," Viens said. "We believe it's an Indian Mi-35, possibly the same one they tangled with before. Refueled and back for another round."
While Viens had been speaking, Hood and Herbert swapped quick, hopeful looks. The men did not have to say anything. There was suddenly an option. The question was whether there was time to use it.
"Stephen, stay on the line," Hood said. "And thank you. Thank you very much."
Moving with barely controlled urgency, Herbert scooped up his wheelchair phone and speed-dialed his Indian military liaison.
Hood also did something. Inside, in private.
He speed-dialed a silent word of thanks to whoever was looking after Mike.
SIXTY-SEVEN
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:00 A.M.
Rodgers was crouched behind the slab, his gun drawn as he looked across the clearing. He had allowed the fire to die while Nanda continued to make her broadcast. Although the Indians had not moved on them, he did not want to give them a target if they changed their minds. He could think of several reasons they might.
If Nanda's message had gotten through, the soldiers certainly would have let Rodgers know by now. The Indians would not want to risk being shot any more than he did. Their silence seemed to indicate that either the Indians were waiting for Rodgers to slip up or for reinforcements to arrive. Possibly they were waiting for dawn to attack. They had the longer-range weapons. All they needed was light to climb the slopes and spot the targets. It could also be that the Indians were already moving on them, slowly and cautiously. Ron Friday may have gone over to rat out their position in exchange for sanctuary. That would not surprise Rodgers at all. The man had given himself away when he registered no surprise about why Fenwick had resigned. Only Hood, the president, the vice president, the First Lady, and Fenwick's assistant had known he was a traitor.
But Friday knew. Friday knew because he may have been the son of a bitch's point man in Baku, Azerbaijan. For all Rodgers knew, Friday may have had a hand in the attacks on the CIA operatives who had been stationed there. One way or another, Ron Friday would answer for that. Either he'd hunt him down here or end their broadcast with a message for Hood.
With the fire gone, however, Mike Rodgers had another concern. He had sacrificed his gloves and jacket for the cause. His hands were numb and his chest and arms were freezing. If he did not do something about that soon he would perish from hypothermia.
He took a moment to make sure that Nanda was protected from gunfire by what remained of the slab. Then he crept back to where he had left Samouel behind the ice barricade.
The Pakistani was dead.
That did not surprise Rodgers. What did surprise him was the sadness he felt upon finding the lifeless body.
There was something about Samouel that did not fit the template of an objective-blinded terrorist. In the Pakistani's final moments, while he should have been praying for Allah to accept his soul, Samouel was telling Rodgers how to splice the dish to his radio. Along with Samouel's dogged trek alongside two historic enemies, that had touched Rodgers.
Now, in death, Samouel was even responsible for saving Rodgers's life. The general felt grateful as he removed the dead man's coat and gloves. Stripping the bodies of enemies had always been a part of warfare. But soldiers did not typically take even things they needed from fallen allies. Somehow, though, this felt like a gift rather than looting.
Rodgers knelt beside the body as he dressed. As the general finished, his knees began to tickle. At first he thought it was a result of the cold. Then he realized that the ground was vibrating slightly. A moment later he heard a low, low roar.
It felt and sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche. He wondered if the explosions had weakened the slopes and they were coming down on them. If that were the case the safest place would not be at the foot of the slopes.
Rising, Rodgers ran back toward Nanda. As he did, he felt a rumbling in his gut. He had felt it before. He recognized it.
It was not an avalanche. It was worse. It was the reason the Indians had been waiting to attack.
A moment later the tops of the surrounding ice peaks were silhouetted by light rising from the north. The rumbling and roar were now distinctive beats as the Indian helicopter neared. He should have expected this. The soldiers had radioed their position to the Mi-35 that had tried to kill them earlier.
Rodgers slid to Nanda's side and knelt facing her. He felt for her cheeks in the dark and held them in his hands. He used them to guide his mouth close to her ear, so she could hear over the roar.
"I want you to try and get to the entrance while I keep the helicopter busy," Rodgers said. "It's not going to be easy getting past the soldiers but it may be your only hope."
"How do we know they'll kill us?" she asked.
"We don't," Rodgers admitted. "But let's find out by trying to escape instead of by surrendering."
"I like that," Nanda replied.
Rodgers could hear the smile in her voice.
"Start making your way around the wall behind me," he said. "With luck, the chopper will cause an avalanche on their side."
"I hope not," she replied. "They're my people."
Touche, Rodgers thought.
"But thank you," she added. "Thank you for making this fight your fight. Good luck."
The general patted her cheek and she left. He continued to watch as the chopper descended. Suddenly, the Russian bird stopped moving. It hovered above the center of the clearing, equidistant to Rodgers and the Indians. Maybe twenty seconds passed and then the chopper suddenly swept upward and to the south. It disappeared behind one of the peaks near the entrance. The glow of its lights poured through the narrow cavern.
Rodgers peeked over the slab. The chopper had landed. Maybe they were worried about causing an avalanche and had decided to deploy ground troops. That would make getting through the entrance virtually impossible. He immediately got up and ran after Nanda. He would have to pull her back, think of another strategy. Maybe negotiate something with these people to get her out. As she had said, they were her people.
But as Rodgers ran he saw something that surprised him. Up ahead. Three of the Indian soldiers were rushing from the clearing. They were not going to attack. They were being evacuated.
What happened next surprised him even more.
"General Rodgers!" someone shouted.
Rodgers looked to the west of the entrance. Someone was standing there, half-hidden by an ice formation.
All right, Rodgers thought. He'd bite. "Yes?" the general shouted back.
"Your message got through!" said the Indian. "We must leave this place at once!"
Everything from Rodgers's legs to his spirit to his brain felt as though they had been given a shot of adrenaline. He kept running, leaping cracks and dodging mounds of ice. Either Ron Friday had gotten to him with a hell of a sell job or the man was telling the truth. Whichever it was, Rodgers was going with it. There did not seem to be another option.
Looking ahead, Rodgers watched as Nanda reached the entrance. She continued on toward the light. Rodgers arrived several moments later. The Indian soldier, a sergeant, got there at the same time he did. His rifle was slung over his back. There were no weapons in his gloved hands.
"We must hurry," the Indian said as they ran into the entrance. "This area is a Pakistani time bomb. An arsenal of some kind. You triggered the defenses somehow."
Possibly by tinkering with the uplink, Rodgers thought. Or more likely, the Pakistani military wante
d to destroy them all to keep the secret of their nuclear missile silo.
"I can't believe there were just two of you," the sergeant said as they raced through the narrow tunnel. "We thought there were more."
"There were," Rodgers said. He looked at the chopper ahead. He watched as soldiers helped Nanda inside and he realized Friday had deserted them. "They're dead now."
The men left the entrance and ran the last twenty-five yards to the chopper. Rodgers and the sergeant jumped into the open door of the Mi-35. The aircraft rose quickly, simultaneously angling from the hot Pakistani base.
As the helicopter door was slid shut behind him, Rodgers staggered toward the side of the crowded cargo compartment. There were no seats, just the outlines of cold, tired bodies. The general felt the adrenaline kick leave as his legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. He was not surprised to find Nanda already there, slumped against an ammunition crate. Rodgers slid toward her as the helicopter leveled out and sped to the north. He took her hand and snuggled beside her, the two of them propping each other up. The Indians sat around them, lighting cigarettes and blowing warmth on their hands.
The cabin temperature inside the helicopter was little higher than freezing, but the relative warmth felt blissful. Rodgers's skin crackled warmly. His eyelids shut. He could not help it. His mind started to shut down as well.
Before it did, the American felt a flash of satisfaction that Samouel had died on something that was nominally his homeland. Silo, arsenal, whatever Islamabad called it, at least it was built by Pakistanis.
As for Friday, Rodgers was also glad. Glad that the man was about to die on the opposite side of the world from the country he had betrayed.
Joy for a terrorist. Hate for an American.
Rodgers was happy to leave those thoughts for another time.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:07 A.M.
Ron Friday had been confused, at first, when he saw the chopper leave the clearing.
His plan had been simple. If Eagle Scout Rodgers had managed to come out on top of this, Friday would have told him that he had gone off to the side to watch for an Indian assault. If the Indians had won, as Friday expected, he would have said he had been trying to reach them to help end the standoff.
Friday had not expected both sides to reach some kind of sudden detente and leave together. He did not expect to be stranded on the far side of the clearing where the drumming of the chopper drowned out his shouts to the men. He did not expect to be stranded here.
But as Ron Friday watched the chopper depart he did not feel cheated or angry. He felt alone, but that was nothing new. His immediate concern was getting rest and surviving what remained of the cold night. Having done both, he could make his way back to the line of control the next day.
Where he had wanted to go in the first place.
Accomplishing that, Friday would find a way to work this to his advantage. He had still been a key participant in an operation that had prevented a nuclear incident over Kashmir. Along the way he had learned things that would be valuable to both sides.
Friday was slightly northeast of the center of the clearing when the light of the rising chopper disappeared behind the peaks. He had only seen two people join the Indians. That meant one of them, probably Samouel, was dead near the entrance to the silo. The Pakistani would no longer need his clothing. If Friday could find a little niche somewhere, he could use the clothes to set up a flap to keep out the cold. And he still had the matches. Maybe he could find something to make a little campfire. As long as life remained, there was always hope.
A moment later, in a chaotic upheaval of ice and fire, hope ended for Ron Friday.
SIXTY-NINE
The Himachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 A.M.
Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion. It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a stick. It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all sides.
August watched to see if a contrail rose from the fires. He did not see one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.
The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided. August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate, part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the chance to avenge his team.
The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.
The colonel's hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear the TAC-SAT when it beeped. Fortunately, August noticed the red light flashing. He unbuttoned the collar that covered his face to the bridge of his nose. Then he turned up the volume on the TAC-SAT before answering. He would need every bit of it to hear Bob Herbert.
"Yes?" August shouted into the mouthpiece.
"Colonel, it's over," Herbert said.
"Repeat, please?" August yelled. The colonel thought he heard Herbert say this was over.
"Mike got the message through," Herbert said, louder and more articulately. "The Indian LOC troops are being recalled. You will be picked up by chopper at sunrise."
"I copy that," August said. "We saw an explosion to the northeast a minute ago. Did Mike do that?"
"In a manner of speaking," Herbert said. "We'll brief you after you've been airlifted."
"What about the Strikers?" August asked.
"We'll have to work on that," Herbert said.
"I'm not leaving without them," August said.
"Colonel, this is Paul," Hood said. "We have to determine whose jurisdiction the valley--"
"I'm not leaving without them," August repeated.
There was a long silence. "I understand," Hood replied.
"Brett, can you hold out there until around midmorning?" Herbert asked.
"I will do whatever it takes," August said.
"All right," Herbert told him. "The chopper can pick up Corporal Musicant. I promise we'll have the situation worked as quickly as possible."
"Thank you, sir," August said. "What are my orders regarding the three Pakistanis?"
"You know me," Herbert said. "Now that they've served their purpose I'd just as soon you put a bullet in each of their murderous little heads. I'm sure my wife has the road upstairs covered. She'll make sure the bus to Paradise gets turned back."
"Morality aside, there are legal and political considerations as well as the possibility of armed resistance," Hood cut in. "Op-Center has no jurisdiction over the FKM, and India has made no official inquiries regarding the rest of the cell. They are free to do whatever they want. If the Pakistanis wish to surrender, I'm sure they will be arrested and tried by the Indians. If they turn on you, you must respond however you see fit."
"Paul's right," Herbert said. "The most important thing is to get you and Corporal Musicant home safely."
August said he understood. He told Hood and Herbert that he would accept whatever food and water the chopper brought. After that, he said he would make his way to the Mangala Valley to find the rest of the Strikers.
Hanging up the TAC-SAT, August rose slowly on cold-stiffened legs. He switched on his flashli
ght and made his way across the ice-covered ledge to where Musicant was stationed. August gave the medic the good news then went back to where Sharab and her two associates were huddled. Unlike the Strikers, they had not undergone cold-weather training. Nor were they dressed as warmly as August and Musicant.
August squatted beside them. They winced as the light struck them. They reminded the colonel of lepers cowering from the sun. Sharab was trembling. Her eyes were red and glazed. There was ice in her hair and eyebrows. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were bright red. August could not help but feel sorry for her. Her two comrades looked even worse. Their noses were raw and bleeding and they would probably lose their ears to frostbite. Their gloves were so thick with ice that August did not even think they could move their fingers.
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