Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  As they neared to within one thousand feet of the target, August heard a faint popping sound under the screaming wind. His back was facing the Indian infantry so he could not be certain the sound came from them.

  A moment later August was sure.

  The air around them filled with black-and-white cloudbursts. They were flak rockets used against low-flying aircraft. The shells were fired from shoulder-mounted launchers like the Blowpipe, the standard one-man portable system of the Indian army. They fired metal pellets in all directions around them. Within a range of twenty-five meters, the fifty-seven shots in each shell hit with the force of .38-caliber bullets.

  August had never been so helpless in his life. He watched as the first shell popped among the parachutists. It was followed moments later by another, then by one more. The canopies obscured his view of the Strikers themselves. But he saw how close the bursts came. There was no way his people were not being peppered with the hollow steel shells.

  It did not occur to August that the shrapnel could take him down. Or that he could miss the plateau.

  He forgot the cold and the wind and even the mission.

  All that mattered was the well-being of his team. And there was nothing he could do to ensure their safety right now. August’s eyes had darted from canopy to canopy as the rockets burst around them. Five of the lowest shrouds were heavily perforated within seconds. They folded into their own centers and dropped straight down. A moment later the chutes turned up, like inverted umbrellas, as the Strikers below dragged them through free fall.

  Two parachutes in the middle of the group were also damaged. They dropped with their cargo onto another two canopies directly below. The shrouds became tangled in the swirling winds. The lines knit and the jumpers spun with increasing speed toward the valley below.

  Even if the soldiers themselves had not been hit by shrapnel there was no way for them to survive the fall. August screamed in frustration. His cry merged with the wailing wind and filled the sky above him.

  The attack left just himself and three Strikers still aloft. August did not know who they were. He did not know if they had been struck or if they were even alive. At least now they were below the line of the intervening mountains. They were safe from additional ground fire.

  There was a fourth burst. It exploded white-and-black above and in front of August. He felt two punches, one in the chest and another in his left arm. He looked down at his chest. There was dull pain but no blood. Perhaps the vest had protected him. Or perhaps the colonel was bleeding underneath the fabric. He did not feel anything after the initial hit and his heart rate seemed the same. Both good signs. In his heart he was too sick over the Strikers he had just lost to care. But he knew he had to care. He had to survive to complete this mission. Not just for his country and the millions of lives in the balance, but for the soldiers and friends whose lives had just been sacrificed.

  There were only a few hundred feet to the plateau. He watched as two of the Strikers landed there. The third missed by several meters, despite the efforts of one of the commandos to grab him. August used the guidelines to maneuver toward the cliff wall. He was descending rapidly but he would still rather hit the peak than miss the ledge.

  August’s left arm began to sting but he kept his attention on the cliff. He had dropped below the mountaintops. The tors were no longer hazards. They were once again towering, stationary peaks that surrounded and protected him from Indian fire. The enemy now was the valley on two sides of the plateau and the outcroppings of rock that could snap his back if he hit one. The updraft from the cliff slowed August, allowing him to guide the parachute down. He decided to stick close to the steep cliff and literally follow it down, thus avoiding the sharp outcroppings toward the center. Every time the wind would brush him toward the valley he would swing himself against the rock wall. The air rushing up the cliff gave him extra buoyancy. August hit the plateau hard and immediately jettisoned the chute. The shroud crumpled and scooted across the ledge, catching on a three-meter-tall boulder and just hanging there.

  Before examining himself for injuries, Brett August stripped off his mask and mouthpiece. The air was thin but breathable. August looked across the plateau for the other Strikers. Medic William Musicant and Corporal Ishi Honda were the two who had made it. Both men were near the edge of the plateau. Musicant was on his knees beside the radio operator. The medic had removed the compact medical belt he wore. Honda was not moving.

  The colonel got to his feet and made his way over. As he did he felt his chest under his vest. It was dry. The pellet had not gone through the garment. His arm was bleeding but the freezing air had slowed the flow considerably. He ignored the wound for now. Try as he might he could not clear his mind of the other Strikers. Sondra DeVonne. Walter Pupshaw. Mike. The others.

  He concentrated on the Strikers who were just a few meters away. And he forced himself to think about what was next. He still had his weapons and he had his assignment. He had to link up with the Pakistani cell.

  As August reached the men he did not have to ask how Honda was. The radio operator was panting hard as blood pumped from beneath his vest. The medic was trying to clean two small, raw wounds on Honda’s left side. August could not see Honda’s dark eyes behind his tinted eyepieces. The frost had evaporated and misted them over.

  “Is there anything I can do?” August asked Musicant.

  “Yeah,” the medic said urgently. “There’s a portable intravenous kit in compartment seven and a vial of atropine sulfate in twelve. Get them. Also the plasma in eight. He’s got two more holes in his back. I’ve got to get him plugged and stabilized.”

  The colonel removed the items. He began setting up the IV. From triage classes he remembered that the atropine sulfate was used to diminish secretions, including blood loss. That would help stabilize the patient if there were internal bleeding.

  “Is your arm all right, sir?” Musicant asked.

  “Sure,” August said. “Who was that you tried to reach at the ledge?”

  “General Rodgers,” the medic replied.

  August perked. “Was the general wounded?”

  “He appeared to be okay,” Musicant replied. “He was reaching out, trying to get over a few feet more. The goddamn current grabbed his chute. I couldn’t get to him.”

  Then it was possible that Rodgers had survived. August would try and contact him by point-to-point radio.

  “After the IV is ready you’d better try and get in touch with those Indian soldiers,” Musicant suggested. “If I can stabilize Ishi we’ll need to get him to a hospital.”

  August finished setting up the small IV tripod beside Honda. Then he uncapped the needle. He would use Honda’s radio to contact Op-Center and brief them. He would give Herbert their position and ask him to relay a call for medical assistance. But that was all he would do. He and Musicant could not wait here, however. They still had a mission to complete.

  When the IV setup was finished August reached for Honda’s TAC-SAT. Musicant had already removed the pack and set it aside. The reinforced backpack had taken some hits along one side but the telephone itself appeared to be undamaged. August wondered if Honda had taken pains to protect it, even at the cost of his own life.

  Just then, Corporal Honda began to convulse.

  “Shit!” Musicant said.

  August watched as the radio operator coughed. Flecks of blood spattered his cheek.

  “Ishi, hang on,” Musicant yelled. “You can do it. Give me another minute, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Honda stopped panting and coughing. His entire body relaxed.

  “Take off his vest!” Musicant yelled. Then the medic grabbed for his medical belt and reached into one of the pockets. He withdrew a hypodermic and a vial of epinephrine.

  Colonel August began unfastening Honda’s vest. As he bent over the stricken soldier he noticed a stream of red seeping out from between the noncom’s spread legs. Honda had to have been losing blood at an incredibly fa
st pace for it to pool that far down.

  August watched as the blood crept to below Honda’s knees. When the colonel pulled the vest away he found the front underside to be sticky with blood. The pellets from the Indian projectiles had gone up the corporal’s torso through his lower back and emerged through his chest. Honda must have been near ground zero of one of the blasts.

  Musicant knelt beside Ishi Honda. The medic spread his knees wide so he was steady beside the patient. Then he pulled aside Honda’s bloody shirt and injected the stimulant directly into Honda’s heart. August held the radio operator’s hand. It was cold and still. Blood continued to pool on the ledge. Musicant leaned back on his heels and waited. Honda did not respond. His face was ashen from more than just the cold. The colonel and the medic watched for a moment longer.

  “I’m sorry,” Musicant said softly to the dead man.

  “He was a good soldier and a brave ally,” August said.

  “Amen,” Musicant replied.

  August realized how tightly he was holding Honda’s hand. He gently released it. August had lost friends in Vietnam. The emotional territory was bitterly familiar. But he had never lost nearly an entire squad before. For August, that loss was all there in the still, young face before him.

  Musicant rose and had a look at August’s arm. August was surprised how warm the last few minutes had left him. Now that the drama had ended his heart was slowing and blood flow was severely reduced. The cold would set in quickly. They had to move out soon.

  While Musicant cleaned and bandaged the wound the colonel turned to the TAC-SAT. He entered his personal access code and the unit came on. Then he entered Bob Herbert’s number. As August waited to be connected he removed the radio from his equipment vest.

  He placed another call.

  One that he prayed would be received.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C. Thursday, 7:24 A.M.

  “Have we heard anything yet?” Paul Hood asked as he swung into Bob Herbert’s office.

  The intelligence chief was drinking coffee and looking at his computer monitor. “No, and the NRO hasn’t seen them yet either,” Herbert said. “Still just the Pakistanis.”

  Hood looked at his watch. “They should be down by now. Has the transport landed yet?”

  “No,” Herbert replied. “The pilot radioed the tower in Chushul. He said that the cargo had been delivered but nothing more.”

  “I don’t expect they stuck around to verify that our guys touched down,” Hood said.

  “Probably not,” Herbert agreed. “That close to the Pakistani border I’m guessing the plane just turned south and ran.”

  “Hell, why not,” Hood said. “We’re only trying to stop their country from being involved in a nuclear war.”

  “You’re stealing my cynicism,” Herbert pointed out. “Anyway, they probably don’t know what’s at stake.”

  As Herbert was speaking the phone beeped. It was the secure line. He put it on speaker.

  “Herbert here.”

  “Bob, it’s August,” said the caller. It was difficult to hear him.

  “Colonel, you’ve got a lot of wind there,” Herbert said. “You’ll have to speak up.”

  “Bob, we’ve had a major setback here,” August said loudly and slowly. “Indian troops from the LOC peppered us with flak on the way down. Most of our personnel were neutralized. Musicant and I are the only ones on the plateau. Rodgers missed but he may have reached the valley. We don’t know if he’s hurt. I’m trying to reach him by radio.”

  “Say again,” Herbert asked. “Two safe, one MIA, rest dead.”

  “That’s correct,” August told him.

  The intelligence chief looked up at Hood, who was still standing in the doorway. Herbert’s face looked drawn. He muttered something in a taut, dry whisper. Hood could not make out what Herbert was saying. Perhaps it was not meant to be heard.

  But Hood had heard what August said.

  “Colonel, are you all right?” Hood asked.

  “Mr. Musicant and I are fine, sir,” August replied. “I’m sorry we let you down.”

  “You didn’t,” Hood assured him. “We knew this wasn’t going to be an easy one.”

  August’s words were still working their way into Hood’s sleep-deprived brain. He was struggling for some kind of perspective. Those lives could not simply have ended. So many of them had only just begun. Sondra DeVonne, Ishi Honda, Pat Prementine, Walter Pupshaw, Terrence Newmeyer, and the rest. Hood’s mind flashed on their faces. Dossier photos gave way to memories of drilling sessions he had watched, memorial services, barbecues, tackle football games. It was not the same as the death of one man. Hood had been able to focus on the specifics of losing Charlie Squires or Bass Moore. He had concentrated on helping their families get through the ordeal. The scope of this tragedy and of the personal loss was both overwhelming and numbing.

  “What’s your assessment, Colonel?” Hood asked. His voice sounded strong, confident. It had to for August’s sake.

  “We’d still like to try and intercept the cell,” August went on. “Two extra guns may help them punch through somewhere along the line.”

  “We’re behind you on that,” Hood said.

  “But there are a lot of infantrymen headed our way,” August went on. “Can you contact the Pakistanis and let them know what happened?”

  “We’ll try,” Hood said. “The Pakistani leader has Friday’s phone. She is not the most cooperative person we’ve dealt with.”

  “Does she know we’re coming?” August asked.

  “Affirmative,” Hood told him.

  “Has there been any arrangement with her?” August asked.

  The colonel was asking who would be calling the shots once they linked up. “The cell commander and I did not have that conversation,” Hood told him. “Use your own initiative.”

  “Thank you,” August said. “One more thing, sir. We’re looking at darkness and some heavy winds and cold coming in. I hope you have a contingency plan in place.”

  “We were just working on that,” Hood lied. “But we’re still counting on you and Corporal Musicant to pull this one through.”

  “We’ll do our best,” August assured him.

  “I know that. We also need you two to stay safe,” Hood said.

  August said he would. He also said he would inform Op-Center if he managed to raise Mike Rodgers. Then he signed off. Hood disengaged the speakerphone. There was a long moment of silence.

  “You all right?” Hood asked Herbert.

  Herbert shook his head slowly. “We had thirteen people out there,” he said flatly.

  “I know,” Hood said.

  “Kids, mostly.”

  “This was my call,” Hood reminded the intelligence chief.

  “I gave the operation the go-ahead.”

  “I backed you up,” Herbert replied. “Hell, we had no choice. But this is a price they should not have had to pay.”

  Hood agreed but to say so seemed pathetic somehow. They were crisis management professionals. Sometimes the only barrier between control and chaos was a human shield. As iron-willed as that barricade could be, it was still just sinew and bone.

  Hood moved behind the desk. He looked down at the computer. Logic aside, he still felt hollow. Hood and the others had known going in that there were risks involved with this mission. What galled him was that an attack from allied ground forces was not supposed to be one of those risks. No one imagined that the Indian military would shoot at personnel jumping from one of their own aircraft, suspended from the parachutes clearly identified as those belonging to the Indian air force. This phase of the operation was only supposed to pit trained professionals against severe elements. There was going to be a chance for most if not all the Strikers to survive. How did it go so wrong?

  “Colonel August was right about us needing a backup plan,” Herbert said. “We went off the playbook. We’ve got to get to work and give him—”

  “Hold on
,” Hood said. “Something’s not right.”

  “Excuse me?” Herbert replied.

  “Look at this satellite image,” Hood said.

  Herbert did.

  “The terrorist cell is still moving beneath the overhanging ledges, just as they’ve done since sunup,” Hood said. “But they’ve also got a little elbow room now. They have these shadows to move in.” Hood pointed at the jagged areas of blackness on the monitor. “See how the shadows are lengthening as the sun sets behind the Himalayas?”

  “I see,” Herbert said. “But I don’t get your point.”

  “Look at the direction of the shadows relative to the sun,” Hood told him. “The cell is moving in a westerly direction. Not northwesterly. That’s different from before.”

  Herbert stared for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “Why the hell would they be doing that?”

  “Maybe there’s a shortcut?” Hood suggested. “A secret path through the glacier?”

  Herbert brought up the detailed photographic overviews from NASA’s Defense Mapping Agency. These photographic maps were marked with coordinates and were used to target satellites. Herbert asked the computer to mark the area that Viens was studying now. Hood leaned over Herbert’s wheelchair and looked closely at the monitor as a faint red cursor began to pulse on the region the cell was crossing.

  “There’s no shortcut,” Herbert said. “What the hell are they doing? They’re actually taking a longer route to the line of control.”

  “Will August still intercept them?” Hood asked.

  “Yes,” Herbert said. The intelligence chief pointed to a region slightly north of where the cell was. “Brett came down here. He’s heading southeast. He’ll just be meeting them a lot sooner than we expected.” Herbert studied the map. “But this still doesn’t make sense. This route isn’t going to take the Pakistanis through more accessible terrain. It’s farther from the LOC, it’s not at a lower altitude, and it doesn’t look easier to negotiate.”