by Clancy, Tom
Samouel and Friday were still relatively alert but Nanda was numb. Shortly after the Mi-35 turned and left, the woman had fallen quiet. Her muscles and expression had relaxed and she seemed almost in a trance. She moved along as he tugged her hand. But she had a rubbery, unfocused gait. Rodgers had seen this kind of emotional shutdown in Vietnam. It usually occurred after a GI had lost a good buddy in combat. Clinically speaking, Rodgers did not know how long the effects lasted. But he did know that he could not count on afflicted soldiers for days thereafter. After everything that had happened, it would be tragic if they could not even get Nanda to tell her story.
Samouel and Friday had been walking a few paces ahead of Rodgers and Nanda. After the men had a chance to light their torches and flashlights and shine them along the walls and ground, they walked over to the general. Friday handed Rodgers the cell phone.
“Here we are,” Friday said angrily. “Now the question is where the hell are we?”
Rodgers released Nanda’s hand. She stared into the darkness as Rodgers went to check the time on the cell phone. The cold was so intense that the liquid crystal screen cracked. The digital numbers vanished instantly.
“Well done,” Friday said.
Rodgers did not respond. He was angry at himself too. The cell phone was their only link to the outside world. He should have foreseen what the intense cold would do. He closed the phone and put it in his pocket, where it would be relatively warm. Then he turned to Nanda. He warmed her exposed cheeks with his breath and was heartened when she looked at him.
“Look around, try and find out why we’ve been sent here,” Rodgers said to the men.
“Probably to die,” Friday said. “I don’t trust any of these bastards, not the Indians or the Pakistanis.”
“Or even your own government,” Samouel said.
“Oh, you heard?” Friday said. “Well, you’re right. I don’t trust the politicians in Washington either. They’re all using us for something.”
“For peace,” Samouel insisted.
“Is that what you were doing in Kashmir?” Friday demanded.
“We were trying to weaken an enemy that has oppressed us for centuries,” Samouel told him. “The stronger we are the greater our capacity to maintain the peace.”
“Fighting for peace, the great oxymoron,” Friday said. “What a crock. You want power just like everyone else.”
Rodgers had let the discussion go on because anger generated body heat. Now it was time to stop. He moved between the men.
“I need you to check the perimeter,” Rodgers said. “Now.”
“For what?” Friday asked. “A secret, open sesame passage ? Superman’s Fortress of Solitude?”
“Mr. Friday, you’re pushing me,” Rodgers said.
“We’re in a big, cold shooting gallery thanks to the bureaucrats but I’m pushing you?” Friday said. “This is a freakin’ joke!”
The cell phone buzzed in Rodgers’s pocket. The general was grateful for the interruption. He had been getting ready to end the conversation by knocking Friday on his ass. It was not a logical Hegelian solution but it would have worked for Rodgers. Big time.
The general pulled the phone out and shielded it with his high collar.
“Rodgers here!”
“Mike, it’s Brett,” August said. “Have you reached the coordinates?”
“Just got here,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“So far,” August replied. “You?”
“Surviving.”
“Stay warm,” August replied.
“Thanks,” Rodgers said.
The general closed up the phone and put it back in his left pocket. His fingers were numb and he kept his hand there. Friday and Samouel had stuck the torches in a narrow fissure and were warming themselves around it. Both men looked up when the phone call ended.
“That was short,” Friday said.
“Op-Center needed to confirm that we’re here,” Rodgers said. “We’ll get the rest of the plan ASAP.”
“Does Op-Center already have the plan or are they getting it from somewhere in Pakistan?” Friday asked.
“I don’t know,” Rodgers admitted.
“We’re being set up,” Friday said. “I can feel it.”
“Talk to me about it,” Rodgers said. The man might not be likable but that did not mean he was wrong.
“Jack Fenwick used to have a word for operatives who accepted partial codes or portions of maps,” Friday said. “The word was ‘dead.’ If you can’t control your own time, your own movements, it means that someone else is.”
“In this case there’s a reason for that,” Rodgers reminded him. “Security issues.”
“That reason serves Islamabad and Washington, not us,” Friday said. “Fenwick would never have cut this kind of deal with a hostile government.”
All covert operatives were cautious. But there was something about this man that seemed paranoid. Maybe the strain of the trek had worn them both thin. Or maybe Rodgers’s earlier impression was right. The son of a bitch was distracted. Maybe his distrust of Washington went further than he had admitted.
Fenwick was like that too.
“Did you have a lot of contact with Director Fenwick?” Rodgers asked.
The question seemed to surprise Friday. It took him a moment to answer.
“I didn’t work closely with Jack Fenwick, no,” Friday said. “He was the director of the NSA. I’m a field operator. There is not a lot of overlap in our job descriptions.”
“But you obviously had some contact with him,” Rodgers said. “You were stationed in Azerbaijan. That was where he worked his last operation. He had some personal, hands-on involvement with that.”
“We talked a few times,” Friday acknowledged. “He asked for intelligence, I got it for him. There was nothing unusual about that. Why do you ask?”
“You put a lot of faith in your instincts,” Rodgers said. “We all do when we’re in the field. I was just wondering if your instincts ever told you that Fenwick was a traitor.”
“No,” Friday said.
“So they were wrong,” Rodgers pressed.
Friday made a strange face, as though he were repulsed by the thought of having been wrong.
Or maybe Friday was disturbed by something else, Rodgers thought suddenly. Maybe the man could not admit his instincts were wrong because they had not been wrong. Maybe Friday had known that Jack Fenwick was attempting to overthrow the government of the United States. Yet Friday certainly could not admit he knew that either.
The implications of Ron Friday’s silence were disturbing. One of the keys to Fenwick’s plan had been starting an oil war between Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia. To help that along, CIA operatives based in the U.S. embassy had to be murdered. The killer of one of those agents was never found.
The phone beeped again. Rodgers and Friday continued to look at one another. Friday’s hands were still warming over the fire. Rodgers had his right hand in his pocket. As they stood there they shared a subtle alpha male exchange. Friday started to withdraw his right hand from the fire. He apparently wanted to put it in the pocket where he kept his gun. Rodgers poked his right hand further into his own pocket so it bulged. Friday did not know where the general kept his weapon. It happened to be in his equipment vest but Friday apparently did not realize that. Friday’s right hand remained exposed.
In the meantime, Rodgers answered the phone. “Yes?”
“Mike, are you in a clearing hedged by ice?” August asked.
“Yes,” Rodgers replied.
“All right,” August said. “Look to the northwest side of the clearing. At the base of one of the slopes you should see a perfectly flat, white slab of ice about two yards by two yards.”
Rodgers told Friday to pick up one of the torches. Then he told Samouel to sit with Nanda. Together, Rodgers and Friday walked toward the northwest side of the clearing.
“We’re on our way over,” Rodgers said. “Brett, any idea what the shape
is of the chunk we’re looking for?”
“Bob didn’t say,” August replied. “I guess ‘slab’ means flat.”
The men continued walking across the uneven terrain. It was difficult to keep their footing because of all the small pits, cracks, and occasional patches of smooth ice. Rodgers remained several steps behind Friday. Even if Rodgers did not stumble, a man with a lit torch could be a formidable opponent.
Suddenly, Rodgers saw a piece of ice that fit the dimensions August provided. They walked toward it.
“I think we have it!” Rodgers said.
“Good,” August told him. “You’re going to have to move that and then wait for me to call back.”
“For what?” Rodgers asked.
“For the code that will open the hatch underneath,” August said.
“A hatch to what?” Rodgers asked.
“To an unmanned Pakistani nuclear missile facility,” August told him. “Apparently the Pakistanis use a video setup to monitor the place. You’re going to use that equipment to make your broadcast.”
“I see,” Rodgers said. “Hold on.”
Mike Rodgers felt a chill from inside. The setting no longer appeared prehistoric. It suddenly seemed calculated, like a theme park attraction. The ice was real but it had probably been arranged to look uninviting and confusing, to discourage ground traffic or overhead surveillance. Pakistani soldiers must have camped here in camouflage tents for months, possibly years, working on the silo and the setting. The Pakistani air force would have flown in parts and supplies, probably solo excursions at night to lessen the chance of discovery. If they were telling the truth, it was an impressive achievement.
Rodgers kicked the edge of the slab with his toe. It was heavy. They were going to need help. The general turned. He motioned for Samouel to bring Nanda and join them.
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 t
o 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.