by Clancy, Tom
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 regulars, 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 glac
ier 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 movement 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.
But most of all Friday was angry. It would not take much for him to point the gun at Rodgers and pull the trigger. The NSA operative was trying to figure out if anything could be gained by surrendering to the Indians. Assuming the Indians would not shoot the group out of hand, they might appreciate the American bringing them one of the terrorists who had attacked the marketplace. Surrender might well trigger the feared Indian nuclear strike against Pakistan. It might also save him from dying here.
The figure arrived. It was Rodgers. He crawled behind the slab and knelt beside Friday.
“What’s going on?” Friday asked.
“There might be a way to get Nanda’s confession on the air without entering the silo,” Rodgers said.
“A silo. Is that what this place is?” Friday asked.
Rodgers ignored the question. “Samouel thinks he saw a satellite dish about ten feet up the slope,” Rodgers continued.
“That would make sense,” Friday replied.
“Explain,” Rodgers said.
“When the flares came on I got a good look at the wall over the entrance,” Friday said. “From about ten feet up on this side they’d have a clear shot across the opposite slope.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Rodgers said. “If there is a dish there, and we can get to the satellite cable, Samouel might be able to splice a connection to the cell phone.”
The men heard movement from the other side of the clearing. Friday did not think the Indians would move against them. They would wait for the helicopter to return. But they might try to position themselves to set up a cross fire. If the Indians got Nanda the game was over. So were their own lives.
“We’re going to have to get a good look at the dish before we do anything,” Friday said.
“Why?” Rodgers asked.
“We need to see where the power source is,” Friday said. “This is a good spot for a battery-driven dish. Oil companies use them in icy areas. The power source doubles as a heater to keep the gears from freezing. If that’s the case, we don’t have to go up to the ledge. We can expose the line anywhere and know it’s the communications cable.”
“But if the power source is inside the silo we have to get to the dish and figure out which cable it is,” Rodgers said.
“Bingo,” said Friday.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rodgers said. “You stay down and keep your eyes on the ledge.”
“What are you going to do?”
Rodgers replied, “Get you some light.”
SIXTY
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:51 A.M.
Mike Rodgers moved to the far end of the clearing. He stopped when he reached the slope. Crouching and moving as quietly as possible he made his way along the wall. He wanted to be far enough from the slab so that Friday was protected. He did not need to be protected from what Rodgers was planning but from how the Indians might respond.
Rodgers hoped that Friday got a good look at the dish. Chances were good that Rodgers himself would not be seeing much. He would be busy looking for a place to hide.
The general stopped about twenty yards from Friday. That was a safe distance. He opened his jacket and removed one of the two flash-bang grenades he carried. The weapon was about the size and configuration of a can of shaving cream. He removed his gloves and held them in his teeth. Then he put his right hand across the safety spoon and slipped his left index finger through the pull-ring. He placed the canister on the ground and squatted beside it. Rodgers moved his right foot along the ground to make sure where the ice cliff was. He would need that to guide him. Then he pulled the ring, released the spoon, and rose. He turned and put his bare left hand against the slope. He felt his way around the thick bulges and barren stretches. He wanted to move quickly. But if he fell over something he might be exposed when the grenade went off.
Rodgers counted as he moved. When the general reached ten, the nonlethal grenade went off.
The nonlethal flash-bang grenade was designed to roll in a confined area, distracting and disorienting the occupants with a series of magnesium-bright explosions and deafening bangs. In this case, Rodgers was hoping the grenade would brighten the perimeter just enough for two things. For Friday to see the dish and Rodgers to find a place to duck.
There was a series of round-topped ice formations three feet ahead. They were about waist high and as thick as a highway pylon. They had probably once been much taller but looked as if they melted and refroze daily, gaining in girth what they lost in height. Rodgers did not run for them. He dove.
Rodgers hit the ground hard. He lost his breath, his gloves fell from his teeth, and he did not quite reach the barricade. But he got close enough so that he was able to scramble across the ice in a heartbeat. Fortunately, the heartbeat was still a measure of time he could use as bullets from Indian rifles chewed up the ice where he had been standing. As soon as he was down and safe he looked over at Ron Friday. Crouched behind the slab, the operative gave him a thumbs-up. Rodgers glanced at the ledge. There was a large black casing behind the base of the dish. Rodgers was glad Friday knew what it was. He himself would have had to go up and pry the cover off to try to read the cables.
As the light of the grenade died Rodgers looked over at Samouel and Nanda. The Pakistani was still lying down. But he had turned to look back at the other men. Rodgers needed to get him over with Nanda and the cell phone. This was probably the best time to do it.
Rodgers took out his weapon and indicated to Friday to do the same. Then he moved to the far side of the ice barricade. That gave him the clearest line of sight to Samouel. He held up three fingers. The Pakistani understood. He was to move out on a count of three. Rodgers gave the man a moment to prepare.
Samouel moved Nanda away from the boulder where they were lying. The Pakistani helped her to her knees and then to a crouching position. She seemed to be cooperating, aware of what she must do. Samouel looked toward Rodgers. The general quickly extended his fingers one at a time. At three, Samouel got up and pulled Nanda with him. She was in front, the Pakistani shielding her with his body. As the two ran forward, Rodgers and Friday immediately stood and began firing toward the Indians. The infantrymen were out of range but obviously did not know that. They ducked down immediately, giving Samouel time to cover most of the distance to the silo entrance.
As darkness enveloped the clearing a few more shots were fired from the Indian side.
“Don’t return fire!” Rodgers shouted to Friday.
The general was afraid of hitting Samouel and Nanda in the dark.
The men listened to the crunch of the approaching boots. The gait was near but uneven. That was due, possibly, to the icy, unknown terrain. The sound skewed toward Rodgers’s right, away from the silo. He crept to that side of his position and waited.
A few seconds later someone dropped beside Rodgers. The general reached out to pull whoever it was to safety. It was Nanda. Still on his knees, Rodgers wrapped his arms around her. He literally hauled her in and around him. Then Rodgers turned back to his right. He heard grunting a fe
w feet away. The general crept over. He found Samouel near the front of the barricade. The Pakistani was on his belly. Rodgers grabbed the man under his arms. His bare right hand felt a thick dampness. The general pulled Samouel back behind the stumps of ice.
“Samouel, can you hear me?” Rodgers said.
“Yes,” the Pakistani replied.
Rodgers felt around the man’s left side. The dampness was spreading. It was definitely blood.
“Samouel, you’re wounded,” Rodgers said.
“I know,” Samouel said, “General, I’ve ‘screwed up.’ ”
“No,” Rodgers said. “You did fine. We’ll fix this—”
“I don’t mean that,” Samouel said. “I . . . lost the telephone.”
The words hit Rodgers like a bullet.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the left. The short burst had come from Ron Friday.
“Our buddies are on the move again!” Friday said.
“Get down!” the general shouted.
Rodgers had no time for them. He reached into his vest and removed one of the two cylindrical “eight ball” grenades he carried. Those were the ones no one wanted to find themselves behind, the shrapnel-producing grenades. Without hesitation the general yanked the pin, let the no-snag cap pop off, and stiff-armed the explosive across the clearing. He did not want to kill the Indians but he could not afford to waste time. Not with Samouel injured.
Rodgers ducked and pulled Nanda down. Several seconds later the eight ball exploded, echoing off the walls and shaking the ground. Even before the reverberations stopped, Rodgers had pulled the nine-inch knife from his equipment vest. He had immediately begun prioritizing. Stop the Indians. Stop Samouel’s bleeding. Then he would worry about the phone.
“Don’t bother with me,” Samouel said. “I’m all right.”
“You’re hit,” Rodgers said.
The general cut into the man’s coat. He put his right hand through the opening. He felt for a wound.
Rodgers found it. A bullet hole just below the left shoulder blade. He reached out to the right and felt for his gloves. He found them, cut out the soft interior linings, and placed them on the wound. He pressed down hard. He could not think of anything else to do.