by Clancy, Tom
It was the unlikeliest, most Frankenstein monster–looking, jury-rigged device that Mike Rodgers had seen in all his years of service. But that did not matter. Only one thing did.
That it worked.
SIXTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:21 P.M.
It was something Ron Plummer had never experienced. A moment of profound euphoria followed by a moment so sickening that the drop was physically disorienting.
When the call came from Islamabad, Ambassador Simathna listened for a moment then smiled broadly. Plummer did not have to wait for the call to be put on speakerphone to know what it was.
Mike Rodgers had succeeded. Somehow, the general had gotten the message to the Pakistani base that monitored the silo. They had forwarded the message to the Pakistani Ministry of Defense. From there, the tape was given to CNN and sent out to the world.
“My name is Nanda Kumar,” said the high, scratchy voice on the recording. “I am an Indian citizen of Kashmir and a civilian network operative. For several months I have worked with India’s Special Frontier Force to undermine a group of Pakistani terrorists. The Special Frontier Force told me that my actions would result in the arrest of the terrorists. Instead, the intelligence I provided allowed the Special Frontier Force to frame the Pakistanis. The terrorists have been responsible for many terrible acts. But they were not responsible for Wednesday’s bomb attack on the pilgrim bus and Hindu temple in the Srinagar market. That was the work of the Special Frontier Force.”
Ambassador Simathna was still beaming as he shut the phone off and leaned toward a second speakerphone. This was the open line to Paul Hood’s office at Op-Center.
“Director Hood, did you hear that?” the ambassador asked.
“I did,” Hood replied. “It’s also running on CNN now.”
“That is very gratifying,” Simathna said. “I congratulate you and your General Rodgers. I do not know how he got the woman’s message through but it is quite impressive.”
“General Rodgers is a very impressive man,” Hood agreed. “We’d like to know how he got the message through ourselves. Bob Herbert tells me that Colonel August is unable to raise him. The cell phone must have died.”
“As long as it is just the cell phone,” Simathna joked. “Of course, the Indians will certainly claim that Ms. Kumar was brainwashed by the Pakistanis. But General Rodgers will help to dispel that propaganda.”
“General Rodgers will tell the truth, whatever that turns out to be,” Hood said diplomatically.
As Hood was speaking the other phone beeped. Simathna excused himself and answered it.
The ambassador’s smile trembled a moment before collapsing. His thin face lost most of its color. Ron Plummer did not dare imagine what the ambassador had just been told. Thoughts of a Pakistani nuclear strike flashed through his desperate mind.
Simathna said nothing. He just listened. After several seconds he hung up the phone and regarded Plummer. The sadness in his eyes was profound.
“Mr. Hood, I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” the ambassador said.
“What kind of bad news?” Hood asked.
“Apparently, the slab on top of the silo was removed or significantly damaged during General Rodgers’s actions,” Simathna said.
“Don’t say it,” Hood warned. “Don’t you frigging say it.”
Simathna did not have to. They all knew what that meant.
The defensive explosives around the silo had been automatically activated. Without someone inside the silo to countermand them, they would detonate in just a few minutes.
SIXTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 6:24 P.M.
Paul Hood could not believe that Mike Rodgers had gone this far, worked whatever miracle he had conceived, only to be blown up for something that could be prevented. But to prevent it they would have to reach him. Though Hood, Herbert, and Coffey sat in silence, frustration under the surface was intense. Despite the technology at their disposal, the men were as helpless as if they were living in the Stone Age.
Hood was slumped in his leather seat. He was looking down, humbled by this uncharacteristic sense of helplessness. In the past there had always been another play in the book. Someone they could call for assistance, time to move resources into position, at the very least a means of communication. Not now. And he suspected that Mike or Nanda or the others had used up their guardian spirit quota stopping a nuclear war. Hood did not think it would help to pray for their salvation now. Maybe their lives and the lives of the Strikers were the price they had to pay. Still, Hood did ask quietly that whatever Christian, Hindu, or Muslim entities had gotten them this far would see them a little further. Paul Hood was not ready to lose Mike Rodgers. Not yet.
“Maybe Mike and the girl did their business and left the area,” Coffey suggested.
“It’s possible,” Herbert said. “Knowing Mike, though, he would continue to broadcast for a while. They may have no way of knowing that their message got through.”
Coffey scowled.
“Even if they did leave, I’m not sure they would have gone far enough,” Herbert went on.
“What do you mean?” Coffey asked.
“It’s dark, dead-of-night where they are,” Herbert said. “My guess is that after all they’ve been through, Mike would have wanted to find a place to bunk down until well after sunrise. Let the area warm a little. If anyone was wounded, in whatever went on out there, Mike might have wanted to take time to perform first aid. The bug in the juice is we don’t know exactly how much time is left before the blast. Obviously, Mike accessed the silo somehow to make the transmission. The explosives were armed when he moved the slab. That means we’re well into the countdown.”
“I can’t believe those bastards in Pakistan can’t shut the process down,” Coffey said.
“I do,” Herbert replied. “And I’ll tell you what’s happening right now. I’ve been thinking about this. I’ll bet they put together a network of underground silos out there, all linked by tunnel. Right now the missile is automatically shifting to another site.”
“You mean like an underground Scud,” Coffey said.
“Exactly like that,” Herbert replied. “As soon as it’s out of range the silo and whoever found it go kablooey. No evidence of a missile is found among the residue. They can claim it was some kind of shelter for scientists studying the glacier, or soldiers patrolling the region, or whatever they like.”
“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 wanted 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 satisf
action 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 détente 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.