Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control
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under the desk. He packed his laptop and began collecting the diskettes
he would need for his journey. The files contained intelligence reports
from India and Pakistan, maps of Kashmir, and the names of contacts as
well as safe houses throughout the region. As he packed the tools of his
trade Rodgers felt almost like he did as a kid growing up in Hartford,
Connecticut. Hartford endured fierce winter storms. But they were damp
storms that brought packing snow. Before putting on his snow suit
Rodgers would get his bucket, rope, spade, and swimming goggles and toss
them into his school gym bag. His mother insisted on the goggles. She
knew she could not prevent her son from fighting but she did not want
him getting hit by a snowball and losing an eye. Once outside, while all
the other kids were building snow forts, Rodgers would climb a tree and
build a snow tree house on a piece of plywood. No one ever expected
that. A rain of snowballs from a thick branch.
After Rodgers had his briefcase packed he would head to the "Gulf cart"
parked at the back door. That was what the military had christened the
motorized carts that had shuttled officers from meeting to meeting
during both Desert Shield and Desert Storm. The Pentagon bought
thousands of them just before what turned out to be the last gasp of
face-to-face strategy meetings before secure video-conferencing was
created.
After that, the obsolete carts had been distributed to bases around the
country as Christmas presents to senior officers.
The Gulf cart would not have far to travel. A C-130 Hercules was parked
just a quarter of a mile away, in the holding area of the airstrip that
passed directly behind the NCMC building. In slightly under an hour the
hundred-foot-long transport would begin a NATO supply trek that would
secretly ferry Rodgers and his Striker unit from Andrews to the Royal
Air Force Alconbury station in Great Britain to a NATO base outside
Ankara, Turkey. There, the team would be met by an Indian Air Force
AN-12 transport, part of the Himalayan Eagles squadron. They would be
flown to the high-altitude base at Chushul near the Chinese border and
then choppered to Srinagar to meet their contact. It would be a long and
difficult journey lasting just over twenty-four hours. And there would
be no time to rest when they reached India. The team had to be ready to
go as soon as they touched down.
But that was fine with Mike Rodgers. He had been "ready to go" for
years. He had never wanted to be second-in command of anything.
During the Spanish-American War, his great-great-grandfather Captain
Malachai T. Rodgers went from leading a unit to serving under upstart
It. Colonel Teddy Roosevelt. As Captain Rodgers wrote to Mrs. Rodgers at
the time, "There is nothing better than running things. And there is
nothing worse than being a runner-up, even if that happens to be under a
gentleman you respect."
Malachai Rodgers was right. The only reason Mike Rodgers had taken the
deputy director's position was because he never expected Paul Hood to
stay at Op-Center. Rodgers assumed that the former Los Angeles mayor was
a politician at heart who had eyes on the Senate or the White House.
Rodgers was wrong. The general hit another big bump in the road when
Hood resigned from Op-Center to spend more time with his family.
Rodgers thought Op-Center would finally be his. But Paul and Sharon Kent
Hood weren't able to fix what was wrong with their marriage. They
separated and Hood came back to Op-Center. Rodgers went back to being
number two.
Rodgers needed to command. A few weeks before, he and Hood had ended a
hostage siege at the United Nations. Rodgers had directed that
operation. That reminded him of how much he enjoyed risking everything
on his ability to outthink and outperform an adversary. Doing it safely
from behind a desk just was not the same thing.
Rodgers turned to the open door a moment before Bob Herbert arrived.
Op-Center's number three man was always announced by the low purr of his
motorized wheelchair.
"Good morning," Herbert said as he swung into view.
"Good morning. Bob," Rodgers replied.
"Mind if I come in?" "Not at all," Rodgers told him.
Herbert swung the wheelchair into the office. The balding,
thirty-nine-year-old intelligence genius had lost the use of his legs in
the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. The terrorist attack had also taken
the life of Herbert's beloved wife. Op Center computer wizard Matt Stoll
had helped design this state-of-the-art wheelchair. It included a
computer that folded into the armrest and a small satellite dish that
opened from a box attached to the back of the chair.
"I just wanted to wish you good luck," Herbert said.
"Thanks," Rodgers replied.
"Also, Paul asked if you would pop in before you left," Herbet said.
"He's on the phone with Senator Fox and didn't want to miss you."
Rodgers glanced at his watch.
"The senator is up early.
Any particular reason?"
"Not that I know of, though Paul didn't look happy," Herbert said.
"Could be more fallout over the UN attack."
If that were true then there was an advantage to being the number two
man, Rodgers thought. He did not have to put up with that bullshit.
They had absolutely done the right thing at the United Nations. They had
saved the hostages and killed the bad guys.
"They're probably going to beat us up until the secretary general cries
uncle," Rodgers said.
"Senator Fox has gotten good at that," Herbert said.
"She slaps your back real hard and tells your enemies it's a lashing.
Tells your friends it's a pat on the back. Only you know which it is.
Anyway, Paul will deal with that," Herbert went on. He extended his
hand.
"I just wanted to wish you well.
That's a remote, hostile region you're heading into."
Rodgers clasped Herbert's hand and grinned.
"I know. But I'm a remote, hostile guy. Kashmir and I will get along
fine."
Rodgers went to withdraw his hand. Herbert held it.
"There's something else," Herbert said.
"What?" Rodgers asked.
"I can't find out who your contact man is over there," Herbert said.
"We're being met by an officer of the National Security Guard, Captain
Prem Nazir," Rodgers replied.
"That's not unusual."
"It is for me," Herbert insisted.
"A few calls, some promises, a little intel exchange usually gets me
what I want. It lets me check up on people, make sure there isn't a
double cross on the other end. Not this time. I can't even get anything
on Captain Nazir."
"To tell you the truth, I'm actually relieved that there's tight
security for once," Rodgers laughed.
"Tight security is when the opposition doesn't know what is going on,"
Herbert said.
"I get worried when our own people can't tell me exactly what is going
on." "Cannot or will not?" Rodgers asked.
"Cannot," Herbert said.
"Why don't you c
all Mala Chatterjee," Rodgers suggested.
"I bet she would be delighted to help."
"That's not funny." Herbert said.
Chatterjee was the young Indian secretary-general of the United Nations.
She was a career pacifist, the most vocal critic of Op-Center and the
way they had taken over and resolved the crisis.
"I talked to my people at the CIA and at our embassies in Islamabad and
New Delhi," Herbert went on.
"They don't know anything about this operation. That's unusual. And the
National Security Agency does not exactly have things under control. The
plan has not gone through the usual com-sim.
Lewis is too busy housecleaning for that." "I know," Rodgers said.
"The usual com-sim" was a computer simulation that was run on any plan
that had been approved for the field. The sponsoring agency typically
spent days running the simulations to find holes in the main blueprint
and also to give backup options to the agents heading into the field.
But the National Security Agency had recently been shaken up by the
resignation of their director. Jack Fenwick. That occurred after Hood
had identified Fenwick as one of the leaders of a conspiracy to help
remove the president from office. His replacement, Hank Lewis, formerly
assistant to the president, coordinator of strategic planning, was
spending his time removing Fenwick loyalists.
"We'll be okay," Rodgers assured him.
"Back in Vietnam my plans were always held together with spit."
"Yeah, but there at least you knew who the enemy was," Herbert pointed
out.
"All I want you to do is stay in touch.
If something seems out of whack I want to be able to let you know."
"I will," Rodgers promised. They would be traveling with the TAC-SAT
phone. The secure uplink would allow Striker to call Op-Center from
virtually anywhere in the world.
Herbert left and General Rodgers picked up the files and diskettes he
wanted to take. The hall outside the door was getting busier as
Op-Center's day crew arrived. It was nearly three times the size of the
skeletal night crew. Yet Rodgers felt strangely cut off from the
activity. It was not just the focused "mission mode" Rodgers went into
before leaving the base. It was something else. A guardedness, as if he
were already in the field. In and around Washington that was not far
from the truth.
Despite Rodgers's assurances, what Herbert said had resonated with him.
Herbert was not an alarmist and his concerns did worry Rodgers a little.
Not for himself or even his old friend Colonel Brett August.
August would be commanding Op-Center's elite Striker unit. Rodgers was
worried about the young multi service members of Striker who would be
joining him in Kashmir. Especially the ones with families.
That was never far from any commander's mind. Herbert had helped to give
it a little extra volume.
But risk came with the uniform and the generous pension.
Rodgers would do everything he could to safeguard the personnel and the
mission. Because, in the end, there was one inescapable truth about
actions taken by men like Mike Rodgers and Brett August.
The goal was worth the risk.
CHAPTER TWO.
Srinagar, India Wednesday, 3:51 p. m.
Five hours after giving a false name to officials at the Foreigners'
Regional Registration Office at Srinagar Airport, Ron Friday was walking
the streets of what he hoped would be his home for the next year or two.
He had checked into a small, cheap inn off Shervani Road.
He'd first heard about Binoo's Palace the last time he was here. There
was a gaming parlor in the back, which meant that the local police had
been paid to keep the place secure. There, Friday would be both
anonymous and safe.
The National Security Agency officer was happy to have gotten out of
Baku, Azerbaijan. He was happy not only to get out of the former Soviet
Republic but to be here, in Srinagar, less than twenty-five miles from
the line of control.
He had been to the capital of the northern state before and found it
invigorating. Distant artillery fire was constant. So were the muted
pops of land mines in the hills. During early morning there was the
scream of jets and the distinctive whumping sound of their cluster bombs
and the louder crashes of their guided missiles.
Fear was also in the air day and night. The ancient resort city was
governed and patrolled by Indian Hindu soldiers while commerce was
controlled by Kashmiri Muslims. Not a week went by without four or five
deaths due to terrorist bombings, shoot-outs, or hostage situations.
Friday loved it. Nothing made each breath sweeter than when you were
walking through a minefield.
The forty-seven-year-old Michigan native walked through the largest
open-air market in the city. It was located on the eastern end of the
town, near hills that had once been fertile grazing areas. That was
before the military had appropriated the hills as a staging area for
helicopter nights and convoys headed out toward the line of control. A
short walk to the north was the Centanr Lake View Hotel, which was where
most foreign tourists stayed. It was located near the wellkept
waterfront region known collectively as the Mughal Gardens. These
gardens, which grow naturally, helped give the region its name Kashmir,
which meant "Paradise" in the language of the Mughal settlers.
A cool, light rain was falling, though it did not keep away the regular
crowds and foreigners. The market smelled like nowhere else Friday had
ever been. It was a combination of musk--from the sheep and damp rattan
roofs on the stalls-lavender incense, and diesel fuel. The fuel came
from the taxis, minibuses, and scooter-rickshaws that serviced the area.
There were women in saris and young students in western clothing. All of
them were jockeying for position at the small wooden stands, looking for
the freshest fruits or vegetables or baked goods.
Merchants whipped small switches at sheep who had been driven from
adjacent fields by depleted pasturage or by soldiers practicing their
marksmanship.
The strays tried to steal carrots or cabbage. Other customers, mostly
Arab and Asian businessmen, shopped at a leisurely pace for shawls,
papier-mache trinket boxes, and leather purses. Because Srinagar and the
rest of Kashmir were on the list of "no-go zones" at the State
Department, British Foreign Office, and other European governments, very
few Westerners were here.
A few merchants hawked rugs. There were farmers, who had parked their
trucks and carts at one end and were carrying baskets with fresh produce
or bread to various stands.
And there were soldiers. Except in Israel, Friday had never seen a
public place where there were nearly as many soldiers as there were
civilians. And those were only the obvious ones, the men in uniform.
He was sure that there were members of the Special Frontier Force, which
was a co creation of the CIA and India's Research and Analysis Wing,
their foreign espionage serv
ice. The job of the SFF was to disrupt the
flow of materiel and intelligence to and from enemy positions. Friday was
equally sure the crowd included members of Pakistan's Special Services
Group. A division of the army's Directorate for Inter-Services
Intelligence, the group monitored actions behind enemy lines. They also
worked with freelance operatives to commit acts of terrorism against the
Indian people.
There was nothing like this in Baku, where the markets were quiet and
organized and the local population was small and relatively well
behaved. Friday liked this better. One had to watch for enemies while
trying to feed one's family.
Having a desk at the embassy in Baku had been interesting but not
because of the work he was doing for Deputy Ambassador Dorothy
Williamson. Friday had spent years working as an attorney for Mara Oil,
which was why Williamson had welcomed him to her staff.
Officially, he was there to help her draft position papers designed to
moderate Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. What had really made
Friday's tenure exciting was the undercover work he had been doing for
Jack Fenwick, the president's former national security advisor.
The broad-shouldered man had been recruited by the NSA while he was