India made more motion pictures than any nation in the world. Friday had
seen several of them on videotape, including Fit to Be a King and
Flowers and Vermilion.
Friday believed that the dreams of a people--hence, their
weaknesses--could be found in the stories, themes, and characters of
their most popular films. The Indians were especially drawn to the
three-hour-long contemporary action musicals
These films always starred attractive leads who had no names other than
"Hero" and
"Heroine." They were Everyman and Everywoman in epic struggles yet there
was always music in their hearts. That was how the Indians viewed
themselves. Reality was a disturbing inconvenience they did not choose
to acknowledge. Like an often times cruel caste system. Friday had a
theory about that. He had always believed that castes were an embodiment
of the Indians' faith. In society as in the individual there was a head,
feet, and all parts in between. All parts were necessary to create a
whole.
Friday glanced back at the market proper. Movement continued unabated.
If anything it was busier than before as people stopped by before dinner
or on their way home from work. Customers on foot and on bicycles made
their way to different stalls. Baskets, wheelbarrows, and occasionally
truckloads of goods continued to arrive. The markets usually remained
open until just after sunset. In Srinagar and its environs, workers
tended to be very early risers. They were expected to arrive at the
local factories, fields, and shops around seven in the morning.
Friday finished eating and looked over at the bus. The driver had
returned and was helping people board. The bus stop employee was back on
his stepladder loading bags onto the roof. What was amazing to Friday
was that amid all the seeming chaos there was an internal order.
Every individual system was functioning perfectly, from the booths to
the shoppers, from the police to the bus. Even the supposedly
antagonistic religious factions were doing just finea fine drizzle
started up again. Friday decided to head over to the bus station. It
looked as if there were new construction there and he was curious to see
what lay beyond. As Friday followed the last of the pilgrims he watched
the bus driver take tickets and help people onboard.
Something was not the same.
It was the driver. He was not a heavyset man but a rather slender one.
Maybe he was a new driver. It was possible; they all wore the same
jackets. Then he noticed something else. The clerk who was loading bags
into the rack was being very careful with them. Friday had not gotten a
very good look at the clerk. The exiting passengers had blocked his
view. He could not tell if this were the same man.
The bus was still two hundred yards away. The American quickened his
pace.
Suddenly the world to Friday's left vanished, swallowed in a flash of
bright white light, infernal white heat, and deafening white noise.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 7:10 a. m.
Paul Hood sat alone in his office. Mike Rodgers and Striker were on
their way and nothing else was pressing.
Hood's door was shut and a file labeled "Working OCIS" was open on his
computer. The "working" part of the heading indicated that this was not
the original draft but a copy.
The OCIS was a click able chart of Op-Center's internal structure.
Under each division was a list of the departments and personnel.
Attached to each name was a sub file These were logs that were filed
each day by every employee. They outlined the activities of the
individual. Only Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had access to the files.
They were maintained to allow the Op-Center directors to track and
cross-reference personnel activities with phone records, e-mail lists,
and other logs. If anyone were working at cross-purposes with the rest
of the team--cooperating with another agency or even another
government--this was the first line of security.
The computer automatically flagged any activity that did not have a log
entry ordering or corroborating it.
Right now Paul Hood was not looking for moles. He was looking for lambs.
The sacrificial kind. If Senator Fox and the Congressional Intelligence
Oversight Committee wanted cutbacks he had to be prepared to make them.
The question was where?
Hood clicked on Bob Herbert's intelligence department.
He scrolled through the names. Could Herbert get by with just daytime
surveillance of e-mail communications in Europe?
Not likely. Spies worked around the clock. What about a single liaison
with the CIA and the FBI instead of one for each? Probably.
He would ask Herbert which one he wanted to lose. Hood moved the cursor
to the tech division. What about Matt Stoll? Could he survive without a
satellite interface officer or a computer resources upgrade manager?
Matt could out source the work he needed whenever they had to eavesdrop
on foreign communications satellites or change hardware or software. It
would be inconvenient but it would not be debilitating.
He double-clicked on the upgrade manager and the position disappeared.
Hood's heart sped up as he checked the next department.
It was the office of the press liaison. Did Op-Center really need
someone to issue news releases and organize press conferences?
If Senator Fox were afraid that the National Crisis Management Center
was too visible, then the press officer and her one assistant should be
the first to go.
Hood stared at the computer. Never mind what Senator Fox thought. What
did he think?
Hood did not see the list. He saw the face of Ann Farris.
After years of flirting the two had finally spent a night together.
It was at once the most wonderful and devastating encounter of Hood's
life. Wonderful because he and Ann cared about each other, deeply.
Devastating because Hood had to acknowledge that a bond existed. It was
even stronger than the one he had felt when he encountered his old lover
Nancy Jo Bosworth in Germany. Yet he was still married to Sharon. He had
his children's well-being to consider, not to mention his own. And he
would have to deal with Sharon's feelings if she ever found out. Though
Hood loved being close to Ann this was not the time for another
relationship.
And what would Ann think? After a rough divorce of her own, Ann Farris
was not a very secure woman. She was poised when meeting the press and
she was a terrific single mother. But those were what psychologist Liz
Gordon had once described at an employee
"Job vs. Parenting" seminar as "reactionary qualities." Ann responded to
external stimuli with good, natural instincts. Inside, where she had
allowed Paul to go, she was a scared little girl. If Hood let her go she
would think he was doing it to keep her away. If he kept her she would
think he was playing favorites, protecting her.
Personally and professionally it was a no-win situation.
And Hood was not even considering how the re
st of Op Center would react.
They had to know what was going on between him and Ann. They were a
tight-knit office and an intelligence group. This had to be the
worst-kept secret on the base.
Hood continued to stare at the screen. He no longer saw Ann Farris's
face. He saw only her name. The bottom line was that Hood had to do his
job, whatever the consequences.
He could not do that if he let personal feelings interfere.
Hood double-clicked the mouse. Not on a name but on an entire two-person
department.
A moment later the press division was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
Srinagar, India Wednesday, 4:41 p. m.
Ron Friday felt as though someone had jabbed tuning forks in his ears.
His ears and the inside of his skull seemed to be vibrating. There was a
high-pitched ringing and he could not hear anything except for the
ringing. His eyes were open but he could not tell what he was looking
at. The world was a cottony haze, as though a still fog had moved in.
Friday blinked. White powder dropped into his eyes, causing them to
burn. He blinked harder then pushed a palm into one eye, then the other.
He opened them wide and looked out again. He still was not sure what he
was looking at but he realized one thing. He was lying on his belly with
his face turned to the side. He put his hands under him and pushed up.
White powder fell from his arms, his hair, his sides.
He blinked it away. He tasted something chalky and spit. His saliva was
like paste. The chalky taste was still there. He spit again.
Friday got his knees under him. His body ached from the fall but his
hearing was beginning to return. Or at least the ringing was going away;
he did not hear anything else. He looked to his left. For a moment he
felt as if he were inside a cloud that was inside a cloud.
Then the dust that had been shaken from his body began to settle. He
could see what he had been looking at a moment ago, what had made no
sense to him.
It was wreckage. Where the temple and the police station had stood there
was now a hodgepodge of rubble between jagged walls. Through the mist of
the powder he could see the sky.
The ringing continued to subside. As it did, Friday heard moans. He put
a hand on his knee, pushed down, and began to rise. His back ached and
he was trembling. Then his head grew light and his vision darkened. He
settled back down on his knees for a moment. He looked ahead and saw the
bus through the hanging dust. He also saw people coming toward him.
Suddenly, behind the people, the area around the bus turned yellow-red.
Time seemed to slow as the colors exploded in all directions. It was
followed by another loud crack that quickly became a rumble. The bus
seemed to jump apart. It looked like a balloon that someone had stepped
on-stretched out at both ends and then gone. Most of the pieces flew
out, away, or down. Some shards skidded along the ground, moving fast
and straight like vermin. Larger chunks such as the seats and tires
tumbled away, end over end. The people standing nearest the bus were
swallowed whole by the fire. Those who were farther away were thrown
left, right, and back like the bigger pieces of the bus.
He continued to watch as a charcoal-gray cloud surged forward. Like
lightning, flashes of blood and flame punctuated the rolling darkness.
Friday removed his hands from his ears. He rose slowly.
He looked down, checking his legs and torso to make sure he had not been
hurt. The body had a way of shutting off pain in cases of extreme
trauma. His side and right arm ached where he had hit the asphalt. His
eyes were gummy from the dust and he had to keep blinking to clear them.
Except for the coating of dust from the blasted temple he appeared to be
intact.
Papers from books and offices had been lofted high by the blast. They
were just now beginning to return to earth. Many of them were just
fragments, most were singed, some were ash. A few of the more delicate
pages looked like they had belonged to prayer books. Perhaps they had
been part of the Sanskrit text the pilgrim had been studying just
minutes before.
The gray cloud reached Friday and engulfed him. Nine or ten feet high,
it carried the distinctive, noxious smell of burning rubber. Beneath
that smell was a sweeter, less choking odor. The stench of charred human
flesh and bone. Friday drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it
over his nose and mouth. Then he turned away from the stinging cloud.
Behind him the bazaar was still. People had flung themselves to the
ground not knowing what might explode next. They were lying under stalls
or behind wheelbarrows and carts. As his ears began to clear Friday
could hear sobbing, prayer, and moans.
Friday turned back toward the remains of the temple and the police
station. The drizzle was helping to thin the cloud of smoke and douse
the few fires that had been ignited. No longer light-headed, he began
walking toward the rubble. He just now noticed that the police officers
who had been standing outside were dead. The backs of their uniforms
were bloodied, peppered with shrapnel. Whatever did this had been a
concussive device rather than incendiary.
It was strange. Besides the bus, there appeared to be two blast ways the
fanlike spray debris followed from the epicenter of an explosion.
One line led from the front of the police station. The other led from
deep inside the temple.
Friday could not understand why there had been two separate explosions
on this site. It was unusual enough for two religious targets to be
bombed, a temple and a busload of pilgrims.
Why was the police station attacked as well?
Sirens cut through the cottony quiet as police who had been on patrol
began to arrive. Other officers, who had been out on foot, began to run
toward the toppled buildings. People began to get up and leave the
bazaar proper. They did not want to be here if there were more
explosions. Only a few people headed toward the rubble to see if they
might be able to help pull out any survivors.
Ron Friday was not one of those people.
He started walking back toward the inn where he was staying.
He wanted to get in touch with his contacts in India and Washington.
Learn if they had any intel on what had just happened.
There was a sound like bowling pins falling. Friday looked back just as
one of the surviving back walls of the temple crashed onto the rubble.
Thick balls of dust swirled from the new wreckage, causing people to
step back. After the blocks stopped tumbling, people started moving
forward again.
Many of them had dustings of white on their faces and hands, like
ghosts.
Friday continued walking. His mind was in overdrive.
A police station. A Hindu temple. A busload of pilgrims.
Two religious targets and one secular site. Friday could imagine the
temple being brought down by accident, collateral damage from an attack
on the police station. A lot of terrorist bomb makers were not skilled
>
enough to measure precise charges. A lot of terrorist bomb makers did
not care if they took down half a city. But there were those two blast
lines suggesting concurrent explosions. And the bus proved that this was
a planned assault against Hindus, not just against Indians. Friday could
not remember a time when that had happened. Certainly not on this scale.
Yet if Hindus were the target, why did the terrorists attack the police
station as well? By striking two religious sites they were obviously not
looking to disguise their intent.
Friday stopped walking.
Or were they? he thought suddenly. What if the attack on the temple and
bus were distractions? Maybe something else was happening here.
Explosions drew crowds. What if that were the point? To get people to a
place or away from one.
Friday wiped his eyes and continued ahead. He looked around as he
walked. People were either hurrying toward the disaster site or away
from it. Unlike before there were no eddies within eddies. That was
because the choices were simple now. Help or flee. He peered down side
streets, into windows.
He was looking for people who did not appear to be panicked. Perhaps he
would see someone, perhaps he would not. The bag on the bus could have
been planted at a previous stop. Explosives could have been set to go
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 6