Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control
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Maybe the SFF was right. Maybe this was the time and place to stop the
Pakistani aggression. Major Puri only wished there had been some other
way to trigger the event.
He drew long and hard on the cigarette and then crushed it in the
ashtray beside the phone. The tin receptacle was filled with partly
smoked cigarettes. They were the residue of three afternoons filled with
anxiety, doubt, and the looming pressure of his role in the operation.
His aide would have emptied it if a Pakistani artillery shell had not
blown his right arm off during a Sunday night game of checkers.
The major rose. It was time for the late afternoon intelligence report
from the other outposts on the base. Those were always held in the
officers' bunker further along the trench.
This meeting would be different in just one respect. Puri would ask the
other officers to be prepared to initiate a code yellow nighttime
evacuation drill. If the Indian air force planned to "light up" the
mountains with nuclear missiles, the front lines would have to be
cleared of personnel well in advance of the attack. It would have to be
done at night when there was less chance of the Pakistanis noticing.
The enemy would also be given a warning, though a much shorter one.
There would be no point in striking the sites if the missiles were
mobile and Pakistan had time to move them.
Around seven o'clock, after the meeting was finished, the major would
eat his dinner, go to sleep, and get up early to start the next phase of
the top-secret operation. He was one of the few officers who knew about
an American team that was coming to Kashmir to help the Indian military
find the missile silos. The Directorate of Air Intelligence, which would
be responsible for the strikes, knew generally where the silos were
located. But they needed more specific information.
Scatter-bombing the Himalaya Mountains was not an efficient use of
military resources. And given the depth at which the silos were probably
buried, it might be necessary to strike with more than conventional
weapons. India needed to know that as well.
Of course, they had not shared this plan with their unwitting partners
in this operation.
The United States wanted intelligence on Pakistan's nuclear capacity as
much as India did. The Americans needed to know who was helping to arm
Islamabad and whether the missiles they had deployed could reach other
non-Muslim nations. Both Washington and New Delhi knew that if an
American unit were discovered in Kashmir it would cause a diplomatic row
but not start a war. Thus, the U. S. government had offered to send over
a team that was off the normal military radar. Anonymity was important
since Russia, China, and other nations had moles at U. S. military
installations.
These spies kept an eye on the comings and goings of the U. S. Navy
SEALs, the U. S. Army Delta Force 1st Special Forces Operational
Detachment, and other elite forces. The information they gathered was
used internally and also sold to other nations.
The team that was enroute from Washington, the National Crisis
Management Center's Striker unit, had experience in mountain silo
surveillance going back to a successful operation in the Diamond
Mountains of North Korea years before.
They were linking up with a NSA operative who had worked with the the
Indian government and knew the area they would be searching.
Major Puri had to make certain that as soon as the American squad
arrived the search-and-identify mission went smoothly and quickly. The
Americans would not be told of the capture of the Pakistani cell. They
would not know that a strike was actually in the offing. That
information would only be revealed when it was necessary to blunt
international condemnation of India's actions. If necessary, the
participation of the Striker unit would also be exposed. The United
States would have no choice then but to back the Indian strike.
Puri tugged on the hem of his jacket to straighten it. He picked up his
turban, placed it squarely on his head, and headed for the door. He was
glad of one thing, at least. His name was not attached to the SFF action
in any way. As far as any official communiques were concerned, he had
simply been told to help the Americans find the silos.
He was just doing his job.
He was just carrying out orders.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 8:21 a. m.
"This is not good," Bob Herbert said as he stared at the computer
monitor.
"This is not good at all."
The intelligence chief had been reviewing the latest satellite images
from the mountains bordering Kashmir. Suddenly, a State Department news
update flashed across the screen. Herbert clicked on the headline and
had just started reading when the desk phone beeped. He glanced with
annoyance at the small black console. It was an outside line.
Herbert jabbed the button and picked up the receiver. He continued
reading.
"Herbert here," he said.
"Bob, this is Hank Lewis," said the caller.
The name was familiar but for some reason Herbert could not place it.
Then again, he was not trying very hard. He was concentrating on the
news brief. According to the update there had been two powerful
explosions in Srinagar. Both of them were directed at Hindu targets.
That was going to ratchet up tensions along the line of control.
Herbert needed to get more information and brief Paul Hood and General
Rodgers as soon as possible.
"I've been meaning to call since I took over at NSA," Lewis said, "but
it's been brutal getting up to speed."
Jesus, Herbert thought. That's who Hank Lewis was. Jack Fenwick's
replacement at the National Security Agency.
Lewis had just signed off on the NSA's participation in the Striker
mission. Herbert should have known the name right away. But he forgave
himself. He had a mission headed into a hot zone that had just become
hotter. His brain was on autopilot.
"You don't have to explain. I know what the workload is like over
there," Herbert assured him.
"I assume you're calling about the State Department update on Kashmir?"
"I haven't seen that report yet," Lewis admitted.
"But I did receive a call from Ron Friday, the man who's supposed to
meet your Striker team. He told me what you probably read. That an hour
ago there were three powerful bomb blasts in a bazaar in Srinagar."
Three?" Herbert replied.
"The State Department says there were two explosions."
"Mr. Friday was within visual range of ground zero," Lewis informed him.
"He said there were simultaneous explosions in both the police station
and in the Hindu temple.
They were followed by a third blast onboard a bus full of Hindu
pilgrims."
Hearing the event described, Herbert flashed back to the embassy bombing
in Beirut. The moment of the explosion was not what stayed with him.
That was like running a car into a wall, a full-body hit.
What he reme
mbered, vividly, was the sickness of coming to beneath the
rubble and realizing in a sickening instant exactly what had happened.
"Was your man hurt?" Herbert asked.
"Incredibly, no," Lewis said.
"Mr. Friday said the explosions would have been worse except that
high-impact concussive devices were employed. That minimized the damage
radius." "He was lucky," Herbert said. Hi Con explosives tended to
produce a big percussive center, nominal shock waves, and very little
collateral damage.
"So why is Friday so sure the first two hits were separate blasts? The
second one could have been an oil or propane tank exploding. There are
often secondary pops in attacks of this kind."
"Mr. Friday was very specific about the explosions being simultaneous,
not successive," Lewis replied.
"After the attack he also found two very similar but separate debris
trails leading from the buildings. That suggests identical devices in
different locations."
"Possibly," Herbert said.
An expression from Herbert's childhood came floating back: He who smelt
it dealt it. Op-Center's intelligence chief briefly wondered if Friday
might have been responsible for the blasts. However, Herbert could not
think of a reason for Friday to have done that. And he had not become
cynical enough to look for a reason. Not yet, anyway.
"Let's say there were three blasts," Herbert said.
"What do your nerve endings tell you about all this?"
"My immediate thought, of course, is that the Pakistans are turning up
the heat by attacking religious targets," Lewis replied.
"But we don't have enough intel to back that up."
"And if the idea was to hit at the Hindus directly, why would they
strike the police station as well?" Herbert asked.
"To cripple their pursuit capabilities, I would imagine," Lewis
suggested.
"Maybe," Herbert replied.
Everything Lewis said made sense. Which meant one of two things.
Either he was right or the obvious answer was what the perpetrators
wanted investigators to believe.
"Your Strikers won't be arriving for another twenty-two hours and
change," Lewis said.
"I'm going to have Mr. Friday go back to the target area and see what he
can learn.
Are there any resources you can call on?" "Yes," Herbert said.
"India's Intelligence Bureau and the Defense Ministry helped us to
organize the Striker mission.
I'll see what they know and get back to you."
"Thanks," Lewis said.
"By the way, I'm looking forward to working with you. I've followed your
career ever since you went over to Germany to take on those neo-Nazis. I
trust men who get out from behind their desk. It means they put job and
country before personal security."
"Either that or it means they're crazy," Herbert said.
"But thanks. Stay in touch." Lewis said he would. Herbert hung up.
It was refreshing to talk to someone in the covert community who was
actually willing to share information. Intelligence chiefs were
notoriously secretive. If they controlled information they could control
people and institutions. Herbert refused to play that game.
While it was good for job security it was bad for national security.
And as Jack Fenwick had demonstrated, a secretive intelligence chief
could also control a president.
But though Ron Friday was a seasoned field operative, Herbert was not
quite as willing to bet the ranch on his report.
Herbert only believed in people he had worked with himself.
Herbert phoned Paul Hood to brief him on the new development.
Hood asked to be conferenced on the call to Mike Rodgers whenever that
took place. Then Herbert put in a call to the Indian Intelligence
Bureau. Sujit Rani, the deputy director of internal activities, told
Herbert pretty much what he expected to hear: that the IIB was
investigating the explosions but did not have any additional
information. The notion that there had been three explosions, not two,
was something the IIB had heard and was looking into. That information
vindicated Ron Friday somewhat in Herbert's eyes. Herbert's contact at
the Defense Ministry told him basically the same thing. Fortunately,
there was time before Striker reached India.
They would be able to abort the mission if necessary.
Herbert went into the Kashmir files. He wanted to check on other recent
terrorist strikes in the region. Maybe he could find clues, a pattern,
something that would help to explain this new attack.
Something about it did not sit right. If Pakistan were really looking to
turn up the heat in Kashmir they probably would have struck at a place
that had intense religious meaning, like the shrine at Pahalgam.
Not only was that the most revered site in the region but the terrorists
would not have had to worry about security. The Hindus trusted
completely in their sacred trinity. If it was the will of Vishnu the
preserver then they would not be harmed. If they died violently then
Shiva the destroyer would avenge them. And if they were worthy, Brahma
the creator would reincarnate them.
No. Bob Herbert's gut was telling him that the Hindu temple, the bus,
and the police station were struck for some other reason. He just did
not know what that reason was.
But he would.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
C-130 Cabin Wednesday, 10:13 a. m.
When he first joined Striker, Corporal Ishi Honda discovered that there
was not a lot of downtime on the ground.
There was a great deal of drilling, especially for him. Honda had joined
the team late, replacing Private Johnny Pucketl who had been wounded on
the mission to North Korea. It was necessary for Honda, then a
twenty-two-year-old private, to get up to speed.
Once he got there Honda never let up. His mother used to tell him he was
fated never to rest. She ascribed it to the different halves of his
soul. Ishi's maternal grandfather had been a civilian cook at Wheeler
Field. He died trying to get home to his family during the Japanese
attack on Pearl Harbor. Ishi's paternal grandfather had been a
high-ranking officer on the staff of Rear Admiral Takajiro Onishi, chief
of staff of the Eleventh Air Fleet. Onishi was the architect of the
Japanese attack. Ishi's parents were actors who met and fell in love on
a show tour without knowing anything about the other's background. They
often debated whether knowing that would have made a difference. His
father said it absolutely would not have. With a little shake of her
head, her eyes downturned, his mother said it might have made a
difference.
Ishi had no answers and maybe that was why he could not stop pushing
himself. Pan of him believed that if he ever stopped moving he would
inevitably look at that question, whether or not a piece of information
would have kept him from being born. And he did not want to do that
because the question had no answer. Honda did not like problems without
solutions.
What he did like was living the life of a Striker. It not only t
axed him
mentally, it challenged him physically.
From the time he was recruited to join the elite unit there were long
daily runs, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand combat, arms practice,
survival training, and maneuvers. The field work was always tougher for
Honda than for the others. In addition to his survival gear he had to
carry the TAC-SAT equipment. There were also tactical and political
sessions and language classes. Colonel August had insisted that the
Strikers learn at least two languages each in the likely event that
those skills would one day be required. At least Honda had an advantage
there. Because his father was Japanese, Honda already had a leg up on
one of the languages he had been assigned. He selected Mandarin Chinese
as the other. Sondra Devon the had chosen Cantonese as one of her
languages. It was fascinating to Honda that the languages shared
identical written characters. Yet the spoken languages were entirely
different. While he and Devon the could read the same texts they could
not communicate verbally.
Though the time the Strikers spent on the ground was rewarding, Honda
had learned that their time in the air was anything but. They rarely
took short trips and the long journeys could be extremely dull. That was