selected from among the military and SFF ranks. They would respond to
dual commands issued by Minister Kabir and Commander Sahani. When those
orders came, nothing on earth could turn them back.
Kabir's plan was to hit Pakistan before they had fully deployed their
nuclear arsenal. He would use a total of seventy nine Indian SRBMs. The
short-range ballistic missiles each had a range of eight hundred
kilometers. They constituted one-half of India's nuclear arsenal and
were housed in silos located just behind the line of control. Eleven of
those would hit Islamabad alone, removing it from the map and killing
nearly 20 percent of the nation's 130 million people. In the days and
weeks to come, radiation from the explosions would kill another 40
million Pakistanis. The rest of the SRBMs would strike at Pakistani
military facilities. That included seven suspected silo locations in the
Himalayas.
Maybe the American team coming into the country would have found them.
Maybe they would not. Regardless, their presence would be a powerful
public relations tool for Kabir.
It would show the world that India had reason to fear Pakistan's nuclear
proliferation. The deaths of the Americans would be unfortunate but
unavoidable.
Minister Kabir brought the remaining targets up on his computer. In
addition to the mountains, SRBMs would be launched at each of Pakistan's
air bases. Ten Pakistan Air Force bases were operational full-time.
These were the "major operational bases" PAF Sargodha, PAF Mianwali, PAF
Kamra, PAF Rafiqui, PAF Masroor, PAF Faisal, PAF Chaklala, PAF Risalpur,
PAF Peshawar, and PAF Samungli. They would all be hit with two missiles
each. Then there were eleven "forward operational bases" that became
fully operational only during wartime.
All of these would be struck as well. They were PAF Sukkur, PAF Shahbaz,
PAF Multan, PAF Vihari, PAF Risalewala, PAF Lahore, PAF Nawabshah, PAF
Mirpur Khas, PAF Miirid, PAF Pasni, and PAF Talhar.
Finally, there were the nine satellite bases used for emergency
landings: PAF Rahim Yar Khan, PAF Chander, PAF Bhagtanwala, PAF Chuk
Jhumra, PAF Ormara, PAF Rajanpur, PAF Sindhri, PAF Gwadar, and PAF
Kohat. These were little more than landing strips without personnel to
man them. Still, they would all be razed. With luck, the PAF would not
be able to launch a single missile or bomber. Even if Pakistan did
manage to land a few nuclear blows, India could absorb the loss. The
leaders would have been moved to the underground bunkers. They would
manage the brief conflagration and recovery from the UNCC.
When it was all over, Kabir would take the blame or praise for what
happened. But however the world responded, Kabir was certain of one
thing.
He will have done the right thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
Ankara, Turkey Thursday, 11:4 7 a. m.
The Indian air force AN-12 transport is a cousin of the world's largest
aircraft, the Russian Antonov AN-225 Mriya.
The AN-12 is half the size of that six-engine brute. A long range
transport, it is also one-third smaller than the C-130 that had brought
Striker as far as Ankara. With the cargo section in the rear and an
enclosed, insulated passenger cabin toward the front, the IAF aircraft
is also much quieter. For that Mike Rodgers was grateful.
Rodgers had caught five solid hours of sleep on the final leg of the
C-130 flight. He did that with the help of wax earplugs he carried
expressly for that purpose. Still, the small down click in sound and
vibration was welcome. Especially when Corporal Ishi Honda left his seat
in the rear of the small, cramped crew compartment. He ducked as he made
his way through the single narrow aisle that ran through the center of
the cabin. The team's grips, cold-weather gear, and parachutes were
strapped in bulging mesh nets on the ceiling over the aisle.
The communications expert handed the TAC-SAT to General Rodgers.
"It's Mr. Herbert," Honda said.
Colonel August was sitting beside Rodgers in the forward facing seats.
The men exchanged glances.
"Thank you," Rodgers said to Honda.
The corporal returned to his seat. Rodgers picked up the receiver.
"There are parachutes onboard. Bob," Rodgers said.
"For us?"
"Paul's given the go-ahead for an expedited search-and recover of (he
cell," Herbert said.
"Expedited" was spy-speak for "illegal." It meant that an operation was
being rushed before anyone could learn about it and block it. It also
meant something else. They were probably going to be jumping into the
Himalayas. Rodgers knew what that meant.
"We have the target spotted," Herbert went on.
"Viens is following them through the mountains. They're at approximately
nine thousand feet and heading northwest toward the line of control.
They're currently located thirty-two miles due north of the village of
Jaudar."
Rodgers removed one of the three play books from under the seat. It was
a fat black spiral-bound notebook containing all the maps of the
regions. He found the town and moved his finger up. He turned to the
previous page where the map was continued. Instead of just brown
mountains there was a big dagger-shaped slash of white pointing to the
lower left.
"That puts them on direct course for the Siachin Glacier," Rodgers said.
"That's how our people read it," Herbert said.
"They can't be carrying a lot of artillery. It would make sense for them
to head somewhere the elements might help them. Cold, blizzards,
avalanches, crevasses--it's a fortress or stealth environment if they
need it."
"Assuming it doesn't kill them," Rodgers pointed out.
"Trying to go through any lower would definitely kill them," Herbert
replied.
"The NSA intercepted a SIG-INT report from a Russian satellite listening
in on the line of control. Several divisions have apparently moved out
and are headed toward the glacier."
"Estimated time of encounter?" Rodgers asked.
"We don't have one," Herbert said.
"We don't know if the divisions are airborne, motorized, or on foot.
We'll see what else comes through the Russian satellite."
"Can General Orlov help us with this?" Rodgers asked.
Sergei Orlov was head of the Russian Op-Center based in St. Petersburg.
General Orlov and Hood had a close personal and professional
relationship. Striker leader It. Colonel Charles Squires died during a
previous joint undertaking, helping to prevent a coup in Russia.
"I asked Paul about that," Herbert said.
"He doesn't want to involve them. Russian technology helps drive the
Indian war machine. Indian payoffs drive Russian generals. Orlov won't
be able to guarantee that anyone he contacts will maintain the
highest-level security status."
"I'm not convinced we can guarantee HIS status from the NSA," Rodgers
replied.
"I'm with you on that," Herbert said.
"I'm not sure Hank Lewis patched up all the holes Jack Fenwick drilled
over t
here. That's why I'm giving information to Ron Friday on a
need-to-know basis. He's moving up to Jaudar with a Black Cat officer
and the grandfather of the CNO informant who's traveling with the cell."
"Good move," Rodgers said.
"We're also trying to get regular weather updates from the Himalayan
Eagles," Herbert said.
"But that could all change before you arrive. By the way, how are your
new hosts treating you?" "Fine," Rodgers said.
"They gave us rations, the gear is all here, and we're on schedule."
"All right," Herbert said.
"I'll give you the drop coordinates at H-hour minus fifteen."
"Confirmed," Rodgers said.
The general looked at his watch. They had three hours to go. That left
them just enough time to pass out the gear, check it out, suit up, and
review the maps with the team.
"I'll check back in when I have more intel for you," Herbert said.
"Is there anything else you need?"
"I can't think of anything. Bob," Rodgers said.
There was a short silence. Mike Rodgers knew what was coming. He had
heard the change in Herbert's voice during that last question. It had
gone from determined to wistfulness.
"Mike, I know I don't have to tell you that this is a shitty
assignment," Herbert said.
"No, you don't," Rodgers agreed. He was flipping through the magnified
views of the region of the drop. Never mind the terrain itself. The
wind-flow charts were savage. The urrents tore through the mountains at
fifty to sixty-one miles an hour. Those were gale-force winds.
"But I do have to point out that you aren't a part of Striker," Herbert
went on.
"You're a senior officer of the NCMC."
"Cut to the chase," Rodgers told him.
"Is Paul going to order me to stay behind?"
"I haven't discussed this with him," Herbert said.
"What's the point? You've disobeyed his orders before." "I have,"
Rodgers said.
"Kept Tokyo from getting nuked, if I remember correctly at my advanced
age."
"You did do that," Herbert said.
"But I was thinking that it might help if we had someone on-site to
liaise with the Indian government."
"Send one of the guys the FBI tucked into the embassy," Rodgers said.
"I know they're there and so do the Indians."
"I don't think so," Herbert replied.
"Look, I'll be happy to talk to whatever officials I have to from the
field," Rodgers said. The general leaned forward.
He huddled low over the microphone.
"Bob, you know damn well what we're facing here. I've been looking at
the charts.
When we drop into the mountains the wind alone is going to hammer us.
We stand a good chance of losing people just getting onto the ground."
"I know," Herbert said.
"Hell, if they didn't need to fly the plane I'd bring the Indian crew
down with me. Let them help save their own country," Rodgers continued.
"So don't even try to tell me that I shouldn't do what we're asking
Striker to do. Especially not with what's at stake."
"Mike, I wasn't thinking about Striker or the rest of the world,"
Herbert replied.
"I was thinking about an old friend with football-damaged,
forty-seven-year-old knees. A friend who could hurt Striker more than
help them if he got injured on an ice-landing."
"If that happens I'll order them to leave me where I land," Rodgers
assured him.
"They won't." "They will," Rodgers said.
"We'll have to do that with anyone who's hurt." He hung up the receiver
and motioned for Corporal Honda to come back and reclaim the
TAC-SAT.
Then he rose.
"I'll be right back," Rodgers said to August.
"Is there anything we need to do?" August asked.
Rodgers looked down at him. August was in an uncomfortable spot.
Rodgers was one of the colonel's oldest and closest friends. He was also
a superior officer. That was one of the reasons August had turned down
this job when it was first offered to him. It was often difficult for
the colonel to find a proper balance between those two relationships.
This was one of those times. August also knew what was at risk for his
friend and the team.
"I'll let you know in a few minutes," Rodgers said as he walked toward
the cockpit.
Walked on rickety knees that were ready to kick some ass.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.
Jaudar, Kashmir Thursday, 3:33 p. m.
The problem with flying an LAHR--low-altitude helicopter
reconnaissance--in a region like the Himalayas is that there is no room
for error.
From the pilot's perspective, keeping the aircraft steady is practically
impossible. The aircraft shakes along the x- and y-axes, the horizontal
and vertical, with occasional bumps in the diagonal.
Keeping the chopper within visual range of the target area is also
problematic. It's often necessary for the pilot to move suddenly and
over considerable distances to get around violent air pockets, clouds
that blow in and impede the view, or snow and ice squalls. Just keeping
the bird aloft is the best that can be hoped for. Whatever intel the
observer can grab is considered a gift, not a guarantee.
Wearing sunglasses to cut down on the glare, and a helmet headset to
communicate with Captain Nazir in the noisy cabin, Ron Friday
alternately peered through the front and side windows of the cockpit.
The American operative cradled an MP5K in his lap. If they spotted the
terrorists there might be a gunfight. Hopefully, a few bursts in the air
from the submachine gun would get them to stop shooting and listen.
If not, he was prepared to back off and snipe one or two of them with
the 1 ASL in the gun rack behind him. If Captain Nazir could keep the
chopper steady, the large sharpshooter rifle had greater range than the
small arms the terrorists were probably carrying. With a few of them
wounded, the others might be more inclined to let Friday land and
approach them.
Especially if he promised to airlift them to medical assistance in
Pakistan.
Apu was seated on a fold-down chair in the spacious cargo area. It
wasn't so much a chair as a hinged plastic square with a down cushion on
top. The farmer was leaning forward, peering through a hatchway that
separated the cargo section from the cockpit. Apu wore an anxious look
as he gazed out through the window. Friday was good at reading people's
expressions. He was not just concerned about finding his granddaughter.
There was a sense of despair in his eyes, in the sad downturn of his
mouth. Perhaps Apu had been in the mountains as a young man. He had had
some idea what was beyond the foothills. But Apu had certainly never
gone this far, never this high. He had never gazed down at the barren
peaks. He had never heard the constant roar of the wind over powerful
671 kw rotors, or felt that wind batter an aircraft, or experienced the
cold that blasted through the canvas-lined metal walls. The farmer knew
that unless they found Nanda the chances were not good that she would
&n
bsp; survive.
The chopper continued toward the line of control without any of the
occupants spotting the terrorists. Friday was not overly concerned.
They still had the southward trip along the other side of the range to
go.
Suddenly, something happened that Friday was not expecting.
He heard a voice in his helmet. A voice that did not belong to Captain
Nazir.
"Negative zone three," said the very faint, crackling voice.
"Repeat: negative zone three." A moment later the voice was gone.
Friday made sure the headset switch on the communications panel was set
on "internal" rather than "external." That meant they were communicating
only with the cockpit instead of an outside receiver.
"Who is that?" Friday asked.
Nazir shook his head slowly.
"It's not control tower communication."
The wheel was shaking violently. He did not want to release his
two-handed grip.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 23