Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  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.