Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  They were approximately ten thousand feet up. That was not as long as

  most high-altitude, low-opening jumps. Those operations typically began

  at thirty-two-thousand feet. The HALO teams would go out with

  oxygen-heavy breathing apparatus to keep from suffering hypoxemia. They

  would also use barometric triggers to activate their chutes at an

  altitude of roughly two thousand feet above the target. They did that in

  case the jumper suffered one of two possible ailments.

  The first was barometric trauma, the result of air being trapped in the

  intestines, ears, and sinuses and causing them to expand painfully. The

  other was stress-induced hyperventilation, common in combat situations.

  Especially when jumpers could be aloft for as long as seventy or eighty

  minutes. That gave them a lot of alone-time to think, particularly about

  missing the target. At an average drift rate of ten feet for every

  hundred feet of fall, that was a concern for every jumper. Breathing

  bottled oxygen at a rapid pace due to stress could cause a lowering of

  blood carbon dioxide and result in unconsciousness.

  Though neither of those would be a problem at this lower height, it was

  two thousand feet higher than they had practiced in the Rocky Mountains.

  And even there, then-Striker Bass Moore had broken his left leg.

  Lean Sergeant Chick Grey was chewing gum, un flustered as always.

  There was a bit more iron determination and aggression in the eyes of

  waspish privates David George, Jason Scott, and Terrence Newmeyer.

  Corporal Pat Prementine and Private Matt Bud were popping gloved

  knuckles and shifting in place, as full of rough-and-tumble energy as

  always. And the excitable Private Walter Pupshaw looked as if he wanted

  to tear off someone's head and spit down the windpipe. That was normal

  for Striker's resident wild man. The other team members were calm with

  the exception of Sondra Devon the and the green medic, William Musicant.

  Both Strikers seemed a little anxious. Musicant had limited combat

  experience and Sondra still blamed herself for events that led to the

  death of It. Colonel Charlie Squires. She had spent many months being

  counseled by Liz Gordon. But she had gone on other assignments with the

  team since then. While the young African-American woman was not as

  relaxed or go get-'em as the others, Rodgers was certain he could count

  on her. She would not be here otherwise.

  When they were ready, Rodgers picked up the phone beside the hatch. The

  copilot informed him that the plane would reach the target in less than

  five minutes. August lined up his team and stood at their head. After

  everyone had jumped, Rodgers would follow.

  Since the aircraft was not typically used for jumping, there was no

  chute line or lights to indicate that they had reached the drop zone.

  August and Pupshaw opened the hatch while Rodgers remained on the phone

  with the cockpit. The air that surged in was like nothing the general

  had ever felt. It was a fist of ice, punching them back and then holding

  them there. Rodgers was glad they had the masks and breathing apparatus.

  Otherwise they would not be able to draw a breath from the unyielding

  wall of wind. As it was, August and Pupshaw were knocked away from the

  opening. The colonel and the burly private had to be helped back into

  position by the next Strikers in line.

  Rodgers moved stern ward along the fuselage, away from the hatch. The

  howl of the wind was deafening, bordering on painful. It would be

  impossible to hear the command to jump. The general went back three

  meters, as far as the phone cord would reach. He used his free hand to

  cover the left ear of his hood. He pressed down hard. That was the only

  way he could hear the copilot. Meanwhile, August motioned for each

  Striker to determine individual jump times by using the "blackout"

  system. That was the method employed for secret nighttime jumps. It

  meant putting the right hand on the shoulder of the jumper in front of

  them. When the shoulder moved out from under someone's hand it was time

  for that person to go.

  The wind pressed the Strikers' white uniforms toward the front of the

  plane. The soldiers looked like action figures to Rodgers. Every crease

  and fold seemed molded in place like plastic. The soldiers were leaning

  forward slightly to let the wind slide around them, though not so much

  as to allow it to batter the person behind them.

  Seconds moved at a glacial pace. Then the word came that they were less

  than a half mile from their target. Then a quarter mile. Then an eighth

  of a mile.

  Rodgers looked at the Strikers one more time. If they knew how difficult

  this jump was going to be they were not showing it. The team was still

  outwardly game and disciplined.

  He was beyond proud of the unit. Rodgers did not believe in prayer,

  though he hoped that even if some of the Strikers missed the target they

  would all survive.

  August glanced at Rodgers and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Obviously the colonel could see the small plateau. That was good. It

  meant there was no snowfall in the drop zone. They would not be jumping

  directly over it but to the northwest.

  The copilot had calculated that the wind was blowing to the southeast at

  an average of sixty-three miles an hour. They would have to compensate

  so the wind would carry them toward rather than away from the target.

  They passed over the plateau. August held up both thumbs. He had spotted

  the cell. Rodgers nodded.

  A moment later Rodgers got the word from the cockpit.

  "Go!"

  Rodgers motioned to August. As the team started moving through the hatch

  Rodgers shifted to the back of the line.

  The copilot emerged from the cockpit. He literally had to hug the

  port-side wall to get past the hatch before cutting to the starboard

  side to shut it.

  Rodgers hoped he made it. The last thing the general saw before jumping

  was the small-built Indian flyboy tying a cargo strap to his waist

  before even attempting to crawl toward the sliding door.

  Rodgers held his legs together and pressed his arms straight along his

  sides as he hit the icy mountain air. That gave him a knife-edged dive

  to get him away from the plane so he would not be sucked into the

  engine. He immediately reconfigured himself into an aerofoil position.

  He arched his body to allow the air to flow along his underside. At the

  same time he thrust his arms back and dipped his head to increase his

  rate of descent.

  The general was now looking almost straight down. Almost at once he knew

  he was in trouble.

  They all were.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

  The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:42 p. m.

  At 4:31, Major Dev Pun's spotter. Corporal Sivagi Saigal, saw something

  that concerned him. He reported it to Major Pun. The officer was deeply

  troubled by what he heard.

  Prior to leaving, he had been assured by the office of minister of

  Defense John Kabir that reconnaissance flights in the region had been

  suspended. Neither Kabir nor Puri wanted indepe
ndent witnesses or

  photographic evidence of what they expected to transpire in the

  mountains: the capture and execution of the Pakistani terrorists and

  their prisoner from Kargil.

  The fly over of the Himalayan Eagle AN-12 transport was not only

  unexpected, it was unprecedented. The transport was over a dozen miles

  from the secure flight lanes protected by Indian artillery. As the

  spotter continued to watch the plane, Puri used the secure field phone

  to radio Minister Kabir's office. The major asked the minister's first

  deputy what the aircraft was doing there. Neither Kabir nor any of his

  aides had any idea. The minister himself got on the line. He suspected

  that the fly over was an independent air force action designed to locate

  and then help capture the Pakistani cell.

  He could not, however, explain why that mission would be undertaken by a

  transport. Kabir told Puri to keep the channel open while he accessed

  the transport's flight plan.

  As he waited, Puri did not believe that the presence of a recon flight

  would complicate matters. Even if the cell were spotted, his unit would

  probably reach them first. Puri and his men would explain how the cell

  resisted capture and had to be neutralized. No one would dispute their

  story.

  Kabir came back on in less than a minute. The minister was not happy.

  The AN-12 had gone to Ankara and had been scheduled to fly directly to

  Chushul. Obviously the aircraft had been diverted. The transport's

  manifest had also been changed to include parachutes in its gear.

  A few moments later, Puri understood why.

  "Jumpers!" he said into the radio.

  "Where?" Kabir demanded.

  "They're about one mile distant," the spotter told Puri.

  "They're using Eagle chutes," he said when the shrouds began to open,

  "but they are not in uniform."

  Puri reported the information to Kabir.

  "The Eagles must have spotted the cell," the minister said.

  "Very possibly," Major Puri replied.

  "But they're not wearing Eagle mountain gear."

  "They might have picked up an outside team in Ankara," Kabir replied.

  "We may have been compromised."

  "What do we do?" Puri asked.

  "Protect the mission," Kabir replied.

  "Understood," Puri replied.

  The major signed off and told his unit commanders to move their

  personnel forward. They were all to converge on the site where the

  parachutists were descending. Puri's orders were direct and simple.

  The troops were to fire at will.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

  The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 4:46 p. m.

  Ever since they competed on the baseball diamond back in elementary

  school. Colonel Brett August always knew that he would rise above his

  longtime friend Mike Rodgers. August just never expected it would happen

  quite this way and in a place like this.

  Striker's delicately ribbed, white-and-red parachutes opened in quick

  succession. Each commando was jerked upward as the canopies broke their

  rapid descent. Some of the Strikers were hoisted higher than the others,

  depending on the air currents they caught. The wind was running like

  ribbons among them. Separate streams had been sent upward by the many

  peaks and ledges below. Though Mike Rodgers had been the last man out of

  the aircraft the general was in the middle of the group when the

  canopies had fully unfurled.

  Brett August ended up being the man on top.

  Unfortunately, the view from that height was not what Colonel August had

  expected.

  Almost at once, visibility proved to be a challenge. When the parachute

  tugged Colonel August up, perspiration from his eyebrows was flung onto

  the tops of his eyepieces. The sweat froze there. That was a

  high-altitude problem neither he nor General Rodgers had anticipated

  when they planned the jump. August assumed that frost was hampering the

  other Strikers as well. But that was not their greatest problem.

  Shortly after jumping. Colonel August had seen the line of Indian

  soldiers converging in their direction. They were clearly visible, black

  dots moving rapidly on the nearly white background. He was sure that

  Rodgers and the others could see them too.

  The Strikers knew enough to defend the perimeter once they landed.

  With the stakes as high as they were the Americans would not surrender.

  What concerned August was what might happen before they landed. Striker

  was out of range of ordinary gunfire. But the Indian soldiers had

  probably left the line of control well prepared. They were expecting to

  fight an enemy that might be positioned hundreds of meters away, on high

  ledges or remote cliffs. The Indian infantrymen would be armed

  accordingly.

  There was no way for the colonel to communicate with the other members

  of the team. He hoped that they saw the potential threat and were

  prepared for action when they landed.

  Assuming they did land.

  As the seconds passed the descent proved more brutal than August had

  expected.

  Seen from the belly of a relatively warm aircraft, the mountains had

  been awe-inspiring. Brown, white, and pale blue, the peaks glided slowly

  by like a caravan of great, lumbering beasts. But seen from beneath a

  bucking parachute shroud those same mountains rose and swelled like

  breaching sea giants, frightening in their size and rapid approach. The

  formations practically doubled in size every few seconds.

  Then there was the deafening sound. The mountains bellowed at the

  intruders, roaring with mighty winds that they snatched from the sky and

  redirected with ease. August did not just hear every blast of air, he

  felt it. The wind rose from the peaks two thousand feet below and

  rumbled past him.

  The gales kicked the shroud up and back, to the north or east, to the

  south or west, constantly spinning the parachute around. The only way to

  maintain his bearings was to try and keep his eyes on the target

  whichever way he was twisted. He hoped the winds would abate at the

  lower altitudes so that he and the other Strikers could guide their

  chutes to a landing. Hopefully, the peaks would shield them from the

  Indian soldiers long enough to touch down and regroup.

  The mountains rushed toward them relentlessly. The lower the Strikers

  went the faster the sharp-edged peaks came toward them. The colors

  sharpened as the team penetrated the thin haze. The swaying of the

  chutes seemed to intensify as the details of the peaks became sharper.

  That was an illusion but the speed with which the crags were approaching

  was not. Three of the soldiers around him were on-course and had a good

  chance of reaching the plateau. The others would have to do some careful

  maneuvering to make it. Two were in danger of missing the mountain

  altogether and continuing into the valley below.

  August could not tell which Strikers were in danger since the winds had

  lifted some of the chutes more than others and thrown them out of jump

  order. Whoever they were they would have to contact the rest of the team

  by radio and link up
as soon as possible.

  As they neared to within one thousand feet of the target, August heard a

  faint popping sound under the screaming wind. His back was facing the

  Indian infantry so he could not be certain the sound came from them.

  A moment later August was sure.

  The air around them filled with black-and-white cloudbursts.

  They were flak rockets used against low-flying aircraft.

  The shells were fired from shoulder-mounted launchers like the Blowpipe,

  the standard one-man portable system of the Indian army. They fired

  metal pellets in all directions around them. Within a range of

  twenty-five meters, the fifty seven shots in each shell hit with the

  force of 38caliber bullets.

  August had never been so helpless in his life. He watched as the first

  shell popped among the parachutists. It was followed moments later by

  another, then by one more. The canopies obscured his view of the

  Strikers themselves. But he saw how close the bursts came. There was no

  way his people were not being peppered with the hollow steel shells.

  It did not occur to August that the shrapnel could take him down. Or

  that he could miss the plateau.

  He forgot the cold and the wind and even the mission.

  All that mattered was the well-being of his team. And there was nothing

  he could do to ensure their safety right now. August's eyes had darted