Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control
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from canopy to canopy as the rockets burst around them.
Five of the lowest shrouds were heavily perforated within seconds.
They folded into their own centers and dropped straight down. A moment
later the chutes turned up, like inverted umbrellas, as the Strikers
below dragged them through free fall.
Two parachutes in the middle of the group were also damaged.
They dropped with their cargo onto another two canopies directly below.
The shrouds became tangled in the swirling winds. The lines knit and the
jumpers spun with increasing speed toward the valley below.
Even if the soldiers themselves had not been hit by shrapnel there was
no way for them to survive the fall. August screamed in frustration.
His cry merged with the wailing wind and filled the sky above him.
The attack left just himself and three Strikers still aloft.
August did not know who they were. He did not know if they had been
struck or if they were even alive. At least now they were below the line
of the intervening mountains. They were safe from additional ground
fire.
There was a fourth burst. It exploded white-and-black above and in front
of August. He felt two punches, one in the chest and another in his left
arm. He looked down at his chest. There was dull pain but no blood.
Perhaps the vest had protected him. Or perhaps the colonel was bleeding
underneath the fabric. He did not feel anything after the initial hit
and his heart rate seemed the same. Both good signs. In his heart he was
too sick over the Strikers he had just lost to care.
But he knew he had to care. He had to survive to complete this mission.
Not just for his country and the millions of lives in the balance, but
for the soldiers and friends whose lives had just been sacrificed.
There were only a few hundred feet to the plateau. He watched as two of
the Strikers landed there. The third missed by several meters, despite
the efforts of one of the commandos to grab him. August used the
guidelines to maneuver toward the cliff wall. He was descending rapidly
but he would still rather hit the peak than miss the ledge.
August's left arm began to sting but he kept his attention on the cliff.
He had dropped below the mountaintops. The tors were no longer hazards.
They were once again towering, stationary peaks that surrounded and
protected him from Indian fire. The enemy now was the valley on two
sides of the plateau and the outcroppings of rock that could snap his
back if he hit one. The updraft from the cliff slowed August, allowing
him to guide the parachute down. He decided to stick close to the steep
cliff and literally follow it down, thus avoiding the sharp outcroppings
toward the center. Every time the wind would brush him toward the valley
he would swing himself against the rock wall. The air rushing up the
cliff gave him extra buoyancy. August hit the plateau hard and
immediately jettisoned the chute. The shroud crumpled and scooted across
the ledge, catching on a three-meter-tall boulder and just hanging
there.
Before examining himself for injuries, Brett August stripped off his
mask and mouthpiece. The air was thin but breathable. August looked
across the plateau for the other Strikers. Medic William Musicant and
Corporal Ishi Honda were the two who had made it. Both men were near the
edge of the plateau. Musicant was on his knees beside the radio
operator. The medic had removed the compact medical belt he wore.
Honda was not moving.
The colonel got to his feet and made his way over. As he did he felt his
chest under his vest. It was dry. The pellet had not gone through the
garment. His arm was bleeding but the freezing air had slowed the flow
considerably. He ignored the wound for now. Try as he might he could not
clear his mind of the other Strikers. Sondra Devon the Walter Pupshaw.
Mike. The others.
He concentrated on the Strikers who were just a few meters away. And he
forced himself to think about what was next. He still had his weapons
and he had his assignment.
He had to link up with the Pakistani cell.
As August reached the men he did not have to ask how Honda was. The
radio operator was panting hard as blood pumped from beneath his vest.
The medic was trying to clean two small, raw wounds on Honda's left
side. August could not see Honda's dark eyes behind his tinted
eyepieces. The frost had evaporated and misted them over.
"Is there anything I can do?" August asked Musicant.
"Yeah," the medic said urgently.
"There's a portable intravenous kit in compartment seven and a vial of
atropine sulfate in twelve. Get them. Also the plasma in eight. He's got
two more holes in his back. I've got to get him plugged and stabilized."
The colonel removed the items. He began setting up the IV. From triage
classes he remembered that the atropine sulfate was used to diminish
secretions, including blood loss.
That would help stabilize the patient if there were internal bleeding.
"Is your arm all right, sir?" Musicant asked.
"Sure," August said.
"Who was that you tried to reach at the ledge?"
"General Rodgers," the medic replied.
August perked.
"Was the general wounded?"
"He appeared to be okay," Musicant replied.
"He was reaching out, trying to get over a few feet more. The goddamn
current grabbed his chute. I couldn't get to him."
Then it was possible that Rodgers had survived. August would try and
contact him by point-to-point radio.
"After the IV is ready you'd better try and get in touch with those
Indian soldiers," Musicant suggested.
"If I can stabilize Ishi we'll need to get him to a hospital."
August finished setting up the small IV tripod beside Honda. Then he
uncapped the needle. He would use Honda's radio to contact Op-Center and
brief them. He would give Herbert their position and ask him to relay a
call for medical assistance. But that was all he would do. He and
Musicant could not wait here, however. They still had a mission to
complete.
When the IV setup was finished August reached for Honda's TAC-SAT.
Musicant had already removed the pack and set it aside. The reinforced
backpack had taken some hits along one side but the telephone itself
appeared to be undamaged. August wondered if Honda had taken pains to
protect it, even at the cost of his own life.
Just then. Corporal Honda began to convulse.
"Shit!" Musicant said.
August watched as the radio operator coughed. Flecks of blood spattered
his cheek.
"Ishi, hang on," Musicant yelled.
"You can do it. Give me another minute, that's all I'm asking."
Honda stopped panting and coughing. His entire body relaxed.
"Take off his vest!" Musicant yelled. Then the medic grabbed for his
medical belt and reached into one of the pockets. He withdrew a
hypodermic and a vial of epinephrine.
Colonel August began unfastening Honda's vest. As he bent over the
stricken soldier he noticed a stream of red seeping out from between the<
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noncom's spread legs. Honda had to have been losing blood at an
incredibly fast pace for it to pool that far down.
August watched as the blood crept to below Honda's knees. When the
colonel pulled the vest away he found the front underside to be sticky
with blood. The pellets from the Indian projectiles had gone up the
corporal's torso through his lower back and emerged through his chest.
Honda must have been near ground zero of one of the blasts.
Musicant knelt beside Ishi Honda. The medic spread his knees wide so he
was steady beside the patient. Then he pulled aside Honda's bloody shirt
and injected the stimulant directly into Honda's heart. August held the
radio operator's hand. It was cold and still. Blood continued to pool on
the ledge. Musicant leaned back on his heels and waited. Honda did not
respond. His face was ashen from more than just the cold. The colonel
and the medic watched for a moment longer.
"I'm sorry," Musicant said softly to the dead man.
"He was a good soldier and a brave ally," August said.
"Amen," Musicant replied.
August realized how tightly he was holding Honda's hand.
He gently released it. August had lost friends in Vietnam.
The emotional territory was bitterly familiar. But he had never lost
nearly an entire squad before. For August, that loss was all there in
the still, young face before him.
Musicant rose and had a look at August's arm. August was surprised how
warm the last few minutes had left him.
Now that the drama had ended his heart was slowing and blood flow was
severely reduced. The cold would set in quickly. They had to move out
soon.
While Musicant cleaned and bandaged the wound the colonel turned to the
TAC-SAT. He entered his personal access code and the unit came on.
Then he entered Bob Herbert's number. As August waited to be connected
he removed the radio from his equipment vest.
He placed another call.
One that he prayed would be received.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 7:24 a. m.
"Have we heard anything yet?" Paul Hood asked as he swung into Bob
Herbert's office.
The intelligence chief was drinking coffee and looking at his computer
monitor.
"No, and the NRO hasn't seen them yet either," Herbert said.
"Still just the Pakistanis."
Hood looked at his watch.
"They should be down by now.
Has the transport landed yet?"
"No," Herbert replied.
"The pilot radioed the tower in Chushul. He said that the cargo had been
delivered but nothing more."
"I don't expect they stuck around to verify that our guys touched down,"
Hood said.
"Probably not," Herbert agreed.
"That close to the Pakistani border I'm guessing the plane just turned
south and ran."
"Hell, why not," Hood said.
"We're only trying to stop their country from being involved in a
nuclear war."
"You're stealing my cynicism," Herbert pointed out.
"Anyway, they probably don't know what's at stake."
As Herbert was speaking the phone beeped. It was the secure line. He put
it on speaker.
"Herbert here."
"Bob, it's August," said the caller. It was difficult to hear him.
"Colonel, you've got a lot of wind there," Herbert said.
"You'll have to speak up."
"Bob, we've had a major setback here," August said loudly and slowly.
"Indian troops from the LOC peppered us with flak on the way down. Most
of our personnel were neutralized. Musicant and I are the only ones on
the plateau.
Rodgers missed but he may have reached the valley. We don't know if he's
hurt. I'm trying to reach him by radio."
"Say again," Herbert asked.
"Two safe, one MIA, rest dead."
"That's correct," August told him.
The intelligence chief looked up at Hood, who was still standing in the
doorway. Herbert's face looked drawn. He muttered something in a taut,
dry whisper. Hood could not make out what Herbert was saying.
Perhaps it was not meant to be heard.
But Hood had heard what August said.
"Colonel, are you all right?" Hood asked.
"Mr. Musicant and I are fine, sir," August replied.
"I'm sorry we let you down."
"You didn't," Hood assured him.
"We knew this wasn't going to be an easy one."
August's words were still working their way into Hood's sleep-deprived
brain. He was struggling for some kind of perspective. Those lives could
not simply have ended. So many of them had only just begun.
Sondra Devon the Ishi Honda, Pat Prementine, Walter Pupshaw, Terrence
Newmeyer, and the rest. Hood's mind flashed on their faces. Dossier
photos gave way to memories of drilling sessions he had watched,
memorial services, barbecues, tackle football games. It was not the same
as the death of one man. Hood had been able to focus on the specifics of
losing Charlie Squires or Bass Moore. He had concentrated on helping
their families get through the ordeal. The scope of this tragedy and of
the personal loss was both overwhelming and numbing.
"What's your assessment. Colonel?" Hood asked. His voice sounded strong,
confident. It had to for August's sake.
"We'd still like to try and intercept the cell," August went on.
"Two extra guns may help them punch through somewhere along the line."
"We're behind you on that," Hood said.
"But there are a lot of infantrymen headed our way," August went on.
"Can you contact the Pakistanis and let them know what happened?" "We'll
try," Hood said.
"The Pakistani leader has Friday's phone. She is not the most
cooperative person we've dealt with." "Does she know we're coming?"
August asked.
"Affirmative," Hood told him.
"Has there been any arrangement with her?" August asked.
The colonel was asking who would be calling the shots once they linked
up.
"The cell commander and I did not have that conversation," Hood told
him.
"Use your own initiative." "Thank you," August said.
"One more thing, sir. We're looking at darkness and some heavy winds and
cold coming in. I hope you have a contingency plan in place."
"We were just working on that," Hood lied.
"But we're still counting on you and Corporal Musicant to pull this one
through."
"We'll do our best," August assured him.
"I know that. We also need you two to stay safe," Hood said.
August said he would. He also said he would inform Op Center if he
managed to raise Mike Rodgers. Then he signed off. Hood disengaged the
speakerphone. There was a long moment of silence.
"You all right?" Hood asked Herbert.
Herbert shook his head slowly.
"We had thirteen people out there," he said flatly.
"I know," Hood said.
"Kids, mostly."
"This was my call," Hood reminded the intelligence chief.
"I gave the operation the go-ahead."
"I backed you up," Herbert replied.
"Hell, we had no choice. But
this is a price they should not have had to
pay."
Hood agreed but to say so seemed pathetic somehow.
They were crisis management professionals. Sometimes the only barrier
between control and chaos was a human shield.
As iron-willed as that barricade could be, it was still just sinew and
bone.
Hood moved behind the desk. He looked down at the computer.
Logic aside, he still felt hollow. Hood and the others had known going
in that there were risks involved with this mission. What galled him was
that an attack from allied ground forces was not supposed to be one of
those risks. No one imagined that the Indian military would shoot at