serious stuff. But right now the goal is very clear. The key person
isn't Mike, it's that girl from Kargil. And the mission is to get her
safely to Pakistan. If there is a second group of Pakistanis and they go
over the glacier, we can't afford to have Mike stuck in the valley or
racing to catch them. He's our strongest, maybe our only asset. We need
him in play." "All right, Paul," Herbert said.
"It's your call. I'll have Brett relay your orders to Mike."
"Thank you," Hood said.
"But I'm not with you on this one," Herbert added sharply.
"My gut isn't telling me much because it can't. It's tied in a big
goddamn knot. But my brain is telling me that before we send Mike up
that glacier we need more time and intel to properly assess the
situation."
Herbert hung up.
Slowly, Paul Hood replaced the receiver. Then he turned to his computer
and diminished the map of the Himalayas.
He switched programs to receive the direct feed from the NRO.
The Omni Com was just completing its re targeting and a barren,
brown-and-white image began to fill the screen. Hood watched through
tired eyes as the pixels filled in. Right now he wished that he were
there, in the field with Mike Rodgers.
The general had an organization solidly behind him, people praying for
him, honor and pride at the end of the day, whichever way events took
him.
But no sooner did Paul Hood stumble onto that thought than two others
bumped it aside. First, that he had no right to be thinking about
himself. Not after the sacrifice Striker had made or the risks Mike
Rodgers, Brett August, and the others were taking.
Second, that he had to finish the operation he had started.
And there was only one way to do that.
With resolve greater than that of the people who had started it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.
The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:42 p. m.
Brett August had become a soldier for two very different reasons.
One was to help keep his country strong. When August was in the sixth
grade he read about countries like England and Italy that had lost wars.
The young New Englander could not imagine how he would feel saying the
Pledge of Allegiance each morning, knowing that the United States had
ever been defeated or was under the heel of a conquering nation.
The other reason Brett August became a soldier was that he loved
adventure. As a kid he grew up on cowboy and war shows on television,
and comic books like G/ War Tales and 4-Star Battle Tales. His favorite
activities were to build snow forts in the winter and tree forts in the
summer. The latter were carefully woven together from the limbs shorn
from poplar trees in the backyard. He and Mike Rodgers took turns being
Colonel Thaddeus Gearhart at Fort Russell or William Barrett Travis at
the Alamo, respectively. Rodgers liked the idea of acting a young
officer dying dramatically as he battled vastly superior numbers.
The reality of everything August had anticipated was different from the
way he had always imagined them.
The greatest threats against the United States were not from forces
outside our borders but from those within. He had seen that when he
returned from captivity in Vietnam.
There were no honors awaiting him. There was condemnation from many of
August's old acquaintances for having fought in an immoral war. There
was condemnation from some corners of the military because August wanted
to go back and finish the job he had started. They wanted to bomb the
Cong into submission. The melting pot of America had become the melting
point. People fighting rather than learning from their differences.
As for adventure, there was valor but little drama or glory in slaughter
and captivity. Death was not big and flamboyant, it was ugly and lonely.
The dying did not pause to salute the proud flag of Colorado or Texas
but screamed about his wound or cried for a loved one a world away. Fear
for himself and his friends made it impossible for August ever to feel
anything but unadorned gratification whenever his patrol returned to
base.
At the moment, August was driven by just one force: the battle-seasoned
resolve of a professional soldier. Even his survival instinct was not
that strong. Most of his unit were dead. Living with that loss was going
to be difficult. He wondered, unhappily, if that was why William Barrett
Travis had reportedly charged the Mexican army single-handedly at the
onset of the battle for the Alamo. Not due to courage but to spare
himself the pain of having to watch his command fall.
August decided this was not the time to think of hopeless charges. He
needed to be in the here-and-now and he needed to win.
Poised behind a jagged-edged boulder twice his size, August watched the
narrow, curving ledge just ahead. His visibility was only about fifty
yards due to the sharp turn in the ledge. Soon darkness would be a
problem. The sun was nearly down and he would have to put on his
night-vision goggles. He wanted to wait in order to save the batteries.
They might be forced to fight the Indian skirmish line before night's
end.
Musicant was behind an even larger boulder. It was situated twenty-odd
yards to August's left. Between them the Strikers could set up a
crossfire between the end of the ledge and the plateau. No one would be
able to get through without identifying themselves and being disarmed,
if necessary.
To August's right was the TAC-SAT. He had switched the phone from audio
to visual signal in order to maintain a position of silent-standing. The
visual signal was on dim. If it shined, the light would not be seen from
the other side of the boulder.
A steady wind blew from behind the men. It raised fine particles of ice
from the plateau and swept them from the peaks. The icy mist rose in
sharp arcs and wide circles, flying high enough to glimmer in the last
light of the sun before dropping back to the dark stone. August was glad
to see the airborne eddies. They would limit the visibility of anyone
coming along the ledge.
August was crouched against the cold stone when the TAC-SAT flashed. He
snatched the receiver without taking his eyes from the ledge.
"Yes!" he shouted. He had to press a hand against his hood to shut his
open ear.
"Brett, it's Bob. Anything?"
"Not yet," August replied.
"What about with you?"
"We need you to radio Mike," Herbert said.
"We think a splinter cell might be headed toward the Siachin Glacier.
Viens is looking for them. In the meantime, Paul wants Mike to head up
there."
"That's a helluva trek," August said.
"Tell me about it," Herbert replied.
"If there is a separate group, Paul's afraid Mike will miss them unless
he leaves now. Tell Mike that if Viens spots them we'll pass along their
location."
"Very good," August replied.
"And if this cell knows anything I'll let you and Mike know."
"Fine," Herbert said.
"I've
tried to raise them on the radio but they're not answering.
Listen, Brett. If Mike doesn't think he can do this I want to hear about
it."
"Do you really think Mike Rodgers would turn down an assignment?" August
asked.
"Never," Herbert said.
"That's why I need you to listen between the lines. If there's a
problem, tell me."
"Sure," August said.
August hung up and slipped the radio from the belt. Mike had the best
"poker voice" in the United States armed forces.
The only way August might find out if he had a problem with a mission
was to ask him outright. Even then, Rodgers might not give him an
answer.
Rodgers answered and August gave him Hood's instructions.
"Thank you," Rodgers replied.
"I'm on it."
"Mike, is it doable without more gear? Herbert wants to know."
"If I don't answer the radio again, it wasn't," the general replied.
"Don't be an ass-pain," August warned.
"If you can feel your ass you're doing a lot better than I am," Rodgers
replied.
"Point, Rodgers," August told him.
"Stay in touch."
"You, too," Rodgers replied.
August switched the radio to vibrate rather than beep.
Then he slipped it back into his belt. He was still watching the ledge.
The wind had grown stronger over the past few minutes. The ice crystals
were no longer blowing in gentle patterns. They were charging past the
boulder in sharp diagonal sheets. The fine particles struck the cliff
and bounced off hard at a right angle. They created the illusion of a
scrim hanging in front of the ledge.
Suddenly, a dark shape appeared behind the driving ice.
It was blacker than the surrounding amber-black of sunset.
It did not appear to be holding a weapon, though it was too dark to be
certain.
August motioned to Musicant, who nodded that he saw it For the colonel
the rest of the world, the future, and philosophy vanished. He had only
one concern.
Surviving the moment.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.
The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:57 p. m.
Sharab had lost all sense of time. She knew that they had been walking
for hours but she had no idea how many. The woman's thighs burned from
the struggle of the upward and then downward trek, and her feet were
blistered front and back. Every step generated hot, abrasive pain.
Sharab did not know how much longer she could continue. Certainly
getting down to where she believed the Indian army was situated would be
virtually impossible. She would have to find some way of slowing the
enemy down from up here.
The men behind her were not faring any better. They had discarded their
flashlights and heavier shoulder-mounted weapons. They had also left
behind all but a few of the explosives they planned to use to attract
the attention of the Indian soldiers. They'd eaten the food so they
would not have to carry it. The water had frozen in their canteens and
they had left those behind as well. When they were thirsty they simply
broke off the icicles they found in small hollows.
All they carried were a rifle with a pocketful of shells as well as a
handgun apiece and two extra clips. If there were an army coming toward
them, Sharab knew she would not be able to overcome them. All she could
hope to do now was draw them off and delay them long enough to give the
American, Nanda. and the others a chance to get to Pakistan.
Surviving was also increasingly unlikely. If the Indians did not kill
them the elements would.
Sharab even had some question now whether they would even find this
elusive Indian army. They had heard some kind of artillery fire earlier.
She wondered if the elite American unit had landed and engaged the
enemy. She hoped not. The last thing she wanted was to send the Indians
back to the line of control. That would only cause the military to bring
in reinforcements. On the other hand, if any of the Americans had
managed to land, that was good. They could certainly use the help
fighting the Indians.
Unfortunately, Sharab could not find out what had happened.
The radio she had used to communicate with Washington had become such a
burden that she had left it behind.
Panicles of wind-blown ice coated her wool hood and clung there. The
cold had already numbed her scalp and frozen her sweat-soaked hair. The
weight of the hood was such that it kept her head bent forward. That was
good. It protected her eyes and cheeks from the sting of the ice
pellets.
Sharab was feeling her way along the cliff and also using it for
support. Ali was behind her, holding the hem of her parka. Every now and
then she felt a tug as he halted or stumbled. Hassan was behind Ali.
Sharab knew he was still there because she could hear him praying.
As the ledge widened, Sharab heard another sound. At first it sounded
like a sudden, sharp quickening of the wind. But then she heard it
again, louder. It was not the wind. Someone was shouting.
Sharab stopped and raised her eyes. She shielded them with her hand and
peered ahead.
The young woman saw a cottage-sized boulder with something large moving
behind the right side. Sharab could not make out what it was. She
replayed the howl in her mind.
Asian black bears and deer did not live this high. Perhaps it was a wild
pig or goat.
It could also be a man.
It howled again. Sharab pulled off her hood and turned her right ear
toward the boulder. She also removed her glove, tucked it in her left
pocket, and drew the handgun from her right pocket.
"Who are you?" the figure shouted.
Sharab backed away.
"Who wants to know?" she shouted back. The woman was surprised at the
effort it took to yell.
It actually caused her heart to race. Her voice sounded flat in the
close, cold air.
"We are with the man who joined you before," the other man said.
"Where is he?"
"Which man?" Sharab asked.
"There were two." The man was speaking in English with an
American-sounding accent.
That was encouraging.
"We only know about one of them," the speaker said.
"What was his name?"
The man hesitated. Obviously, someone was going to have to make the
first move to prove who they were. It was not going to be Sharab.
"Friday," the man said.
Sharab stepped forward again very tentatively.
"He is not with us!"
"What happened to him?"
"He left," she replied.
"Let's talk face-to-face."
"Come closer with your hands raised," the American said.
The speaker did not step from behind the boulder. It was the woman's
turn to trust him.
Sharab protected her eyes again and tried to look past the boulder. She
saw a second, smaller boulder off to the right but no sign of any other
men. There could not be that many soldiers behind the two rocks. But the
two boulders would provide good cover for a crossfire.
Sharab
told Hassan and Ali to stay where they were. They nodded. Both
men had drawn their weapons and were huddled close to the rock. Ali had
moved out slightly to provide her some backup.
"If anything happens to me, fight your way out of this," she added.
"You must keep the Indian army occupied."
The men nodded again.
The speaker was a few hundred yards away. Sharab did not put her gun
away. She raised her hands shoulder-high and began moving toward the
nearest boulder. It was difficult to see because of the blowing ice and
she had to turn her face toward the side. Her scarf had fallen away and
was whipping behind her. The ice particles lashed her flesh.
Her cheek felt as if it were on fire. Sharab finally had to lower her
left arm to protect it. There was no mountainside to lean against so her
sore feet were taking all of her weight. She shambled from side to side
to keep from putting all of her weight straight down. At least the
terrain was level. That made it easier on her leg muscles.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 31