Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  Her eyes tearing from wind and pain, Sharab staggered the last few yards

  to the boulder. She fell against it and her knees just shivered and

  unlocked. She began to slide down the side.

  Strong, gloved hands reached around and helped to hold her up. She was

  still holding the gun. But even if Sharab had wanted to defend herself,

  her finger was too cold to pull the trigger.

  A man in white winter gear pulled her behind the boulder.

  He sat her down and used his body to protect her from the wind. He bent

  close to her ear.

  "Are you the leader?" he asked.

  "First tell me who you are," Sharab said. She was barely able to say the

  words. Her lips were trembling.

  "I am Colonel August of the U. S. Striker team," he said.

  "I am the leader of these FKM fighters," Sharab replied weakly. She

  squinted across the dark plateau. She saw another man crouched there.

  "That's Mr. Musicant, my medic," August said.

  "If any of your people need attention, I'll send him over."

  "I think we're all right, except for the cold," the woman said.

  "Fingers, feet, mouth."

  The man leaned nearer. He exhaled hotly on her lips. It felt good. He

  did it again.

  "How many men have you?" Sharab asked.

  "Three," he replied.

  She fired him a look.

  "Just three?"

  He nodded.

  "The sounds we heard--?" she asked.

  "Indian ground fire," he said.

  "It took out most of my team. Where is Mr. Friday?"

  "We split the group," Sharab told him.

  "He is with the other half. They went in another direction." "Over the

  glacier?" the colonel asked.

  Sharab nodded.

  "Is that how they're getting back to Pakistan?" August pressed.

  The woman did not answer immediately. She looked up into his face. He

  was wearing goggles and she could not see his eyes. His mouth was

  straight, unemotional. His skin was pale but rough. He was definitely an

  American and he had seen some hardship.

  "What will you do with the information?" she asked him.

  "The third survivor of our drop landed in the valley," August replied.

  "He'll try and link up with your teammates." "I see," she said.

  "Yes. The others are going to try and stay on the glacier until they are

  home."

  "Do you have any way of contacting them?" August asked.

  She shook her head.

  "And what were you trying to do?" he asked.

  "Draw the Indian soldiers away from the other group, toward the

  northwest?" "Yes," Sharab said.

  "We're carrying explosives. We thought we could attract their attention,

  maybe cause some rock slides."

  "That won't be necessary," August informed her.

  "The Indian force is heading toward us. It'll be pretty tough for them

  to get up here so we'll be able to keep them busy while they bring in

  choppers from the LOC." August reached for his radio.

  "Do you and your men need food or water?"

  "Food would be nice," she admitted.

  August left the radio in his belt. He opened a vest pocket and removed

  several sticks of jerky.

  "Give some to your teammates and ask them to join us," he said as he

  handed her the flat, wrapped servings.

  "We should set up a defensive perimeter on this plateau. The Indians saw

  us come down here. I'm pretty sure that if we wait they'll come to us.

  That will give us a chance to rest, especially if they wait until

  morning to come after us." "All right," Sharab said.

  She started to stand. August helped her up. As he did, she looked up at

  him.

  "I'm sorry about your people."

  "Thank you." he replied.

  "But be consoled," she said.

  "Their death in the service of our people will earn them a place in

  Paradise. The steadfast who do good works, forgiveness and a rich reward

  await them,"

  " Sharab assured him.

  The American smiled tightly. He left the woman supporting herself

  against the rock while he retrieved his radio.

  Sharab winced as she put weight back on her swollen feet.

  She began hobbling back toward the ledge. But at least now she knew one

  thing that she did not know a few minutes ago.

  The pain would end very soon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR.

  Washington, D. C. Thursday, 10:30 a. m.

  It had been a grueling ninety minutes for Paul Hood. But then, suffering

  was relative, he told himself. He was in no physical danger.

  His children were safe. That helped him to keep his situation in

  perspective.

  After his disagreement with Bob Herbert, Paul Hood had asked Liz Gordon,

  Lowell Coffey, Ann Fan-is, and political liaison Ron Plummer to come to

  his office. Hood had wanted to tell them what had happened to Striker.

  He also needed to mobilize them at once. Liz would have to put together

  grief counselors for Op-Center personnel as well as family members of

  the fallen Strikers. Coffey would have to be prepared to deal with any

  legal ramifications that might arise from recovering the bodies. And for

  the first time in years Ann would have to do nothing.

  As far as domestic officials and foreign governments were concerned,

  Op-Center would stand by the original mission profile. The team had been

  sent into Kashmir at the request of the Indian government to search for

  nuclear missile sites. Striker had been shot accidentally by Indian

  soldiers who were looking for the Pakistani terrorists. If Ann owed

  anyone at one of the major news outlets any favors she could tell them

  what Op-Center was saying to government officials. That, and nothing

  more. Ann was thoroughly professional and supportive. If she suspected

  there was anything wrong between her and Hood she did not show it.

  Only the president had been told the truth. Lawrence and Hood had spoken

  briefly before the others had come to Hood's office. The president

  seemed neither shaken nor pleased by what Hood told him.

  Lawrence said only that he supported the plan from this point forward.

  The president's "no comment" did not surprise Hood. It would give him

  the room to praise or lambaste the NCMC at the end of the day, depending

  upon how things went.

  President Lawrence did suggest, however, that the Pakistani ambassador

  to Washington be told the truth at once. He did not want Islamabad or

  Ambassador Simathna issuing statements about America's anti-Muslim

  activities or pro India bias. If Mike were to show up with the cell

  after that it would taint the validity of the operation. It would seem

  as if America had forced Nanda to lie to repair bridges with Pakistan

  and the Muslim world.

  Hood gave that job to Ron Plummer. He also wanted Plummer to stay with

  the ambassador, ostensibly to brief him on all the latest developments.

  In fact. Hood wanted to make certain the truth did not leak out

  prematurely. He was afraid that India might respond with a massive

  strike in the region.

  Since the terrorists were still on the run, and still being blamed for

  all the bombings. New Delhi would have the moral high road and world

  opinion on their
side.

  As the meeting was ending Hood received a call from Bob Herbert.

  "I just spoke with Brett August and I've got some good news," Herbert

  informed him.

  "He's linked up with the cell."

  Hood motioned for Ron Plummer not to leave and to shut the door. The

  small, slender political liaison closed the door behind Lowell Coffey.

  Plummer remained standing.

  "Thank God for that," Hood said.

  "Bob, Ron's in here with me. I'm putting you on speakerphone."

  "Okay," Herbert said.

  "Anyway, we were right," he went on.

  "The Pakistanis did spin off another group. Nanda Kumar and her

  grandfather are part of it. along with Ron Friday and one Pakistani.

  And you were correct, Paul. They're headed across the Siachin Glacier."

  "Did Brett talk to Mike?" Hood asked.

  "Not yet," Herbert replied.

  "They've got electrostatic interference from an ice storm on the

  plateau. Brett says the ice comes in waves. He's going to keep trying

  for a window."

  Hood suddenly felt very guilty about his warm office and fully

  functional telephone.

  "Paul, I have a suggestion," Herbert said.

  "I think we should ask the Pakistanis for help in extracting the teams.

  After all, it's their butts we're hauling out of the fire."

  "We can't do that," Plummer told him.

  "Why not?" Herbert asked.

  "If the situation is as tense as Paul's described, an incursion by the

  Pakistani air force would only make it worse. It would give the Indian

  military more incentive to attack."

  "At least then it would be a conventional fight," Herbert said.

  "Not necessarily," Plummer said, "especially if there are Pakistani

  silos somewhere in the mountains. Also, we'd be giving Pakistan

  foreknowledge of a possible nuclear strike.

  That might encourage Islamabad to hit first." "A jihad," Hood said.

  "The clerics might call it that," Plummer said.

  "For the generals it would simply be a responsible tactical maneuver.

  The situation is hair-trigger enough without throwing more partisan

  armies into the fray."

  "What about the United States sending additional forces into the

  mountains?" Hood suggested.

  "That's not going to happen," Herbert said gravely.

  "Even if the Joint Chiefs and the president okayed a strike force out of

  Turkey or the Middle East, it would take hours for them to get there."

  "There's one thing I'm missing here," Plummer said.

  "Why do we need a military response? Can't we let India know what their

  Special Frontier Force unit did? I'm sure that very few government

  officials knew about the plot to frame the terrorists."

  "I'm sure it was a very tight conspiracy," Hood agreed.

  "The problem is we have no idea who was in it."

  "Someone is obviously tapped into the Op-Center-New Delhi pipeline,"

  Herbert said.

  "How else could they have known about Striker's mission? Anyway, before

  the bombing the moderate Indians might have done something. But Kev

  Custer has been monitoring the TV and radio broadcasts over there.

  There's a fast-growing grassroots movement in support of the militants."

  "Meaning that moderates may be afraid to speak out," Hood said.

  "Exactly," Herbert said.

  "What about the United Nations secretary-general?" Plummer said.

  "You know her, Paul. Forget the bad blood between you. She's Indian.

  She'll have a very good reason to get out the facts about the attack."

  "Mala Chatterjee?" Herbert said.

  "She's so soft on terrorism her speeches turn even bleeding hearts into

  a lynch mob.

  She napped her lips while hostages were being assassinated in the

  Security Council."

  "Chatterjee has far too many enemies of her own," Hood agreed.

  "At this point her involvement would only make things worse."

  "I'll say it again, Paul. Maybe the Russians would be willing to help

  rein India in," Herbert said.

  "They want to be seen as serious peacemakers." "Possibly," Hood said.

  "But even if we went to them, wouldn't time be a problem?"

  "Time and recent history," Plummer said.

  "Pakistan has very close ties with Afghanistan. There are still a lot of

  Russian leaders who would like to see both countries pounded flat." "But

  a continued stalemate between India and Pakistan means a continued

  weapons buildup," Herbert said.

  "Money talks. New Delhi would still have to buy weapons and materiel

  from Moscow."

  "True, but then there's the point that Paul raised," Plummer said.

  "The same debate that we're having would keep the Kremlin busy for days

  if not longer. We don't have that kind of time."

  "Well, Ron, I'm kind of running dry. and getting a little frustrated,"

  Herbert snapped.

  "And I'm just doing the devil's advocate thing. Bob," Plummer replied

  defensively.

  "We can run some of these proposals up the flagpole in Moscow and at the

  Pentagon, but I don't see any of them getting the kind of support we

  need."

  "Unfortunately, that's the problem with crisis management instead of

  crisis prevention," Hood said sadly.

  "Once you're in it there are not a lot of options." "I count exactly

  one," Herbert said.

  The intelligence chief was right, of course. With all the resources the

  United States had at its disposal, there was only one asset standing

  between India, Pakistan, and a possible nuclear exchange. One asset

  currently out of touch, under equipped and on his own.

  General Mike Rodgers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.

  The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 9:11 p. m.

  During the flight from Washington, Mike Rodgers had read a number of

  white papers on the Siachin Glacier. The most interesting was written by

  a Pakistani intelligence officer.

  Dubbed "the world's highest battleground" by both the Indian and the

  Pakistani press, the Siachin Glacier has no strategic value. Long

  claimed by Pakistan, the glacier reaches nearly eighteen thousand feet

  in height, the temperatures drop below minus thirty-five degrees

  Celsius, and the near constant blizzards and lack of oxygen make the

  region "subhuman," as one Indian report put it. No one lives there and

  no one crosses it on foot.

  The glacier became a war zone in 1984 when Indian intelligence officers

  began showing up in the region. Their thinking, apparently, was to force

  Pakistan to assign human resources to the region, thus making them

  unavailable for war in habitable Kashmir and along the line of control.

  However, Pakistan discovered the presence of the Indian reconnaissance

  teams early in the process thanks to a mountaineering advertisement that

  appeared in an Indian magazine. The full-page ad showed recent

  photographs of the region without naming it. The text offered

  experienced climbers excellent compensation and the adventure of a

  lifetime to help lead tours through "uncharted territories."

  Pakistani counterespionage operatives began tracking and capturing the

  Indian recon teams. The conflict escalated and soon the region was

  drawing resources from both
sides of the dispute. Nearly twenty years

  later, thousands of troops and aircraft from both sides were assigned to

  patrol the massive formation.

  If they were out there now, Rodgers could neither see nor hear them. He

  had been in many isolated places during his long military career but he

  had never experienced anything like this. Standing at the foot of the

  glacier he was not just alone, surrounded by mountain and ice, but he

  could only see as far as his flashlight let him. And he was unable to

  get anything but static on his radio. He shined the light up the sloping

  white ice. The foot of the glacier reminded him of a lion's paw. There

  were long, large lumps of dirty white ice about ten feet high with