crevasses between them. They led to a gently sloping area that rose
higher and higher into the darkness. The formation made him feel fragile
and insignificant.
The glacier had probably looked exactly like this when the first humans
were tossing sticks and berries at each other from trees in the valley.
Suddenly, Rodgers's radio beeped. He grabbed it quickly.
"Yes?" "The target is up there," said the caller.
The transmission was broken and the voice was barely recognizable. But
Rodgers had no doubt that it was Brett August. The colonel did not know
how long he would be able to transmit. So he got right to the heart of
the communication without wasting words.
"Copy that," Rodgers said.
"Team of four," August said.
"Girl and grandfather, Friday, and one cell member."
"I copy," Rodgers said again.
"I'm at the foot of the zone.
Should I go up now?"
"If you wait till sunup you may miss them," August said.
"I'm sorry." "Don't be," Rodgers said.
"Will try and keep enemy busy," August went on. His voice began to break
up.
"Storming here--cell exhausted.
Ammo low."
"Then bail out," Rodgers said.
"I'll be okay."
August's response was lost in static.
"I've got a good head start," Rodgers went on. He was shouting each
syllable, hoping he would be heard.
"Even if they enter the valley now they won't catch up to me. I'm
ordering you to pull back. Do you read? Pull back!"
There was no response. Just a loud, frustrating crackle.
Rodgers turned down the volume and kept the channel open for another few
moments. Then he shut the radio off to conserve the batteries and
slipped the unit back in his belt.
Rodgers hoped that August would not try to stick this one out. Going
back down the mountain might not be an option for August and the others.
But finding a cave and building a fire would be a better use of their
energies than hanging on to a slope and trying to draw the Indian army
toward them. Unfortunately, Rodgers knew the colonel too well. August
would probably regard retreat as abandonment of a friend as well as a
strategic position. Neither of those was acceptable to August.
The plateau was also the place where the Strikers had died.
That made it sacred ground to August. There was no way he would simply
turn and walk away from it. Rodgers understood that because he felt the
same way. It made no sense to fight for geography without strategic
value. But once blood had been spilled there, one fought for the memory
of fallen comrades. It validated the original sacrifice in a way that
only combat soldiers could understand.
Rodgers took a moment to walk along the bottom of the glacier. It did
not seem to matter where he started. He had to pull himself up one of
the "toes" and start walking.
There were collapsible steel bipoint ice cram pons in his vest.
Rodgers removed them and slipped them over his rigid boots. The
two-pronged claws on the bottoms would allow for a surer grip on the
ice.
He strapped them on and removed the pitons from another pocket. He would
hold them in his fists and use them to assist his climb. He would not
take the time to hammer them in unless he had to.
Before he left, Rodgers secured the flashlight in his left hand shoulder
strap. There were powerful cadmium batteries in the specially made
lights. The bulb itself was a low intensity scatter-beam in front of a
highly polished mirror.
They would definitely last through the night. As he rested the toe of
his left boot on the "toe" of the glacier, he took one last look up the
mountain of ice.
"I'm going to beat you," he muttered.
"I'm going to get up there and finish the job my team started."
Rodgers's eyes continued up through the darkness. He saw the stars,
which were dimly visible through the wispy clouds.
Time seemed to vanish and Rodgers suddenly felt as if he were every
warrior who had ever undertaken a journey, from the Vikings to the
present. And as he jabbed the base of one crampon into the ice and
reached up with a piton, Mike Rodgers no longer saw stars. He saw the
eyes of those warriors looking down on him.
And among them the eyes of the Strikers looking after him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 12:00 p. m.
The embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan is located in a small,
high-gated estate on Massachusetts Avenue in northwest D. C. Ron Plummer
drove his Saab to the gate, where a voice on the other end of the
intercom buzzed him through. He headed up the curving concrete driveway
to a second security checkpoint at the back of the mansion.
Plummer pulled up to the white double doors and was greeted by a
security guard. The man was dressed in a black business suit. He wore
sunglasses, a headset, and a bulletproof vest under his white shirt. He
carried a handgun in a shoulder holster. The man checked Plummer's ID
then directed him to a visitor's spot in the small lot. The guard waited
while Plummer parked.
As he hurried back to the mansion, Ron Plummer ran a hand through his
untamed, thinning brown hair and adjusted his thick, black-framed
glasses. The thirty-nine-year-old former CIA intelligence analyst for
Western Europe was not just feeling the pressure of his own part in this
drama. The political and economics officer was also aware of how many
things had to go right or the Indian subcontinent would explode.
The National Crisis Management Center had not had a lot of dealings with
the Pakistani embassy. The only reason the ambassador. Dr. Is mail
Simathna, personally knew them was because of Paul Hood and Mike
Rodgers. After the men had ended the hostage stalemate at the United
Nations, Simathna asked them to visit the embassy. Plummer was invited
to join them. The ambassador claimed to be paying his respects to a
brave and brilliant American intelligence unit. Among the many lives
they had saved were those of the Pakistani ambassador to the United
Nations and his wife. But Hood and Plummer both suspected that Simathna
simply wanted to meet the men who had embarrassed the Indian secretary
general That feeling was reinforced when the visit received considerable
coverage in the Islamabad media. Hood was glad, then, that Plummer had
come along. Op-Center's PEO gave the appearance of substance to a
meeting that was conceived to make a statement about India's ineffective
contribution to world peace.
The security officer turned Plummer over to the ambassador's executive
secretary. The young man smiled pleasantly and led Plummer to Simathna's
office. The white-haired ambassador came out from behind his glass
topped desk. He was wearing a brown suit and a muted yellow tie. The
sixty-three-year-old ambassador had been a front line soldier and bore a
scar on both cheeks where a bullet had passed through his jaw. He had
also been an intelligence expert and a professor of politics and
political sociology at Quaid-E-Azam University in Islamabad before being
tapped to represent his nation in Washington, D. C. He greeted
Op-Center's political officer warmly.
Plummer had not told Ambassador Simathna why he needed to see him, only
that it was urgent.
The men sat in modern armchairs on the window side of the office. The
thick bullet-proof glass muted their voices.
As Plummer spoke he sounded almost conspiratorial.
The ambassador's lean face was serious but unemotional as Plummer spoke.
He leaned forward, listening quietly, as Plummer told him about the
Striker operation from conception to present, and Hood's fears about the
actions of India's SFF. When Plummer was finished, the ambassador sat
back.
"I am disappointed that you did not come to me for intelligence on the
nuclear situation in Kashmir," the ambassador said.
"We did not want to impose on your friendship," Plummer replied.
"It means a great deal to us."
"That was thoughtful of you," he replied with a little smile.
"But you have come to me now."
"Yes," Plummer replied.
"For your advice, your confidence, your patience, and most of all your
trust. We believe we have a good chance to keep this under control but
the hours ahead will be extremely difficult."
"One could describe nuclear brinkmanship in those terms," the ambassador
said softly.
"Your Strikers were quite brave, going into the mountains the way they
did. And the surviving members give me hope. Nations are not monolithic,
not even India and Pakistan. When people care enough about one another
great things can be accomplished." "Paul Hood and I share your
optimism," Plummer said.
"Even at this moment?"
"Especially at this moment." Plummer replied.
Throughout the exchange Plummer had watched the ambassador's dark eyes.
Simathna's mind was elsewhere. Plummer feared that the ambassador was
thinking of alerting his government.
The ambassador rose.
"Mr. Plummer, would you excuse me for a few minutes?"
Plummer also stood.
"Mr. Ambassador, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I don't wish to push you, sir, but I want to make certain I've made the
situation clear," Plummer said.
"It is vital that your government take no action until our people in the
field have had a chance to extract the Indian operative."
"You have made that quite clear," the ambassador replied.
"There is the very real danger that even a leaked word could turn this
into a self-fulfilling nightmare," Plummer added.
"I agree," Simathna assured him. The tall Pakistani smiled slightly and
started toward the door.
"Mr. Ambassador, please tell me what you're going to do," Plummer
implored. The American was going to feel very foolish if Simathna were
going to get an aspirin or visit the lavatory. But Plummer had to know.
"I am going to do something that will require your assistance," Simathna
replied.
"Anything," Plummer said.
"What can I do?"
The ambassador opened the door and looked back.
"You must give me something that you just requested of me."
"Of course," Plummer told him.
"Name it." While the PEO waited he replayed the conversation in his mind
on fastforward, trying to remember what the hell he had asked the
ambassador for.
"I need your trust," Simathna said.
"You have it, sir. That's why I came here," Plummer insisted.
"What I need to know is if we're on the same tactical page."
"We are," Simathna replied.
"However, I have access to footnotes that you do not."
With that, the Pakistani ambassador left his office and quietly shut the
door behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN.
The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 10:57 p. m.
Ron Friday's anger kept him from freezing.
The NSA operative was not angry when he started this leg of the mission.
He had been optimistic. He had effectively taken charge of the mission
from Sharab. Even if the woman survived her encounter with the Indian
army, Friday would be the one who led the cell into Pakistan. The
triumph would be his. And the journey appeared feasible, at least
according to the Indian military reconnaissance maps he had taken from
the helicopter. The line of control did not appear to be heavily guarded
at the Bellpora Pass. The region was extremely wide and open and easy to
monitor from the air. Captain Nazir had told Friday that anyone passing
through the jagged, icy region risked being spotted and picked off. So
Friday and his group would have to remain alert. If the cell was still
in the pass during a fly over they would find a place to hide until it
was finished.
However, Friday became less enthusiastic about the operation as the
hours passed. He was accustomed to working alone. That had always given
him a psychological advantage.
Not having to worry about or rely on someone else enabled him to make
fast tactical turns, both mentally and physically.
It had been the same with his romantic relationships. They were paid for
by the hour. That made them easy, to the point, and, most importantly,
over.
Samouel was holding up well enough. He was in the lead.
The Pakistani was deftly poking the ground with a long stick he had
picked up, making sure there were no pockets of thin ice. Friday was
directly behind him. There were two unlit torches tucked under his right
arm. They were made with sturdy branches the men had picked up before
the tree line ended. They were capped by tightly wound strangler vines.
The thick vines glowed rather than burned. Friday had stuffed very dry
rye grass between the vines to serve as primers.
The torches would only be used in an emergency. Friday had five matches
in his pocket and he did not want to waste them.
Nanda and her grandfather were at the rear of the line.
Nanda herself was doing all right. She was a slight woman and she lost
body heat quickly. But she had a fighting spirit and would have kept up
the pace if not for Apu. The elderly farmer was simply exhausted.
If not for his granddaughter the Indian probably would have lain down
and died.
As darkness had descended over the ice and the temperature had fallen,
Friday had become increasingly disgusted with the Kumars. He had no
tolerance for Apu's infirmity.
And Nanda's devotion frustrated him. She had a responsibility to end the
crisis she had helped cause. Every minute they spent nursing Apu across
the glacier slowed their progress and drained the energies of Nanda,
Friday, and the other man.
The farmer's life just did not matter that much.
Friday had taken a last look around before night finally engulfed them.
The group was on a flat, barren expanse. To the right, about a half mile
distant, the blue-white glacier rose thousands of feet nearly straight
up. The surface appeared to be rough and jagged, as though a
mountain-sized section had been ripped away. To the left the t
errain was
much smoother, probably worn down by ages of rain and runoff from the
mountains. It sloped downward into what looked like a distant valley.
Friday could not be certain because a mist was rising from the lower,
warmer levels of the glacier.
Not that it mattered. Pakistan was ahead, due north. And unless Ron
Friday did something to speed up this group's progress they would not
get there in time, if at all.
Friday took out his small flashlight and handed it to Samouel.
The batteries would probably not last until sunrise.
Friday told the Pakistani to get a good look at the terrain and then
shut the light off until he absolutely needed it again.
Then the American dropped to the left side of the loose formation.
The air was still and the night was quiet. The glacier was protecting
them from the fierce mountain winds. Friday waited for Nanda and her
grandfather to catch up. Then he fell in beside the woman. She was
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 33