Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  holding Apu's hand close to her waist and walking slightly ahead of him.

  With each step Nanda stopped and literally gave her grandfather a firm

  but gentle tug across the ice. She was breathing heavily and Apu was

  bent deeply at the waist.

  "We're not going to make it at this rate," Friday said.

  "We'll make it," she replied.

  "Not in time," Friday insisted. He did not know that for a fact. But

  saying it emphatically would make it sound true to Nanda.

  Nanda did not respond.

  "If either side drops a nuclear missile anywhere in the mountains, this

  glacier will become a freshwater lake," Friday pointed out.

  "Let me leave Samouel with your grandfather.

  You come with me. When we reach Pakistan we can send help."

  "Leave my grandfather with one of the men who held us captive?" she

  said.

  "I can't trust a man like that." "Circumstances have changed," Friday

  said.

  "Samouel wants to save his people. That means protecting your

  grandfather." The young woman continued to help her grandfather along.

  Friday could not see her expression in the dark. But he could hear the

  farmer's feet drag along the ice. Just the sound had an enraging

  quality.

  "Nanda, I need your cooperation on this," Friday pressed.

  "I am cooperating," she replied evenly.

  "You don't understand," Friday said.

  "We have no idea what's happening in the outside world. We need to get

  you across the line of control as quickly as possible."

  Nanda stopped. She told her grandfather to rest for a moment.

  The farmer gratefully lowered himself to his knees while the woman took

  Friday aside. The American told Samouel to keep moving. Friday would

  find him by the bursts from the flashlight.

  "If we leave the terrorist and my grandfather here, no one will come

  back," Nanda said.

  "I know this border region.

  There will be a great deal of tension on both sides of the glacier. No

  one will want to make any unnecessary or provocative military moves.

  Samouel will leave without him."

  "We'll send a civilian helicopter back here," Friday said.

  "The American embassy can arrange it quickly." "They'll be dead by

  then," Nanda told him.

  "My grandfather is pushing himself as it is. If I leave he'll give up."

  "Nanda, if you don't leave, two nations may cease to exist," Friday

  pointed out.

  "You played a key role in this.

  You have to set it right."

  The young woman was silent. Friday could not see her in the blackness

  but he could hear her breathing. It had slowed somewhat. Nanda was

  thinking. She was softening.

  She was going to agree.

  "All right," she said.

  "I'll do what you ask but only if you stay and help my grandfather."

  That caught Friday by surprise.

  "Why?"

  "You know how to survive out here," Nanda replied. She placed her hand

  on the unlit torches for emphasis.

  "I think I saw a valley to the west. You will be able to get him down

  there in the dark, find shelter, warmth, and water. Promise me you'll

  take care of him and I'll go ahead with Samouel."

  The perspiration on the American's face was beginning to freeze. It was

  a strange feeling, like candle wax hardening.

  The insides of his thighs were badly chafed and his lungs hurt from the

  cold air they had been breathing. The longer he stood here the more

  aware he became of how vulnerable they were. It would be easy to stand

  still a moment too long and die.

  Friday set the two torches down and removed the glove from his right

  hand. He scratched the frozen sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Then

  he slipped his hand into his coat pocket. Nanda was Friday's trophy. He

  had no intention of staying behind or being dictated to.

  He removed the pistol from his pocket. Nanda could not see it or know

  what he was going to do. If he put a bullet in the farmer's head Nanda

  would have no choice but to press on, even if only to bring Friday to

  justice. Friday, of course, would argue that Apu was distraught about

  holding the others back. He had tried to reach the gun to end his own

  life. There was a fight. It went off.

  Friday hesitated. He considered the possibility that a shot might

  attract the attention of the Indian soldiers from the line of control.

  But he realized that the many peaks and winding ice valleys would make

  the sound impossible to pinpoint.

  And those ice peaks were far enough away so that a shot would probably

  not bring loose sections crashing down. Especially if the blast were

  muffled by the parka of the dead man.

  Friday walked around Nanda.

  "All right," he said with finality.

  "I will take care of your grandfather."

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT.

  Washington, D. C. Thursday, 1:28 p. m.

  Ron Plummer was not a patient man. And that had been a great help to him

  throughout his career.

  Intelligence officers and government liaisons could not afford patience.

  They had to have restless minds and curious imaginations.

  Otherwise they could not motivate their people or themselves to look

  past the obvious or accept impasses.

  However, they also needed to possess control. The ability to appear calm

  even when they were not.

  Ordinarily, Ron Plummer was also a calm man. At the moment his

  self-control was being tested. Not by the crisis but by the one thing a

  former intelligence operative hated most.

  Ignorance.

  It had been nearly forty-five minutes since Ambassador Simathna left the

  office. Plummer had sat for a few minutes, paced slowly, sat some more,

  then stood and walked in circles around the large office. He looked at

  the bookcases filled with histories and biographies. Most were in

  English, some were in Urdu. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with

  plaques, citations, and photographs of the ambassador with various world

  leaders. There was even one of Simathna with United Nations

  Secretary-General Chatterjee. Neither of them was smiling. The PEO hoped

  that was not an omen.

  He stopped in front of a framed document that hung near the ambassador's

  desk. It was signed in 1906 by Aga Khan III, an Indian Muslim. The paper

  was an articulate statement of objectives for the All-India Muslim

  League, an organization that the sultan's son had founded to oversee the

  establishment of a Muslim state in the region.

  Plummer wondered if that was the last time Indian and Muslim interests

  had coincided.

  Plummer saw his own reflection in the UV glass. The image was

  translucent, which was fitting. A political liaison had to have enough

  substance to know what he stood for but enough flexibility to consider

  the needs of others. He also had to have the skill to intermediate

  between the different parties. Even good, sensible, well-intentioned men

  like Hood and Simathna could disagree strongly.

  Plummer glanced at his watch. Paul Hood would be waiting for an update.

  But Plummer did not want to call Op Center

  For one thing, t
he political liaison had nothing to report. For another,

  the embassy was certainly wired with eavesdropping devices.

  The office and phones were surely bugged. And any number Plummer punched

  into his cell phone would be picked up by electronic pulse interceptors.

  These devices were about the size and shape of a pocket watch. They were

  designed to recognize and record only cell phone pulses.

  Thereafter, whenever that number was used within the listening range of

  the embassy's antennae, Pakistani intelligence--or whomever Islamabad

  sold the data to-could hack and listen in on the call. It was one thing

  when cell phone users accidentally intercepted someone else's

  conversation.

  It was different when those calls were routinely monitored.

  Plummer considered what Ambassador Simathna might be up to. Plummer

  decided on three possibilities. He certainly would have reported the

  intelligence to the chief executive of the republic. General Abdul

  Qureshi. Either Islamabad or the embassy might then draft a press

  release condemning New Delhi for their duplicity. The Indians would

  vehemently deny the charges, of course. That would rally the people

  around their respective leaders and ratchet tensions even higher.

  Especially at Op-Center, which would surely be cited by Islamabad for

  having provided them with the information.

  The second possibility was that there would be no press release. Not

  yet. Instead, Qureshi and the generals of Pakistan's National Security

  Council would plan a swift, merciless nuclear strike against India.

  They would attempt to destroy as many missile installations as possible

  before releasing the intelligence Op-Center had provided. That would

  drag the United States into the conflict as a de facto ally of Pakistan.

  Hood and Plummer had known that those were both possibilities.

  They simply hoped that reason would triumph. On the whole. Ambassador

  Simathna was a reasonable man.

  That allowed Plummer to hold out hope for a third possibility, what he

  called "the one-eighty." It was an option the experts never considered,

  a development that popped up one hundred and eighty degrees from where

  the common wisdom had staked its tent. It was the Allies invading

  Normandy beach instead of Calais during World War II, it was Harry

  Truman beating Thomas Dewey for the presidency in 1948.

  Simathna's parting words, about there being a footnote that only he

  could access, gave Plummer hope for a one eighty

  The door opened while Plummer was reading the ninety year-old paper

  signed by Khan.

  "I often stand where you are and gaze at that document," the ambassador

  declared as he entered the room.

  "It reminds me of the dream for which I am an honored caretaker."

  The Pakistani shut the heavy door and walked toward his desk. The

  ambassador seemed to be a little more distracted than before. That could

  be a good thing or a bad thing for Plummer. Either diplomacy had

  triumphed and Islamabad would give Mike Rodgers time to try to finish

  the mission.

  That meant the ambassador would be the hero or the scapegoat.

  Or else the children of Aga Khan III were about to write a new Muslim

  League document. One that would be blasted into the history books by

  plutonium 239.

  Simathna walked quickly behind his desk. He gestured toward a chair on

  the other side. Plummer sat after the ambassador did. Simathna then

  turned a telephone toward the American political liaison.

  "Would you please call Mr. Hood and ask him to connect you to General

  Rodgers," Simathna said.

  "I must speak with them both."

  Plummer sat forward in the armchair.

  "What are you going to tell them?" he asked.

  "I spoke with General Qureshi and the members of the National Security

  Council," the ambassador told him.

  "There was deep concern but no panic. Preparations are quietly being

  made to activate defense systems and policies already in place. If what

  you say about the Indian woman is true, we believe the situation need

  not escalate."

  "How can Op-Center help?" Plummer pressed.

  Ambassador Simathna told Plummer what the Pakistani leaders had

  discussed. Their plan was more than a one eighty

  It was an option that Plummer never could have thought of.

  Plummer also realized that the plan carried an enormous risk. The

  Pakistanis could be looking for an ally in the war against India. If the

  ambassador were misleading Plummer about their intent, the Pakistani

  proposal would put the United States at the epicenter of the

  conflagration.

  Literally.

  Fortunately or unfortunately, all Ron Plummer had to do was make the

  call.

  Paul Hood was the one who had to make the decision.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.

  Washington, D. C. Thursday, 1:36 p. m.

  Paul Hood was stealing a slice of pizza from his assistant's desk when

  the call came from Ron Plummer. Hood asked Bugs to have Bob Herbert join

  him. Then he hurried back to his desk to take the call.

  "What have you got?" Hood said as he picked up. He heard the slight

  reverberation sound that indicated he was on speaker. Hood engaged his

  own speaker option.

  "Paul, I'm here with Ambassador Simathna," Plummer said.

  "He has a proposal."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador," Hood said.

  "Tell me how we can help you."

  Herbert wheeled in then and shut the door behind him.

  "First, Director Hood, I want to offer my condolences on the tragic loss

  of your Striker unit, and my government's appreciation for what they

  were attempting to accomplish," Simathna said.

  "Thank you," Hood replied. The ambassador sounded a little too

  compassionate. He had obviously figured out that the team had not been

  in the region to help stop Indian aggression.

  Herbert was a little more blunt. The intelligence chief made an

  up-and-down motion with his fist.

  "Second, my government has a plan that may assist General Rodgers and

  his personnel," Simathna went on.

  "As I have already explained to Mr. Plummer, it will require an

  understanding with your government that details of the operation must

  remain confidential."

  "I am not in a position to speak for the government, only my small

  corner of it," Hood said.

  "If you tell me your idea I will immediately confer with people who are

  in a position to offer those assurances."

  Paul Hood was dying inside. Vital seconds and quite possibly lives were

  slipping away while he and Ambassador Simathna postured. But this was

  how the dance was done.

  "The plan we propose is that your group proceed to a nuclear missile

  site that our military has erected in the glacier," Simathna said.

  "It is a remotely operated site with video cameras monitoring the

  interior. The Indian woman can make her broadcast from inside the silo."

  Hood stared at Bob Herbert. Mike Rodgers was being invited to visit one

  of the silos Striker had originally been sent to find. The irony of the

  proposal was almost painful. What was difficult
to process, however, was

  the dangers inherent in the plan.

  "Mr. Ambassador, would you excuse me a minute?" Hood asked.

  "Given the situation 1 would not take much longer than that," Simathna

  replied.

  "I understand, sir, but I need to confer with one of my associates,"

  Hood replied.

  "Of course," Simathna said.

  Hood punched the mute button.

  "What do your instincts tell you. Bob? Are they using us?"

  "Man, I just don't know," Herbert admitted.

  "My gut says that the team needs to get to the nearest, warmest refuge

  as soon as possible. The more I looked at photographs of the glacier the

  more I started thinking they'll never be able to cross it without more

  gear and supplies than they're carrying.

  And the weather reports for the region suck. It's going to be around ten

  below zero before midnight. But I have to tell you, of all the places