Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control
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It could be that if we follow your short hop toward the border we'll end
up not reaching Pakistan at all."
"That's possible," Friday admitted.
"So why didn't I cut you down back at the valley? That would have made
certain I get things my way."
"Because then Nanda would have known she's a dead woman," Rodgers told
him.
"Can you guarantee that won't happen if she crawls across a glacier with
you?"
Rodgers did not answer. Friday had a sharp, surgical mind.
Anything the general said would be sculpted to support Friday's point of
view. Then it would be fired back at him.
Rodgers did not want to do anything that might fuel doubts in Nanda's
mind.
"Think about this," Friday continued.
"We're following the directions of Washington bureaucrats without
knowing where we're going or why. We've been running across the
mountains for hours without food or rest. We may not even reach the
target, especially if we carry each other around.
Have you considered the possibility that's the plan?"
"Mr. Friday, if you want to cross the line of control you go ahead,"
Rodgers told him.
"I do," Friday said. He leaned in front of Rodgers. He looked at Nanda.
"If she goes with me, I'll get her to Pakistan and safety."
"I'm staying with my grandfather," the woman said.
"You were ready to leave him before," Friday reminded her.
"That was before," she said.
"What changed your mind?"
"You," she replied.
"When my grandfather was kneeling and you walked over to him."
"I was going to help him," Friday said.
"I don't think so," she said.
"You were angry." "How do you know?" he asked.
"You couldn't see me--"
"I could hear your footsteps on the ice," she said.
"My footsteps?" Friday said disdainfully.
"We used to sit in the bedroom and listen to the Pakistanis on the other
side of the door," Nanda told him.
"We couldn't hear what they were saying but I always knew what they were
feeling by how they walked across the wooden floor. Slow, fast, light,
heavy, stop and start. Every pattern told us something about each
individual's mood."
"I was going to help him," Friday repeated.
"You wanted to hurt my grandfather," Nanda said.
"I know that."
"I don't believe this," Friday said.
"Never mind your grandfather. Millions of people may go to hell because
of something you did and we're talking about footsteps."
Mike Rodgers did not want to become involved in the debate. But he did
not want it to escalate. He also was not sure, at this point, whether he
even wanted Ron Friday to stay. Rodgers had worked with dozens of
intelligence operatives during his career. They were lone wolves by
nature but they rarely if ever disregarded instructions from superiors.
And never as flagrantly as this. One of the reasons they became field
operatives was the challenge of executing orders in the face of
tremendous odds.
Ron Friday was more than just a loner. He was distracted.
Rodgers suspected that he was driven by a different agenda.
Like it or not, that might be something he would have to try to figure
out.
"We're going to save Nanda's grandfather as well as those millions of
people you're concerned about," Rodgers said firmly.
"We'll do that by going northeast from here."
"Damn it, you're blind!" Friday shouted.
"I've been in this thing from the start. I was in the square when it
blew up. I had a feeling about the dual bombers, about the involvement
of the SFF, about the double-dealing of this woman." He gestured angrily
at Nanda.
"It's the people who pull the strings you should doubt, not a guy who's
been at ground zero from the start."
Friday was losing it. Rodgers did not want to waste the energy to try to
stop him. He also wanted to see where the rant would lead. Angry men
often said too much.
Friday fired up his torch again. Rodgers squinted in the light. He
slowed as Friday got in front of them and faced them.
"So that's it, then?" Friday said.
"Get out of the way," Rodgers ordered.
"Bob Herbert barks, Mike Rodgers obeys, and Op-Center takes over the
mission," Friday said.
"Is that what this is about?" Rodgers asked.
"Your resume?"
"I'm not talking about credit," Friday said.
"I'm talking about what we do for a living. We collect and use
information."
"You do," Rodgers said.
"Fine, yes. I do," Friday agreed.
"I put myself in places where I can learn things, where I can meet
people. But we, our nation, need allies in Pakistan, in the Muslim
world. If we stay on this glacier we are still behind Indian lines.
That buys us nothing."
"You don't know that," Rodgers said.
"Correct," Friday said.
"But I do know that if we go to Islamabad, as Americans who saved
Pakistan from nuclear annihilation, we create new avenues of
intelligence and cooperation in that world."
"Mr. Friday, that's a political issue, not a tactical military concern,"
Rodgers said.
"If we're successful then Washington can make some of those inroads you
mention."
With Apu still clinging to him, Rodgers started moving around Friday.
The NSA operative put out a hand and stopped him.
"Washington is helpless," Friday said.
"Politicians live on the surface. They are actors. They engage in public
squabbles and posturing where the populace can watch and boo or cheer.
We are the people who matter. We burrow inside. We make the tunnels. We
control the conduits."
"Mr. Friday, move," Rodgers said.
This was about personal power. Rodgers had no time for that.
"I will move," Friday said.
"With Nanda, to the line of control. Two people can make it across."
Rodgers was about to push past him when he felt something.
A faint, rapid vibration in the bottoms of his feet. A moment later it
grew more pronounced. He felt it crawl up his ankles.
"Give me the torch!" he said suddenly.
"What?" Friday said.
Rodgers leaned around Friday.
"Samouel--don't turn on the light!" "I won't," he said.
"I feel it!"
"Feel what?" Nanda said.
"Shit," Friday said suddenly. He obviously felt it too and knew what it
meant.
"Shit."
Rodgers pulled the torch from Friday. The NSA agent was surprised and
did not struggle to keep it. Rodgers held the torch above his head and
cast the light around him. There was a mountain of ice to the right,
about four hundred yards away. It stretched for miles in both
directions. The top of the formation was lost in the darkness.
Rodgers handed the torch to Nanda.
"Go to that peak," he said.
"Samouel! Follow Nanda!"
Samouel was already running toward them.
"I will!" he shouted.
"My grandfather--!" Nanda said.
"I'll take him," Rodgers assured
her. He looked at Friday.
"You wanted power? You've got it. Protect her, you son of a bitch."
Friday turned and half-ran, half-skated across the ice after Nanda.
Rodgers leaned close to Apu's ear.
"We're going to have to move as fast as possible," he said.
"Hold tight."
"I will," Apu replied.
The men began shuffling as quickly as possible toward the peak. The
vibrations were now strong enough to shake Rodgers's entire body. A
moment later, the beat of the rotors was audible as the Indian
helicopter rolled in low over the horizon.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:53 a. m.
The powerful Russian-made Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter soared swift and low
over the glacier. Its two-airman crew kept a careful watch on the ice
one hundred and fifty feet beneath them. They were flying at low light
so the chopper could not be easily seen and targeted from the ground.
Radar would keep them from plowing into the towers of ice. Helmets with
night-vision goggles as well as the low altitude would allow them to
search for their quarry.
The Mi-35 is the leading attack helicopter of the Indian air force.
Equipped with under-nose, four-barrel large-caliber machine guns and six
antitank missiles, it is tasked with stopping all surface force
operations, from full-scale attacks to infiltration.
The aircrew was pushing the chopper to move as quickly as possible. The
men did not want to stay out any longer than necessary. Even at this
relatively low level the cold on the glacier was severe. Strong, sudden
winds whipping from the mountains could hasten the freezing of hoses and
equipment.
Ground forces were able to stop and thaw clogged lines or icy gears.
Helicopter pilots did not have that luxury.
They tended to find out about a problem when it was too late, when
either the main or the tail rotor suddenly stopped turning.
Fortunately, the crew was able to spot "the likely target" just seventy
minutes after taking off. The copilot reported the find to Major Puri.
"There are five persons running across the ice," the airman said.
"Running?" Major Puri said.
"Yes," reported the airman.
"They do not appear to be locals. One of them is wearing a high-altitude
jump outfit." "White?" Puri asked.
"Yes."
"That's one of the American paratroopers," Puri said.
"Can you tell who is with him?"
"He is helping someone across the ice." the airman said.
"That person is wearing a parka. There are three people ahead. One is in
a parka, two are wearing mountaineering gear. I can't tell the color
because of the night-vision lenses.
But it appears dark."
"The terrorist who was killed in the mountain cave was wearing a dark
blue outfit," Puri said.
"I have to know the color."
"Hold on," the airman replied.
The crew member reached for the exterior light controls on the panel
between the seats. He told the pilot to shut down his night-vision
glasses for a moment. Otherwise the light would blind him. The pilot and
copilot disengaged their goggles and raised them. The copilot turned the
light on. The windshield was filled with a blinding white glow reflected
from the ice. The airman retrieved his binoculars from a storage
compartment in the door. His eyes shrunk to slits as he picked out one
of the figures and looked at his clothing.
It was dark blue. The airman reported the information to Major Puri.
"That's one of the terrorists," the major said.
"Neutralize them all and report back."
"Repeat, sir?" the airman said.
"You have found the terrorist cell," Major Puri said.
"You are ordered to use lethal force to neutralize them--"
"Major," the pilot interrupted.
"Will there be a confirming order from base headquarters?"
"I am transmitting an emergency command Gamma-Zero Red-Eight," Puri
said.
"That is your authorization."
The pilot glanced at his heads-up display while the copilot input the
code on a keyboard located on the control panel.
The onboard computer took a moment to process the data.
Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight was the authorization code of Defense Minister John
Kabir.
"Acknowledge Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight authorization," the pilot replied.
"We are proceeding with the mission."
A moment later the pilot slid his goggles back into place.
The copilot switched the exterior lights off and replaced his own
night-vision optics. Then he descended through one hundred feet to an
altitude of fifty feet. He flipped the helmet-attached gun sights over
his night-vision glasses, slipped his left hand onto the joystick that
controlled the machine gun, and bore down on the fleeing figures.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:55 a. m.
Mike Rodgers's arm was hooked tightly around Apu's back as he looked out
on terrain that was lit by the glow of the helicopter's light. The
American watched helplessly as Nanda fell, slid, and then struggled to
get up.
"Keep moving!" Rodgers yelled.
"Even if you have to crawl, just get closer to the peaks!"
That was probably the last thing Rodgers would get to say to Nanda. The
rotor of the approaching chopper was getting louder every instant. The
heavy drone drummed from behind and also bounced back at them from the
deeply curved slope of ice ahead.
Ron Friday was several paces ahead of Nanda and Samouel was in front of
him. Before the lights from the helicopter were turned off, Rodgers saw
both men look back then turn and help the young woman. Friday was
probably helping her to further his own cause of intelligence control or
whatever he had been raving about. Right now, however, Mike Rodgers did
not care what Ron Friday's reasons were. At least the man was helping
her.
Friday was wearing treaded boots that gave him somewhat better footing
than Nanda. As the lights went out, Friday scooped the woman up, tugged
her to her feet, and pulled her toward the peak.
Though the ice was dark again Rodgers knew they were not invisible. The
aircrew was certainly equipped with infrared equipment. That meant the
nose gun would be coming to life very soon. Rodgers had one hope to keep
them alive.
The plan required them to keep going.
An instant later the nose gun began to hammer. The air seemed to become
a solid mass as the sound closed in on all sides. Rodgers felt the first
bullets strike the ice behind him.
He pulled Apu down and they began to roll and slide down the incline,
parallel to the icy wall.
Hard chips of ice were dislodged by bullets hitting the ice.
Rodgers heard the "chick" of the strikes then felt hot pain as the
small, sharp shards stung his face and neck. Time slowed as it always
did in combat. Rodgers was aware of everything. The cold air in his nose
and on the nape of his neck. The warm perspiration along the back of his
thermal T-shirt. The smell and texture of Apu's wool parka as R
odgers
gripped him tightly, pulling him along. The fine mist of surface ice
kicked up as he and Apu rolled over it. That was to be the means of
their salvation. Perhaps it would still help Nanda and Ron Friday.
Rodgers stepped out of himself to savor all the sensations of his eyes,
his ears, his flesh. For in these drawn-out moments the general had a
sense that they would be his last.
The two men hit a flat section of ice and stopped skidding.
The fusillade stopped.