Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  "On your knees!" Rodgers shouted.

  The men were going to have to crawl in another direction.

  It would take the gunner an instant to re sight the weapon.

  Rodgers pulled Apu onto his knees. The two men had to be somewhere else

  when fire resumed.

  The men were crouching and facing one another in the dark. Apu was

  kneeling and half-leaning against Rodgers's chest. Suddenly, the farmer

  clutched the general's shoulders.

  He pushed forward. With nothing behind him, Rodgers fell back with Apu

  on top of him.

  "Save Nanda," Apu implored.

  The gunning restarted. It chewed up the ice and then drilled into the

  back of the farmer. Apu hugged Rodgers as the bullets dug into the older

  man's flesh. The wounds sent damp splashes onto Rodgers's face.

  He could feel the thud of each bullet right through the man's body.

  Rodgers reflexively tucked his chin into his chest, bringing his head

  under Apu's face. He could hear the man grunt as the bullets struck.

  They were not cries of pain but the forced exhalation of air as his

  lungs were punctured from behind. Apu was already beyond pain.

  Rodgers brought in his knees slightly and kept himself buried beneath

  Apu's body. He was thinking now and not simply reacting. And Rodgers

  realized that this was what Apu had wanted. The farmer had sacrificed

  himself so Rodgers could stay alive and protect Nanda. The devotion and

  trust inherent in that gesture made them as pure as anything Rodgers had

  ever experienced.

  Rodgers heard several bullets whistle by his head. He felt a burning in

  his right shoulder. One of the shots must have grazed him. His arm and

  back warmed as blood covered his cold flesh.

  Rodgers lay. still. Their flight and Apu's sacrifice had kept the

  helicopter occupied for a short time. Hopefully, it had been long enough

  for Nanda, Friday, and Samouel to reach the peak.

  The gunfire stopped. After a few moments the sound of the helicopter

  moved over Rodgers's head. The chopper was heading toward the icy

  slopes. It was time for Rodgers to move.

  Apu was still holding him. Rodgers grasped the elbows of the man's parka

  and gently pulled them away. Then he slid to the right, out from under

  the dead man. Blood from Apu's neck trickled onto Rodgers's left cheek.

  It left a streak, like warpaint. The elderly man had not given his life

  in vain.

  Rodgers got to his feet. He paused to remove the dead man's parka then

  ran toward the slope. The helicopter was moving slowly and the American

  paced it. He stayed behind the cockpit and out of view. He was waiting

  for the Mi-35 to get a little closer. That was when things should start

  to happen.

  The nose gun began to spit fire again. The red-yellow flashes lit the

  slope like tiny strobes. Rodgers could see Nanda and the two men running

  along the curving base, away from the aircraft. The gentle turn in the

  slope kept the chopper from having a clear shot.

  The chopper slowed as it moved closer to the slope. The guns fell silent

  as the chopper tracked its prey. Flying this close the pilots had to

  consider rotor clearance, winds, and prop wash Rodgers hoped those were

  the only things the pilots were worried about. That would be their

  undoing.

  Rodgers reached the base of the ragged slope. He felt his way along.

  The winds from the tail rotor were savage, like waves of ice water.

  Rodgers shielded his eyes as best he could. He would be able to see as

  soon as the guns resumed firing. He was going to have to move quickly

  when they did.

  The chopper continued to creep along the glacier. The throaty sound from

  the rotors knocked loose powder from the crags. Rodgers could feel it

  hitting his bare cheeks.

  That was good. The plan might work.

  A few moments later the guns came to life. Rodgers saw the cliff light

  up and started running toward the others. As he expected, this close to

  the slope, the sound of the guns and the rotor shook particles of ice

  from the wall. The area around the helicopter quickly became a sheet of

  white. And the flakes did not fall. The winds kept them whipping around

  in the air, adding layer upon layer. Within moments visibility had

  diminished to zero.

  The guns shut down just as Rodgers raced around the front of the

  helicopter. Even with their night-vision goggles, the crew would not be

  able to see him or their quarry.

  Rodgers had judged the distance between himself and the others. He

  guided himself toward them by running a hand along the slope. Though his

  legs were cramping he refused to stop.

  "We've got to move!" Rodgers shouted as he neared the spot where he had

  seen the group.

  "What's happening?" Nanda cried.

  "Keep going!" Rodgers yelled.

  "Is my grandfather all right?" she demanded.

  From the sound of her voice Rodgers judged the woman to be about thirty

  yards away. He continued running hard. A few seconds later he bumped up

  against one of the refugees.

  Judging from the height of the individual it was Friday. They had

  stopped. Rodgers made his way around him. The general reached for Nanda,

  who was next in the line. The woman was facing him.

  "Grandfather?" Nanda shouted.

  "Everyone move!" Rodgers screamed.

  In a crisis situation, an individual's fight-or-flight mechanisms are in

  conflict. When that happens, the shout of an authority figure typically

  shuts down the combative side. A harsh command usually closes it just

  enough to let the survival instinct prevail by following the order. In

  this case, however, Rodgers's cry killed Nanda's flight response. Friday

  stopped moving altogether as Nanda became as combative as Rodgers.

  "Where is he?" the woman screamed.

  "Your grandfather didn't make it," Rodgers said.

  She screamed for the old man again and started to go back.

  Rodgers stuffed Apu's parka under his arm then grabbed Nanda's

  shoulders. He held them tight and wrestled her in the opposite

  direction.

  "I won't leave him!" she cried.

  "Nanda, he shielded me with his body!" Rodgers shouted.

  "He begged me to save you!"

  The young woman still grappled with him as she attempted to go back.

  Rodgers did not have time to reason with her.

  He literally hoisted Nanda off her feet, turned her around, and pulled

  her forward. She fought to keep her feet beneath her, but at least those

  struggles kept her from fighting with him.

  Rodgers half-carried, half-dragged the woman as he ran forward. She

  managed to get her balance back and Rodgers took her hand. He continued

  to pull her ahead. She went with him, though Rodgers heard her sobbing

  under the drone of the oncoming chopper. That was fine, as long as she

  kept moving.

  The slope circled sharply toward the northeast. Samouel was still in the

  lead as they rushed to stay out of the helicopter's line of sight.

  But without the added drumming of the guns to dislodge fresh ice

  particles, the pilot would soon be able to see them. Rodgers was going

 
to have to do something about that.

  "Samouel, take Nanda's hand and keep going!" Rodgers said.

  "Yes, sir," Samouel said.

  The American held the woman's arm straight ahead as the Pakistani

  reached behind him. He found Nanda's hand and Rodgers released her.

  The two continued ahead. Rodgers stopped and Friday ran into him.

  "What are you doing?" Friday asked.

  "Give me the torches and the matches. Then go with them," Rodgers said

  as he took Apu's parka from under his arm.

  The NSA operative did as he was instructed. When Friday was gone,

  Rodgers took one of the torches, lit it, and jammed it into a small

  crack in the slope. Then he hung Apu's coat on a crag just behind it.

  Removing his gun from his equipment vest, Rodgers moved away from the

  ice wall. He got down on one knee, laid the torch across his boot to

  keep it dry, then pointed his automatic up at a sixty-degree angle.

  That would put his fire about sixty feet up the cliff. He could not see

  anything above twenty feet or so but he did not have to.

  Not yet.

  Within moments the helicopter crept around the curve in the glacier.

  The pilots stopped to kill their night-vision goggles.

  Otherwise, the fire would have blinded them. They switched on their

  exterior light, illuminating the side of the cliff. As soon as the

  chopper opened fire on what they thought was one of the terrorists,

  Rodgers also began to shoot. His target were bulges of ice nearest the

  top of the chopper. The nose gun ripped up the torch, dousing the flame.

  The roar also tore away more surface ice. At the same time Rodgers's

  barrage sent larger ice chips flying into the rotor. The blades sliced

  the ice into a runny sleet that rained down on the cockpit. The slush

  landed on the windshield and froze instantly.

  The chopper stopped firing.

  So did Rodgers.

  While the chopper still had its lights on, Rodgers briefly considered

  taking a shot at the cockpit. However, since Afghanistan and Chechnya,

  the Russians had equipped many of the newer Mikoyan assault choppers

  with bulletproof glass to protect them from snipers. Rodgers did not

  want the flashes from his muzzle to reveal his position.

  The general crouched in the open, waiting to see what the helicopter

  would do. He calculated that it had been in the air at least ninety

  minutes. The pilot had to allow for at least another ninety minutes of

  flying time to return to base. That would strain the Mi-35's fuel

  supply. It would also put extreme stress on the chopper's thermal

  tolerance, especially if the crew had to fight an ice storm each time

  they fired their nose gun. Even though the windshield would defrost in a

  minute or two, the ice would chill the external rotor casing.

  Rodgers watched as the chopper hovered. His heart was thumping

  double-time due to anticipation and cold. Except for being a hell of a

  lot warmer, Rodgers wondered if the young shepherd David felt the same

  after letting his small pebble fly against the Philistine champion

  Goliath. If successful, David's gamble could result in victory for his

  people.

  If it failed, the boy faced an ugly, obscure death in the dusty Vale of

  Elah.

  The chopper's exterior lights snapped off. The glacier was once again in

  darkness. All Rodgers could do now was wait and listen. It took exactly

  fifteen heartbeats for him to hear what he had been waiting for. With a

  sudden surge of power, the Mi-35 turned and swung back along the

  glacier. The beat of the rotor retreated quickly behind the wall of ice.

  Rodgers waited to make certain that the helicopter was really gone.

  After another minute or so the glacier was silent.

  Slipping his gun into his vest, he took the matches from his jacket

  pocket and lit the torch. He held it ahead of him. The flame cast a

  flickering orange teardrop across the ice. It dimly illuminated the ice

  wall. And with it, the fallen torch and the shredded parka.

  "Thank you, Apu, for saving me a second time," Rodgers said. Throwing

  off a small salute, he turned and followed the others to the northeast.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE.

  Washington, D. C. Thursday, 4:30 p. m.

  Paul Hood watched the clock turn on his computer.

  "Make the call. Bob," he said.

  Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were both in the office with Hood.

  The door was closed and Bugs Benet had been told not to interrupt the

  men unless the president or Senator Fox was calling. Herbert picked up

  the wheelchair phone to call Brett August. Coffey was seated beside

  Herbert in a leather armchair. The attorney would be present for the

  remainder of the mission. His job was to counsel Hood regarding

  international legal matters that might come up.

  Coffey had already strongly informed Hood that he was very unhappy with

  the idea on the table. That an American military officer was leading a

  team consisting of a Pakistani terrorist, an NSA agent, and what

  amounted to two Indian hostages. And he was taking them into what was

  apparently a Pakistani nuclear missile site that had been erected in

  disputed territory. The idea that this constituted an ad hoc United

  Nations security council team still wasn't working for him.

  Hood agreed that Ambassador Simathna's plan was not a great idea.

  Unfortunately, it was the only idea. Bob Herbert and Ron Plummer both

  backed Hood up on that.

  The TAC-SAT number Herbert had to input included not just the number of

  the unit but a code to access the satellite.

  This made it extremely difficult for someone to reach the TAC-SAT or use

  it if they found it. Hood waited while Herbert finished punching in the

  lengthy number.

  As Hood had expected, he had not heard from the president and the

  members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. Over

  ninety minutes ago. Hood had e-mailed them a summary of the Pakistani

  plan. According to executive assistants to both President Lawrence and

  Senator Fox, they were still "studying" Op-Center's proposal.

  After a short, angry debate with Coffey, Hood decided not to tell the

  president or Fox what kind of Pakistani military facility Rodgers was

  visiting. He did not want the CIA crawling all over sources in the

  region to try to find out what was out there. Coffey argued that with

  events moving beyond their direct control. Hood had a responsibility to

  give the president all the facts and hearsay at his disposal. And then

  it was up to the president, not Hood, to decide whether to call in the

  CIA. Hood disagreed. He had only Simathna's say-so that there was a

  nuclear site out there. Hood did not want to legitimize a possible

  Pakistani ploy by routing it through the White House and thus making it

  seem valid.

  Moreover, Hews of a possible nuclear silo might trigger an Indian strike

  while Rodgers was out there. That, too, could serve Pakistani purposes

  by forcing the United States into a confrontation with India.

  Even with the edited report he had presented. Hood did not expect to

  hear from the president or Fox before H-hour.

  If the
operation failed, they would say that Hood had been acting on his

  own. It would be Oliver North redux. If the Striker mission succeeded

  they would quickly jump onboard, like the Soviets declaring war on Japan

  in the waning hours of the Second World War.

  After all that Paul Hood had done to help President Lawrence, he would

  have liked more support. Then again, when Hood saved the administration

  from a coup attempt he was doing his job. Now the president was

  performing his own duties. He was stalling. President Lawrence was using

  the delay to create a buffer of plausible deniability. That would

  protect the United States from possible international backlash if the

  Kashmir situation exploded. The abandonment was not personal. It only

  felt that way.

  Hood did not have the luxury of time. He had told Mike Rodgers that he

  would hear from Brett August in two hours.

  Two hours had passed. It was time to place the call.

  Op-Center's director had rarely felt this isolated. There were usually

  other field personnel or international organizations backing them up,

  whether it was Interpol or the Russian Op-Center. Even when he was