tents for months, possibly years, working on the silo and the setting.
The Pakistani air force would have flown in parts and supplies, probably
solo excursions at night to lessen the chance of discovery. If they were
telling the truth, it was an impressive achievement.
Rodgers kicked the edge of the slab with his toe. It was heavy. They
were going to need help. The general turned.
He motioned for Samouel to bring Nanda and join them.
Just then, Rodgers noticed movement along the dimly lit wall behind
Samouel. Shadows were shifting on the ice near the northeast slope.
The movement was being caused by the torchlight. But the shadows were
not being cast by the mounds of ice. The shadows of the ice piled near
the walls were moving up and down. These shadows were creeping from side
to side.
Right beside the entrance to the enclosure.
"Friday," Rodgers said quietly but firmly, "kill the light and move away
from me fast."
The urgency in Mike Rodgers's voice must have impressed Ron Friday. The
NSA operative shoved the torch into a fissure headfirst and jumped to
his left, away from Rodgers.
"Samouel, get behind something!" Rodgers shouted.
The general's voice was still echoing through the enclosure as he ran
forward. Rodgers was afraid the phone would fall from his pocket so he
tucked it into his equipment vest.
A moment later he tripped on a small pit and banged his left shoulder on
a chunk of ice. Instead of getting up again he moved ahead on all fours,
crablike. It was the only way to negotiate the uneven terrain without
falling. He kept moving toward where he had last seen Samouel and Nanda.
He did not feel pain. The only thing that mattered was getting to Nanda.
And hoping that he was wrong about what he saw.
He was not.
A moment later the fire of automatic weapons sent deep pops and dull
sparks bouncing from the icy walls.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 5:00 p. m.
Hood's office was supernaturally silent when Herbert's phone beeped.
His heart had begun to race just moments before, as though he knew the
call was coming. Or maybe he was just getting more anxious as the
minutes crept by.
Even if nothing was happening, Herbert did not like being out of touch.
The intelligence chief jabbed the audio button. Wind screamed from the
tiny speaker. It seemed to draw Herbert into the Himalayas. Or maybe he
was feeling something else.
A sense of exposure. The sound was being sucked from Herbert's armrest
to the speakerphone on Hood's desk. The intelligence officer was
unaccustomed to working with an audience. He did not like it.
"Go ahead," Herbert shouted.
"Bob, I think something just happened at the missile site," Colonel
August informed him.
Herbert fired a glance at Hood's phone. Then he looked at Hood.
Herbert wanted his boss to mute the damn thing.
"Mike's ass is on the line," Herbert said through his teeth.
"The damage is already done," Hood said softly as he nodded toward the
speakerphone on his desk where the Pakistani ambassador was still on the
line. He raised his voice.
"Colonel, what's the situation?" Hood asked.
"I'm not certain, sir," August said.
"I heard gunfire and shouting. Then there was nothing. I hung on for a
few minutes before deciding to call. I thought I could use the downtime
to get the codes in case Mike came back on."
"Colonel, was there any indication who might be firing at who?" Herbert
asked.
"No," August replied.
"Before it started, all I heard was someone shouting for the others to
duck and take cover. I assume it was General Rodgers."
"Are you still secure?" Herbert asked.
"Nothing has changed here," August replied.
"All right," Herbert said.
"Hold on."
Hood turned to the speakerphone.
"Mr. Ambassador, did you hear the colonel's report?"
"Every word," Ambassador Simathna replied.
"It does not sound like a happy situation."
"We don't know enough to say what the situation is exactly," Hood
pointed out.
"I do agree with Colonel August about having the codes ready to give to
Mike Rodgers. Perhaps if he can get inside the silo--"
"I cannot agree," Simathna interrupted.
"Why is that, sir?" Hood asked.
"Almost certainly those are Indian troops attacking the general's
group," Simathna said.
"How do we know they aren't Pakistani troops protecting the site?"
Herbert asked.
"Because the mountain troops that monitor the glacier have remained on
our side of the line of control," Simathna informed him.
"They were told of your incursion."
"Our' incursion," Herbert said. He did not even attempt to conceal his
disgust.
"There's a Pakistani on the team."
"He is under the command of an American military officer," Simathna
reminded him.
"How do we know your mountain troops obeyed their instructions?"
Herbert pressed.
"I am telling you they have," Simathna replied.
Hood scowled and dragged the back of his thumb across his throat. He was
telling Herbert to kill the discussion he had opened. Herbert would
rather kill the ambassador. They were trying to save this man's country
from vaporization and he would not do a thing to help Mike Rodgers.
"Mr. Ambassador," Hood said, "we have to assume that General Rodgers and
his people will prevail. When they do they'll need to get into the silo
as quickly as possible. It would be prudent to give Colonel August the
codes."
"Again, I cannot allow that," Simathna replied.
"It is unfortunate enough that our enemies may learn of this strategic
site. But at least the safeguards are still in place."
"What safeguards?" Hood asked.
"Removing the ice block on top of the silo will trigger a timed
explosive within the hatch," the ambassador told him.
"Unless the proper code is entered within sixty minutes the bomb will
detonate. It will trigger a series of conventional explosions that will
destroy the surface area."
"Killing the enemy but leaving the silo intact," Herbert said.
"That is correct," the ambassador told him.
"Mr. Ambassador, we are still facing a nuclear attack on Pakistan," Hood
pressed.
"We understand that, which is why we must protect our silos from
discovery," Simathna told him.
That remark got Herbert's attention. It got Hood's attention, too,
judging from his expression. The ambassador had just revealed that there
were other silos, probably in other remote areas. That was not an
accident. He had wanted Op Center to know that, and to know it now.
Herbert knew it would be pointless to ask how many silos there were or
where they were located. The question was whether revealing that
information to New Delhi would trigger an immediate nuclear strike
against the region or whether it would force India to stand down.
Probably the latter. If Indi
an intelligence did not already know about
the silos they would not know where to strike. Perhaps that was why
Simathna had mentioned it. The information would sound more authentic if
it were leaked to New Delhi from a branch of U. S. intelligence.
Of course, as with everything else Simathna told them, Herbert had no
way of knowing if this were true. For all they knew, there was only the
one silo. And there was no way of knowing if there were even a missile
inside. Perhaps it was still in the process of being built.
"Ambassador Simathna, I'm going to ask Colonel August to free up his
telephone line now," Hood said.
"He'll let us know as soon as he hears from General Rodgers."
Hood looked at Herbert. Herbert nodded and told August to sign off until
he had reestablished communication with Rodgers. Then Herbert punched
off the telephone and sat back.
"Thank you," Simathna said.
"Please try to understand our position."
"I do," Hood insisted.
So did Herbert. He understood that Rodgers and August were risking their
lives for people who weren't going to do anything to help. He had been
in this business long enough to know that covert operatives were
considered expendable.
They were at the front line of disposable assets.
Except when you knew them.
When they had names and faces and lives that touched yours every day.
Like Rodgers and August.
Like Striker.
The room was silent again, and still.
Except for the desperate racing of Herbert's heart.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:35 a. m.
White and red flares exploded in the skies above the clearing.
Rodgers could now see the soldiers who were firing at them. They were a
handful of Indian regulars, probably out from the line of control.
The four or five men took up positions behind ice formations near the
entrance.
Rodgers immediately dropped to his belly and began wriggling through the
broken terrain. Friday was behind the slab at the entrance to the
missile silo. He was firing at the Indians to keep them down. Rodgers
watched the entrance for signs of additional troops. There were none.
The flares also enabled Rodgers to see Samouel and Nanda. The two were
about thirty feet away. They were lying on their sides behind a thick
chunk of ice. The barricade was roughly three feet tall and fifteen feet
wide. The Pakistani was stretched out behind the woman. He was pushing
her face-first against the ice, his arm around her, protecting her on
all sides. Rodgers did not have the time to contemplate it, but the
irony of a Pakistani terrorist protecting an Indian civilian operative
did not escape him.
Bullets pinged furiously from the top of the formation. The onslaught
showered the two with ice. As the barrier was whittled down Samouel
looked around. Mike Rodgers was behind and slightly to the right of the
two. The Pakistani did not appear to notice him.
"Samouel!" Rodgers yelled.
The Pakistani looked over. Rodgers sidled to his right, behind a
boulder-shaped formation. He wanted Nanda as close as possible, in case
they managed to get inside the silo.
"Come back here!" Rodgers shouted.
"I'll cover you!"
Samouel nodded. The Pakistani pulled Nanda away from the ice and bundled
her in his arms. Crouching as low as possible, Samouel ran toward
Rodgers. The general rose and fired several rounds at the Indians. But
as the light of the flares began to fade, and the last streaming embers
fell to earth, the soldiers stopped shooting.
Obviously, they wanted to conserve both their flares and their
ammunition. Though Rodgers kept his automatic trained on the entrance
there was no further exchange of gunfire. The ice walls kept even the
wind outside. An eerie stillness settled on the enclosure.
There was only the crunch of Samouel's boots on the ice and a deep, deep
freeze that caused the exposed flesh around Rodgers's eyes to burn.
Samouel and Nanda reached the ice boulder. The Pakistani slid to his
knees beside Rodgers. He was breathing heavily as he sat Nanda with her
back to the ice. The young woman was no longer in the near-catatonic
state she had been in earlier. Her eyes were red and tearing, though
Rodgers did not know whether it was from sadness or the cold. Still,
they were moving from side to side and she seemed to be registering some
awareness of her surroundings.
Samouel moved toward Rodgers.
"General, I saw something when the flares went off," Samouel panted.
"What did you see?" Rodgers asked.
"It was directly behind the place where you and Mr. Friday were," the
Pakistani said.
"On one of the lower ledges of the slopes, about nine or ten feet up.
It looked like a satellite dish."
An uplink, Rodgers thought. Of course.
"Maybe that has something to do with why we were sent to this place,"
Samouel continued.
"I'm pretty sure it does," Rodgers said.
"Was the dish out in the open?"
"Not really," Samouel said.
"It was set back, in a little cave. About five or six feet it seemed."
The Pakistani shook his head. He sighed.
"I can't say for sure that it was a dish.
There was white lattice, but it could have been icicles and a trick of
the light."
"Would the site have been visible from the air?" Rodgers asked.
"Not from directly overhead," Samouel told him.
Rodgers glanced back. It was too dark to see the ice wall now. But what
Samouel just said made sense. If there were a video setup somewhere
inside the Pakistani missile silo, then there had to be an uplink
somewhere on the outside. The dish or antenna did not have to be on the
top of a peak.
All the dish needed was an unobstructed view of one area in the sky. A
single spot where a communications satellite, possibly Russian or
Chinese built-and-launched, was in geosynchronous orbit. The cables
connecting the relay to the silo would probably be relatively deep
inside the ice wall. Whoever designed an uplink for this area would not
want the wiring too close to the surface. Melting ice might expose the
cables to wind, sleet, or other corrosive forces, not to mention leaving
it visible to passing recon aircraft.
"Tell me something, Samouel," Rodgers said.
"You wired some of the bombs and remote detonators for Sharab, didn't
you?" "Yes," Samouel said softly.
"Do you have experience with radios?" Rodgers asked.
"I have worked with all kinds of electronics," the Pakistani told him.
"I did repair work for the Islamabad militia and--"
"On handsets too?"
Rodgers interrupted.
"Walkie-talkies?" Samouel asked.
"Not just walkie-talkies," Rodgers said. He stopped for a moment to
gather his thoughts. His questions and plans were racing ahead of the
answers.
"What I mean is this. If there is a satellite dish on the ledge would
you be able to hook a cell phone to it?"
"I see," Samoue
l replied.
"Is it a government cell phone with safeguards of any kind?" "I don't
think so," Rodgers said.
"Then I can probably rig something as long as you can expose the
satellite cable," Samouel told him.
"What kind of tools would you need?" Rodgers asked.
"Not more than my pocket knife, I would imagine," Samouel said.
"Very good," Rodgers said.
"Now tell me more about the ledge. Was there any way to get to the dish?
Ledges, projections, handholds."
"I don't think so," Samouel told him.
"It looked like a straight climb up a smooth wall."
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 40