Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  "I see," Rodgers said.

  The genera) had become slightly disoriented in the dash to save Nanda.

  He needed to get his bearings again. He turned himself completely around

  so he was facing what he believed was the back of the enclosure.

  He crouched on the balls of his feet.

  "Friday, are you still at the slab?" Rodgers yelled.

  Friday was silent.

  "Say something!" Rodgers screamed.

  "I'm here!" Friday said.

  Rodgers pinpointed Friday's voice. He kept his eyes on the dark spot.

  At the same time, he reached into his vest and removed the cell phone.

  He gave the unit to Samouel.

  "If Colonel August calls, tell him to keep the line open," Rodgers told

  Samouel.

  "What are you going to do?" the Pakistani asked.

  "Try and get to that dish," Rodgers replied.

  "How are you set for ammunition?" "I have a few rounds and one extra

  clip," Samouel told him.

  "Use them sparingly," Rodgers said.

  "I may need the cover when I start up the slope."

  "I will be very careful," Samouel promised.

  Mike Rodgers flexed his cold, gloved fingers then put his hands on the

  ground. He was anxious. A lot was riding on what he knew to be a long

  shot. He was also concerned about Ron Friday, about something the NSA

  operative had said earlier. Even if they got through this impasse

  Rodgers wondered if a deadlier one lay ahead. But that was not something

  he could afford to worry about now. One battle at a time.

  After pausing to take a long, calming breath, the general once again

  began moving crablike across the rugged terrain.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE.

  The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:42 a. m.

  Ron Friday listened as someone approached. He assumed it was either

  Rodgers or Samouel.

  Probably Rodgers, the NSA operative decided. The go-get' em warrior.

  The general would have a plan to salvage this mission. Which was fine

  with Friday. No one wanted a nuclear war. But barring such a plan,

  Friday also cared about getting the hell off this glacier and into

  Pakistan. And then from Pakistan to somewhere else. Anywhere that was

  upwind from the fallout that would blanket the Indian subcontinent.

  Friday wanted out of here not because he was afraid to die. What scared

  him was dying stupidly. Not for a trophy or a jewel but because of a

  screw up. And right now they were in the middle of a massive screw up. A

  side trip that should never have happened. All because they had trusted

  the bureaucrats in Washington and Islamabad.

  Friday waited behind the slab. The Indians must have heard the movement

  too because fresh gunfire pinged around the perimeter. There was not a

  lot of it. They were obviously conserving ammunition. They fired just

  enough to keep the person low and on the move.

  Friday peered out at the blackness. His own weapon was drawn. His

  nostrils and lungs hurt from the knife-edged cold.

  His toes and fingertips were numb, despite the heavy boots and gloves.

  If he were shot, he wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze.

  But most of all Friday was angry. It would not take much for him to

  point the gun at Rodgers and pull the trigger. The NSA operative was

  trying to figure out if anything could be gained by surrendering to the

  Indians. Assuming the Indians would not shoot the group out of hand,

  they might appreciate the American bringing them one of the terrorists

  who had attacked the marketplace- Surrender might well trigger the

  feared Indian nuclear strike against Pakistan. It might also save him

  from dying here.

  The figure arrived. It was Rodgers. He crawled behind the slab and knelt

  beside Friday.

  "What's going on?" Friday asked.

  "There might be a way to get Nanda's confession on the air without

  entering the silo," Rodgers said.

  "A silo. Is that what this place is?" Friday asked.

  Rodgers ignored the question.

  "Samouel thinks he saw a satellite dish about ten feet up the slope,"

  Rodgers continued.

  "That would make sense," Friday replied.

  "Explain," Rodgers said.

  "When the flares came on I got a good look at the wall over the

  entrance," Friday said.

  "From about ten feet up on this side they'd have a clear shot across the

  opposite slope."

  "That's what I was hoping," Rodgers said.

  "If there is a dish there, and we can get to the satellite cable,

  Samouel might be able to splice a connection to the cell phone."

  The men heard movement from the other side of the clearing.

  Friday did not think the Indians would move against them. They would

  wait for the helicopter to return. But they might try to position

  themselves to set up a cross fire. If the Indians got Nanda the game was

  over. So were their own lives.

  "We're going to have to get a good look at the dish before we do

  anything," Friday said.

  "Why?" Rodgers asked.

  "We need to see where the power source is," Friday said.

  "This is a good spot for a battery-driven dish. Oil companies use them

  in icy areas. The power source doubles as a heater to keep the gears

  from freezing. If that's the case, we don't have to go up to the ledge.

  We can expose the line anywhere and know it's the communications cable."

  "But if the power source is inside the silo we have to get to the dish

  and figure out which cable it is," Rodgers said.

  "Bingo," said Friday.

  "I'll tell you what," Rodgers said.

  "You stay down and keep your eyes on the ledge."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Rodgers replied, "Get you some light."

  CHAPTER SIXTY.

  The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:51 a. m.

  Mike Rodgers moved to the far end of the clearing. He stopped when he

  reached the slope. Crouching and moving as quietly as possible he made

  his way along the wall. He wanted to be far enough from the slab so that

  Friday was protected. He did not need to be protected from what Rodgers

  was planning but from how the Indians might respond.

  Rodgers hoped that Friday got a good look at the dish.

  Chances were good that Rodgers himself would not be seeing much. He

  would be busy looking for a place to hide.

  The general stopped about twenty yards from Friday. That was a safe

  distance. He opened his jacket and removed one of the two flash-bang

  grenades he carried. The weapon was about the size and configuration of

  a can of shaving cream.

  He removed his gloves and held them in his teeth. Then he put his right

  hand across the safety spoon and slipped his left index ringer through

  the pull-ring. He placed the canister on the ground and squatted beside

  it. Rodgers moved his right foot along the ground to make sure where the

  ice cliff was. He would need that to guide him.

  Then he pulled the ring, released the spoon, and rose. He turned and put

  his bare left hand against the slope. He felt his way around the thick

  bulges and barren stretches. He wanted to move quickly. But if he fell

  over something he might be exposed when the grenade went off.

  Rodgers co
unted as he moved. When the general reached ten, the nonlethal

  grenade went off.

  The nonlethal flash-bang grenade was designed to roll in a confined

  area, distracting and disorienting the occupants with a series of

  magnesium-bright explosions and deafening bangs. In this case, Rodgers

  was hoping the grenade would brighten the perimeter just enough for two

  things. For Friday to see the dish and Rodgers to find a place to duck.

  There was a series of round-topped ice formations three feet ahead.

  They were about waist high and as thick as a highway pylon. They had

  probably once been much taller but looked as if they melted and refroze

  daily, gaining in girth what they lost in height. Rodgers did not run

  for them.

  He dove.

  Rodgers hit the ground hard. He lost his breath, his gloves fell from

  his teeth, and he did not quite reach the barricade.

  But he got close enough so that he was able to scramble across the ice

  in a heartbeat. Fortunately, the heartbeat was still a measure of time

  he could use as bullets from Indian rifles chewed up the ice where he

  had been standing. As soon as he was down and safe he looked over at Ron

  Friday.

  Crouched behind the slab, the operative gave him a thumbsup.

  Rodgers glanced at the ledge. There was a large black casing behind the

  base of the dish. Rodgers was glad Friday knew what it was. He himself

  would have had to go up and pry the cover off to try to read the cables.

  As the light of the grenade died Rodgers looked over at Sarnouel and

  Nanda. The Pakistani was still lying down. But he had turned to look

  back at the other men. Rodgers needed to get him over with Nanda and the

  cell phone. This was probably the best time to do it.

  Rodgers took out his weapon and indicated to Friday to do the same.

  Then he moved to the far side of the ice barricade.

  That gave him the clearest line of sight to Samouel.

  He held up three fingers. The Pakistani understood. He was to move out

  on a count of three. Rodgers gave the man a moment to prepare.

  Samouel moved Nanda away from the boulder where they were lying. The

  Pakistani helped her to her knees and then to a crouching position. She

  seemed to be cooperating, aware of what she must do. Samouel looked

  toward Rodgers. The general quickly extended his fingers one at a time.

  At three, Samouel got up and pulled Nanda with him. She was in front,

  the Pakistani shielding her with his body. As the two ran forward,

  Rodgers and Friday immediately stood and began firing toward the

  Indians. The infantrymen were out of range but obviously did not know

  that. They ducked down immediately, giving Samouel time to cover most of

  the distance to the silo entrance.

  As darkness enveloped the clearing a few more shots were fired from the

  Indian side.

  "Don't return fire!" Rodgers shouted to Friday.

  The general was afraid of hitting Samouel and Nanda in the dark.

  The men listened to the crunch of the approaching boots.

  The gait was near but uneven. That was due, possibly, to the icy,

  unknown terrain. The sound skewed toward Rodgers's right, away from the

  silo. He crept to that side of his position and waited.

  A few seconds later someone dropped beside Rodgers. The general reached

  out to pull whoever it was to safety. It was Nanda. Still on his knees,

  Rodgers wrapped his arms around her. He literally hauled her in and

  around him. Then Rodgers turned back to his right. He heard grunting a

  few feet away.

  The general crept over. He found Samouel near the front of the

  barricade. The Pakistani was on his belly. Rodgers grabbed the man under

  his arms. His bare right hand felt a thick dampness. The general pulled

  Samouel back behind the stumps of ice.

  "Samouel, can you hear me?" Rodgers said.

  "Yes," the Pakistani replied.

  Rodgers felt around the man's left side. The dampness was spreading.

  It was definitely blood.

  "Samouel, you're wounded," Rodgers said.

  "I know," Samouel said, "General, I've 'screwed up."

  " "No," Rodgers said.

  "You did fine. We'll fix this--"

  "I don't mean that," Samouel said.

  "I ... lost the telephone."

  The words hit Rodgers like a bullet.

  Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the left. The short burst had come from

  Ron Friday.

  "Our buddies are on the move again!" Friday said.

  "Get down!" the general shouted.

  Rodgers had no time for them. He reached into his vest and removed one

  of the two cylindrical "eight ball" grenades he carried. Those were the

  ones no one wanted to find themselves behind, the shrapnel-producing

  grenades. Without hesitation the general yanked the pin, let the no-snag

  cap pop off, and stiff-armed the explosive across the clearing. He did

  not want to kill the Indians but he could not afford to waste time. Not

  with Samouel injured.

  Rodgers ducked and pulled Nanda down. Several seconds later the eight

  ball exploded, echoing off the walls and shaking the ground. Even before

  the reverberations stopped, Rodgers had pulled the nine-inch knife from

  his equipment vest.

  He had immediately begun prioritizing. Stop the Indians.

  Stop Samouel's bleeding. Then he would worry about the phone.

  "Don't bother with me," Samouel said.

  "I'm all right."

  "You're hit," Rodgers said.

  The general cut into the man's coat. He put his right hand through the

  opening. He felt for a wound.

  Rodgers found it. A bullet hole just below the left shoulder blade. He

  reached out to the right and felt for his gloves. He found them, cut out

  the soft interior linings, and placed them on the wound. He pressed down

  hard. He could not think of anything else to do.

  The clearing was silent as the reverberation of the grenade subsided.

  There were no moans from the other side, no shouting. There was just

  deadly silence as time and options slipped away. Without the cell phone

  they could not communicate with August or hook up to the dish.

  Finding the unit in the dark would be time consuming, if it was even

  possible. Going out with a torch was suicide. And if they lost Samouel,

  none of it even mattered.

  It had been a good plan. Ironically, they would have been better off

  following the instincts of a man who might well be a traitor.

  Mike Rodgers crouched there, his arms held low. He continued to press on

  the makeshift bandage, hoping the blood on the underside would freeze.

  When that happened he would have to try to recover the phone, even if it

  cost him his life.

  As Rodgers waited, his right elbow knocked into something in his belt.

  He realized at once what it was.

  Possible salvation.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE.

  Siachin Base 3, Kashmir Friday, 3:22 a. m.

  The Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter set down on its small, dark pad. The square

  landing area was composed of a layer of asphalt covered with cotton and

  then another layer of asphalt.

  The fabric helped keep the ice from the lower layer from reaching the

  upper layer.
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  No sooner had the pilot cut the twin rotors than he received a message

  over his headset.

  "Captain, we just received a message from Major Puri," the base

  communications director informed him.

  "You're to refuel, deice, and go back out."

  The captain exchanged a disgruntled look with the copilot.

  The cockpit was poorly heated and they were both tired from the

  difficult flight. They did not feel like undertaking a new mission.

  As the pilot looked over, he glanced past his companion.

  Through the starboard window of the cockpit he could already see ground

  crews approaching. There were two trucks crossing the landing area.

  One was a fuel tank, the other a truck loaded with high-volume hoses and