"These devotionals will save more souls than the Brahmans ever
imagined," she said.
Obviously, Nanda was experiencing some of the same spiritual and
atavistic feelings Rodgers was. Or maybe they were both just exhausted.
As the papers burned, the general withdrew the radio from the belt loop
and laid it on the coat. He bent low over it.
The radio was made of one vacuum-formed casing. Rodgers knew he would
not be able to break that without risk of damaging the components he
needed. Instead, he stuck the knife into the area around the recessed
mouthpiece. Rodgers carefully pried that loose. The wire behind it, and
the chip to which it was attached, were what he needed to access.
Still listening for activity from across the clearing, Rodgers used the
knife to fish out the chip that was attached to the mouthpiece. He could
not afford to sever the chip from the unit. If he did that, the chip
itself would have no power source. That power came from the battery in
the radio, not from the battery behind the satellite dish.
He had to make sure he cut the right one to splice. He pulled the
mouthpiece out as far as it could go and tilted the opening toward the
light. Twenty years ago, this would have been a hopeless task. Radios
then were crammed with transistors and wires that were impossible to
read. The inside of this radio was relatively clean and open, just a few
chips and wires.
Rodgers saw the battery and the wire that hooked the microchip and
mouthpiece to it. The other wire, the one that led to the radio antenna,
was the one he needed to cut.
Carefully placing the radio back on the coat, Rodgers used the knife to
slice that wire as close to the radio antenna as possible. That would
give him about two inches of wire to work with.
Crouching and using the tip of his boot as a cutting surface, Rodgers
scored and stripped that remaining piece of wire. Then he picked up the
scored cable from the satellite dish. He used his fingernails to chip
the plastic casing away.
When a half inch of wire was exposed, he twisted the two pieces of
copper together and turned the unit on. Then he backed away from the
radio and gently urged Nanda toward it.
It was the unlikeliest, most Frankenstein monster-looking, jury-rigged
device that Mike Rodgers had seen in all his years of service. But that
did not matter. Only one thing did.
That it worked.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 6:21 p. m.
It was something Ron Plummer had never experienced. A moment of profound
euphoria followed by a moment so sickening that the drop was physically
disorienting.
When the call came from Islamabad, Ambassador Simathna listened for a
moment then smiled broadly. Plummer did not have to wait for the call to
be put on speakerphone to know what it was.
Mike Rodgers had succeeded. Somehow, the general had gotten the message
to the Pakistani base that monitored the silo. They had forwarded the
message to the Pakistani Ministry of Defense. From there, the tape was
given to CNN and sent out to the world.
"My name is Nanda Kumar," said the high, scratchy voice on the
recording.
"I am an Indian citizen of Kashmir and a civilian network operative.
For several months I have worked with India's Special Frontier Force to
undermine a group of Pakistani terrorists. The Special Frontier Force
told me that my actions would result in the arrest of the terrorists.
Instead, the intelligence I provided allowed the Special Frontier Force
to frame the Pakistanis. The terrorists have been responsible for many
terrible acts. But they were not responsible for Wednesday's bomb attack
on the pilgrim bus and Hindu temple in the Srinagar market. That was the
work of the Special Frontier Force."
Ambassador Simathna was still beaming as he shut the phone off and
leaned toward a second speakerphone. This was the open line to Paul
Hood's office at Op-Center.
"Director Hood, did you hear that?" the ambassador asked.
"I did," Hood replied.
"It's also running on CNN now." "That is very gratifying," Simathna
said.
"I congratulate you and your General Rodgers. I do not know how he got
the woman's message through but it is quite impressive."
"General Rodgers is a very impressive man," Hood agreed.
"We'd like to know how he got the message through ourselves. Bob Herbert
tells me that Colonel August is unable to raise him. The cell phone must
have died."
"As long as it is just the cell phone," Simathna joked.
"Of course, the Indians will certainly claim that Ms. Kumar was
brainwashed by the Pakistanis. But General Rodgers will help to dispel
that propaganda."
"General Rodgers will tell the truth, whatever that turns out to be,"
Hood said diplomatically.
As Hood was speaking the other phone beeped. Simathna excused himself
and answered it.
The ambassador's smile trembled a moment before collapsing.
His thin face lost most of its color. Ron Plummer did not dare imagine
what the ambassador had just been told.
Thoughts of a Pakistani nuclear strike flashed through his desperate
mind.
Simathna said nothing. He just listened. After several seconds he hung
up the phone and regarded Plummer. The sadness in his eyes was profound.
"Mr. Hood, I'm afraid I have bad news for you," the ambassador said.
"What kind of bad news?" Hood asked.
"Apparently, the slab on top of the silo was removed or significantly
damaged during General Rodgers's actions."
Simathna said.
"Don't say it," Hood warned.
"Don't you frigging say it."
Simathna did not have to. They all knew what that meant.
The defensive explosives around the silo had been automatically
activated. Without someone inside the silo to countermand them, they
would detonate in just a few minutes.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 6:24 p. m.
Paul Hood could not believe that Mike Rodgers had gone this far, worked
whatever miracle he had conceived, only to be blown up for something
that could be prevented. But to prevent it they would have to reach him.
Though Hood, Herbert, and Coffey sat in silence, frustration under the
surface was intense. Despite the technology at their disposal, the men
were as helpless as if they were living in the Stone Age.
Hood was slumped in his leather seat. He was looking down, humbled by
this uncharacteristic sense of helplessness.
In the past there had always been another play in the book.
Someone they could call for assistance, time to move resources into
position, at the very least a means of communication.
Not now. And he suspected that Mike or Nanda or the others had used up
their guardian spirit quota stopping a nuclear war. Hood did not think
it would help to pray for their salvation now. Maybe their lives and the
lives of the Strikers were the price they had to pay. Still, Hood did
ask quietly that w
hatever Christian, Hindu, or Muslim entities had
gotten them this far would see them a little further. Paul Hood was not
ready to lose Mike Rodgers. Not yet.
"Maybe Mike and the girl did their business and left the area," Coffey
suggested.
"it's possible," Herbert said.
"Knowing Mike, though, he would continue to broadcast for a while. They
may have no way of knowing that their message got through."
Coffey scowled.
"Even if they did leave, I'm not sure they would have gone far enough,"
Herbert went on.
"What do you mean?" Coffey asked.
"It's dark, dead-of-night where they are," Herbert said.
"My guess is that after all they've been through, Mike would have wanted
to find a place to bunk down until well after sunrise. Let the area warm
a little. If anyone was wounded, in whatever went on out there, Mike
might have wanted to take time to perform first aid. The bug in the
juice is we don't know exactly how much time is left before the blast.
Obviously, Mike accessed the silo somehow to make the transmission. The
explosives were armed when he moved the slab. That means we're well into
the countdown."
"I can't believe those bastards in Pakistan can't shut the process
down," Coffey said.
"I do," Herbert replied.
"And I'll tell you what's happening right now. I've been thinking about
this. I'll bet they put together a network of underground silos out
there, all linked by tunnel. Right now the missile is automatically
shifting to another site."
"You mean like an underground Scud," Coffey said.
"Exactly like that," Herbert replied.
"As soon as it's out of range the silo and whoever found it go kablooey.
No evidence of a missile is found among the residue. They can claim it
was some kind of shelter for scientists studying the glacier, or
soldiers patrolling the region, or whatever they like."
"None of which helps us get Mike out of there," Coffey said gravely.
The phone beeped as Herbert was talking. Hood picked it up. It was
Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office.
"Paul, if Mike is still out in the Chittisin Plateau, we've got
something on the wide-range camera he should know about," Viens said.
Hood punched on the speakerphone and sat up.
"Talk to me, Stephen," he said.
"A couple of minutes ago we saw a blip moving back into the area," Viens
said.
"We believe it's an Indian Mi-35, possibly the same one they tangled
with before. Refueled and back for another round."
While Viens had been speaking, Hood and Herbert swapped quick, hopeful
looks. The men did not have to say anything. There was suddenly an
option. The question was whether there was time to use it.
"Stephen, stay on the line," Hood said.
"And thank you.
Thank you very much."
Moving with barely controlled urgency, Herbert scooped up his wheelchair
phone and speed-dialed his Indian military liaison.
Hood also did something. Inside, in private.
He speed-dialed a silent word of thanks to whoever was looking after
Mike.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:00 a. m.
Rodgers was crouched behind the slab, his gun drawn as he looked across
the clearing. He had allowed the fire to die while Nanda continued to
make her broadcast. Although the Indians had not moved on them, he did
not want to give them a target if they changed their minds. He could
think of several reasons they might.
If Nanda's message had gotten through, the soldiers certainly would have
let Rodgers know by now. The Indians would not want to risk being shot
any more than he did.
Their silence seemed to indicate that either the Indians were waiting
for Rodgers to slip up or for reinforcements to arrive.
Possibly they were waiting for dawn to attack. They had the longer-range
weapons. All they needed was light to climb the slopes and spot the
targets. It could also be that the Indians were already moving on them,
slowly and cautiously.
Ron Friday may have gone over to rat out their position in exchange for
sanctuary. That would not surprise Rodgers at all. The man had given
himself away when he registered no surprise about why Fenwick had
resigned. Only Hood, the president, the vice president, the First Lady,
and Fenwick's assistant had known he was a traitor.
But Friday knew. Friday knew because he may have been the son of a
bitch's point man in Baku, Azerbaijan. For all Rodgers knew, Friday may
have had a hand in the attacks on the CIA operatives who had been
stationed there. One way or another, Ron Friday would answer for that.
Either he'd hunt him down here or end their broadcast with a message for
Hood.
With the fire gone, however, Mike Rodgers had another concern. He had
sacrificed his gloves and jacket for the cause. His hands were numb and
his chest and arms were freezing. If he did not do something about that
soon he would perish from hypothermia.
He took a moment to make sure that Nanda was protected from gunfire by
what remained of the slab. Then he crept back to where he had left
Samouel behind the ice barricade.
The Pakistani was dead.
That did not surprise Rodgers. What did surprise him was the sadness he
felt upon finding the lifeless body.
There was something about Samouel that did not fit the template of an
objective-blinded terrorist. In the Pakistani's final moments, while he
should have been praying for Allah to accept his soul, Samouel was
telling Rodgers how to splice the dish to his radio. Along with
Samouel's dogged trek alongside two historic enemies, that had touched
Rodgers.
Now, in death, Samouel was even responsible for saving Rodgers's life.
The general felt grateful as he removed the dead man's coat and gloves.
Stripping the bodies of enemies had always been a part of warfare. But
soldiers did not typically take even things they needed from fallen
allies. Somehow, though, this felt like a gift rather than looting.
Rodgers knelt beside the body as he dressed. As the general finished,
his knees began to tickle. At first he thought it was a result of the
cold. Then he realized that the ground was vibrating slightly. A moment
later he heard a low, low roar.
It felt and sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche.
He wondered if the explosions had weakened the slopes and they were
coming down on them. If that were the case the safest place would not be
at the foot of the slopes.
Rising, Rodgers ran back toward Nanda. As he did, he felt a rumbling in
his gut. He had felt it before. He recognized it.
It was not an avalanche. It was worse. It was the reason the Indians had
been waiting to attack.
A moment later the tops of the surrounding ice peaks were silhouetted by
light rising from the north. The rumbling and roar were now distinctive
beats as the Indian helicopter neared. He should have expected this. The
soldiers had radioed their position to the Mi-
35 that had tried to kill
them earlier.
Rodgers slid to Nanda's side and knelt facing her. He felt for her
cheeks in the dark and held them in his hands. He used them to guide his
mouth close to her ear, so she could hear over the roar.
"I want you to try and get to the entrance while I keep the helicopter
busy," Rodgers said.
"It's not going to be easy getting past the soldiers but it may be your
only hope."
"How do we know they'll kill us?" she asked.
"We don't," Rodgers admitted.
"But let's find out by trying to escape instead of by surrendering."
"I like that." Nanda replied.
Rodgers could hear the smile in her voice.
"Start making your way around the wall behind me." he said.
"With luck, the chopper will cause an avalanche on their side."
"I hope not." she replied.
"They're my people."
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 43