Touche. Rodgers thought.
"But thank you," she added.
"Thank you for making this fight your fight. Good luck." The general
patted her cheek and she left. He continued to watch as the chopper
descended. Suddenly, the Russian bird stopped moving. It hovered above
the center of the clearing, equidistant to Rodgers and the Indians.
Maybe twenty seconds passed and then the chopper suddenly swept upward
and to the south. It disappeared behind one of the peaks near the
entrance. The glow of its lights poured through the narrow cavern.
Rodgers peeked over the slab. The chopper had landed.
Maybe they were worried about causing an avalanche and had decided to
deploy ground troops. That would make getting through the entrance
virtually impossible. He immediately got up and ran after Nanda. He
would have to pull her back, think of another strategy. Maybe negotiate
something with these people to get her out. As she had said.
they were her people.
But as Rodgers ran he saw something that surprised him.
Up ahead. Three of the Indian soldiers were rushing from the clearing.
They were not going to attack. They were being evacuated.
What happened next surprised him even more.
"General Rodgers!" someone shouted.
Rodgers looked to the west of the entrance. Someone was standing there,
half-hidden by an ice formation.
All right, Rodgers thought. He'd bite.
"Yes?" the general shouted back.
"Your message got through!" said the Indian.
"We must leave this place at once!"
Everything from Rodgers's legs to his spirit to his brain felt as though
they had been given a shot of adrenaline. He kept running, leaping
cracks and dodging mounds of ice.
Either Ron Friday had gotten to him with a hell of a sell job or the man
was telling the truth. Whichever it was, Rodgers was going with it.
There did not seem to be another option.
Looking ahead, Rodgers watched as Nanda reached the entrance. She
continued on toward the light. Rodgers arrived several moments later.
The Indian soldier, a sergeant, got there at the same time he did. His
rifle was slung over his back. There were no weapons in his gloved
hands.
"We must hurry," the Indian said as they ran into the entrance.
"This area is a Pakistani time bomb. An arsenal of some kind. You
triggered the defenses somehow."
Possibly by tinkering with the uplink, Rodgers thought. Or more likely,
the Pakistani military wanted to destroy them all to keep the secret of
their nuclear missile silo.
"I can't believe there were just two of you," the sergeant said as they
raced through the narrow tunnel.
"We thought there were more."
"There were," Rodgers said. He looked at the chopper ahead. He watched
as soldiers helped Nanda inside and he realized Friday had deserted
them.
"They're dead now."
The men left the entrance and ran the last twenty-five yards to the
chopper. Rodgers and the sergeant jumped into the open door of the
Mi-35. The aircraft rose quickly, simultaneously angling from the hot
Pakistani base.
As the helicopter door was slid shut behind him, Rodgers staggered
toward the side of the crowded cargo compartment.
There were no seats, just the outlines of cold, tired bodies.
The general felt the adrenaline kick leave as his legs gave out and he
dropped to the floor. He was not surprised to find Nanda already there,
slumped against an ammunition crate.
Rodgers slid toward her as the helicopter leveled out and sped to the
north. He took her hand and snuggled beside her, the two of them
propping each other up. The Indians sat around them, lighting cigarettes
and blowing warmth on their hands.
The cabin temperature inside the helicopter was little higher than
freezing, but the relative warmth felt blissful.
Rodgers's skin crackled warmly. His eyelids shut. He could not help it.
His mind started to shut down as well.
Before it did, the American felt a flash of satisfaction that Samouel
had died on something that was nominally his homeland. Silo, arsenal,
whatever Islamabad called it, at least it was built by Pakistanis.
As for Friday, Rodgers was also glad. Glad that the man was about to die
on the opposite side of the world from the country he had betrayed.
Joy for a terrorist. Hate for an American.
Rodgers was happy to leave those thoughts for another time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:07 a. m.
Ron Friday had been confused, at first, when he saw the chopper leave
the clearing.
His plan had been simple. If Eagle Scout Rodgers had managed to come out
on top of this, Friday would have told him that he had gone off to the
side to watch for an Indian assault. If the Indians had won, as Friday
expected, he would have said he had been trying to reach them to help
end the standoff.
Friday had not expected both sides to reach some kind of sudden detente
and leave together. He did not expect to be stranded on the far side of
the clearing where the drumming of the chopper drowned out his shouts to
the men. He did not expect to be stranded here.
But as Ron Friday watched the chopper depart he did not feel cheated or
angry. He felt alone, but that was nothing new. His immediate concern
was getting rest and surviving what remained of the cold night. Having
done both, he could make his way back to the line of control the next
day.
Where he had wanted to go in the first place.
Accomplishing that, Friday would find a way to work this to his
advantage. He had still been a key participant in an operation that had
prevented a nuclear incident over Kashmir.
Along the way he had learned things that would be valuable to both
sides.
Friday was slightly northeast of the center of the clearing when the
light of the rising chopper disappeared behind the peaks. He had only
seen two people join the Indians. That meant one of them, probably
Samouel, was dead near the entrance to the silo. The Pakistani would no
longer need his clothing. If Friday could find a little niche somewhere,
he could use the clothes to set up a flap to keep out the cold.
And he still had the matches. Maybe he could find something to make a
little campfire. As long as life remained, there was always hope.
A moment later, in a chaotic upheaval of ice and fire, hope ended for
Ron Friday.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE.
The Hemachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 a. m.
Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August
and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion.
It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky
to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that
emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a
stick.
It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all
sides.
August watched to see if a co
ntrail rose from the fires. He did not see
one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from
the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his
old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.
The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided.
August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible
material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes
back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his
soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their
weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate,
part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the
chance to avenge his team.
The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat
of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with
punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless
whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that
inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea
nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.
The colonel's hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear
the TAC-SAT when it beeped. Fortunately, August noticed the red light
flashing. He unbuttoned the collar that covered his face to the bridge
of his nose. Then he turned up the volume on the TAC-SAT before
answering.
He would need every bit of it to hear Bob Herbert.
"Yes?" August shouted into the mouthpiece.
"Colonel, it's over," Herbert said.
"Repeat, please?" August yelled. The colonel thought he heard Herbert
say this was over.
"Mike got the message through," Herbert said, louder and more
articulately.
"The Indian LOC troops are being recalled.
You will be picked up by chopper at sunrise."
"I copy that," August said.
"We saw an explosion to the northeast a minute ago. Did Mike do that?"
"In a manner of speaking," Herbert said.
"We'll brief you after you've been airlifted."
"What about the Strikers?" August asked.
"We'll have to work on that," Herbert said.
"I'm not leaving without them," August said.
"Colonel, this is Paul," Hood said.
"We have to determine whose jurisdiction the valley--"
"I'm not leaving without them," August repeated.
There was a long silence.
"I understand," Hood replied.
"Brett, can you hold out there until around midmorning?" Herbert asked.
"I will do whatever it takes," August said.
"All right," Herbert told him.
"The chopper can pick up Corporal Musicant. I promise we'll have the
situation worked as quickly as possible." "Thank you, sir," August said.
"What are my orders regarding the three Pakistanis?"
"You know me,"
Herbert said.
"Now that they've served their purpose I'd just as soon you put a bullet
in each of their murderous little heads. I'm sure my wife has the road
upstairs covered. She'll make sure the bus to Paradise gets turned
back."
"Morality aside, there are legal and political considerations as well as
the possibility of armed resistance," Hood cut in.
"Op-Center has no jurisdiction over the FKM, and India has made no
official inquiries regarding the rest of the cell. They are free to do
whatever they want. If the Pakistanis wish to surrender, I'm sure they
will be arrested and tried by the Indians. If they turn on you, you must
respond however you see fit."
"Paul's right," Herbert said.
"The most important thing is to get you and Corporal Musicant home
safely." August said he understood. He told Hood and Herbert that he
would accept whatever food and water the chopper brought. After that, he
said he would make his way to the Mangala Valley to find the rest of the
Strikers.
Hanging up the TAC-SAT, August rose slowly on cold stiffened legs. He
switched on his flashlight and made his way across the ice-covered ledge
to where Musicant was stationed.
August gave the medic the good news then went back to where Sharab and
her two associates were huddled. Unlike the Strikers, they had not
undergone cold-weather training.
Nor were they dressed as warmly as August and Musicant.
August squatted beside them. They winced as the light struck them.
They reminded the colonel of lepers cowering from the sun. Sharab was
trembling. Her eyes were red and glazed. There was ice in her hair and
eyebrows. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were bright red.
August could not help but feel sorry for her. Her two comrades looked
even worse. Their noses were raw and bleeding and they would probably
lose their ears to frostbite. Their gloves were so thick with ice that
August did not even think they could move their fingers.
Looking at them, the colonel realized that Sharab and her countrymen
were not going to fight them or run anywhere.
August leaned close to them.
"General Rodgers and Nanda completed their mission," August said.
Sharab was staring ahead. Her red eyes began to tear. Her exposed mouth
moved silently. In prayer, August suspected.
The other men hugged her arms weakly and also spoke silent words.
"An Indian helicopter will arrive at sunup," August went on.
"Corporal Musicant will be leaving on it. I'm going to make my way back
to the valley to find the rest of my team.
What do you want to do?"
Sharab turned her tearing eyes toward August. There was deep despair in
her gaze. Her voice was gravelly and tremulous when she spoke.
"Will America ... help us ... to make the case ... for a Pakistani
Kashmir?" she asked.
"I think things will change because of what happened over the last few
days," August admitted.
"But I don't know what my nation will say or do."
Sharab laid an icy glove on August's forearm.
"Will ... you help us?" she pressed.
"They ... killed ... your team."
"The madness between your countries killed my team," August said.
"No," she said. She gestured violently toward the edge of the plateau.
"The men ... down there ... killed them. They are godless ... evil."
This was not a discussion August wanted to have. Not with someone who
blew up public buildings and peace officers for a living.
"Sharab, I've worked with you to this point," August said.
"I can't do any more. There will be a trial and hearings. If you
surrender, you will have the opportunity to make a strong case for your
people."
"That will not ... help," she insisted.
"It will be a start," August countered.
"And if ... we go back ... down the mountain?" the woman asked.
"What will you do?"
"I guess I'll say good-bye," he replied.
"You won't try ... to stop us?" Sharab pressed.
"No," August assured her.
"Excuse me, now. I'm going back to join the rest of my unit."
August looked at the defiant Pakistani for a moment longer. The woman's
<
br /> hate and rage were burning through the cold and physical exhaustion. He
had seen determined fighters during his life. The Vietcong. Kurdish
resistance fighters.
People who were fighting for their homes and families. But this furnace
was a terrifying thing to witness.
Colonel August turned and walked back across the slippery, windswept
ridge. Tribunals would be a good start. But it would take more than that
to eradicate what existed between the Indians and the Pakistanis.
It would take a war like the one they had barely managed to avoid. Or it
would take an unparalleled and sustained international effort lasting
generations.
For a sad, transient moment August shared something with Sharab.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 44