Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control

by Line of Control [lit]

  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.