Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik,Jeff Rovin
Tags: #Pakistan, #Crisis Management in Government - United States, #Action & Adventure, #Intrigue, #Fiction - Espionage, #India, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Espionage, #Adventure Stories, #War & Military, #Military, #Government investigators - United States, #National Crisis Management Centre (Imaginary place), #Crisis Management in Government, #Thriller
Line of Control (43 page)
Ron Plummer and the Pakistani ambassador were still on Hood's line. As Hood had promised, he left that speakerphone on as well.
"Colonel, I'm with Paul and Lowell Coffey," Herbert told him.
"We also have the Pakistani ambassador and Ron Plummer on the other line. You are all on speaker."
"I copy that," August said.
August would know, now, not to say anything that might compromise American security objectives or operations.
"What's been happening there?" Herbert asked.
"Apparently, nothing," August said.
"Nothing at all?" Herbert asked.
"We can't see much now because of the ice storm and darkness," August told him.
"But the Indians turn on lights occasionally and as far as we can tell there are still roughly two hundred soldiers at the foot of the plateau.
We saw them making preparations for an ascent and then they just stopped about ninety minutes ago. They seem to be waiting."
"For backup?" Herbert asked.
"Possibly, sir," August said.
"The delay could also be weather related. We've got a nasty ice storm kicking around us. It would not be a fun climb. Sharab says the winds usually subside just after dawn. The Indians could be waiting for that.
With diminished winds they could also bring in low altitude air support.
Or the Indians could just be waiting for us to freeze."
"You feel you're in no immediate danger?" Hood asked.
"No, sir, we don't appear to be," August informed him.
"Except for the cold we're all right."
"Hopefully, we'll be able to move you out before too long," Herbert said.
"Colonel, we'd like you to raise Mike and his team. If they've arrived at the coordinates, and only if they are at the coordinates, tell them that they have reached an underground Pakistani nuclear missile site.
The site is unmanned and operated remotely. Tell them to stand by and then call me back. The ambassador will provide us with passwords that will enable the team to enter the silo. Once inside they will receive instructions on how to access video equipment that the Pakistani military uses to monitor the facility." "I understand," August said.
"I'll contact General Rodgers now."
"Let us know if he has not reached the coordinates and also report back on the condition of his team," Herbert added.
August said he would, then signed off.
Hood did not know whether anything Ambassador Simathna had said to this point was true. But after Herbert hung up, the Pakistani said something on which they both agreed.
"The colonel," Simathna said, "is a courageous man."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 2:07 a. m.
Exhausted and freezing, Rodgers and his team reached the coordinates Brett August had provided.
Rodgers had half-expected to find a field with a temporary Pakistani outpost. Perhaps a few mobile missile launchers, landing lights for helicopters, and a camouflaged shed or two.
He was wrong. They found some of the most inhospitable terrain they had yet encountered. Rodgers felt as though he had stepped into some Ice Age environment.
A circle of surrounding peaks enclosed an area of about ten acres. The team had walked through a large, circular, apparently artificial tunnel to get through the wall. Starting very close to the ground, the slopes jutted out at steep angles.
At some time in the past slabs of ice must have broken from the facades and covered the ground. Or perhaps this was an ice cave and the roof had simply collapsed. The field itself was extremely rough and uneven, covered with rough-edged lumps of ice and slashed with narrow, jagged fissures. The harshness of the terrain suggested it did not get much sun.
There did not appear to be the kind of smoothness that came with melting and refreezing. They were also at a much higher altitude than they were at the mouth of the valley. He doubted that temperatures here got much above zero degrees Fahrenheit.
Samouel and Friday were still relatively alert but Nanda was numb.
Shortly after the Mi-35 turned and left, the woman had fallen quiet.
Her muscles and expression had relaxed and she seemed almost in a trance. She moved along as he tugged her hand. But she had a rubbery, unfocused gait. Rodgers had seen this kind of emotional shutdown in Vietnam. It usually occurred after a GI had lost a good buddy in combat.
Clinically speaking, Rodgers did not know how long the effects lasted.
But he did know that he could not count on afflicted soldiers for days thereafter. After everything that had happened, it would be tragic if they could not even get Nanda to tell her story.
Samouel and Friday had been walking a few paces ahead of Rodgers and Nanda. After the men had a chance to light their torches and flashlights and shine them along the walls and ground, they walked over to the general. Friday handed Rodgers the cell phone.
"Here we are," Friday said angrily.
"Now the question is where the hell are we?"
Rodgers released Nanda's hand. She stared into the darkness as Rodgers went to check the time on the cell phone.
The cold was so intense that the liquid crystal screen cracked.
The digital numbers vanished instantly.
"Well done," Friday said.
Rodgers did not respond. He was angry at himself too.
The cell phone was their only link to the outside world. He should have foreseen what the intense cold would do. He closed the phone and put it in his pocket, where it would be relatively warm. Then he turned to Nanda. He warmed her exposed cheeks with his breath and was heartened when she looked at him.
"Look around, try and find out why we've been sent here," Rodgers said to the men.
"Probably to die," Friday said.
"I don't trust any of these bastards, not the Indians or the Pakistanis."
"Or even your own government," Samouel said.
"Oh, you heard?" Friday said.
"Well, you're right. I don't trust the politicians in Washington either.
They're all using us for something."
"For peace," Samouel insisted.
"Is that what you were doing in Kashmir?" Friday demanded.
"We were trying to weaken an enemy that has oppressed us for centuries,"
Samouel told him.
"The stronger we are the greater our capacity to maintain the peace."
"Fighting for peace, the great oxymoron," Friday said.
"What a crock. You want power just like everyone else."
Rodgers had let the discussion go on because anger generated body heat.
Now it was time to stop. He moved between the men.
"I need you to check the perimeter," Rodgers said.
"Now."
"For what?" Friday asked.
"A secret, open sesame passage?
Superman's Fortress of Solitude?" "Mr. Friday, you're pushing me,"
Rodgers said.
"We're in a big, cold shooting gallery thanks to the bureaucrats but I'm pushing you?" Friday said.
"This is a freakin' joke!"
The cell phone buzzed in Rodgers's pocket. The general was grateful for the interruption. He had been getting ready to end the conversation by knocking Friday on his ass. It was not a logical Hegelian solution but it would have worked for Rodgers. Big time.
The general pulled the phone out and shielded it with his high collar.
"Rodgers here!"
"Mike, it's Brett," August said.
"Have you reached the coordinates?"
"Just got here," he said.
"Are you okay?"
"So far," August replied.
"You?"
"Surviving."
"Stay warm," August replied.
"Thanks," Rodgers said.
The general closed up the phone and put it back in his left pocket. His fingers were numb and he kept his hand there.
Friday and Samouel had stuck the torches in a narrow fissure and were warming themselves around it. Both men looked up when the phone call ended.
"That was short," Friday said.
"Op-Center needed to confirm that we're here," Rodgers said.
"We'll get the rest of the plan ASAP."
"Does Op-Center already have the plan or are they getting it from somewhere in Pakistan?" Friday asked.
"I don't know," Rodgers admitted.
"We're being set up," Friday said.
"I can feel it."
"Talk to me about it," Rodgers said. The man might not be likable but that did not mean he was wrong.
"Jack Fenwick used to have a word for operatives who accepted partial codes or portions of maps," Friday said.
"The word was 'dead." If you can't control your own time, your own movements, it means that someone else is."
"In this case there's a reason for that," Rodgers reminded him.
"Security issues."
"That reason serves Islamabad and Washington, not us," Friday said.
"Fenwick would never have cut this kind of deal with a hostile government."
All covert operatives were cautious. But there was something about this man that seemed paranoid. Maybe the strain of the trek had worn them both thin. Or maybe Rodgers's earlier impression was right. The son of a bitch was distracted.
Maybe his distrust of Washington went further than he had admitted.
Fenwick was like that too.
"Did you have a lot of contact with Director Fenwick?" Rodgers asked.
The question seemed to surprise Friday. It took him a moment to answer.
"I didn't work closely with Jack Fenwick, no," Friday said.
"He was the director of the NSA. I'm a field operator.
There is not a lot of overlap in our job descriptions."
"But you obviously had some contact with him," Rodgers said.
"You were stationed in Azerbaijan. That was where he worked his last operation. He had some personal, hands-on involvement with that."
"We talked a few times," Friday acknowledged.
"He asked for intelligence, I got it for him. There was nothing unusual about that. Why do you ask?" "You put a lot of faith in your instincts,"
Rodgers said.
"We all do when we're in the field. I was just wondering if your instincts ever told you that Fenwick was a traitor."
"No," Friday said.
"So they were wrong," Rodgers pressed.
Friday made a strange face, as though he were repulsed by the thought of having been wrong.
Or maybe Friday was disturbed by something else. Rodgers thought suddenly. Maybe the man could not admit his instincts were wrong because they had not been wrong.
Maybe Friday had known that Jack Fenwick was attempting to overthrow the government of the United States. Yet Friday certainly could not admit he knew that either.
The implications of Ron Friday's silence were disturbing.
One of the keys to Fenwick's plan had been starting an oil war between Azerbaijan, Iran, and Russia. To help that along, CIA operatives based in the U. S. embassy had to be murdered. The killer of one of those agents was never found.
The phone beeped again. Rodgers and Friday continued to look at one another. Friday's hands were still warming over the fire. Rodgers had his right hand in his pocket. As they stood there they shared a subtle alpha male exchange. Friday started to withdraw his right hand from the fire. He apparently wanted to put it in the pocket where he kept his gun.
Rodgers poked his right hand further into his own pocket so it bulged.
Friday did not know where the general kept his weapon. It happened to be in his equipment vest but Friday apparently did not realize that.
Friday's right hand remained exposed.
In the meantime, Rodgers answered the phone.
"Yes?"
"Mike, are you in a clearing hedged by ice?" August asked.
"Yes," Rodgers replied.
"All right," August said.
"Look to the northwest side of the clearing. At the base of one of the slopes you should see a perfectly flat, white slab of ice about two yards by two yards." Rodgers told Friday to pick up one of the torches.
Then he told Samouel to sit with Nanda. Together, Rodgers and Friday walked toward the northwest side of the clearing.
"We're on our way over," Rodgers said.
"Brett, any idea what the shape is of the chunk we're looking for?"
"Bob didn't say," August replied.
"I guess 'slab' means flat." The men continued walking across the uneven terrain. It was difficult to keep their footing because of all the small pits, cracks, and occasional patches of smooth ice. Rodgers remained several steps behind Friday. Even if Rodgers did not stumble, a man with a lit torch could be a formidable opponent.
Suddenly, Rodgers saw a piece of ice that fit the dimensions August provided. They walked toward it.
"I think we have it!" Rodgers said.
"Good," August told him.
"You're going to have to move that and then wait for me to call back."
"For what?" Rodgers asked.
"For the code that will open the hatch underneath," August said.
"A hatch to what?" Rodgers asked.
"To an unmanned Pakistani nuclear missile facility," August told him.
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