by Clancy, Tom
Gloria Gold was leaning forward in her chair. The excitement in Stephen Viens’s voice came through clearly on the computer audio link. He was right. After methodically scanning the terrain for hours the cameras had detected a promising image.
“Hold on,” Viens said. “Bernardo is switching us to infrared. The changeover will take about three minutes.”
“I’m holding,” said Gloria Gold. “Nice work,” she added.
“Hold the back-patting,” Viens said. “It still could be just a row of rocks or a herd of mountain goats.”
“That would be a flock of mountain goats,” the fifty-seven-year-old woman pointed out.
“Excuse me?” Viens said.
“Herds are domesticated animals,” she said. “Flocks live in the wild.”
“I see. Once a professor, always a professor,” Viens teased. “But who will have the last laugh if we find out it’s goats being led around by a Sherpa with a crook?”
Gloria smiled. “You will.”
“Maybe we should bet on it,” Viens said. “Your microcam against my lapel pin.”
“No go,” Gloria said.
“Why not?” Viens asked. “Mine has the range.”
“And mine has the substance,” she replied.
The NRO recon expert had once showed her the MIT lapel pin he had customized. It contained a dot-sized microphone made of molecules that resonated one against the other. It could broadcast sound to his computer audio recorder up to two hundred miles away. Her microcam was better than that. It broadcast million-pixel images to her computer from up to ten miles away. It was better and it was much more useful.
“Okay,” Viens said. “Then let’s bet dinner? The loser cooks? It’s a fitting deal. Infrared image, microwave meals—”
“I’m a lousy cook,” said Gloria.
“I’m not.”
“Thanks, but no,” said the thrice-divorced woman. For some reason Viens had always had a crush on her. She liked him too but he was young enough to be her son. “We’ll make it a gentleperson’s bet,” she said. “If you found the Pakistanis, we both win.”
Viens sighed. “A diplomat’s deal. I accept, but under protest.”
Tall, slender Gloria Gold smiled and leaned back in her chair. She was sitting at her glass-topped desk in Op-Center’s technical sector. The lights of her office were off. The only glow came from the twenty-one-inch computer monitor. The halls were silent. She took a swig from the bottle of Evian water she kept on the floor. After knocking over a bottle and shorting her computer the night after she first came to work here, Gloria had learned not to keep anything liquid on her desk. Luckily her boss, Assistant Director Curt Hardaway—“the Night Commander,” as they called him—admitted that he had once done that as well. Whether he had done that or not it was a nice thing to say.
The levity about the bet had been welcome. She had only been at this an hour but Viens had been working all day. And the elements in the image-feed from the NRO did look very promising. They were at five-meter resolution, meaning that anything down to five meters long was visible. The computer’s simultaneous PAP—photographic analysis profile—had identified what it thought could be human shadows. Distorted by the terrain and angle of the sun, they were coming from under an intervening ledge. Infrared would ascertain whether the shadows were being generated by living things or rock formations. The fact that the shadows had shifted between two images did not tell them much. That could simply be an illusion of the moving sun.
The Op-Center veteran watched and waited. The quiet of night shift made the delay somehow seem longer.
The tech-sec was a row of three offices set farthest from the busy front-end of the executive level. The stations were so thoroughly linked by computer, webcam, and wireless technology that the occupants wondered why they did not just tear down the walls and shout to each other, just to make human contact now and then. But Matt Stoll had always been against that. That was probably because Matt did things in private he did not want the rest of the world to know about. But Gloria Gold knew his dark secret. She had spied on him one night using her digital microcam hidden on the door handle of his minirefrigerator.
Four or five times a day, Matt Stoll washed down a pair of Twinkies with Gatorade.
That helped to explain the boundless energy and increasing girth of Op-Center’s favorite egghead. It also explained the occasional yellowish stains on his shirt. He chugged the Gatorade straight from the bottle. Even now, while Stoll was supposed to be resting on his sofa, he was probably reading the latest issue of NuTech or playing a hand-held video game. Unlike his former classmate Viens, Matt Stoll, with his sugar and Gatorade rush, defined the word wired.
Gloria’s mind was back on the screen as the feed from the National Reconnaissance Office was refreshed. The mostly white image was now the color of fire. There were a series of yellow-white atmospheric distortions radiating from hot red objects along the bottom of the monitor.
“Looking good,” Viens said. “Whatever is making the shadows is definitely alive.”
“Definitely,” Gloria said. They watched as the image refreshed again. The red spot got even hotter as it moved out from under the ledge. The bloblike shape was vaguely human.
“Shit!” Viens said. “Bernardo, go back to natural light.”
“That’s no mountain goat,” Gloria said.
“I’m betting it isn’t a Sherpa either,” Viens added.
Gloria continued to watch as the satellite switched oculars. This changeover seemed to take much longer than the last. The delay was not in the mechanical switch itself but in the optics diagnostics the satellite ran each time it changed lenses. It was important to make certain the focus and alignment were correct. Wrong data—off-center imaging, improper focus, a misplaced decimal point in resolution—was as useless as no data.
The image came on-screen in visible light. There was a field of white with the gray ledge slashing diagonally across the screen. Gloria could see a figure standing half beneath it. The figure was not a goat or a Sherpa. It was a woman. Behind her was what looked like the head of another person.
“I think we’ve got them!” Viens said excitedly.
“Sure looks like it,” Gloria agreed as she reached for the phone. “I’ll let Bob Herbert know.”
Bob Herbert was there before the next image appeared.
The image that clearly showed five people making their way along the narrow ledge.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 12:01 P.M.
Ron Friday liked to be prepared.
If he were going into a building he liked to have at least two exit strategies. If he were going into a country he always had his eye on the next place he would go to out of choice or necessity. If he had a mission in mind he always checked on the availability of the equipment, clearances, and allies he might need. For him, there was no such thing as downtime.
After talking with Bob Herbert, Friday realized that it might be necessary for him and Captain Nazir to move into the mountains. He knew that the helicopter was good for travel at heights up to twelve thousand feet and temperatures down to twelve degrees Fahrenheit. They had enough fuel left for a seven-hundred-mile flight. That meant they could go into the mountains about four hundred miles and still get back. Of course, there was also the problem of having to set the chopper down at too high an altitude and having liquidbearing components freeze. Depending on where they had to fly, it could be a long and unpleasant walk back.
Friday removed the detachable phone and kept it with him. Then he checked the gear they had onboard. There was basic climbing equipment but no cold-weather clothing. That might not be a problem, however. He had gone through Apu Kumar’s things. There were some heavy coats. There were hats and gloves so those would not be a problem. His biggest concern was oxygen. If he and Captain Nazir had to do a lot of climbing at higher altitudes exhaustion would be a factor.
Perhaps Striker was bringing some of that gear with them. Fri
day would not know that or the location of the target area itself until he talked to Bob Herbert or Hank Lewis.
In the meantime, Friday reviewed maps with Captain Nazir to familiarize himself with the region. Apu was with them in the small kitchen area of his farmhouse, adding what firsthand knowledge he had of the region. He used to climb the foothills when he was younger.
Friday plotted a course from the Srinagar bazaar to the explosion in the mountains. He also mapped a route from the farm to the Himalayan blast site. There had been more than enough time for both the cell and the man from this farm to have reached the mountain site before the detonation. The question was where they would move from there. The cell only had to cover roughly twenty miles to go from the mountains to the Pakistani border. But they were a mountainous twenty miles that included both the line of control and the brutal Siachin Glacier. Reaching up to some eighteen thousand feet, the glacier would be difficult to climb under the best of circumstances. Tired and presumably pursued from the ground and possibly the air, the Pakistanis would need a miracle to get across.
The helicopter phone beeped while Friday was looking at topographic charts of the region. Nazir answered. It was Bob Herbert and Hank Lewis. He passed the phone to Friday.
“We’ve found the cell,” Herbert said.
“Where are they?” Friday asked eagerly. He bent over the charts that were spread on the table. “I have seven to ten tactical pilotage charts each of the Muzaffarabad border region, the Srinagar border region, and the area from Srinagar to Kargil.”
“They’re in the Srinagar border region,” Herbert said. “Just outside of Jaudar.”
“What are the coordinates?” Friday asked as he went to that set and began flipping through the charts, looking for the village.
“Ron, we want you to go at once to thirty-four degrees, thirty minutes north, seventy-five degrees east,” Lewis said.
“That’s Jaudar,” Friday said, looking at the map. “Is that where the cell is? In the village?”
“No,” Lewis said. “That’s where you’ll rendezvous with Striker.”
Friday stood up. “Gentlemen, I have a chopper here. I can be there in under an hour. Striker won’t be landing for at least four hours. I might be able to get to the cell by then.”
“So would your partner,” Lewis reminded him.
“And?” Friday pressed.
“We haven’t finished our security check on the Black Cat,” Lewis said. “We can’t take the risk that he’ll turn the Pakistanis over to his people.”
“That won’t happen,” Friday assured the new NSA chief. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” Lewis said. “We also agree that Mr. Kumar should go with you and we can’t be certain of his actions either. Mr. Herbert and I have discussed this and we’re in agreement. You will meet Striker in Jaudar. They will have up-to-the-minute coordinates of the cell and the resources to get you and your companions into the mountains. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.”
“We’re wasting time,” Friday protested. “I could probably be in and out by the time Striker arrives.”
“I admire your enthusiasm,” Herbert said. “But the leader of the cell is cagey. They’ve been moving in shadows and beneath overhangs wherever possible. We don’t know for certain what weapons they’re carrying. They may have a rocket launcher. If you come after them in an Indian chopper they will probably shoot you down.”
“If you tell us where they are we can circle wide and intercept them,” Friday pointed out.
“There’s also a chance that a Pakistani aircraft might try to slip in and rescue the cell,” Herbert said. “We don’t want to precipitate a firefight with an Indian aircraft. That could give the Indians even more ammunition to launch a major offensive.”
Friday squeezed the phone. He wished he could strangle the deskbound bureaucrat. He did not understand field personnel. None of them did. The best field ops did not like sitting still. And the best of the best were able to improvise their way in and out of most things. Friday could do this. More than that, he wanted it. If he could grab the cell and bring them home he would have a chance to get in with their Pakistani controllers. Having strong ties to New Delhi, Islamabad, and Washington would be invaluable to an operative in this region.
“Are we on the same page?” Herbert asked.
Friday looked down at the map. “Yes,” he said. And as he looked he remembered something that Herbert had told him about the explosion. It had occurred at approximately eight thousand feet. That would put the cell on the southwest side of the range. Everything north of that, up through the glacier and the line of control, was at a higher elevation. Friday’s grip relaxed. To hell with desk jockeys in general and Bob Herbert in particular.
“We’ll brief you again when we have Striker’s precise ETA and location,” Herbert said. “Do you have any questions?”
“No,” Friday replied calmly.
“Is there anything you wanted to add, Hank?” Herbert asked.
Lewis said there was nothing else. The NSA head thanked Friday and the men hung up. Friday returned the phone to its cradle.
“What is it?” Captain Nazir asked.
“What we’ve been waiting for,” Friday said.
“They found the cell?” Nazir asked.
Friday nodded.
“And my granddaughter?” Apu asked.
“She’s with them,” Friday said. He did not know if she was or not, of course. But he wanted Apu with them. The farmer had harbored the enemy cell. If they needed to forestall any action by India, Apu’s confession would play very well on Pakistani TV.
Friday looked at the map. Herbert had told him that the cell was sticking to the mountain ledges. That meant that if the chopper started following the line of the range at eight thousand feet and flew up one side and then down the other they were sure to encounter the cell. Friday glanced down at the inset conic projection and smiled. The round-trip was less than two hundred miles.
He would have them. And he would have that do-nothing Herbert.
“Come on,” Friday said to Nazir.
“Where are we going?” the officer asked.
“To catch a terrorist cell,” Friday replied.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:02 A.M.
Paul Hood’s office was just a few steps away from Op-Center’s high-security conference room. Known as the Tank, the conference room was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static for anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.
Hood entered after everyone was already there. The heavy door was operated by a button at the side of the large oval conference table. Hood pushed it when he sat down at the head of the table.
The small room was lit by fluorescent lights hung in banks over the conference table. On the wall across from Hood’s chair the countdown clock was dark. When they had a crisis and a deadline, the clock flashed its ever-changing array of digital numbers.
The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the Tank were all covered with sound-absorbing Acoustix. The mottled grayand-black strips were each three inches wide and overlapped one another to make sure there were no gaps. Beneath them were two layers of cork, a foot of concrete, and then another layer of Acoustix. In the midst of the concrete, on all six sides of the room, was a pair of wire grids that generated vacillating audio waves. Electronically, nothing left the room without being utterly distorted. If any listening device did somehow manage to pick up a conversation from inside, the randomness of the changing modulation made reassembling the conversations impossible.
“Thank you all for coming,” Hood said. He turned down the brightness on the computer monitor that was set in the table and began bringing up the files from his office. At the same time, Bugs Benet was busy raising Colonel August on the TAC-SAT. In order to make sure Striker stayed in the loop, August and Rodgers were taking turns sleeping en route to Turkey.
“No problem,
” Lowell Coffey said. He had been pouring water from a pitcher into a coffee machine on a table in the far corner. The percolator began to bubble and pop. “The roads were empty. I managed to sleep on the way. Anybody think to get doughnuts?”
“That was your job,” Herbert pointed out. “You were the only one who wasn’t here.” He maneuvered his wheelchair into his place at Hood’s right.
“I’ve got mid rats in my office if you’re hungry,” said Liz Gordon as she settled in to Hood’s left.
“No, thanks.” Coffey shuddered as he sat across from Hood. “I’ll stick to the coffee.”
“You’ve got official military midnight rations?” Herbert asked.
“A three-course packet,” Liz said. “Dried apricots and pineapple, jerky, and cookies. A friend of mine at Langley gave them to me. I think you’ve worked with her. Captain McIver?”
“We worked on some black ops stuff together,” Herbert said. He smiled. “Man, mid rats. I haven’t had them in years. They always hit the spot in the wee small hours.”
“That’s because you were tired and not selective,” said the admittedly dilettantish Coffey.
Hood’s data finished loading a moment before Bugs Benet called. Hood sent the files to the other computer stations around the table. Liz and Coffey scanned the files as Hood’s assistant informed him that he had Colonel Brett August ready to be patched through from the C-130 Hercules. Hood put the telephone on speaker and looked across the table.
“We’re ready to go,” Hood said to the others.
Everyone came to attention quickly.
“Colonel August, can you hear me?” Hood asked.
“As clear as if you were in the cabin with us, sir,” the Striker commander replied.
“Good,” Hood replied. “Bob, you’ve been talking to New Delhi. Would you please bring everyone up to speed?”
Herbert looked at his wheelchair computer monitor. “Twenty-one hours ago there was an attack on a market in Srinagar, Kashmir,” Herbert said. He spoke loud enough for the speakerphone to pick up his voice. “A police station, a Hindu temple, and a busload of Hindu pilgrims were destroyed. With intel from the NRO and from your NSA contact who happened to be on-site, we have reason to believe that the attack on the station was the work of the Free Kashmir Militia, a militant organization based in Pakistan. However, we suspect that the attacks against the Hindu sites may have been organized by India itself. We believe that elements in the Special Frontier Force, the cabinet, and the military may be trying to win public support for a quick, decisive nuclear strike against Pakistan.”
