by Clancy, Tom
Two years ago, high-ranking officers and government officials who respected Kabir’s Zone of Security plan got together and pressed the prime minister to name him minister of defence. Kabir asked the national commander of the SFF to come and work for him and then arranged for Dilip Sahani to take over that post. Together, the men plotted in secret. New Delhi was content to build its own nuclear arsenal as a deterrent and collect intelligence to assess the across-the-border threat. Kabir and Sahani were not. They wanted to make certain that Islamabad never had the opportunity to mount the very real threat of a jihad of mass destruction. With the unwitting help of the FKM cell and a young member of the SFF’s Civilian Network Operatives, they were on the verge of realizing their dream. If the field commandos had succeeded in their efforts to capture and destroy the FKM, the goal would be just days if not hours away. Now they had to wait.
Major Puri would not fail them. He would close in on the terrorist cell and then kill them in a firefight. The CNO operative who was with them would tell the story as she saw it from the inside. Even if she died in the fight, she would reveal to Major Puri with her dying breath how the FKM attacked the temple and the bus. How the lives of those Hindus were the first sacrifices of the new jihad. The people of India would believe her because in their hearts they knew she was telling the truth. Her grieving grandfather would back up everything that she said. And then the Indian government would respond.
Of course, the president and prime minister would attack Pakistan as they usually did. With words. That was how nuclear powers were supposed to act. If they replied with weapons the results would be unthinkable. Or so the common wisdom went.
What the rest of the world did not realize was that Pakistan’s leaders were willing to endure annihilation. They would sacrifice their nation if it meant the utter destruction of India and the Hindu people. Islam would still have tens of millions of adherents. Their faith would survive. And the dead of Pakistan would live on in Paradise.
Kabir was not going to give Pakistan the chance to attack India. He was, however, perfectly willing to send them to Paradise. He intended to do that with a preemptive strike.
The team that was in charge of the Underground Nuclear Command Center was loyal to Minister Kabir. The key personnel had been carefully selected from among the military and SFF ranks. They would respond to dual commands issued by Minister Kabir and Commander Sahani. When those orders came, nothing on earth could turn them back.
Kabir’s plan was to hit Pakistan before they had fully deployed their nuclear arsenal. He would use a total of seventynine Indian SRBMs. The short-range ballistic missiles each had a range of eight hundred kilometers. They constituted one-half of India’s nuclear arsenal and were housed in silos located just behind the line of control. Eleven of those would hit Islamabad alone, removing it from the map and killing nearly 20 percent of the nation’s 130 million people. In the days and weeks to come, radiation from the explosions would kill another 40 million Pakistanis. The rest of the SRBMs would strike at Pakistani military facilities. That included seven suspected silo locations in the Himalayas. Maybe the American team coming into the country would have found them. Maybe they would not. Regardless, their presence would be a powerful public relations tool for Kabir. It would show the world that India had reason to fear Pakistan’s nuclear proliferation. The deaths of the Americans would be unfortunate but unavoidable.
Minister Kabir brought the remaining targets up on his computer. In addition to the mountains, SRBMs would be launched at each of Pakistan’s air bases. Ten Pakistan Air Force bases were operational full-time. These were the “major operational bases” PAF Sargodha, PAF Mianwali, PAF Kamra, PAF Rafiqui, PAF Masroor, PAF Faisal, PAF Chaklala, PAF Risalpur, PAF Peshawar, and PAF Samungli. They would all be hit with two missiles each. Then there were eleven “forward operational bases” that became fully operational only during wartime. All of these would be struck as well. They were PAF Sukkur, PAF Shahbaz, PAF Multan, PAF Vihari, PAF Risalewala, PAF Lahore, PAF Nawabshah, PAF Mirpur Khas, PAF Murid, PAF Pasni, and PAF Talhar. Finally, there were the nine satellite bases used for emergency landings: PAF Rahim Yar Khan, PAF Chander, PAF Bhagtanwala, PAF Chuk Jhumra, PAF Ormara, PAF Rajanpur, PAF Sindhri, PAF Gwadar, and PAF Kohat. These were little more than landing strips without personnel to man them. Still, they would all be razed. With luck, the PAF would not be able to launch a single missile or bomber. Even if Pakistan did manage to land a few nuclear blows, India could absorb the loss. The leaders would have been moved to the underground bunkers. They would manage the brief conflagration and recovery from the UNCC.
When it was all over, Kabir would take the blame or praise for what happened. But however the world responded, Kabir was certain of one thing.
He will have done the right thing.
THIRTY
Ankara, Turkey Thursday, 11:47 A.M.
The Indian air force AN-12 transport is a cousin of the world’s largest aircraft, the Russian Antonov AN-225 Mriya. The AN-12 is half the size of that six-engine brute. A long-range transport, it is also one-third smaller than the C-130 that had brought Striker as far as Ankara. With the cargo section in the rear and an enclosed, insulated passenger cabin toward the front, the IAF aircraft is also much quieter. For that Mike Rodgers was grateful.
Rodgers had caught five solid hours of sleep on the final leg of the C-130 flight. He did that with the help of wax earplugs he carried expressly for that purpose. Still, the small downclick in sound and vibration was welcome. Especially when Corporal Ishi Honda left his seat in the rear of the small, cramped crew compartment. He ducked as he made his way through the single narrow aisle that ran through the center of the cabin. The team’s grips, cold-weather gear, and parachutes were strapped in bulging mesh nets on the ceiling over the aisle.
The communications expert handed the TAC-SAT to General Rodgers. “It’s Mr. Herbert,” Honda said.
Colonel August was sitting beside Rodgers in the forwardfacing seats. The men exchanged glances.
“Thank you,” Rodgers said to Honda.
The corporal returned to his seat. Rodgers picked up the receiver.
“There are parachutes onboard, Bob,” Rodgers said. “For us?”
“Paul’s given the go-ahead for an expedited search-and-recover of the cell,” Herbert said.
“Expedited” was spy-speak for “illegal.” It meant that an operation was being rushed before anyone could learn about it and block it. It also meant something else. They were probably going to be jumping into the Himalayas. Rodgers knew what that meant.
“We have the target spotted,” Herbert went on. “Viens is following them through the mountains. They’re at approximately nine thousand feet and heading northwest toward the line of control. They’re currently located thirty-two miles due north of the village of Jaudar.”
Rodgers removed one of the three “playbooks” from under the seat. It was a fat black spiral-bound notebook containing all the maps of the regions. He found the town and moved his finger up. He turned to the previous page where the map was continued. Instead of just brown mountains there was a big dagger-shaped slash of white pointing to the lower left.
“That puts them on direct course for the Siachin Glacier,” Rodgers said.
“That’s how our people read it,” Herbert said. “They can’t be carrying a lot of artillery. It would make sense for them to head somewhere the elements might help them. Cold, blizzards, avalanches, crevasses—it’s a fortress or stealth environment if they need it.”
“Assuming it doesn’t kill them,” Rodgers pointed out.
“Trying to go through any lower would definitely kill them,” Herbert replied. “The NSA intercepted a SIG-INT report from a Russian satellite listening in on the line of control. Several divisions have apparently moved out and are headed toward the glacier.”
“Estimated time of encounter?” Rodgers asked.
“We don’t have one,” Herbert said. “We don’t know if the divisions ar
e airborne, motorized, or on foot. We’ll see what else comes through the Russian satellite.”
“Can General Orlov help us with this?” Rodgers asked.
Sergei Orlov was head of the Russian Op-Center based in St. Petersburg. General Orlov and Hood had a close personal and professional relationship. Striker leader Lt. Colonel Charles Squires died during a previous joint undertaking, helping to prevent a coup in Russia.
“I asked Paul about that,” Herbert said. “He doesn’t want to involve them. Russian technology helps drive the Indian war machine. Indian payoffs drive Russian generals. Orlov won’t be able to guarantee that anyone he contacts will maintain the highest-level security status.”
“I’m not convinced we can guarantee HLS status from the NSA,” Rodgers replied.
“I’m with you on that,” Herbert said. “I’m not sure Hank Lewis patched up all the holes Jack Fenwick drilled over there. That’s why I’m giving information to Ron Friday on a need-to-know basis. He’s moving up to Jaudar with a Black Cat officer and the grandfather of the CNO informant who’s traveling with the cell.”
“Good move,” Rodgers said.
“We’re also trying to get regular weather updates from the Himalayan Eagles,” Herbert said. “But that could all change before you arrive. By the way, how are your new hosts treating you?”
“Fine,” Rodgers said. “They gave us rations, the gear is all here, and we’re on schedule.”
“All right,” Herbert said. “I’ll give you the drop coordinates at H-hour minus fifteen.”
“Confirmed,” Rodgers said.
The general looked at his watch. They had three hours to go. That left them just enough time to pass out the gear, check it out, suit up, and review the maps with the team.
“I’ll check back in when I have more intel for you,” Herbert said. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I can’t think of anything, Bob,” Rodgers said.
There was a short silence. Mike Rodgers knew what was coming. He had heard the change in Herbert’s voice during that last question. It had gone from determined to wistfulness.
“Mike, I know I don’t have to tell you that this is a shitty assignment,” Herbert said.
“No, you don’t,” Rodgers agreed. He was flipping through the magnified views of the region of the drop. Never mind the terrain itself. The wind-flow charts were savage. The currents tore through the mountains at fifty to sixty-one miles an hour. Those were gale-force winds.
“But I do have to point out that you aren’t a part of Striker,” Herbert went on. “You’re a senior officer of the
NCMC.”
“Cut to the chase,” Rodgers told him. “Is Paul going to order me to stay behind?”
“I haven’t discussed this with him,” Herbert said. “What’s the point? You’ve disobeyed his orders before.”
“I have,” Rodgers said. “Kept Tokyo from getting nuked, if I remember correctly at my advanced age.”
“You did do that,” Herbert said. “But I was thinking that it might help if we had someone on-site to liaise with the Indian government.”
“Send one of the guys the FBI tucked into the embassy,” Rodgers said. “I know they’re there and so do the Indians.”
“I don’t think so,” Herbert replied.
“Look, I’ll be happy to talk to whatever officials I have to from the field,” Rodgers said. The general leaned forward. He huddled low over the microphone. “Bob, you know damn well what we’re facing here. I’ve been looking at the charts. When we drop into the mountains the wind alone is going to hammer us. We stand a good chance of losing people just getting onto the ground.”
“I know,” Herbert said.
“Hell, if they didn’t need to fly the plane I’d bring the Indian crew down with me. Let them help save their own country,” Rodgers continued. “So don’t even try to tell me that I shouldn’t do what we’re asking Striker to do. Especially not with what’s at stake.”
“Mike, I wasn’t thinking about Striker or the rest of the world,” Herbert replied. “I was thinking about an old friend with football-damaged, forty-seven-year-old knees. A friend who could hurt Striker more than help them if he got injured on an ice-landing.”
“If that happens I’ll order them to leave me where I land,” Rodgers assured him.
“They won’t.”
“They will,” Rodgers said. “We’ll have to do that with anyone who’s hurt.” He hung up the receiver and motioned for Corporal Honda to come back and reclaim the TAC-SAT. Then he rose.
“I’ll be right back,” Rodgers said to August.
“Is there anything we need to do?” August asked.
Rodgers looked down at him. August was in an uncomfortable spot. Rodgers was one of the colonel’s oldest and closest friends. He was also a superior officer. That was one of the reasons August had turned down this job when it was first offered to him. It was often difficult for the colonel to find a proper balance between those two relationships. This was one of those times. August also knew what was at risk for his friend and the team.
“I’ll let you know in a few minutes,” Rodgers said as he walked toward the cockpit.
Walked on rickety knees that were ready to kick some ass.
THIRTY-ONE
Jaudar, Kashmir Thursday, 3:33 P.M.
The problem with flying an LAHR—low-altitude helicopter reconnaissance—in a region like the Himalayas is that there is no room for error.
From the pilot’s perspective, keeping the aircraft steady is practically impossible. The aircraft shakes along the x- and y-axes, the horizontal and vertical, with occasional bumps in the diagonal. Keeping the chopper within visual range of the target area is also problematic. It’s often necessary for the pilot to move suddenly and over considerable distances to get around violent air pockets, clouds that blow in and impede the view, or snow and ice squalls. Just keeping the bird aloft is the best that can be hoped for. Whatever intel the observer can grab is considered a gift, not a guarantee.
Wearing sunglasses to cut down on the glare, and a helmet headset to communicate with Captain Nazir in the noisy cabin, Ron Friday alternately peered through the front and side windows of the cockpit. The American operative cradled an MP5K in his lap. If they spotted the terrorists there might be a gunfight. Hopefully, a few bursts in the air from the submachine gun would get them to stop shooting and listen. If not, he was prepared to back off and snipe one or two of them with the 1ASL in the gun rack behind him. If Captain Nazir could keep the chopper steady, the large sharpshooter rifle had greater range than the small arms the terrorists were probably carrying. With a few of them wounded, the others might be more inclined to let Friday land and approach them. Especially if he promised to airlift them to medical assistance in Pakistan.
Apu was seated on a fold-down chair in the spacious cargo area. It wasn’t so much a chair as a hinged plastic square with a down cushion on top. The farmer was leaning forward, peering through a hatchway that separated the cargo section from the cockpit. Apu wore an anxious look as he gazed out through the window. Friday was good at reading people’s expressions. He was not just concerned about finding his granddaughter. There was a sense of despair in his eyes, in the sad downturn of his mouth. Perhaps Apu had been in the mountains as a young man. He had had some idea what was beyond the foothills. But Apu had certainly never gone this far, never this high. He had never gazed down at the barren peaks. He had never heard the constant roar of the wind over powerful 671 kW rotors, or felt that wind batter an aircraft, or experienced the cold that blasted through the canvas-lined metal walls. The farmer knew that unless they found Nanda the chances were not good that she would survive.
The chopper continued toward the line of control without any of the occupants spotting the terrorists. Friday was not overly concerned. They still had the southward trip along the other side of the range to go.
Suddenly, something happened that Friday was not expecting. He heard a voice in hi
s helmet. A voice that did not belong to Captain Nazir.
“Negative zone three,” said the very faint, crackling voice. “Repeat: negative zone three.” A moment later the voice was gone.
Friday made sure the headset switch on the communications panel was set on “internal” rather than “external.” That meant they were communicating only with the cockpit instead of an outside receiver.
“Who is that?” Friday asked.
Nazir shook his head slowly. “It’s not control tower communication.” The wheel was shaking violently. He did not want to release his two-handed grip. “Do you see that yellow button below the com-panel?” he asked.
“Yes,” Friday said.
“That’s the nosedome antenna,” Nazir said. “Push it once then push on the external signal again.”
Friday did. As soon as the button was depressed the voices began to come in more clearly. Other zones were checking in. There was also a blip on the small green directional map. The signal was coming from the northwest. Friday switched back to internal communications.
“We’d better check it out,” Friday said.
“It cannot be a Pakistani search party,” Nazir said. “They would not communicate on this frequency.”
“I know,” Friday replied. “The line of control isn’t far from here. I’m worried that it could be an Indian unit moving in.”
“A sweep coming down through different zones,” Nazir said. “That would be a standard search-and-rescue maneuver. Should we do a flyover?”
“Why?” Friday asked.
“They may have intelligence on the cell’s location that we do not,” Nazir said. “The direction they are headed may tell us something.”
“No,” Friday said. He continued to look out the window. “I don’t want to waste the time or fuel.”
“What do we do if they contact us?” Nazir asked. “Radar at the line of control may pick us up as we near the end of the range. They may ask us to help with the search.”
“We’ll tell them we’re on routine reconnaissance and were about to turn back to Kargil,” Friday said.
