Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  ASAP.”

  August hung up the TAC-SAT and briefed Rodgers. The general was his usual stoic self.

  “I’ll be okay down here,” Rodgers replied. “If I have to move north it’s a pretty straight shot to the glacier. I’ll just follow the river.”

  “Good. Is your suit intact?” August asked.

  “Yes,” Rodgers replied. “There’s only one thing I need. It’s probably the same thing you need.”

  “What’s that?” August asked.

  Rodgers replied, “To find whoever sold us out and make them regret it.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

  Paul Hood was on the phone with Senator Barbara Fox when the interoffice line beeped.

  Now that the mission was beyond the point of recall, and politics would not get in the way of international security, Hood briefed the senator on the status of Striker and its mission. Several years before, the senator had lost her own teenage daughter in a brutal murder in Paris. Hood had expected her to respond with compassion and to give her support to the personnel who were still in the field.

  She did not. The senator was furious.

  “Op-Center took too much responsibility in this operation,” the woman charged. “The other intelligence agencies should have been involved to a much greater extent.”

  “Senator, I told the CIOC that we have a crisis requiring immediate attention,” Hood said. “I said we were involving the NRO and the NSA to the extent that time and on-site manpower permitted. You did not object to our handling of this at that time.”

  “You did not outline the specifics of the danger,” she replied, “only the gravity of the threat.”

  “We did not know the specifics until we were in the middle of this,” Hood pointed out.

  “Which is exactly my point,” she replied. “You sent resources into this situation without adequate intelligence. And I mean that in every sense of the word, Mr. Hood.”

  The interoffice line beeped again.

  “Do you want me to pull the remaining assets out?” Hood asked the senator. Hell, he thought. If she was going to criticize his judgment he might as well leave the rest of the mission in her hands.

  “Is there another way of resolving the crisis?” she asked.

  “Not that we’ve come up with,” Hood replied.

  “Then unfortunately we are married to the scenario you’ve mapped out,” the senator said.

  Of course, Hood thought. It was now a no-lose situation for the politician. If it worked she would grab the credit for involving the CIOC at this juncture, for saving the lives of the rest of the Strikers as well as countless Indians and Pakistanis. If the mission failed Hood would take the full hit. This was not the first crisis the two had been through together. But it was the first one of this magnitude and with this high a price tag. Hood was disappointed that she was looking for a scapegoat instead of a solution.

  Or maybe he was the one looking for someone to blame, he thought. What if the senator was right? What if he had fast-tracked this operation simply because Striker was en route and it seemed relatively risk-free at the onset? Maybe Hood should have pulled the plug when he learned how risky the jump itself would be. Maybe he had let himself become a prisoner to the ticking clock he feared instead of the things he knew for certain.

  The interoffice line beeped a third time.

  Years before, Chad Malcolm, the retiring mayor of Los Angeles, gave Hood some of the best advice he had ever received. Malcolm had said that what any good leader did was take information in, process it, and still react with his gut. “Just like the human body,” the mayor had said. “Goes in through the top and out through the bottom. Any other way just isn’t natural.”

  Senator Fox informed Hood that the CIOC would take up this “fiasco” in an emergency session. Hood did not have anything else to say. He clicked the senator off and took the call.

  “Yes?” Hood said.

  “Paul, we’ve got him,” Herbert said. “Brett spoke with Mike.”

  “Is he okay?” Hood asked.

  “He’s fine,” Herbert replied. “He landed in the valley at the foot of the plateau.”

  “Bob, thank you.” Hood wanted to shout or weep or possibly both. He settled for a deep sigh and a grateful smile.

  “While I was waiting for you to pick up the phone I called Viens,” Herbert told him. “Instead of searching for Mike I’ve got him looking to see if the cell broke off. The way I read my map, there’s a point between where Ron Friday joined the cell and where Colonel August is now that would have been perfect for the Pakistani group to split. If one team headed straight toward Pakistan, they would have had a relatively short distance of about nine or ten miles to cross. The two barriers they would face there were the line of control and the Siachin Glacier. But if Indian soldiers have been moved from the LOC to this new forward line, that would leave the border relatively clear.”

  “Which makes the glacier the big impediment,” Hood said.

  “Right. But that makes stamina instead of greater numbers the big obstacle,” Herbert pointed out. “Under the circumstances, that’s the challenge I’d choose to face.”

  “I agree,” Hood said.

  “The good news is, Mike is at the foot of the glacier,” Herbert went on. “If we find a second group of Pakistanis, he has a good shot at intercepting them.”

  Hood brought up the map on his computer. He studied it for a moment. “Who’s in touch with Mike?”

  “Brett is,” Herbert said.

  “Bob, we’re going to have to have Mike move out of the valley now,” Hood said.

  “Whoa,” Herbert said. “You want him on the glacier before we know for sure that the Pakistanis are even there?”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Hood replied.

  “We do,” Herbert protested. “First, we find the cell. Second, if they exist, we see which way they’re going. If they’re coming toward the valley, and we’ve sent him up the glacier, we’d be committing him to some pretty unfriendly terrain for nothing.”

  “I’m looking at the relief map of the region,” Hood said. “They have to take the glacier. The valley route adds another twelve miles or so to the trek.”

  “Twelve relatively flat, easy miles,” Herbert added. “Listen to me, Paul. That glacier is over eighteen thousand feet high.”

  “I see that.”

  “The cell was seven thousand, three hundred feet up in the mountains when Friday caught up with them,” Herbert went on. “They would have to be out of their minds to go up when they could go down to a valley that’s just two thousand feet above sea level.”

  “Certainly the Indian army would assume that,” Hood said.

  “Maybe,” Herbert said.

  “No, they’d have to,” Hood insisted. “Think about it. If your manpower were depleted at the LOC would you reinforce the valley exit or the glacier? Especially if you thought the cell was moving in another direction altogether?”

  “I just think it’s premature to send Mike up there,” Herbert said. “Especially if he just ends up walking back down with the cell. What we need to do is have Viens find the cell and see which way they’re going. Then we can decide.”

  “If Viens finds them and if there’s time to get Mike up there,” Hood said. “The satellite has a lot of terrain to cover.”

  “Then here’s an alternate plan,” Herbert said angrily. “Why don’t we just have August hold an AK-47 on the group that’s heading his way and make them tell him what their plans are?”

  “Would you trust what they tell you?” Hood asked.

  That obviously caught Herbert by surprise. He was silent.

  “Think about it logically, Bob,” Hood continued. “If the cell divided they won’t want to run into a sizable Indian force. That means taking the glacier route, which is where they would need Mike’s help the most. If he doesn’t start out now there’s a chance he may not catch them.”

  “ ‘If,’
” Herbert said. “ ‘Would.’ ‘May.’ There’s a lot of conjecture there, Paul. An awful lot.”

  “Yeah,” Hood agreed. “And Barbara Fox just ripped me a new one for letting this mission out of the gate without sufficient intel. Maybe I did. Nuclear war is pretty serious stuff. But right now the goal is very clear. The key person isn’t Mike, it’s that girl from Kargil. And the mission is to get her safely to Pakistan. If there is a second group of Pakistanis and they go over the glacier, we can’t afford to have Mike stuck in the valley or racing to catch them. He’s our strongest, maybe our only asset. We need him in play.”

  “All right, Paul,” Herbert said. “It’s your call. I’ll have Brett relay your orders to Mike.”

  “Thank you,” Hood said.

  “But I’m not with you on this one,” Herbert added sharply.

  “My gut isn’t telling me much because it can’t. It’s tied in a big goddamn knot. But my brain is telling me that before we send Mike up that glacier we need more time and intel to properly assess the situation.”

  Herbert hung up.

  Slowly, Paul Hood replaced the receiver. Then he turned to his computer and diminished the map of the Himalayas. He switched programs to receive the direct feed from the NRO.

  The OmniCom was just completing its retargeting and a barren, brown-and-white image began to fill the screen. Hood watched through tired eyes as the pixels filled in. Right now he wished that he were there, in the field with Mike Rodgers. The general had an organization solidly behind him, people praying for him, honor and pride at the end of the day, whichever way events took him.

  But no sooner did Paul Hood stumble onto that thought than two others bumped it aside. First, that he had no right to be thinking about himself. Not after the sacrifice Striker had made or the risks Mike Rodgers, Brett August, and the others were taking.

  Second, that he had to finish the operation he had started. And there was only one way to do that.

  With resolve greater than that of the people who had started it.

  FORTY-TWO

  The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:42 P.M.

  Brett August had become a soldier for two very different reasons.

  One was to help keep his country strong. When August was in the sixth grade he read about countries like England and Italy that had lost wars. The young New Englander could not imagine how he would feel saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning, knowing that the United States had ever been defeated or was under the heel of a conquering nation.

  The other reason Brett August became a soldier was that he loved adventure. As a kid he grew up on cowboy and war shows on television, and comic books like GI War Tales and 4-Star Battle Tales. His favorite activities were to build snow forts in the winter and tree forts in the summer. The latter were carefully woven together from the limbs shorn from poplar trees in the backyard. He and Mike Rodgers took turns being Colonel Thaddeus Gearhart at Fort Russell or William Barrett Travis at the Alamo, respectively. Rodgers liked the idea of acting a young officer dying dramatically as he battled vastly superior numbers.

  The reality of everything August had anticipated was different from the way he had always imagined them.

  The greatest threats against the United States were not from forces outside our borders but from those within. He had seen that when he returned from captivity in Vietnam. There were no honors awaiting him. There was condemnation from many of August’s old acquaintances for having fought in an immoral war. There was condemnation from some corners of the military because August wanted to go back and finish the job he had started. They wanted to bomb the Cong into submission. The melting pot of America had become the melting point. People fighting rather than learning from their differences.

  As for adventure, there was valor but little drama or glory in slaughter and captivity. Death was not big and flamboyant, it was ugly and lonely. The dying did not pause to salute the proud flag of Colorado or Texas but screamed about his wound or cried for a loved one a world away. Fear for himself and his friends made it impossible for August ever to feel anything but unadorned gratification whenever his patrol returned to base.

  At the moment, August was driven by just one force: the battle-seasoned resolve of a professional soldier. Even his survival instinct was not that strong. Most of his unit were dead. Living with that loss was going to be difficult. He wondered, unhappily, if that was why William Barrett Travis had reportedly charged the Mexican army single-handedly at the onset of the battle for the Alamo. Not due to courage but to spare himself the pain of having to watch his command fall.

  August decided this was not the time to think of hopeless charges. He needed to be in the here-and-now and he needed to win.

  Poised behind a jagged-edged boulder twice his size, August watched the narrow, curving ledge just ahead. His visibility was only about fifty yards due to the sharp turn in the ledge. Soon darkness would be a problem. The sun was nearly down and he would have to put on his night-vision goggles. He wanted to wait in order to save the batteries. They might be forced to fight the Indian skirmish line before night’s end.

  Musicant was behind an even larger boulder. It was situated twenty-odd yards to August’s left. Between them the Strikers could set up a crossfire between the end of the ledge and the plateau. No one would be able to get through without identifying themselves and being disarmed, if necessary.

  To August’s right was the TAC-SAT. He had switched the phone from audio to visual signal in order to maintain a position of silent-standing. The visual signal was on dim. If it shined, the light would not be seen from the other side of the boulder.

  A steady wind blew from behind the men. It raised fine particles of ice from the plateau and swept them from the peaks. The icy mist rose in sharp arcs and wide circles, flying high enough to glimmer in the last light of the sun before dropping back to the dark stone. August was glad to see the airborne eddies. They would limit the visibility of anyone coming along the ledge.

  August was crouched against the cold stone when the TAC-SAT flashed. He snatched the receiver without taking his eyes from the ledge.

  “Yes!” he shouted. He had to press a hand against his hood to shut his open ear.

  “Brett, it’s Bob. Anything?”

  “Not yet,” August replied. “What about with you?”

  “We need you to radio Mike,” Herbert said. “We think a splinter cell might be headed toward the Siachin Glacier. Viens is looking for them. In the meantime, Paul wants Mike to head up there.”

  “That’s a helluva trek,” August said.

  “Tell me about it,” Herbert replied. “If there is a separate group, Paul’s afraid Mike will miss them unless he leaves now. Tell Mike that if Viens spots them we’ll pass along their location.”

  “Very good,” August replied. “And if this cell knows anything I’ll let you and Mike know.”

  “Fine,” Herbert said. “I’ve tried to raise them on the radio but they’re not answering. Listen, Brett. If Mike doesn’t think he can do this I want to hear about it.”

  “Do you really think Mike Rodgers would turn down an assignment?” August asked.

  “Never,” Herbert said. “That’s why I need you to listen between the lines. If there’s a problem, tell me.”

  “Sure,” August said.

  August hung up and slipped the radio from the belt. Mike had the best “poker voice” in the United States armed forces. The only way August might find out if he had a problem with a mission was to ask him outright. Even then, Rodgers might not give him an answer.

  Rodgers answered and August gave him Hood’s instructions.

  “Thank you,” Rodgers replied. “I’m on it.”

  “Mike, is it doable without more gear? Herbert wants to know.”

  “If I don’t answer the radio again, it wasn’t,” the general replied.

  “Don’t be an ass-pain,” August warned.

  “If you can feel your ass you’re doing a lot better than I am,”
Rodgers replied.

  “Point, Rodgers,” August told him. “Stay in touch.”

  “You, too,” Rodgers replied.

  August switched the radio to vibrate rather than beep. Then he slipped it back into his belt. He was still watching the ledge. The wind had grown stronger over the past few minutes. The ice crystals were no longer blowing in gentle patterns. They were charging past the boulder in sharp diagonal sheets. The fine particles struck the cliff and bounced off hard at a right angle. They created the illusion of a scrim hanging in front of the ledge.

  Suddenly, a dark shape appeared behind the driving ice. It was blacker than the surrounding amber-black of sunset. It did not appear to be holding a weapon, though it was too dark to be certain.

  August motioned to Musicant, who nodded that he saw it.

  For the colonel the rest of the world, the future, and philosophy vanished. He had only one concern.

  Surviving the moment.

  FORTY-THREE

  The Great Himalaya Range Thursday, 6:57 P.M.

  Sharab had lost all sense of time. She knew that they had been walking for hours but she had no idea how many. The woman’s thighs burned from the struggle of the upward and then downward trek, and her feet were blistered front and back. Every step generated hot, abrasive pain. Sharab did not know how much longer she could continue. Certainly getting down to where she believed the Indian army was situated would be virtually impossible. She would have to find some way of slowing the enemy down from up here.

  The men behind her were not faring any better. They had discarded their flashlights and heavier shoulder-mounted weapons. They had also left behind all but a few of the explosives they planned to use to attract the attention of the Indian soldiers. They’d eaten the food so they would not have to carry it. The water had frozen in their canteens and they had left those behind as well. When they were thirsty they simply broke off the icicles they found in small hollows. All they carried were a rifle with a pocketful of shells as well as a handgun apiece and two extra clips. If there were an army coming toward them, Sharab knew she would not be able to overcome them. All she could hope to do now was draw them off and delay them long enough to give the American, Nanda, and the others a chance to get to Pakistan.