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

by Clancy, Tom

  Surviving was also increasingly unlikely. If the Indians did not kill them the elements would.

  Sharab even had some question now whether they would even find this elusive Indian army. They had heard some kind of artillery fire earlier. She wondered if the elite American unit had landed and engaged the enemy. She hoped not. The last thing she wanted was to send the Indians back to the line of control. That would only cause the military to bring in reinforcements. On the other hand, if any of the Americans had managed to land, that was good. They could certainly use the help fighting the Indians.

  Unfortunately, Sharab could not find out what had happened. The radio she had used to communicate with Washington had become such a burden that she had left it behind.

  Particles of wind-blown ice coated her wool hood and clung there. The cold had already numbed her scalp and frozen her sweat-soaked hair. The weight of the hood was such that it kept her head bent forward. That was good. It protected her eyes and cheeks from the sting of the ice pellets.

  Sharab was feeling her way along the cliff and also using it for support. Ali was behind her, holding the hem of her parka. Every now and then she felt a tug as he halted or stumbled. Hassan was behind Ali. Sharab knew he was still there because she could hear him praying.

  As the ledge widened, Sharab heard another sound. At first it sounded like a sudden, sharp quickening of the wind. But then she heard it again, louder. It was not the wind. Someone was shouting.

  Sharab stopped and raised her eyes. She shielded them with her hand and peered ahead.

  The young woman saw a cottage-sized boulder with something large moving behind the right side. Sharab could not make out what it was. She replayed the howl in her mind. Asian black bears and deer did not live this high. Perhaps it was a wild pig or goat.

  It could also be a man.

  It howled again. Sharab pulled off her hood and turned her right ear toward the boulder. She also removed her glove, tucked it in her left pocket, and drew the handgun from her right pocket.

  “Who are you?” the figure shouted.

  Sharab backed away. “Who wants to know?” she shouted back. The woman was surprised at the effort it took to yell. It actually caused her heart to race. Her voice sounded flat in the close, cold air.

  “We are with the man who joined you before,” the other man said. “Where is he?”

  “Which man?” Sharab asked. “There were two.” The man was speaking in English with an American-sounding accent. That was encouraging.

  “We only know about one of them,” the speaker said.

  “What was his name?”

  The man hesitated. Obviously, someone was going to have to make the first move to prove who they were. It was not going to be Sharab.

  “Friday,” the man said.

  Sharab stepped forward again very tentatively. “He is not with us!”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He left,” she replied. “Let’s talk face-to-face.”

  “Come closer with your hands raised,” the American said. The speaker did not step from behind the boulder. It was the woman’s turn to trust him.

  Sharab protected her eyes again and tried to look past the boulder. She saw a second, smaller boulder off to the right but no sign of any other men. There could not be that many soldiers behind the two rocks. But the two boulders would provide good cover for a crossfire.

  Sharab told Hassan and Ali to stay where they were. They nodded. Both men had drawn their weapons and were huddled close to the rock. Ali had moved out slightly to provide her some backup.

  “If anything happens to me, fight your way out of this,” she added. “You must keep the Indian army occupied.”

  The men nodded again.

  The speaker was a few hundred yards away. Sharab did not put her gun away. She raised her hands shoulder-high and began moving toward the nearest boulder. It was difficult to see because of the blowing ice and she had to turn her face toward the side. Her scarf had fallen away and was whipping behind her. The ice particles lashed her flesh. Her cheek felt as if it were on fire. Sharab finally had to lower her left arm to protect it. There was no mountainside to lean against so her sore feet were taking all of her weight. She shambled from side to side to keep from putting all of her weight straight down. At least the terrain was level. That made it easier on her leg muscles.

  Her eyes tearing from wind and pain, Sharab staggered the last few yards to the boulder. She fell against it and her knees just shivered and unlocked. She began to slide down the side. Strong, gloved hands reached around and helped to hold her up. She was still holding the gun. But even if Sharab had wanted to defend herself, her finger was too cold to pull the trigger.

  A man in white winter gear pulled her behind the boulder. He sat her down and used his body to protect her from the wind. He bent close to her ear.

  “Are you the leader?” he asked.

  “First tell me who you are,” Sharab said. She was barely able to say the words. Her lips were trembling.

  “I am Colonel August of the U.S. Striker team,” he said.

  “I am the leader of these FKM fighters,” Sharab replied weakly. She squinted across the dark plateau. She saw another man crouched there.

  “That’s Mr. Musicant, my medic,” August said. “If any of your people need attention, I’ll send him over.”

  “I think we’re all right, except for the cold,” the woman said. “Fingers, feet, mouth.”

  The man leaned nearer. He exhaled hotly on her lips. It felt good. He did it again.

  “How many men have you?” Sharab asked.

  “Three,” he replied.

  She fired him a look. “Just three?”

  He nodded.

  “The sounds we heard—?” she asked.

  “Indian ground fire,” he said. “It took out most of my team. Where is Mr. Friday?”

  “We split the group,” Sharab told him. “He is with the other half. They went in another direction.”

  “Over the glacier?” the colonel asked.

  Sharab nodded.

  “Is that how they’re getting back to Pakistan?” August pressed.

  The woman did not answer immediately. She looked up into his face. He was wearing goggles and she could not see his eyes. His mouth was straight, unemotional. His skin was pale but rough. He was definitely an American and he had seen some hardship.

  “What will you do with the information?” she asked him.

  “The third survivor of our drop landed in the valley,” August replied. “He’ll try and link up with your teammates.”

  “I see,” she said. “Yes. The others are going to try and stay on the glacier until they are home.”

  “Do you have any way of contacting them?” August asked.

  She shook her head.

  “And what were you trying to do?” he asked. “Draw the Indian soldiers away from the other group, toward the northwest ?”

  “Yes,” Sharab said. “We’re carrying explosives. We thought we could attract their attention, maybe cause some rock slides.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” August informed her. “The Indian force is heading toward us. It’ll be pretty tough for them to get up here so we’ll be able to keep them busy while they bring in choppers from the LOC.” August reached for his radio. “Do you and your men need food or water?”

  “Food would be nice,” she admitted.

  August left the radio in his belt. He opened a vest pocket and removed several sticks of jerky. “Give some to your teammates and ask them to join us,” he said as he handed her the flat, wrapped servings. “We should set up a defensive perimeter on this plateau. The Indians saw us come down here. I’m pretty sure that if we wait they’ll come to us. That will give us a chance to rest, especially if they wait until morning to come after us.”

  “All right,” Sharab said.

  She started to stand. August helped her up. As he did, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry about your people.” />
  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “But be consoled,” she said. “Their death in the service of our people will earn them a place in Paradise. ‘The steadfast who do good works, forgiveness and a rich reward await them,’ ” Sharab assured him.

  The American smiled tightly. He left the woman supporting herself against the rock while he retrieved his radio.

  Sharab winced as she put weight back on her swollen feet. She began hobbling back toward the ledge. But at least now she knew one thing that she did not know a few minutes ago.

  The pain would end very soon.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Thursday, 10:30 A.M.

  It had been a grueling ninety minutes for Paul Hood. But then, suffering was relative, he told himself. He was in no physical danger. His children were safe. That helped him to keep his situation in perspective.

  After his disagreement with Bob Herbert, Paul Hood had asked Liz Gordon, Lowell Coffey, Ann Farris, and political liaison Ron Plummer to come to his office. Hood had wanted to tell them what had happened to Striker. He also needed to mobilize them at once. Liz would have to put together grief counselors for Op-Center personnel as well as family members of the fallen Strikers. Coffey would have to be prepared to deal with any legal ramifications that might arise from recovering the bodies. And for the first time in years Ann would have to do nothing. As far as domestic officials and foreign governments were concerned, Op-Center would stand by the original mission profile. The team had been sent into Kashmir at the request of the Indian government to search for nuclear missile sites. Striker had been shot accidentally by Indian soldiers who were looking for the Pakistani terrorists. If Ann owed anyone at one of the major news outlets any favors she could tell them what Op-Center was saying to government officials. That, and nothing more. Ann was thoroughly professional and supportive. If she suspected there was anything wrong between her and Hood she did not show it.

  Only the president had been told the truth. Lawrence and Hood had spoken briefly before the others had come to Hood’s office. The president seemed neither shaken nor pleased by what Hood told him. Lawrence said only that he supported the plan from this point forward. The president’s “no comment” did not surprise Hood. It would give him the room to praise or lambaste the NCMC at the end of the day, depending upon how things went.

  President Lawrence did suggest, however, that the Pakistani ambassador to Washington be told the truth at once. He did not want Islamabad or Ambassador Simathna issuing statements about America’s anti-Muslim activities or pro-India bias. If Mike were to show up with the cell after that it would taint the validity of the operation. It would seem as if America had forced Nanda to lie to repair bridges with Pakistan and the Muslim world.

  Hood gave that job to Ron Plummer. He also wanted Plummer to stay with the ambassador, ostensibly to brief him on all the latest developments. In fact, Hood wanted to make certain the truth did not leak out prematurely. He was afraid that India might respond with a massive strike in the region. Since the terrorists were still on the run, and still being blamed for all the bombings, New Delhi would have the moral high road and world opinion on their side.

  As the meeting was ending Hood received a call from Bob Herbert.

  “I just spoke with Brett August and I’ve got some good news,” Herbert informed him. “He’s linked up with the cell.”

  Hood motioned for Ron Plummer not to leave and to shut the door. The small, slender political liaison closed the door behind Lowell Coffey. Plummer remained standing.

  “Thank God for that,” Hood said. “Bob, Ron’s in here with me. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

  “Okay,” Herbert said. “Anyway, we were right,” he went on. “The Pakistanis did spin off another group. Nanda Kumar and her grandfather are part of it, along with Ron Friday and one Pakistani. And you were correct, Paul. They’re headed across the Siachin Glacier.”

  “Did Brett talk to Mike?” Hood asked.

  “Not yet,” Herbert replied. “They’ve got electrostatic interference from an ice storm on the plateau. Brett says the ice comes in waves. He’s going to keep trying for a window.”

  Hood suddenly felt very guilty about his warm office and fully functional telephone.

  “Paul, I have a suggestion,” Herbert said. “I think we should ask the Pakistanis for help in extracting the teams. After all, it’s their butts we’re hauling out of the fire.”

  “We can’t do that,” Plummer told him.

  “Why not?” Herbert asked.

  “If the situation is as tense as Paul’s described, an incursion by the Pakistani air force would only make it worse. It would give the Indian military more incentive to attack.”

  “At least then it would be a conventional fight,” Herbert said.

  “Not necessarily,” Plummer said, “especially if there are Pakistani silos somewhere in the mountains. Also, we’d be giving Pakistan foreknowledge of a possible nuclear strike. That might encourage Islamabad to hit first.”

  “A jihad,” Hood said.

  “The clerics might call it that,” Plummer said. “For the generals it would simply be a responsible tactical maneuver. The situation is hair-trigger enough without throwing more partisan armies into the fray.”

  “What about the United States sending additional forces into the mountains?” Hood suggested.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Herbert said gravely. “Even if the Joint Chiefs and the president okayed a strike force out of Turkey or the Middle East, it would take hours for them to get there.”

  “There’s one thing I’m missing here,” Plummer said. “Why do we need a military response? Can’t we let India know what their Special Frontier Force unit did? I’m sure that very few government officials knew about the plot to frame the terrorists.”

  “I’m sure it was a very tight conspiracy,” Hood agreed. “The problem is we have no idea who was in it.”

  “Someone is obviously tapped into the Op-Center–New Delhi pipeline,” Herbert said. “How else could they have known about Striker’s mission? Anyway, before the bombing the moderate Indians might have done something. But Kev Custer has been monitoring the TV and radio broadcasts over there. There’s a fast-growing grassroots movement in support of the militants.”

  “Meaning that moderates may be afraid to speak out,” Hood said.

  “Exactly,” Herbert said.

  “What about the United Nations secretary-general?” Plummer said. “You know her, Paul. Forget the bad blood between you. She’s Indian. She’ll have a very good reason to get out the facts about the attack.”

  “Mala Chatterjee?” Herbert said. “She’s so soft on terrorism her speeches turn even bleeding hearts into a lynch mob. She flapped her lips while hostages were being assassinated in the Security Council.”

  “Chatterjee has far too many enemies of her own,” Hood agreed. “At this point her involvement would only make things worse.”

  “I’ll say it again, Paul. Maybe the Russians would be willing to help rein India in,” Herbert said. “They want to be seen as serious peacemakers.”

  “Possibly,” Hood said. “But even if we went to them, wouldn’t time be a problem?”

  “Time and recent history,” Plummer said. “Pakistan has very close ties with Afghanistan. There are still a lot of Russian leaders who would like to see both countries pounded flat.”

  “But a continued stalemate between India and Pakistan means a continued weapons buildup,” Herbert said. “Money talks. New Delhi would still have to buy weapons and matériel from Moscow.”

  “True, but then there’s the point that Paul raised,” Plummer said. “The same debate that we’re having would keep the Kremlin busy for days if not longer. We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “Well, Ron, I’m kind of running dry and getting a little frustrated,” Herbert snapped.

  “And I’m just doing the devil’s advocate thing, Bob,” Plummer replied defensively. “W
e can run some of these proposals up the flagpole in Moscow and at the Pentagon, but I don’t see any of them getting the kind of support we need.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the problem with crisis management instead of crisis prevention,” Hood said sadly. “Once you’re in it there are not a lot of options.”

  “I count exactly one,” Herbert said.

  The intelligence chief was right, of course. With all the resources the United States had at its disposal, there was only one asset standing between India, Pakistan, and a possible nuclear exchange. One asset currently out of touch, underequipped, and on his own.

  General Mike Rodgers.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The Siachin Glacier Thursday, 9:11 P.M.

  During the flight from Washington, Mike Rodgers had read a number of white papers on the Siachin Glacier. The most interesting was written by a Pakistani intelligence officer.

  Dubbed “the world’s highest battleground” by both the Indian and the Pakistani press, the Siachin Glacier has no strategic value. Long claimed by Pakistan, the glacier reaches nearly eighteen thousand feet in height, the temperatures drop below minus thirty-five degrees Celsius, and the nearconstant blizzards and lack of oxygen make the region “subhuman,” as one Indian report put it. No one lives there and no one crosses it on foot.

  The glacier became a war zone in 1984 when Indian intelligence officers began showing up in the region. Their thinking, apparently, was to force Pakistan to assign human resources to the region, thus making them unavailable for war in habitable Kashmir and along the line of control. However, Pakistan discovered the presence of the Indian reconnaissance teams early in the process thanks to a mountaineering advertisement that appeared in an Indian magazine. The full-page ad showed recent photographs of the region without naming it. The text offered experienced climbers excellent compensation and the adventure of a lifetime to help lead tours through “uncharted territories.” Pakistani counterespionage operatives began tracking and capturing the Indian recon teams. The conflict escalated and soon the region was drawing resources from both sides of the dispute. Nearly twenty years later, thousands of troops and aircraft from both sides were assigned to patrol the massive formation.