by Clancy, Tom
That was not a sentiment Ron Friday seemed to share.
Friday had stayed several paces behind Rodgers, Apu, and Nanda. Samouel continued to hold the point position, turning the flashlight on at regular intervals. At just under an hour into the trek, Friday stepped beside Rodgers. He was panting, his breath coming in wispy white bursts.
“You realize you’re risking the rest of this mission by dragging him along,” Friday said.
Though the NSA operative spoke softly, his voice carried in the still, cold air. Rodgers was certain that Nanda had heard.
“I don’t see it that way,” Rodgers replied.
“The delay is exponential,” Friday continued. “The longer it takes the weaker we become, slowing us down even more.”
“Then you go ahead,” Rodgers said.
“I will,” he said. “With Nanda. Across the border.”
“No,” she said emphatically.
“I don’t know why you’re both so willing to trust those bastards in Washington,” Friday went on. “We’re at our closest approach to the border. It’s just about twenty or thirty minutes north of here. Troops have probably been pulled out to man the incursion line.”
“Some,” Rodgers agreed. “Not all.”
“Enough,” Friday replied. “Heading there makes more sense than going another hour northeast to God-knows-where.”
“Not to the guys we report to,” Rodgers reminded him.
“They’re not here,” Friday shot back. “They don’t have on-site intelligence. They aren’t in our shoes.”
“They’re not field personnel,” Rodgers pointed out. “This is one of the things we trained for.”
“Blind, stupid loyalty?” Friday asked. “Was that also part of your training, General?”
“No. Trust,” Rodgers replied. “I respect the judgment of the men I work with.”
“Maybe that’s why you ended up with a valley full of dead soldiers,” Friday said.
Mike Rodgers let the remark go. He had to. He did not have the time or extra energy to break Friday’s jaw.
Friday continued to pace Rodgers. The NSA agent shook his head. “How many disasters have to bite a military guy in the ass before he takes independent action?” he asked. “Hell, Herbert isn’t even a superior officer. You’re taking orders from a civilian.”
“And you’re pushing it,” Rodgers said.
“Let me ask you something,” Friday went on. “If you knew you could cross the line of control and get Nanda to a place where she could broadcast her story, would you disobey your instructions?”
“No,” Rodgers replied.
“Why?”
“Because there may be a component to this we’re not aware of,” Rodgers replied.
“Like what?” Friday asked.
“A ‘for instance’?” Rodgers said. “You flew out here with an Indian officer instead of waiting for us to join the cell, against instructions. Well, you hate taking orders. Maybe you were being headstrong. Or maybe you’re working with the SFF. It could be that if we follow your short hop toward the border we’ll end up not reaching Pakistan at all.”
“That’s possible,” Friday admitted. “So why didn’t I cut you down back at the valley? That would have made certain I get things my way.”
“Because then Nanda would have known she’s a dead woman,” Rodgers told him.
“Can you guarantee that won’t happen if she crawls across a glacier with you?”
Rodgers did not answer. Friday had a sharp, surgical mind. Anything the general said would be sculpted to support Friday’s point of view. Then it would be fired back at him. Rodgers did not want to do anything that might fuel doubts in Nanda’s mind.
“Think about this,” Friday continued. “We’re following the directions of Washington bureaucrats without knowing where we’re going or why. We’ve been running across the mountains for hours without food or rest. We may not even reach the target, especially if we carry each other around. Have you considered the possibility that’s the plan?”
“Mr. Friday, if you want to cross the line of control you go ahead,” Rodgers told him.
“I do,” Friday said. He leaned in front of Rodgers. He looked at Nanda. “If she goes with me, I’ll get her to Pakistan and safety.”
“I’m staying with my grandfather,” the woman said.
“You were ready to leave him before,” Friday reminded her.
“That was before,” she said.
“What changed your mind?”
“You,” she replied. “When my grandfather was kneeling and you walked over to him.”
“I was going to help him,” Friday said.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “You were angry.”
“How do you know?” he asked. “You couldn’t see me—”
“I could hear your footsteps on the ice,” she said.
“My footsteps?” Friday said disdainfully.
“We used to sit in the bedroom and listen to the Pakistanis on the other side of the door,” Nanda told him. “We couldn’t hear what they were saying but I always knew what they were feeling by how they walked across the wooden floor. Slow, fast, light, heavy, stop and start. Every pattern told us something about each individual’s mood.”
“I was going to help him,” Friday repeated.
“You wanted to hurt my grandfather,” Nanda said. “I know that.”
“I don’t believe this,” Friday said. “Never mind your grandfather. Millions of people may go to hell because of something you did and we’re talking about footsteps.”
Mike Rodgers did not want to become involved in the debate. But he did not want it to escalate. He also was not sure, at this point, whether he even wanted Ron Friday to stay. Rodgers had worked with dozens of intelligence operatives during his career. They were lone wolves by nature but they rarely if ever disregarded instructions from superiors. And never as flagrantly as this. One of the reasons they became field operatives was the challenge of executing orders in the face of tremendous odds.
Ron Friday was more than just a loner. He was distracted. Rodgers suspected that he was driven by a different agenda. Like it or not, that might be something he would have to try to figure out.
“We’re going to save Nanda’s grandfather as well as those millions of people you’re concerned about,” Rodgers said firmly. “We’ll do that by going northeast from here.”
“Damn it, you’re blind!” Friday shouted. “I’ve been in this thing from the start. I was in the square when it blew up. I had a feeling about the dual bombers, about the involvement of the SFF, about the double-dealing of this woman.” He gestured angrily at Nanda. “It’s the people who pull the strings you should doubt, not a guy who’s been at ground zero from the start.”
Friday was losing it. Rodgers did not want to waste the energy to try to stop him. He also wanted to see where the rant would lead. Angry men often said too much.
Friday fired up his torch again. Rodgers squinted in the light. He slowed as Friday got in front of them and faced them.
“So that’s it, then?” Friday said.
“Get out of the way,” Rodgers ordered.
“Bob Herbert barks, Mike Rodgers obeys, and Op-Center takes over the mission,” Friday said.
“Is that what this is about?” Rodgers asked. “Your résumé?”
“I’m not talking about credit,” Friday said. “I’m talking about what we do for a living. We collect and use information.”
“You do,” Rodgers said.
“Fine, yes. I do,” Friday agreed. “I put myself in places where I can learn things, where I can meet people. But we, our nation, need allies in Pakistan, in the Muslim world. If we stay on this glacier we are still behind Indian lines. That buys us nothing.”
“You don’t know that,” Rodgers said.
“Correct,” Friday said. “But I do know that if we go to Islamabad, as Americans who saved Pakistan from nuclear annihilation, we create new avenues of intelligence and
cooperation in that world.”
“Mr. Friday, that’s a political issue, not a tactical military concern,” Rodgers said. “If we’re successful then Washington can make some of those inroads you mention.”
With Apu still clinging to him, Rodgers started moving around Friday. The NSA operative put out a hand and stopped him.
“Washington is helpless,” Friday said. “Politicians live on the surface. They are actors. They engage in public squabbles and posturing where the populace can watch and boo or cheer. We are the people who matter. We burrow inside. We make the tunnels. We control the conduits.”
“Mr. Friday, move,” Rodgers said.
This was about personal power. Rodgers had no time for that.
“I will move,” Friday said. “With Nanda, to the line of control. Two people can make it across.”
Rodgers was about to push past him when he felt something. A faint, rapid vibration in the bottoms of his feet. A moment later it grew more pronounced. He felt it crawl up his ankles.
“Give me the torch!” he said suddenly.
“What?” Friday said.
Rodgers leaned around Friday. “Samouel—don’t turn on the light!”
“I won’t,” he said. “I feel it!”
“Feel what?” Nanda said.
“Shit,” Friday said suddenly. He obviously felt it too and knew what it meant. “Shit.”
Rodgers pulled the torch from Friday. The NSA agent was surprised and did not struggle to keep it. Rodgers held the torch above his head and cast the light around him. There was a mountain of ice to the right, about four hundred yards away. It stretched for miles in both directions. The top of the formation was lost in the darkness.
Rodgers handed the torch to Nanda.
“Go to that peak,” he said. “Samouel! Follow Nanda!”
Samouel was already running toward them. “I will!” he shouted.
“My grandfather—!” Nanda said.
“I’ll take him,” Rodgers assured her. He looked at Friday.
“You wanted power? You’ve got it. Protect her, you son of a bitch.”
Friday turned and half-ran, half-skated across the ice after Nanda.
Rodgers leaned close to Apu’s ear. “We’re going to have to move as fast as possible,” he said. “Hold tight.”
“I will,” Apu replied.
The men began shuffling as quickly as possible toward the peak. The vibrations were now strong enough to shake Rodgers’s entire body. A moment later, the beat of the rotors was audible as the Indian helicopter rolled in low over the horizon.
FIFTY-THREE
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:53 A.M.
The powerful Russian-made Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter soared swift and low over the glacier. Its two-airman crew kept a careful watch on the ice one hundred and fifty feet beneath them. They were flying at low light so the chopper could not be easily seen and targeted from the ground. Radar would keep them from plowing into the towers of ice. Helmets with night-vision goggles as well as the low altitude would allow them to search for their quarry.
The Mi-35 is the leading attack helicopter of the Indian air force. Equipped with under-nose, four-barrel large-caliber machine guns and six antitank missiles, it is tasked with stopping all surface force operations, from full-scale attacks to infiltration.
The aircrew was pushing the chopper to move as quickly as possible. The men did not want to stay out any longer than necessary. Even at this relatively low level the cold on the glacier was severe. Strong, sudden winds whipping from the mountains could hasten the freezing of hoses and equipment. Ground forces were able to stop and thaw clogged lines or icy gears. Helicopter pilots did not have that luxury. They tended to find out about a problem when it was too late, when either the main or the tail rotor suddenly stopped turning.
Fortunately, the crew was able to spot “the likely target” just seventy minutes after taking off. The copilot reported the find to Major Puri.
“There are five persons running across the ice,” the airman said.
“Running?” Major Puri said.
“Yes,” reported the airman. “They do not appear to be locals. One of them is wearing a high-altitude jump outfit.”
“White?” Puri asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s one of the American paratroopers,” Puri said. “Can you tell who is with him?”
“He is helping someone across the ice,” the airman said. “That person is wearing a parka. There are three people ahead. One is in a parka, two are wearing mountaineering gear. I can’t tell the color because of the night-vision lenses. But it appears dark.”
“The terrorist who was killed in the mountain cave was wearing a dark blue outfit,” Puri said. “I have to know the color.”
“Hold on,” the airman replied.
The crew member reached for the exterior light controls on the panel between the seats. He told the pilot to shut down his night-vision glasses for a moment. Otherwise the light would blind him. The pilot and copilot disengaged their goggles and raised them. The copilot turned the light on. The windshield was filled with a blinding white glow reflected from the ice. The airman retrieved his binoculars from a storage compartment in the door. His eyes shrunk to slits as he picked out one of the figures and looked at his clothing.
It was dark blue. The airman reported the information to Major Puri.
“That’s one of the terrorists,” the major said. “Neutralize them all and report back.”
“Repeat, sir?” the airman said.
“You have found the terrorist cell,” Major Puri said. “You are ordered to use lethal force to neutralize them—”
“Major,” the pilot interrupted. “Will there be a confirming order from base headquarters?”
“I am transmitting an emergency command Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight,” Puri said. “That is your authorization.”
The pilot glanced at his heads-up display while the copilot input the code on a keyboard located on the control panel. The onboard computer took a moment to process the data. Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight was the authorization code of Defense Minister John Kabir.
“Acknowledge Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight authorization,” the pilot replied. “We are proceeding with the mission.”
A moment later the pilot slid his goggles back into place. The copilot switched the exterior lights off and replaced his own night-vision optics. Then he descended through one hundred feet to an altitude of fifty feet. He flipped the helmet-attached gunsights over his night-vision glasses, slipped his left hand onto the joystick that controlled the machine gun, and bore down on the fleeing figures.
FIFTY-FOUR
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 12:55 A.M.
Mike Rodgers’s arm was hooked tightly around Apu’s back as he looked out on terrain that was lit by the glow of the helicopter’s light. The American watched helplessly as Nanda fell, slid, and then struggled to get up.
“Keep moving!” Rodgers yelled. “Even if you have to crawl, just get closer to the peaks!”
That was probably the last thing Rodgers would get to say to Nanda. The rotor of the approaching chopper was getting louder every instant. The heavy drone drummed from behind and also bounced back at them from the deeply curved slope of ice ahead.
Ron Friday was several paces ahead of Nanda and Samouel was in front of him. Before the lights from the helicopter were turned off, Rodgers saw both men look back then turn and help the young woman. Friday was probably helping her to further his own cause of intelligence control or whatever he had been raving about. Right now, however, Mike Rodgers did not care what Ron Friday’s reasons were. At least the man was helping her.
Friday was wearing treaded boots that gave him somewhat better footing than Nanda. As the lights went out, Friday scooped the woman up, tugged her to her feet, and pulled her toward the peak.
Though the ice was dark again Rodgers knew they were not invisible. The aircrew was certainly equipped with infrared equipment. That meant the nose gun
would be coming to life very soon. Rodgers had one hope to keep them alive. The plan required them to keep going.
An instant later the nose gun began to hammer. The air seemed to become a solid mass as the sound closed in on all sides. Rodgers felt the first bullets strike the ice behind him. He pulled Apu down and they began to roll and slide down the incline, parallel to the icy wall.
Hard chips of ice were dislodged by bullets hitting the ice. Rodgers heard the “chick” of the strikes then felt hot pain as the small, sharp shards stung his face and neck. Time slowed as it always did in combat. Rodgers was aware of everything. The cold air in his nose and on the nape of his neck. The warm perspiration along the back of his thermal T-shirt. The smell and texture of Apu’s wool parka as Rodgers gripped him tightly, pulling him along. The fine mist of surface ice kicked up as he and Apu rolled over it. That was to be the means of their salvation. Perhaps it would still help Nanda and Ron Friday. Rodgers stepped out of himself to savor all the sensations of his eyes, his ears, his flesh. For in these drawn-out moments the general had a sense that they would be his last.
The two men hit a flat section of ice and stopped skidding. The fusillade stopped.
“On your knees!” Rodgers shouted.
The men were going to have to crawl in another direction. It would take the gunner an instant to resight the weapon. Rodgers pulled Apu onto his knees. The two men had to be somewhere else when fire resumed.
The men were crouching and facing one another in the dark. Apu was kneeling and half-leaning against Rodgers’s chest. Suddenly, the farmer clutched the general’s shoulders. He pushed forward. With nothing behind him, Rodgers fell back with Apu on top of him.
“Save Nanda,” Apu implored.
The gunning restarted. It chewed up the ice and then drilled into the back of the farmer. Apu hugged Rodgers as the bullets dug into the older man’s flesh. The wounds sent damp splashes onto Rodgers’s face. He could feel the thud of each bullet right through the man’s body. Rodgers reflexively tucked his chin into his chest, bringing his head under Apu’s face. He could hear the man grunt as the bullets struck. They were not cries of pain but the forced exhalation of air as his lungs were punctured from behind. Apu was already beyond pain.
