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

by Clancy, Tom

  A moment later, in a chaotic upheaval of ice and fire, hope ended for Ron Friday.

  SIXTY-NINE

  The Himachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 A.M.

  Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion. It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a stick. It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all sides.

  August watched to see if a contrail rose from the fires. He did not see one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.

  The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided. August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate, part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the chance to avenge his team.

  The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.

  The colonel’s hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear the TAC-SAT when it beeped. Fortunately, August noticed the red light flashing. He unbuttoned the collar that covered his face to the bridge of his nose. Then he turned up the volume on the TAC-SAT before answering. He would need every bit of it to hear Bob Herbert.

  “Yes?” August shouted into the mouthpiece.

  “Colonel, it’s over,” Herbert said.

  “Repeat, please?” August yelled. The colonel thought he heard Herbert say this was over.

  “Mike got the message through,” Herbert said, louder and more articulately. “The Indian LOC troops are being recalled. You will be picked up by chopper at sunrise.”

  “I copy that,” August said. “We saw an explosion to the northeast a minute ago. Did Mike do that?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Herbert said. “We’ll brief you after you’ve been airlifted.”

  “What about the Strikers?” August asked.

  “We’ll have to work on that,” Herbert said.

  “I’m not leaving without them,” August said.

  “Colonel, this is Paul,” Hood said. “We have to determine whose jurisdiction the valley—”

  “I’m not leaving without them,” August repeated.

  There was a long silence. “I understand,” Hood replied.

  “Brett, can you hold out there until around midmorning?” Herbert asked.

  “I will do whatever it takes,” August said.

  “All right,” Herbert told him. “The chopper can pick up Corporal Musicant. I promise we’ll have the situation worked as quickly as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir,” August said. “What are my orders regarding the three Pakistanis?”

  “You know me,” Herbert said. “Now that they’ve served their purpose I’d just as soon you put a bullet in each of their murderous little heads. I’m sure my wife has the road upstairs covered. She’ll make sure the bus to Paradise gets turned back.”

  “Morality aside, there are legal and political considerations as well as the possibility of armed resistance,” Hood cut in. “Op-Center has no jurisdiction over the FKM, and India has made no official inquiries regarding the rest of the cell. They are free to do whatever they want. If the Pakistanis wish to surrender, I’m sure they will be arrested and tried by the Indians. If they turn on you, you must respond however you see fit.”

  “Paul’s right,” Herbert said. “The most important thing is to get you and Corporal Musicant home safely.”

  August said he understood. He told Hood and Herbert that he would accept whatever food and water the chopper brought. After that, he said he would make his way to the Mangala Valley to find the rest of the Strikers.

  Hanging up the TAC-SAT, August rose slowly on coldstiffened legs. He switched on his flashlight and made his way across the ice-covered ledge to where Musicant was stationed. August gave the medic the good news then went back to where Sharab and her two associates were huddled. Unlike the Strikers, they had not undergone cold-weather training. Nor were they dressed as warmly as August and Musicant.

  August squatted beside them. They winced as the light struck them. They reminded the colonel of lepers cowering from the sun. Sharab was trembling. Her eyes were red and glazed. There was ice in her hair and eyebrows. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were bright red. August could not help but feel sorry for her. Her two comrades looked even worse. Their noses were raw and bleeding and they would probably lose their ears to frostbite. Their gloves were so thick with ice that August did not even think they could move their fingers.

  Looking at them, the colonel realized that Sharab and her countrymen were not going to fight them or run anywhere. August leaned close to them.

  “General Rodgers and Nanda completed their mission,” August said.

  Sharab was staring ahead. Her red eyes began to tear. Her exposed mouth moved silently. In prayer, August suspected. The other men hugged her arms weakly and also spoke silent words.

  “An Indian helicopter will arrive at sunup,” August went on. “Corporal Musicant will be leaving on it. I’m going to make my way back to the valley to find the rest of my team. What do you want to do?”

  Sharab turned her tearing eyes toward August. There was deep despair in her gaze. Her voice was gravelly and tremulous when she spoke. “Will America . . . help us . . . to make the case . . . for a Pakistani Kashmir?” she asked.

  “I think things will change because of what happened over the last few days,” August admitted. “But I don’t know what my nation will say or do.”

  Sharab laid an icy glove on August’s forearm. “Will . . . you help us?” she pressed. “They . . . killed . . . your team.”

  “The madness between your countries killed my team,” August said.

  “No,” she said. She gestured violently toward the edge of the plateau. “The men . . . down there . . . killed them. They are godless . . . evil.”

  This was not a discussion August wanted to have. Not with someone who blew up public buildings and peace officers for a living.

  “Sharab, I’ve worked with you to this point,” August said. “I can’t do any more. There will be a trial and hearings. If you surrender, you will have the opportunity to make a strong case for your people.”

  “That will not . . . help,” she insisted.

  “It will be a start,” August countered.

  “And if . . . we go back . . . down the mountain?” the woman asked. “What will you do?”

  “I guess I’ll say good-bye,” he replied.

  “You won’t try . . . to stop us?” Sharab pressed.

  “No,” August assured her. “Excuse me, now. I’m going back to join the rest of my unit.”

  August looked at the defiant Pakistani for a moment longer. The woman’s hate and rage were burning through the cold and physical exhaustion. He had seen determined fighters during his life. The Vietcong. Kurdish resistance fighters. People who were fighting for their homes and families. But this furnace was a terrifying thing to witness.

  Colonel August turned and walked back across the slippery, windswept ridge. Tribunals would be a good start. But it would take more than that to eradicate what existed between the Indians and the Pakistanis. It would take a war like the one they had barely ma
naged to avoid. Or it would take an unparalleled and sustained international effort lasting generations.

  For a sad, transient moment August shared something with Sharab.

  A profound sense of despair.

  SEVENTY

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:10 A.M.

  Paul Hood sat alone in his office. He was looking at his computer, reviewing the comments he planned to make at the ten A.M. Striker memorial.

  As promised, Herbert had persuaded the Indians to bring choppers from the line of control to collect the bodies of the Strikers. The leverage he used was simple. The Pakistanis agreed to stay out of the region, even though they claimed the valley for their own. Herbert convinced New Delhi that it would be a bad idea for Pakistanis to collect the bodies of Americans who had been killed by Indians. It would have made a political statement that neither India nor the United States wished to make.

  Colonel August was in the valley to meet the two Mi-35s when they arrived late Friday afternoon. The bodies had already been collected and lined up beneath their canopies. August stayed with the bodies until they had been flown back to Quantico on Sunday. Then and only then did the colonel agree to go to a hospital. Mike Rodgers was there to meet him.

  Hood and Rodgers had performed too many of these services since Op-Center had first been chartered. Mike Rodgers inevitably spoke eloquently of duty and soldiering. Heroism and tradition. Hood always tried to find a perspective in which to place the sacrifice. The salvation of a country, the saving of lives, or the prevention of war. The men invariably left the mourners feeling hope instead of futility, pride to temper the sense of loss.

  But this was different. More than the lives of the Strikers was being memorialized today.

  New Delhi had publicly thanked Op-Center for uncovering a Pakistani cell. The bodies of three terrorists had been found at the foot of the Himachal Peaks in the Himalayas. They appeared to have slipped from a ledge and plummeted to their deaths. They were identified by records on file at the offices of the Special Frontier Force.

  Islamabad had also publicly thanked Op-Center for helping deter a nuclear strike against Pakistan. Though Indian Defense Minister John Kabir had been named by Major Dev Puri and others as the man behind the plot, Kabir denied the allegations. He vowed to fight any indictments the government might consider handing down. Hood suspected that the minister and others would resign, and that would be the end of it. New Delhi would rather bury the reality of any wrongdoing than give Pakistan a more credible voice in the court of world opinion.

  Hood even got a thank-you call from Nanda Kumar. The young woman called from New Delhi to say that General Rodgers had been a hero and a gentleman. Although he had not been able to save her grandfather, she realized that Rodgers had done everything he could to make the trek easier for him. She said she hoped to visit Hood and Rodgers in Washington when she got out of the hospital. Even though she was technically an Indian intelligence operative, Hood had no doubt that she would get a visa. Nanda’s broadcast had made her an international celebrity. She would spend the rest of her life speaking and writing about her experience. Hood hoped that the twenty-two-year-old was wise beyond her years. He hoped she would use the media access to promote tolerance and peace in Kashmir, and not the agendas of India or Nanda Kumar.

  The praise from abroad was unique. Even when Op-Center succeeded in averting disaster, Hood and his team were typically slammed for their involvement in the internal affairs of another nation—Spain or the Koreas or the Middle East or anywhere else they handled a crisis.

  Despite the praise coming from abroad, Op-Center took several unprecedented hits on the home front. Most of those came from Hank Lewis and the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. They wanted to know why General Rodgers had left the Siachin Glacier without Ron Friday. Why Striker had jumped into a military hot zone during the day instead of at night. Why the NRO was involved in the operation but not the CIA or the full resources of the NSA, which had an operative on-site. Hood and Rodgers had gone over to Capitol Hill to explain everything to Lewis and to Fox and her fellow CIOC members.

  They might just as well have been speaking Urdu. The CIOC had already decided that in addition to the previously discussed downsizing, Op-Center would no longer be maintaining a military wing. Striker would be officially disbanded. Colonel August and Corporal Musicant would be reassigned and General Rodgers’s role would be “reevaluated.”

  Hood was also informed that he would be filing daily rather than semiweekly reports with CIOC. They wanted to know everything that the agency was involved with, from situation analyses to photographic reconnaissance.

  Hood suspected the only thing that protected Op-Center at all was the loyalty of the president of the United States. President Lawrence and United Nations Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee had issued a joint statement congratulating Paul Hood for his group’s nonpartisan efforts on behalf of humanitarianism and world peace. It was not a document the CIOC could ignore, especially after Chatterjee’s bitter denunciation of the way Hood had handled the Security Council crisis. Hood could not imagine the kind of pressure Lawrence must have applied to get that statement. He also wondered how Chatterjee really felt. She was a pacifistic Indian whose nation had tried to start a nuclear war against its neighbor. Unless she was steeped in denial, that had to be difficult for her to reconcile. Hood would not be surprised to hear that she was resigning her post to run for political office at home. That would certainly be a good step toward peace in the region.

  All of which served to make this a very different time, a very different memorial service. It was the last time Paul Hood and the original Op-Center would do anything as teammates. The rest of them would not know that yet.

  But Paul Hood would. He wanted to say something that addressed a new loss they would all soon be feeling.

  He reread the opening line of his testimonial.

  “This is the second family I have lost in as many months . . .”

  He deleted it. The statement was too much about him. Too much about his loss.

  But it did start him thinking. Although he was no longer living with Sharon and the kids, he still felt as though they were together in some way. If not physically then spiritually.

  And then it came to him. Hood knew the line was right because it caught in his throat as he tried to say it.

  Hood typed with two trembling index fingers as he tried to see the computer monitor. It was blurry because he was blinking out tears over what was supposed to be just a job.

  “This I have learned,” he wrote with confidence. “Wherever fate takes any of us, we will always be family. . . .”

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE - Maun, Botswana Monday, 4:53 A.M.

  TWO - Maun, Botswana Monday, 5:19 A.M.

  THREE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:54 A.M.

  FOUR - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:33 A.M.

  FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 4:35 P.M.

  SIX - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:18 A.M.

  SEVEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P.M.

  EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:55 P.M.

  NINE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.

  TEN - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:00 P.M.

  ELEVEN - Paris, France Wednesday, 3:35 A.M.

  TWELVE - Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 9:49 P.M.

  THIRTEEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 5:58 A.M.

  FOURTEEN - Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:00 A.M.

  FIFTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:00 A.M.

  SIXTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:12 A.M.

  SEVENTEEN - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

  EIGHTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 9:55 A.M.

  NINETEEN - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Thursday, 6:00 P.M.

  TWENTY - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 6:46 P.M.

  TWENTY-ONE - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:47 A.M.

  TWENTY-TWO
- Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.

  TWENTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:30 P.M.

  TWENTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:35 P.M.

  TWENTY-FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 12:05 A.M.

  TWENTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:47 P.M.

  TWENTY-SEVEN - Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.

  TWENTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:30 P.M.

  TWENTY-NINE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 A.M.

  THIRTY - Washington, D.C. Friday, 5:03 A.M.

  THIRTY-ONE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 1:30 P.M.

  THIRTY-TWO - South African Airways Flight 7003 Friday, 12:03 P.M.

  THIRTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:00 P.M.

  THIRTY-FOUR - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:07 P.M.

  THIRTY-FIVE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:18 P.M.

  THIRTY-SIX - Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.

  THIRTY-SEVEN - Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:44 P.M.

  THIRTY-EIGHT - Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

  THIRTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

  FORTY - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 4:39 P.M.

  FORTY-ONE - Gaborone, Botswana Friday, 4:40 P.M.

  FORTY-TWO - Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.

  FORTY-THREE - Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:31 P.M.

  FORTY-FOUR - Washington, D.C. Friday, 11:18 A.M.

  FORTY-FIVE - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:20 P.M.

  FORTY-SIX - Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:42 P.M.

  FORTY-SEVEN - Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:00 P.M.

  FORTY-EIGHT - Maun, Botswana Friday, 7:00 P.M.

  FORTY-NINE - Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:05 P.M.