Line of Control

THIRTY

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 forward-facing 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 are 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.