Line of Control

THIRTY-SEVEN

Ever since they competed on the baseball diamond back in elementary school, Colonel Brett August always knew that he would rise above his longtime friend Mike Rodgers. August just never expected it would happen quite this way and in a place like this.

Striker's delicately ribbed, white-and-red parachutes opened in quick succession. Each commando was jerked upward as the canopies broke their rapid descent. Some of the Strikers were hoisted higher than the others, depending on the air currents they caught. The wind was running like ribbons among them. Separate streams had been sent upward by the many peaks and ledges below. Though Mike Rodgers had been the last man out of the aircraft the general was in the middle of the group when the canopies had fully unfurled. Brett August ended up being the man on top.

Unfortunately, the view from that height was not what Colonel August had expected.

Almost at once, visibility proved to be a challenge. When the parachute tugged Colonel August up, perspiration from his eyebrows was flung onto the tops of his eyepieces. The sweat froze there. That was a high-altitude problem neither he nor General Rodgers had anticipated when they planned the jump. August assumed that frost was hampering the other Strikers as well. But that was not their greatest problem.

Shortly after jumping, Colonel August had seen the line of Indian soldiers converging in their direction. They were clearly visible, black dots moving rapidly on the nearly white background. He was sure that Rodgers and the others could see them too.

The Strikers knew enough to defend the perimeter once they landed. With the stakes as high as they were the Americans would not surrender. What concerned August was what might happen before they landed. Striker was out of range of ordinary gunfire. But the Indian soldiers had probably left the line of control well prepared. They were expecting to fight an enemy that might be positioned hundreds of meters away, on high ledges or remote cliffs. The Indian infantrymen would be armed accordingly.

There was no way for the colonel to communicate with the other members of the team. He hoped that they saw the potential threat and were prepared for action when they landed.

Assuming they did land.

As the seconds passed the descent proved more brutal than August had expected.

Seen from the belly of a relatively warm aircraft, the mountains had been awe-inspiring. Brown, white, and pale blue, the peaks glided slowly by like a caravan of great, lumbering beasts. But seen from beneath a bucking parachute shroud those same mountains rose and swelled like breaching sea giants, frightening in their size and rapid approach. The formations practically doubled in size every few seconds. Then there was the deafening sound. The mountains bellowed at the intruders, roaring with mighty winds that they snatched from the sky and redirected with ease. August did not just hear every blast of air, he felt it. The wind rose from the peaks two thousand feet below and rumbled past him. The gales kicked the shroud up and back, to the north or east, to the south or west, constantly spinning the parachute around. The only way to maintain his bearings was to try and keep his eyes on the target whichever way he was twisted. He hoped the winds would abate at the lower altitudes so that he and the other Strikers could guide their chutes to a landing. Hopefully, the peaks would shield them from the Indian soldiers long enough to touch down and regroup.

The mountains rushed toward them relentlessly. The lower the Strikers went the faster the sharp-edged peaks came toward them. The colors sharpened as the team penetrated the thin haze. The swaying of the chutes seemed to intensify as the details of the peaks became sharper. That was an illusion but the speed with which the crags were approaching was not. Three of the soldiers around him were on-course and had a good chance of reaching the plateau. The others would have to do some careful maneuvering to make it. Two were in danger of missing the mountain altogether and continuing into the valley below. August could not tell which Strikers were in danger since the winds had lifted some of the chutes more than others and thrown them out of jump order. Whoever they were they would have to contact the rest of the team by radio and link up as soon as possible.

As they neared to within one thousand feet of the target, August heard a faint popping sound under the screaming wind. His back was facing the Indian infantry so he could not be certain the sound came from them.

A moment later August was sure.

The air around them filled with black-and-white cloud-bursts. They were flak rockets used against low-flying aircraft. The shells were fired from shoulder-mounted launchers like the Blowpipe, the standard one-man portable system of the Indian army. They fired metal pellets in all directions around them. Within a range of twenty-five meters, the fifty-seven shots in each shell hit with the force of.38-caliber bullets.

August had never been so helpless in his life. He watched as the first shell popped among the parachutists. It was followed moments later by another, then by one more. The canopies obscured his view of the Strikers themselves. But he saw how close the bursts came. There was no way his people were not being peppered with the hollow steel shells.

It did not occur to August that the shrapnel could take him down. Or that he could miss the plateau.

He forgot the cold and the wind and even the mission.

All that mattered was the well-being of his team. And there was nothing he could do to ensure their safety right now. August's eyes had darted from canopy to canopy as the rockets burst around them. Five of the lowest shrouds were heavily perforated within seconds. They folded into their own centers and dropped straight down. A moment later the chutes turned up, like inverted umbrellas, as the Strikers below dragged them through free fall.

Two parachutes in the middle of the group were also damaged. They dropped with their cargo onto another two canopies directly below. The shrouds became tangled in the swirling winds. The lines knit and the jumpers spun with increasing speed toward the valley below.

Even if the soldiers themselves had not been hit by shrapnel there was no way for them to survive the fall. August screamed in frustration. His cry merged with the wailing wind and filled the sky above him.

The attack left just himself and three Strikers still aloft. August did not know who they were. He did not know if they had been struck or if they were even alive. At least now they were below the line of the intervening mountains. They were safe from additional ground fire.

There was a fourth burst. It exploded white-and-black above and in front of August. He felt two punches, one in the chest and another in his left arm. He looked down at his chest. There was dull pain but no blood. Perhaps the vest had protected him. Or perhaps the colonel was bleeding underneath the fabric. He did not feel anything after the initial hit and his heart rate seemed the same. Both good signs. In his heart he was too sick over the Strikers he had just lost to care. But he knew he had to care. He had to survive to complete this mission. Not just for his country and the millions of lives in the balance, but for the soldiers and friends whose lives had just been sacrificed.

There were only a few hundred feet to the plateau. He watched as two of the Strikers landed there. The third missed by several meters, despite the efforts of one of the commandos to grab him. August used the guidelines to maneuver toward the cliff wall. He was descending rapidly but he would still rather hit the peak than miss the ledge.

August's left arm began to sting but he kept his attention on the cliff. He had dropped below the mountaintops. The tors were no longer hazards. They were once again towering, stationary peaks that surrounded and protected him from Indian fire. The enemy now was the valley on two sides of the plateau and the outcroppings of rock that could snap his back if he hit one. The updraft from the cliff slowed August, allowing him to guide the parachute down. He decided to stick close to the steep cliff and literally follow it down, thus avoiding the sharp outcroppings toward the center. Every time the wind would brush him toward the valley he would swing himself against the rock wall. The air rushing up the cliff gave him extra buoyancy. August hit the plateau hard and immediately jettisoned the chute. The shroud crumpled and scooted across the ledge, catching on a three-meter-tall boulder and just hanging there.

Before examining himself for injuries, Brett August stripped off his mask and mouthpiece. The air was thin but breathable. August looked across the plateau for the other Strikers. Medic William Musicant and Corporal Ishi Honda were the two who had made it. Both men were near the edge of the plateau. Musicant was on his knees beside the radio operator. The medic had removed the compact medical belt he wore. Honda was not moving.

The colonel got to his feet and made his way over. As he did he felt his chest under his vest. It was dry. The pellet had not gone through the garment. His arm was bleeding but the freezing air had slowed the flow considerably. He ignored the wound for now. Try as he might he could not clear his mind of the other Strikers. Sondra DeVonne. Walter Pupshaw. Mike. The others.

He concentrated on the Strikers who were just a few meters away. And he forced himself to think about what was next. He still had his weapons and he had his assignment. He had to link up with the Pakistani cell.

As August reached the men he did not have to ask how Honda was. The radio operator was panting hard as blood pumped from beneath his vest. The medic was trying to clean two small, raw wounds on Honda's left side. August could not see Honda's dark eyes behind his tinted eyepieces. The frost had evaporated and misted them over.

"Is there anything I can do?" August asked Musicant.

"Yeah," the medic said urgently. "There's a portable intravenous kit in compartment seven and a vial of atropine sulfate in twelve. Get them. Also the plasma in eight. He's got two more holes in his back. I've got to get him plugged and stabilized."

The colonel removed the items. He began setting up the IV. From triage classes he remembered that the atropine sulfate was used to diminish secretions, including blood loss. That would help stabilize the patient if there were internal bleeding.

"Is your arm all right, sir?" Musicant asked.

"Sure," August said. "Who was that you tried to reach at the ledge?"

"General Rodgers," the medic replied.

August perked. "Was the general wounded?"

"He appeared to be okay," Musicant replied. "He was reaching out, trying to get over a few feet more. The goddamn current grabbed his chute. I couldn't get to him."

Then it was possible that Rodgers had survived. August would try and contact him by point-to-point radio.

"After the IV is ready you'd better try and get in touch with those Indian soldiers," Musicant suggested. "If I can stabilize Ishi we'll need to get him to a hospital."

August finished setting up the small IV tripod beside Honda. Then he uncapped the needle. He would use Honda's radio to contact Op-Center and brief them. He would give Herbert their position and ask him to relay a call for medical assistance. But that was all he would do. He and Musicant could not wait here, however. They still had a mission to complete.

When the IV setup was finished August reached for Honda's TAC-SAT. Musicant had already removed the pack and set it aside. The reinforced backpack had taken some hits along one side but the telephone itself appeared to be undamaged. August wondered if Honda had taken pains to protect it, even at the cost of his own life.

Just then, Corporal Honda began to convulse.

"Shit!" Musicant said.

August watched as the radio operator coughed. Flecks of blood spattered his cheek.

"Ishi, hang on," Musicant yelled. "You can do it. Give me another minute, that's all I'm asking."

Honda stopped panting and coughing. His entire body relaxed.

"Take off his vest!" Musicant yelled. Then the medic grabbed for his medical belt and reached into one of the pockets. He withdrew a hypodermic and a vial of epinephrine.

Colonel August began unfastening Honda's vest. As he bent over the stricken soldier he noticed a stream of red seeping out from between the noncom's spread legs. Honda had to have been losing blood at an incredibly fast pace for it to pool that far down.

August watched as the blood crept to below Honda's knees. When the colonel pulled the vest away he found the front underside to be sticky with blood. The pellets from the Indian projectiles had gone up the corporal's torso through his lower back and emerged through his chest. Honda must have been near ground zero of one of the blasts.

Musicant knelt beside Ishi Honda. The medic spread his knees wide so he was steady beside the patient. Then he pulled aside Honda's bloody shirt and injected the stimulant directly into Honda's heart. August held the radio operator's hand. It was cold and still. Blood continued to pool on the ledge. Musicant leaned back on his heels and waited. Honda did not respond. His face was ashen from more than just the cold. The colonel and the medic watched for a moment longer.

"I'm sorry," Musicant said softly to the dead man.

"He was a good soldier and a brave ally," August said.

"Amen," Musicant replied.

August realized how tightly he was holding Honda's hand. He gently released it. August had lost friends in Vietnam. The emotional territory was bitterly familiar. But he had never lost nearly an entire squad before. For August, that loss was all there in the still, young face before him.

Musicant rose and had a look at August's arm. August was surprised how warm the last few minutes had left him. Now that the drama had ended his heart was slowing and blood flow was severely reduced. The cold would set in quickly. They had to move out soon.

While Musicant cleaned and bandaged the wound the colonel turned to the TAC-SAT. He entered his personal access code and the unit came on. Then he entered Bob Herbert's number. As August waited to be connected he removed the radio from his equipment vest.

He placed another call.

One that he prayed would be received.