Line of Control

THIRTY-NINE

During the Strikers' descent, the AN-12 had made a quick turn to the south. A powerful downdraft from the fast-departing transport had driven Mike Rodgers toward the center of the parachutists. As a result, he was protected from the main thrust of the flak attack. But Rodgers had heard the explosions. He had seen the results as his teammates fell around him. By the time the general had guided himself toward the target, only he and one other striker were still aloft. Despite the heroic efforts of one of the strikers on the ledge, Rodgers had failed to reach the plateau. He had struck his shins and then his right hip and torso on the ledge. Fortunately, his equipment vest took the brunt of the chest hit. But Rodgers was dropping too fast and was not able to hold on. He was also unable to see what happened to the last aloft teammate. At least that chute was on the correct side of the plateau. If he or she were able to disengage from the chute it would probably be all right.

As the rock target disappeared from view, Rodgers studied the terrain immediately below. He had not given up trying to join the others and looked for a ledge he could reach. Unfortunately, Rodgers could not stay as close to the mountain as he would have liked. There were so many rough outcroppings that he ran the risk of snagging and ripping the parachute. Reluctantly, he made the decision to ride the chute to the valley.

While Rodgers descended, he looked for signs of other parachutes below. He had seen the Strikers fall and did not think any of them could have survived the plunge. If he were able to land near them he could be certain. Rodgers refused to think about the soldiers who were almost certainly lost. There would be time to grieve later. All that mattered now was the mission and Rodgers had to find a way of getting back into it.

The currents diminished the lower Rodgers dropped. As he descended into the valley the shroud stopped its side-to-side swaying. The officer hung as straight as a plumb line, protected by the mountains from the fierce winds that raced through the outer range. He floated down through the wispy clouds.

Rodgers glanced at his large, luminous watch. He had been aloft for nearly fifty minutes. He was at a low enough altitude to remove his breathing apparatus and goggles. He strapped them to his belt. The water vapor in the clouds condensed on Rodgers's exposed face. It cooled the hot perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, invigorating him. Below him the clouds began to thin. He could see the terrain rushing up.

This was not going to be easy.

Technically, the formation below was a valley. It was an elongated lowland between two mountain ranges. A shallow, fast-running river cut through the center. To Mike Rodgers, however, the small, barren formation was just a rocky depression in the rugged foothills. The sloping, sharp-edged terrain made a soft landing impossible and a safe landing problematic at best. At least the air was calm. He could work the chute to try to avoid the most precarious spots.

As he dropped under the last level of clouds he saw the first of the Striker parachutes. It was bunched like an orchid in the middle of the river. The Striker was apparently below it. A moment later Rodgers saw the other chutes. Two of them were tangled together at the foot of one of the mountains. The Strikers were sprawled beside them. Their cold-weather outfits were smeared with blood. He saw the fourth Striker beyond and above them. The canopy was caught on a small outcropping about thirty feet up. Sondra DeVonne was suspended close beneath it. She was rocking gently at the end of the shroud lines.

Don't think about this now, Rodgers warned himself. He had to look ahead, at the cause for which these soldiers had sacrificed their lives. Otherwise there would be many more casualties.

Further beyond, to the south, he saw smoke curling up from behind a turn in the valley. Something had either exploded or crashed there. He did not think it was the AN-12. If the aircraft had been hit, the Strikers probably would have heard and certainly would have seen it go down. He glanced briefly to the north. He could see the foot of the glacier ahead. That was why this valley was so damned cold. The glacier had probably cracked this place from the mountains eons ago.

The ground was coming up quickly. As much as he did not want to hit the slopes, Rodgers did not want to land in the water. With the sun setting, his suit would freeze in a matter of minutes. He also did not want to hit one of the ragged slopes bordering the river. That was a good way to rip his cold-weather uniform or break some bones. Unfortunately, the cliffs tapered so sharply toward the river there was not much of a bank to land on.

That left him one other option. It was one that Rodgers did not want to take. But the choices in war were never easy. The general made his decision and forced it to go down.

Rodgers guided himself toward the downed parachute that had blossomed in the lake. The fabric straddled the shore on the eastern side. There were glints of ice around the edges still in the water. The shroud looked as though it would be stiff enough to take his fall without dumping him into the river. Hopefully, Rodgers would be able to stay on his feet and jump to the narrow shore before the canopy folded altogether.

With just seconds to impact, Rodgers positioned himself over the chute. On one side he could see an arm lying underwater. The flesh was blue-white. Rodgers did not want to land on the Striker's body. He kept his eyes on the other side of the canopy.

The target site loomed larger and larger. Its rapid approach created the distinct sensation that gravity had really grabbed Rodgers. Now he felt as if he were falling, not floating.

Rodgers landed lightly on the canopy. The rigid fabric gave in the middle where he landed, but the fringes remained flat. Rodgers managed to remain on his feet. He immediately popped his chute and let it blow away. He turned to the side nearest the shore. It took just over a second for the canopy to sink enough for water to begin flowing over the sides. By that time Rodgers had stridden several steps and leaped over the water to solid ground. The foot of the brownish-white granite cliff was less than four feet away. Rodgers walked toward it so that he could see further along the valley.

Landing on the shroud had caused it to drift slightly downriver. As Rodgers looked back he saw a body lying facedown underwater. The dead Striker's clothing was bloated by the water. The shroud lines were the only things moving.

Rodgers did not move him. He did not have time. He reached into his equipment vest and opened a flap to retrieve his radio.

At least, what was left of it.

Mike Rodgers looked at the unit in his gloved hand. The faceplate was shattered. Yellow and green wires were sticking up from the cracked plastic. Several shards of black casing along with broken chips were rattling in the bottom of the radio. The unit must have been damaged when Rodgers's right side collided with the ledge.

Rodgers glanced at the dead striker's equipment vest. The radio pouch was underwater. Even if he took off his uniform to keep it dry and retrieved the radio, it was not likely to work. He looked downriver at the tangled parachutes of the other two Strikers. The partly inflated canopies were rolling back and forth in the brisk wind. The bodies beyond were on the narrow, rocky stretch of dry land on his side of the river. Rodgers jogged toward them. His right side and his leg hurt but he refused to let that slow him down.

Private Terry Newmeyer and Corporal Pat Prementine lay inert at the other end of the chutes. Newmeyer was on his right side. Rodgers gently rolled him to his back. His uniform and cheek were soaked with thick, nearly frozen blood. Like his body, Newmeyer's radio was crushed. It looked as if it had caught a piece of shrapnel. The general gave the dead man's shoulder a gentle pat then moved over to Prementine. The corporal was sprawled on his back. One eye was shut, the other was half-open. Prementine's left arm was lying across his chest, the right was twisted beneath him. But his radio seemed intact. Removing it from the pouch, Rodgers turned toward the valley wall. As he walked toward the cliff, the general switched the radio on. The red light on the top right corner glowed. At least something else in this goddamn valley was still alive, Rodgers thought bitterly.

The general raised the radio to his lips. He pressed "speak."

And he hoped the Indian army was not monitoring this frequency.