Line of Control

FIFTY-NINE

Ron Friday listened as someone approached. He assumed it was either Rodgers or Samouel.

Probably Rodgers, the NSA operative decided. The go-get'em warrior. The general would have a plan to salvage this mission. Which was fine with Friday. No one wanted a nuclear war. But barring such a plan, Friday also cared about getting the hell off this glacier and into Pakistan. And then from Pakistan to somewhere else. Anywhere that was upwind from the fallout that would blanket the Indian subcontinent.

Friday wanted out of here not because he was afraid to die. What scared him was dying stupidly. Not for a trophy or a jewel but because of a screwup. And right now they were in the middle of a massive screwup. A side trip that should never have happened. All because they had trusted the bureaucrats in Washington and Islamabad.

Friday waited behind the slab. The Indians must have heard the movement too because fresh gunfire pinged around the perimeter. There was not a lot of it. They were obviously conserving ammunition. They fired just enough to keep the person low and on the move.

Friday peered out at the blackness. His own weapon was drawn. His nostrils and lungs hurt from the knife-edged cold. His toes and fingertips were numb, despite the heavy boots and gloves. If he were shot, he wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze.

But most of all Friday was angry. It would not take much for him to point the gun at Rodgers and pull the trigger. The NSA operative was trying to figure out if anything could be gained by surrendering to the Indians. Assuming the Indians would not shoot the group out of hand, they might appreciate the American bringing them one of the terrorists who had attacked the marketplace. Surrender might well trigger the feared Indian nuclear strike against Pakistan. It might also save him from dying here.

The figure arrived. It was Rodgers. He crawled behind the slab and knelt beside Friday.

"What's going on?" Friday asked.

"There might be a way to get Nanda's confession on the air without entering the silo," Rodgers said.

"A silo. Is that what this place is?" Friday asked.

Rodgers ignored the question. "Samouel thinks he saw a satellite dish about ten feet up the slope," Rodgers continued.

"That would make sense," Friday replied.

"Explain," Rodgers said.

"When the flares came on I got a good look at the wall over the entrance," Friday said. "From about ten feet up on this side they'd have a clear shot across the opposite slope."

"That's what I was hoping," Rodgers said. "If there is a dish there, and we can get to the satellite cable, Samouel might be able to splice a connection to the cell phone."

The men heard movement from the other side of the clearing. Friday did not think the Indians would move against them. They would wait for the helicopter to return. But they might try to position themselves to set up a cross fire. If the Indians got Nanda the game was over. So were their own lives.

"We're going to have to get a good look at the dish before we do anything," Friday said.

"Why?" Rodgers asked.

"We need to see where the power source is," Friday said. "This is a good spot for a battery-driven dish. Oil companies use them in icy areas. The power source doubles as a heater to keep the gears from freezing. If that's the case, we don't have to go up to the ledge. We can expose the line anywhere and know it's the communications cable."

"But if the power source is inside the silo we have to get to the dish and figure out which cable it is," Rodgers said.

"Bingo," said Friday.

"I'll tell you what," Rodgers said. "You stay down and keep your eyes on the ledge."

"What are you going to do?"

Rodgers replied, "Get you some light."