Line of Control

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Paul Hood could not believe that Mike Rodgers had gone this far, worked whatever miracle he had conceived, only to be blown up for something that could be prevented. But to prevent it they would have to reach him. Though Hood, Herbert, and Coffey sat in silence, frustration under the surface was intense. Despite the technology at their disposal, the men were as helpless as if they were living in the Stone Age.

Hood was slumped in his leather seat. He was looking down, humbled by this uncharacteristic sense of helplessness. In the past there had always been another play in the book. Someone they could call for assistance, time to move resources into position, at the very least a means of communication. Not now. And he suspected that Mike or Nanda or the others had used up their guardian spirit quota stopping a nuclear war. Hood did not think it would help to pray for their salvation now. Maybe their lives and the lives of the Strikers were the price they had to pay. Still, Hood did ask quietly that whatever Christian, Hindu, or Muslim entities had gotten them this far would see them a little further. Paul Hood was not ready to lose Mike Rodgers. Not yet.

"Maybe Mike and the girl did their business and left the area," Coffey suggested.

"It's possible," Herbert said. "Knowing Mike, though, he would continue to broadcast for a while. They may have no way of knowing that their message got through."

Coffey scowled.

"Even if they did leave, I'm not sure they would have gone far enough," Herbert went on.

"What do you mean?" Coffey asked.

"It's dark, dead-of-night where they are," Herbert said. "My guess is that after all they've been through, Mike would have wanted to find a place to bunk down until well after sunrise. Let the area warm a little. If anyone was wounded, in whatever went on out there, Mike might have wanted to take time to perform first aid. The bug in the juice is we don't know exactly how much time is left before the blast. Obviously, Mike accessed the silo somehow to make the transmission. The explosives were armed when he moved the slab. That means we're well into the countdown."

"I can't believe those bastards in Pakistan can't shut the process down," Coffey said.

"I do," Herbert replied. "And I'll tell you what's happening right now. I've been thinking about this. I'll bet they put together a network of underground silos out there, all linked by tunnel. Right now the missile is automatically shifting to another site."

"You mean like an underground Scud," Coffey said.

"Exactly like that," Herbert replied. "As soon as it's out of range the silo and whoever found it go kablooey. No evidence of a missile is found among the residue. They can claim it was some kind of shelter for scientists studying the glacier, or soldiers patrolling the region, or whatever they like."

"None of which helps us get Mike out of there," Coffey said gravely.

The phone beeped as Herbert was talking. Hood picked it up. It was Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office.

"Paul, if Mike is still out in the Chittisin Plateau, we've got something on the wide-range camera he should know about," Viens said.

Hood punched on the speakerphone and sat up. "Talk to me, Stephen," he said.

"A couple of minutes ago we saw a blip moving back into the area," Viens said. "We believe it's an Indian Mi-35, possibly the same one they tangled with before. Refueled and back for another round."

While Viens had been speaking, Hood and Herbert swapped quick, hopeful looks. The men did not have to say anything. There was suddenly an option. The question was whether there was time to use it.

"Stephen, stay on the line," Hood said. "And thank you. Thank you very much."

Moving with barely controlled urgency, Herbert scooped up his wheelchair phone and speed-dialed his Indian military liaison.

Hood also did something. Inside, in private.

He speed-dialed a silent word of thanks to whoever was looking after Mike.