Line of Control

SIXTY-NINE

Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion. It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a stick. It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all sides.

August watched to see if a contrail rose from the fires. He did not see one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.

The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided. August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate, part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the chance to avenge his team.

The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.

The colonel's hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear the TAC-SAT when it beeped. Fortunately, August noticed the red light flashing. He unbuttoned the collar that covered his face to the bridge of his nose. Then he turned up the volume on the TAC-SAT before answering. He would need every bit of it to hear Bob Herbert.

"Yes?" August shouted into the mouthpiece.

"Colonel, it's over," Herbert said.

"Repeat, please?" August yelled. The colonel thought he heard Herbert say this was over.

"Mike got the message through," Herbert said, louder and more articulately. "The Indian LOC troops are being recalled. You will be picked up by chopper at sunrise."

"I copy that," August said. "We saw an explosion to the northeast a minute ago. Did Mike do that?"

"In a manner of speaking," Herbert said. "We'll brief you after you've been airlifted."

"What about the Strikers?" August asked.

"We'll have to work on that," Herbert said.

"I'm not leaving without them," August said.

"Colonel, this is Paul," Hood said. "We have to determine whose jurisdiction the valley—"

"I'm not leaving without them," August repeated.

There was a long silence. "I understand," Hood replied.

"Brett, can you hold out there until around midmorning?" Herbert asked.

"I will do whatever it takes," August said.

"All right," Herbert told him. "The chopper can pick up Corporal Musicant. I promise we'll have the situation worked as quickly as possible."

"Thank you, sir," August said. "What are my orders regarding the three Pakistanis?"

"You know me," Herbert said. "Now that they've served their purpose I'd just as soon you put a bullet in each of their murderous little heads. I'm sure my wife has the road upstairs covered. She'll make sure the bus to Paradise gets turned back."

"Morality aside, there are legal and political considerations as well as the possibility of armed resistance," Hood cut in. "Op-Center has no jurisdiction over the FKM, and India has made no official inquiries regarding the rest of the cell. They are free to do whatever they want. If the Pakistanis wish to surrender, I'm sure they will be arrested and tried by the Indians. If they turn on you, you must respond however you see fit."

"Paul's right," Herbert said. "The most important thing is to get you and Corporal Musicant home safely."

August said he understood. He told Hood and Herbert that he would accept whatever food and water the chopper brought. After that, he said he would make his way to the Mangala Valley to find the rest of the Strikers.

Hanging up the TAC-SAT, August rose slowly on cold-stiffened legs. He switched on his flashlight and made his way across the ice-covered ledge to where Musicant was stationed. August gave the medic the good news then went back to where Sharab and her two associates were huddled. Unlike the Strikers, they had not undergone cold-weather training. Nor were they dressed as warmly as August and Musicant.

August squatted beside them. They winced as the light struck them. They reminded the colonel of lepers cowering from the sun. Sharab was trembling. Her eyes were red and glazed. There was ice in her hair and eyebrows. Her lips were broken and her cheeks were bright red. August could not help but feel sorry for her. Her two comrades looked even worse. Their noses were raw and bleeding and they would probably lose their ears to frostbite. Their gloves were so thick with ice that August did not even think they could move their fingers.

Looking at them, the colonel realized that Sharab and her countrymen were not going to fight them or run anywhere. August leaned close to them.

"General Rodgers and Nanda completed their mission," August said.

Sharab was staring ahead. Her red eyes began to tear. Her exposed mouth moved silently. In prayer, August suspected. The other men hugged her arms weakly and also spoke silent words.

"An Indian helicopter will arrive at sunup," August went on. "Corporal Musicant will be leaving on it. I'm going to make my way back to the valley to find the rest of my team. What do you want to do?"

Sharab turned her tearing eyes toward August. There was deep despair in her gaze. Her voice was gravelly and tremulous when she spoke. "Will America… help us… to make the case… for a Pakistani Kashmir?" she asked.

"I think things will change because of what happened over the last few days," August admitted. "But I don't know what my nation will say or do."

Sharab laid an icy glove on August's forearm. "Will… you help us?" she pressed. "They… killed… your team."

"The madness between your countries killed my team," August said.

"No," she said. She gestured violently toward the edge of the plateau. "The men… down there… killed them. They are godless… evil."

This was not a discussion August wanted to have. Not with someone who blew up public buildings and peace officers for a living.

"Sharab, I've worked with you to this point," August said. "I can't do any more. There will be a trial and hearings. If you surrender, you will have the opportunity to make a strong case for your people."

"That will not… help," she insisted.

"It will be a start," August countered.

"And if… we go back… down the mountain?" the woman asked. "What will you do?"

"I guess I'll say good-bye," he replied.

"You won't try… to stop us?" Sharab pressed.

"No," August assured her. "Excuse me, now. I'm going back to join the rest of my unit."

August looked at the defiant Pakistani for a moment longer. The woman's hate and rage were burning through the cold and physical exhaustion. He had seen determined fighters during his life. The Vietcong. Kurdish resistance fighters. People who were fighting for their homes and families. But this furnace was a terrifying thing to witness.

Colonel August turned and walked back across the slippery, windswept ridge. Tribunals would be a good start. But it would take more than that to eradicate what existed between the Indians and the Pakistanis. It would take a war like the one they had barely managed to avoid. Or it would take an unparalleled and sustained international effort lasting generations.

For a sad, transient moment August shared something with Sharab.

A profound sense of despair.