Line of Control (27 page)

    "What is happening?" Apu asked. His flesh was paler than usual.

    Unlike the heated cockpit the cargo bay was damn cold.

    "We're bailing," Friday said as he used the seatbelt to create a bandolier like harness for Apu.

    "I don't understand," Apu said.

    "Just hang on," Friday said as he fastened the belt in front and then led the farmer to the winch. It was difficult to stand in the bumping cargo bay so they crawled to the rear of the hold. The line was quarter-inch-diameter nylon wound around an aluminum spool. They remained on their knees as Friday unfastened the hook end from the eyelet on the floor.

    "You're going to go out first," Friday said as he ran the line through the harness he had created.

    "Go out?" Apu said.

    "Yes. To your granddaughter," Friday told him. The American tugged on the line. It seemed secure. Then he motioned Apu back until the farmer was crouching on the hatch.

    "It's going to be a rough ride," Friday warned him.

    "Just grab the line, huddle down, and hold on until they get you."

    "Wait!" Apu said.

    "How do you know that they will?"

    "I don't, but I'll pray for you!" Friday said as he reached for the long lever that controlled the floor hatch. He pulled it. There was a jolt as the hatch began to open. Quickly, he grabbed the remote control that operated the winch. The line began unspooling as frigid air slipped over the doorway and slammed into the hold.

    "Tell them I'm coming next!" Friday shouted as Apu slid back.

    Apu grabbed the line as Friday had said, hugging it to him as he slipped from the hold. With his free hand, Friday held the line himself and edged toward the open hatch. The wind was like a block of ice, solid and biting. He turned his helmet partway into the gale and watched through squinting eyes.

    As he expected, the wind lofted Apu up and out. It was a surreal vision, a man being hoisted like a kite. The chopper was about twenty-five feet from the cliff. It was listing to the starboard, where the rear rotor was out, and being buffeted up and down by the wind. But Nazir was able to hold it in place as Apu was swept toward the ledge. As Friday had hoped, the forward group went to retrieve him as the rear guard kept their weapons on the helicopter. The closer he got to the cliff, the more Apu was banged around by the wind as crosscurrents whipped down and across the rock face. But one of the cell members was able to grab him, while another cell member held on to his comrade. When everyone was safe, the cell member removed the winch line.

    Friday reeled it back in. He watched as the farmer spoke with the others. One of the cell members raised and crossed his arms to the group in the rear. They did not fire at the chopper.

    When the line came back in, Friday quickly ran it through the handle of the radio then strung it under his armpits and around his waist. He kept the radio against his belly and lay on his back. He wanted to go out feet first to protect the radio. He crab-walked down the open hatch, then pressed the button to send the winch line back out. He grabbed the line, straightened his legs, and began to slide down. The brutally cold air tore along his pants legs. It felt as if his skin were being peeled back. And then, a moment later, he was suddenly on a rocket sled.

    Because he was not onboard to control it, the line was going out faster than before and the wind was pushing even faster. The cliff came up so fast that he barely had time to meet it with his feet.

    Friday hit hard with his soles. He felt the smack all the way to the top of his skull. He bounced back then felt a sickening yank, then a drop, as the chopper lurched behind him.

    "Shit!" he cried. He felt as if he had been slammed in the chest with a log. The line grew steel-taut as the chopper began to drop.

    Hands reached for him from the ledge. The wind kept him buoyed.

    Someone held the radio while someone else tried to undo the line.

    Suddenly, someone in front of him raised an AK-47 and fired a burst above his head. The nylon line snapped and the wind bumped Friday forward. More hands grabbed his jacket and pulled him onto the ledge.

    Because the wind was still battering him he did not feel as if he were on solid ground.

    He lay there for a moment as he sucked air into his wounded lungs. He was facing the valley and he watched as the helicopter descended in a slow, lazy spiral.

    Then, a moment later, it stopped spiraling. The chopper fell tail first, straight and purposeful, like a metal shuttlecock.

    It picked up speed as it descended, finally vanishing into the low-lying clouds.

    A moment later he heard a bang that echoed hollow through the valley.

    It was accompanied by a burst of or angered that seemed to spread through the clouds like dye.

    However, Ron Friday did not have time to contemplate the death of Captain Nazir. The hands that had saved him hoisted him up and put him against the wall of the cliff.

    A woman put a gun under his chin and forced him to look at her. Her face was frostbitten and her eyes manic. Ice clung to the hair that showed beneath her hood.

    "Who are you?" she demanded, screaming to be heard over the wind.

    "I'm Ron Friday with American intelligence," he shouted back.

    "Are you the FKM leader?"

    "I am!" she replied.

    "Good," he said.

    "You're the one I'm looking for. You and Nanda. Is she with you?"

    "Why?" she shouted.

    Friday replied, "Because she may be the only one who can stop the nuclear destruction of your country."

    

    Washington, D. C.

    Thursday, 6:25 a. m.

    "What the hell just happened?" Bob Herbert asked Viens.

    Op-Center's intelligence chief was sitting at his desk in his darkened office. He had been watching the computer monitor with half-shut eyes until the image suddenly woke him up. He immediately hit auto dial on his telephone and raised Stephen Viens at the NRO.

    "It looks like a chopper went down," Viens said.

    "Chopper," Herbert said. It was more a question than a statement.

    "You were dozing," Viens said.

    "Yes, I had my eyes closed," Herbert said.

    "What happened?"

    "All we saw was the tail end of a chopper approach the cliff and lower a line with two men on it," Viens told him.

    "It looks like the cell took the men in and the chopper went down. We did not have a wide enough viewing area to be certain of that."

    "Friday had a copter," Herbert said.

    "Could it have been him?"

    "We don't know who was on the end of the line," Viens replied.

    "One of them looked like he might have been carrying a radio. It was an electronic box of some kind. It did not look like U. S. intelligence issue."

    "I'll call you back," Herbert said.

    "Bob?" Viens said.

    "If that was an Indian air force chopper they're going to know where it went down. Even if it wasn't, the explosion is going to register on their satellite monitors or seismic equipment."

    "I know," Herbert said. The intelligence head put Stephen Viens on hold and called Hank Lewis's office. The NSA officer was not in yet.

    Herbert tried Lewis's cell phone but the voice mail picked up. He was either on that line or out of range. Herbert swore. He finally tried Lewis at home. He caught Lewis in the middle of shaving.

    Herbert told the NSA chief what had happened and asked if he knew for certain whether Ron Friday was in Jaudar.

    "I assume so," Lewis said.

    "I haven't spoken with him since our conference call."

    "Do you have any way of reaching him?" Herbert asked.

    "Only if he's in the helicopter," Lewis said.

    "What about his cell phone?" Herbert pressed.

    "We haven't tried that," Lewis said.

    "But on the move, in the mountains, it may be difficult."

    "True," Herbert agreed.

    "And the radio?"

    "We used a NATO frequency to contact him, but I don't have that info at home," Lewis said.

    "Well, we can backtrack and raise him," Herbert said.

    "Thanks. I'll let you know when we have him."

    Herbert ended the call and glanced at the computer clock.

    It was six thirty. Kevin Custer, Op-Center's director of electronic communications, would be in his office by now. Herbert called over.

    Custer was a thirty-two-year-old MIT graduate and a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer through the general's brother Nevin.

    Military service was expected in the Custer family and Kevin had spent two years in the army before taking a job at the CIA. He had been there three years when he was snatched up by Bob Herbert. Custer was the most chronically optimistic, upbeat, can-do person Herbert had ever met.

    Custer told Herbert that he would get the information for him if he would hold the line. It wasn't even, "I'll get it and call you back."

    It was, "Don't go away. I'll have it in a second." And he did.

    "Let's see," Custer said.

    "NSA log has the call coming through with input 101.763, PL 123.0 Hz, 855 inversion scrambling. I can contact the source of the call if you like." "Put it through," Herbert said.

    A moment later Herbert heard a beep.

    "I'll get off now," Custer said.

    "Let me know if there's anything else."

    "Actually, there is," Herbert said.

    "Would you ring Paul Hood and patch this call through?" Custer said he would. The radio beeped again. Then a third time. Then a fourth.

    "Bob, what is it?" Hood asked when he got on. He sounded groggy. He had probably been napping too.

    "Viens and I just watched the Pakistani cell haul two people in from what looked like a downed chopper," Herbert said. The radio beeped a fifth time.

    "We're trying to ascertain if one of them was Ron Friday."

    "I thought he was going to Jaudar," Hood said.

    "Exactly," Herbert replied.

    The radio beeped two more times before someone answered.

    It definitely was not Ron Friday.

    "Yes?" said a woman's voice.

    "This is 855 base," Herbert said, using the coded identification number.

    "Who is this?"

    "Someone who has your radio and its operator," the woman replied.

    "I just saved him from death. But the reprieve may only be temporary."

    The woman's accent definitely belonged to that region.

    Herbert would be able to place it better were it not for the screaming wind behind her. The woman was also smart. She had said only that she saved Friday's life. There was no reference to the rest of the cell or the other man they were holding. She had given Herbert as little information as possible.

    Herbert hit the mute button.

    "Paul-I say we talk to her," he said quickly, urgently.

    "We need to let her know that Striker is on the way."

    "This channel isn't secure, is it?" Hood asked.

    "No," Herbert admitted.

    "Friday will probably tell her that."

    "He got there in an Indian chopper. They may not believe him," Herbert said.

    "Let me give her the overview." "Be careful. Bob," Hood warned.

    "I don't want you telling her who we are, exactly."

    Herbert killed the mute.

    "Listen to me," he said.

    "We are with American intelligence. The man you have works with us." "He told me that his last name is Friday," the woman said.

    "What is his first name?"

    "Ron," Herbert replied.

    "All right," the woman said.

    "What do you want with us?"

    "We want to get you home alive," Herbert said. He weighed his next words with care in case anyone was listening.

    "We know what happened in Srinagar. We know what your group did and did not do."

    He did not have to say more. She would know the rest.

    There was a short silence.

    "Why do you want to help us?" the woman finally asked.

    "Because we believe there will be extreme retaliation," Herbert informed her.

    "Not against you but against your nation."

    "Does your person Friday know about this?" she asked.

    "He knows about that and more," Herbert informed the woman.

    "And he is not alone." "Yes," the woman said.

    "We rescued an old farmer-" "That is not what I mean," Herbert said.

    There was another brief silence. Herbert could imagine the woman scanning the skies for other choppers.

    "I see," said the woman.

    "I will talk to him. American intelligence, I do not know if I can take this radio with me," the woman went on.

    "If there is anything else I need to know, tell me now."

    Herbert thought for a moment.

    "There is one more thing," he informed her. He spoke clearly and strongly so she would not miss a word.

    "We are helping you because inaction would result in unprecedented human disaster. I have no respect for terrorists."

    "American intelligence," she said, using that as if it were Herbert's name.

    "I have lost nothing. If the world respected us before now, there would be no need for terrorism."

    With that, the line went dead.