Line of Control (32 page)

    "Maybe there's a shortcut?" Hood suggested.

    "A secret path through the glacier?"

    Herbert brought up the detailed photographic overviews from NASA's Defense Mapping Agency. These photographic maps were marked with coordinates and were used to target satellites. Herbert asked the computer to mark the area that Viens was studying now. Hood leaned over Herbert's wheelchair and looked closely at the monitor as a faint red cursor began to pulse on the region the cell was crossing.

    "There's no shortcut," Herbert said.

    "What the hell are they doing? They're actually taking a longer route to the line of control."

    "Will August still intercept them?" Hood asked.

    "Yes," Herbert said. The intelligence chief pointed to a region slightly north of where the cell was.

    "Brett came down here. He's heading southeast. He'll just be meeting them a lot sooner than we expected." Herbert studied the map.

    "But this still doesn't make sense. This route isn't going to take the Pakistanis through more accessible terrain. It's farther from the LOC, it's not at a lower altitude, and it doesn't look easier to negotiate."

    "Maybe they've got a weapons cache or another hideout along the way,"

    Hood suggested.

    "Possibly," Herbert said. He went back to the live NRO image.

    "But they were relatively close to the border where they were. Why would they want to give the Indians more time to catch them?"

    The interagency phone line beeped. Herbert punched it on speakerphone.

    "Yes?" Herbert said.

    "Bob, it's Viens," said the caller.

    "It's getting dark in the target area. The light is now down enough for us to switch to heat-scan without being blinded. We'll be able to track the cell easier." "Go ahead," Herbert said. He hit the mute button on the phone.

    Herbert and Hood continued to look at the overhead map.

    Hood was studying the area at the foot of the plateau.

    "Bob, if we move the satellite will we be able to look into this valley?" Hood asked, pointing at a grid marked "77." "I don't know,"

    Herbert told him. He glanced over at his boss.

    "Paul, I want to find Mike too. But we only have the one satellite in the region. Do we want to tie it up looking for him?"

    "Mike could have lost or damaged his radio in the fall," Hood said.

    "If he's alive there might be something he can do for Brett. We need every resource we can get over there."

    "Even if they're two thousand vertical miles and God knows how many as-the-crow-flies miles away?" Herbert asked.

    "We don't know for certain where Mike is," Hood pointed out.

    "We need to find out."

    Before the intelligence chief could consider what Paul Hood had said, Viens came back on the line.

    "Bob, are you looking at the new satellite photos?" Viens asked.

    Herbert killed the mute function.

    "No," he replied and immediately jumped back to the feed from the Omni Com "Is there a problem?" "Maybe," Viens said.

    "Even when the cell was under the ledge we always caught a glimpse of a head or arm so we knew we still had them. What do you see now?"

    Herbert and Hood both leaned closer to the monitor as the image formed.

    The picture looked psychedelic, like something from the sixties. Hot, red shadows were spilling out along a field of green-colored rocks and snow.

    The shadows of only three people.

    "What the hell's going on there?" Herbert asked.

    "I don't know," Viens admitted.

    "Some of the terrorists could have been lost along the way."

    "It's also possible they turned on Friday and the Indian officer,"

    Herbert thought aloud.

    "Maybe there were casualties.

    We should try and get them on the radio."

    "No," Hood said.

    "Contact August and let him know there are three individuals ahead.

    Tell him they may be hostile and that he is to use discretion whether to shadow rather than engage. Stephen, can you get me a look at grid 77 on file map OP-1017.63?"

    "I'll bring that map up, see if it's in the Omni Com focal range," Viens replied.

    "It'll only take a minute."

    "Thank you," Hood said.

    Herbert shook his head.

    "What reason would the cell have for attacking Friday?" he asked.

    "Maybe it was Friday who turned against the cell," Hood said. Then he straightened.

    "Wait a minute," he said.

    "It could be possible that none of the above happened."

    "What do you mean?" Herbert asked.

    "Ron Friday must have told the cell that the Indian soldiers were coming toward them," Hood said.

    "Right," Herbert said.

    "The Pakistanis could not know there was a threat until Friday joined them," Hood went on.

    "They did not know that getting Nanda to Pakistan was the only way they might be able to stop a nuclear exchange. What would you do with that knowledge, especially if you were also told that an American strike force was coming to link up with you?" Hood said.

    "If you were smart and bold and probably a little desperate you would try something unexpected."

    "Like splitting your forces and using one group to draw the Indian soldiers away," Herbert said.

    "Right. Which means that the other four people may be somewhere else, probably holding to the original course," Hood said.

    "If that's true, it means we don't want August and Musicant linking up with the splinter group, since they're probably going to want to draw fire from the Indians," Herbert said.

    "Correct. Bob, let August know what we're thinking," Hood said. He leaned back over the computer and returned to the NASA map.

    "Stephen, I need to see into that valley."

    "I've got your map up now," Viens said.

    "I'm looking to see if the coordinates are in the Omni Com computer."

    Meanwhile, Herbert punched in Striker's TAC-SAT number.

    "Paul, you can't be thinking what I think you are," Herbert said.

    "I'm sure I am," Hood informed him.

    "Assuming he's all right, you don't even know if you can talk to him,"

    Herbert said.

    "One thing at a time," Hood said.

    "I can do it!" Viens shouted.

    "I'm sending up the order now. No guarantees about cloud cover and visibility, Paul, but I'll have you in the valley in ninety seconds."

    "Thank you," Hood said.

    "What are we looking for?" Viens asked.

    "A parachute," Hood said.

    "One that may have Mike Rodgers on the end of it."

    

    The Mangala Valley Thursday, 5:30 p. m.

    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 Devon the 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 down river.

    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.