"I'm with you on that," Herbert said. "I'm not sure Hank Lewis patched up all the holes Jack Fenwick drilled over there. That's why I'm giving information to Ron Friday on a need-to-know basis. He's moving up to Jaudar with a Black Cat officer and the grandfather of the CNO informant who's traveling with the cell."
"Good move," Rodgers said.
"We're also trying to get regular weather updates from the Himalayan Eagles," Herbert said. "But that could all change before you arrive. By the way, how are your new hosts treating you?"
"Fine," Rodgers said. "They gave us rations, the gear is all here, and we're on schedule."
"All right," Herbert said. "I'll give you the drop coordinates at H-hour minus fifteen."
"Confirmed," Rodgers said.
The general looked at his watch. They had three hours to go. That left them just enough time to pass out the gear, check it out, suit up, and review the maps with the team.
"I'll check back in when I have more intel for you," Herbert said. "Is there anything else you need?"
"I can't think of anything, Bob," Rodgers said.
There was a short silence. Mike Rodgers knew what was coming. He had heard the change in Herbert's voice during that last question. It had gone from determined to wistfulness.
"Mike, I know I don't have to tell you that this is a shitty assignment," Herbert said.
"No, you don't," Rodgers agreed. He was flipping through the magnified views of the region of the drop. Never mind the terrain itself. The wind-flow charts were savage. The currents tore through the mountains at fifty to sixty-one miles an hour. Those were gale-force winds.
"But I do have to point out that you aren't a part of Striker," Herbert went on. "You're a senior officer of the NCMC."
"Cut to the chase," Rodgers told him. "Is Paul going to order me to stay behind?"
"I haven't discussed this with him," Herbert said. "What's the point? You've disobeyed his orders before."
"I have," Rodgers said. "Kept Tokyo from getting nuked, if I remember correctly at my advanced age."
"You did do that," Herbert said. "But I was thinking that it might help if we had someone on-site to liaise with the Indian government."
"Send one of the guys the FBI tucked into the embassy," Rodgers said. "I know they're there and so do the Indians."
"I don't think so," Herbert replied.
"Look, I'll be happy to talk to whatever officials I have to from the field," Rodgers said. The general leaned forward. He huddled low over the microphone. "Bob, you know damn well what we're facing here. I've been looking at the charts. When we drop into the mountains the wind alone is going to hammer us. We stand a good chance of losing people just getting onto the ground."
"I know," Herbert said.
"Hell, if they didn't need to fly the plane I'd bring the Indian crew down with me. Let them help save their own country," Rodgers continued. "So don't even try to tell me that I shouldn't do what we're asking Striker to do. Especially not with what's at stake."
"Mike, I wasn't thinking about Striker or the rest of the world," Herbert replied. "I was thinking about an old friend with football-damaged, forty-seven-year-old knees. A friend who could hurt Striker more than help them if he got injured on an ice-landing."
"If that happens I'll order them to leave me where I land," Rodgers assured him.
"They won't."
"They will," Rodgers said. "We'll have to do that with anyone who's hurt." He hung up the receiver and motioned for Corporal Honda to come back and reclaim the TAC-SAT. Then he rose.
"I'll be right back," Rodgers said to August.
"Is there anything we need to do?" August asked.
Rodgers looked down at him. August was in an uncomfortable spot. Rodgers was one of the colonel's oldest and closest friends. He was also a superior officer. That was one of the reasons August had turned down this job when it was first offered to him. It was often difficult for the colonel to find a proper balance between those two relationships. This was one of those times. August also knew what was at risk for his friend and the team.
"I'll let you know in a few minutes," Rodgers said as he walked toward the cockpit.
Walked on rickety knees that were ready to kick some ass.
THIRTY-ONE
The problem with flying an LAHR — low-altitude helicopter reconnaissance — in a region like the Himalayas is that there is no room for error.
From the pilot's perspective, keeping the aircraft steady is practically impossible. The aircraft shakes along the x- and y-axes, the horizontal and vertical, with occasional bumps in the diagonal. Keeping the chopper within visual range of the target area is also problematic. It's often necessary for the pilot to move suddenly and over considerable distances to get around violent air pockets, clouds that blow in and impede the view, or snow and ice squalls. Just keeping the bird aloft is the best that can be hoped for. Whatever intel the observer can grab is considered a gift, not a guarantee.
Wearing sunglasses to cut down on the glare, and a helmet headset to communicate with Captain Nazir in the noisy cabin, Ron Friday alternately peered through the front and side windows of the cockpit. The American operative cradled an MP5K in his lap. If they spotted the terrorists there might be a gunfight. Hopefully, a few bursts in the air from the submachine gun would get them to stop shooting and listen. If not, he was prepared to back off and snipe one or two of them with the 1ASL in the gun rack behind him. If Captain Nazir could keep the chopper steady, the large sharpshooter rifle had greater range than the small arms the terrorists were probably carrying. With a few of them wounded, the others might be more inclined to let Friday land and approach them. Especially if he promised to airlift them to medical assistance in Pakistan.
Apu was seated on a fold-down chair in the spacious cargo area. It wasn't so much a chair as a hinged plastic square with a down cushion on top. The farmer was leaning forward, peering through a hatchway that separated the cargo section from the cockpit. Apu wore an anxious look as he gazed out through the window. Friday was good at reading people's expressions. He was not just concerned about finding his granddaughter. There was a sense of despair in his eyes, in the sad downturn of his mouth. Perhaps Apu had been in the mountains as a young man. He had had some idea what was beyond the foothills. But Apu had certainly never gone this far, never this high. He had never gazed down at the barren peaks. He had never heard the constant roar of the wind over powerful 671 kW rotors, or felt that wind batter an aircraft, or experienced the cold that blasted through the canvas-lined metal walls. The farmer knew that unless they found Nanda the chances were not good that she would survive.
The chopper continued toward the line of control without any of the occupants spotting the terrorists. Friday was not overly concerned. They still had the southward trip along the other side of the range to go.
Suddenly, something happened that Friday was not expecting. He heard a voice in his helmet. A voice that did not belong to Captain Nazir.
"Negative zone three," said the very faint, crackling voice. "Repeat: negative zone three." A moment later the voice was gone.
Friday made sure the headset switch on the communications panel was set on "internal" rather than "external." That meant they were communicating only with the cockpit instead of an outside receiver.
"Who is that?" Friday asked.
Nazir shook his head slowly. "It's not control tower communication." The wheel was shaking violently. He did not want to release his two-handed grip. "Do you see that yellow button below the com-panel?" he asked.
"Yes," Friday said.
"That's the nosedome antenna," Nazir said. "Push it once then push on the external signal again."