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.
THIRTY-THREE
Sharab could barely feel her fingers as she put the receiver back inside the radio. Despite the heavy gloves and the constant movement, the cold was beyond anything she had ever experienced. Her hands were numb when they were still, like dead weight. They burned when she moved them and blood was forced to circulate. It was the same with her feet. Her eyes were wind-blasted dry. Each blink of her icy lashes was agony.
But the worst pain was still the one inside. It had been strongest in those moments when the powerful winds slowed and the overhanging rock receded and the sun burned through the murderous cold. When survival was not a moment-to-moment concern and she had time to think.
Sharab had let herself be outsmarted by Indian security forces. She had let her nation, her people, and her fellow patriots down. That failure had cost brave Ishaq his life. And it had brought her and her small loyal militia to this precipice, to this flight. Her failure had made it unlikely that they would escape these mountains and tell the world the truth, that India and not Pakistan had been responsible for attacking the Hindu sites.
And yet, as it said in the Koran, "the wrongdoers shall never prosper." Perhaps Allah forgave her. It seemed as though He was looking out for her when this man dropped from the sky. Sharab did not like or trust Americans. They made war on Muslims around the world and they had traditionally curried favor with New Delhi instead of Islamabad. But she would not question the will of God. It would be ironic if this man were to provide them with salvation.
Ron Friday was still lying on his stomach. To the right, Nanda was huddled with her grandfather. Sharab would deal with them in a moment. She told Samouel to help pick the American up. Together, they pushed him back under the ledge, against the wall. It was even colder here because the sun was not on them. But there was less chance of them slipping off the ledge. Until Sharab heard what this man had to say, she did not want him falling to his death.
The man groaned as she pinned her forearm against his shoulder to help him stand.
"All right," Sharab said to him. "Tell me what you know."
"What I know?" Friday said. Puffy white breath and gasps of pain emerged from his mouth with each syllable. "To start with, you shot down our ticket out of here."
"You should not have come unannounced in an Indian helicopter," Sharab replied. "That was stupid."
"Unavoidable," Friday protested loudly.
The exclamation was followed by a painful wince. Sharab had to lean into the man to keep him from doubling over. She wondered if he had broken some ribs in the hard landing. But that was all right. Pain could be useful. It would keep him alert and moving.
"Never mind now," Friday said. "The main thing is that the Indian SFF set you up. They set Nanda up. She helped them blow up the temple and the bus. According to our intelligence, the SFF thought that would help solidify the Indian people behind the military. Nanda probably did not know that the Indian military intends to respond to the attack with a nuclear strike."
"For destroying the temple?" Sharab said. She was stunned.
"Yes," Friday said. "We believe certain militants will tell the populace that it's the first shot of an Islamic jihad against the Hindu people. Moderate government ministers and military officials may have no choice but to go along."
"You said you have intelligence," Sharab said. "What intelligence? American?"
"American and Indian," Friday said. "The pilot who brought me here was a Black Cat Commando. He had special information about SFF activities. Our people in Washington arrived at the same conclusion independently. That's why they're diverting the American strike force from their original mission."