The general raised the radio to his lips. He pressed "speak."
And he hoped the Indian army was not monitoring this frequency.
FORTY
Brett August and William Musicant had begun moving southward along the plateau. A fierce, cold wind was blowing toward them as the air cooled and the thermal currents stopped rising. The men had to put their goggles back on to keep their eyes from tearing as they worked their way toward the ledge some four hundred meters ahead. According to the NRO, that was the northern artery of the same ledge the Pakistani cell was traveling on.
The colonel halted when the TAC-SAT beeped. He crouched and picked up the receiver. It was Bob Herbert. The intelligence chief instructed the men to wait where they were.
"What's going on?" August asked.
"There's a chance the cell may have divided," Herbert informed him. "The group that's coming toward you may be bait to draw the Indian soldiers to the northwest."
"That would make sense," August said.
"Yes, but we don't want you to be caught in the middle of that," Herbert said. "There's also a chance that there may have been a struggle of some kind. We just don't know. We want you to proceed to a forward point that you can defend and then wait there."
"Understood," August said. The point where the plateau narrowed would be ideal for that.
"Paul has asked Stephen Viens to have a look around the area northeast of the plateau," Herbert went on. "We have reason to believe the rest of the cell may be headed that way."
"That's where Mike went down," August said.
"I know," Herbert said. "Paul's thinking is if we can locate Mike he can help us find the branch cell—"
A firm, low, intermittent beep began to sound in a pocket of August's equipment vest.
"Bob, hold on!" August interrupted. "I've got an incoming point-to-point radio transmission."
"Careful, Brett," Herbert said.
The colonel set the phone down. He plucked his radio from the equipment vest and punched it on. He would not let himself hope that it was a Striker. More likely it was someone who'd found one of the radios or an Indian army communications officer cutting into their frequency.
"Atom," August said. That was the code name he had selected. It was derived from the first initial of his last name. The Strikers used code names when they were uncertain about the origin of a call. If any of them were taken prisoner and forced to communicate they would use a backup code name based on the initial of their first name.
"Atom, it's Reptile," the caller said.
August did not feel the wind or the cold. The world that had felt so dead suddenly had a faint pulse.
"Are you okay?" August asked.
"Yeah," Rodgers replied. "But I'm the only one. You?"
"Midnight and I are fine," he replied. As he was speaking, August pulled the area map from a vest pocket. These were specially marked with coded grids. He laid it on the ground and stepped on one end while he held the other. "Do you have your map?" August asked.
"Getting it now," Rodgers said. "I'm at 37–49."
"Three-seven-four-nine," August repeated. "I copy that. Are you secure at that location?"
"I seem to be," Rodgers replied.
"Very good," August said. "I'm going to relay that information home. We may have new instructions."
"Understood," Rodgers said.
Colonel August set the radio on the map and picked up the TAC-SAT receiver. As he did he gave Musicant a thumbs-up. The medic smiled tightly. But at least it was a smile.
"Bob, it was Mike," August said. "He's safe in the valley, about three miles from the foot of the glacier."
"Thank you, Lord," Herbert said. "Other survivors?"
"Negative," August told him.
"I see. All right, Colonel," Herbert said. "Set up your perimeter, hang tight, and tell Mike to do the same. I'll pass the update to Paul."
"Bob, keep in mind that there is some very rough terrain out here and it's going to get dark and cold pretty fast," August said. "If we're going to send Mike on any search-and-recon missions, he's only got another forty minutes or so of visibility."
"I'm aware of the situation," Herbert said. "Tell him to get a good look at the landscape. We'll get back to you ASAP."
August hung up the TAC-SAT and briefed Rodgers. The general was his usual stoic self.
"I'll be okay down here," Rodgers replied. "If I have to move north it's a pretty straight shot to the glacier. I'll just follow the river."
"Good. Is your suit intact?" August asked.
"Yes," Rodgers replied. "There's only one thing I need. It's probably the same thing you need."
"What's that?" August asked.
Rodgers replied, "To find whoever sold us out and make them regret it."
FORTY-ONE
Paul Hood was on the phone with Senator Barbara Fox when the interoffice line beeped.
Now that the mission was beyond the point of recall, and politics would not get in the way of international security, Hood briefed the senator on the status of Striker and its mission. Several years before, the senator had lost her own teenage daughter in a brutal murder in Paris. Hood had expected her to respond with compassion and to give her support to the personnel who were still in the field.
She did not. The senator was furious.
"Op-Center took too much responsibility in this operation," the woman charged. "The other intelligence agencies should have been involved to a much greater extent."
"Senator, I told the CIOC that we have a crisis requiring immediate attention," Hood said. "I said we were involving the NRO and the NSA to the extent that time and on-site manpower permitted. You did not object to our handling of this at that time."
"You did not outline the specifics of the danger," she replied, "only the gravity of the threat."
"We did not know the specifics until we were in the middle of this," Hood pointed out.
"Which is exactly my point," she replied. "You sent resources into this situation without adequate intelligence. And I mean that in every sense of the word, Mr. Hood."
The interoffice line beeped again.
"Do you want me to pull the remaining assets out?" Hood asked the senator. Hell, he thought. If she was going to criticize his judgment he might as well leave the rest of the mission in her hands.
"Is there another way of resolving the crisis?" she asked.
"Not that we've come up with," Hood replied.
"Then unfortunately we are married to the scenario you've mapped out," the senator said.
Of course, Hood thought. It was now a no-lose situation for the politician. If it worked she would grab the credit for involving the CIOC at this juncture, for saving the lives of the rest of the Strikers as well as countless Indians and Pakistanis. If the mission failed Hood would take the full hit. This was not the first crisis the two had been through together. But it was the first one of this magnitude and with this high a price tag. Hood was disappointed that she was looking for a scapegoat instead of a solution.
Or maybe he was the one looking for someone to blame, he thought. What if the senator was right? What if he had fast-tracked this operation simply because Striker was en route and it seemed relatively risk-free at the onset? Maybe Hood should have pulled the plug when he learned how risky the jump itself would be. Maybe he had let himself become a prisoner to the ticking clock he feared instead of the things he knew for certain.