"I'm on it," Herbert said.
"I'll get the coordinates of the missile silo from Simathna," Hood told him. "Then I'll call Hank Lewis, Senator Fox, and the president and let them know what we want to do."
"You won't get support from Fox or the president," Herbert said.
"I know, but I don't think they'll shut the operation down," Hood replied. "We're already in this too deep. If Mike and Friday cross the line of control with the Pakistani cell, Islamabad will say the United States was helping them escape. That would be nearly as damaging."
Herbert agreed. He turned and wheeled himself into a corner of the office and punched the TAC-SAT number into his wheelchair phone.
Meanwhile, Paul Hood got back on the line with Ambassador Simathna. Hood turned off the speakerphone so his conversation would not interfere with Herbert's call.
"Mr. Ambassador?" Hood said.
"I am here," Simathna replied.
"Thank you for holding, sir," Hood said. "We agree that your proposal should be pursued."
" 'Pursued,' " the ambassador replied. "Does that mean you are also considering other courses of action?"
"Not at the moment," Hood said.
"But you might," the ambassador pressed.
"It's possible," Hood agreed. "Right now we're not even certain we can contact General Rodgers, let alone get him to the silo. We also don't know the condition of his party."
"I appreciate your uncertainty but you must understand my concern," the ambassador said. "We do not wish to give out the location of our defensive silo unless your officer is going to use it."
The conversation was becoming an exercise in hedging, not cooperation. Hood needed to change that, especially if he were going to trust Mike Rodgers's fate to this man.
"I do understand, Mr. Ambassador," Hood said.
Suddenly, Herbert turned. He shook his head.
"Hold on, Mr. Ambassador," Hood said urgently. He jabbed the mute button. "What is it, Bob?"
"Brett can't raise Mike," Herbert told him.
Hood swore.
"All he gets on the radio is heavy static," Herbert went on. "Sharab tells him the winds won't cut out for another five or six hours."
"That doesn't help us," Hood said.
Hood thought for a moment. They had thousands of satellites in the air and outposts throughout the region. There had to be some way to get a message to Mike Rodgers.
Or someone with him, Hood thought suddenly.
"Bob, we may be able to do something," Hood said. "Tell Brett we'll get back to him in a few minutes. Then put in a call to Hank Lewis."
"Will do," Herbert said.
Hood deactivated the mute. "Mr. Ambassador, can you stay on the line?"
"The security of my nation is at risk," Simathna said.
"Is that a 'yes,' sir?" Hood pressed. He did not have time for speeches.
"It was an emphatic yes, Mr. Hood."
"Is Mr. Plummer still with you?" Hood asked.
"I'm here, Paul," Plummer said.
"Good. I may need your help," Hood said.
"I understand," Plummer replied.
"I'm putting you on speaker so you can both be a part of what's going on," Hood said.
The ambassador thanked him.
Simathna sounded sincere. Hood hoped he was. Because if Simathna did anything to jeopardize Rodgers or the mission, Hood would know about it immediately.
Ron Plummer would make sure of that.
FIFTY
It was the last thing Ron Friday expected to feel.
As he neared the kneeling body of Apu Kumar, Friday felt the cell phone begin to vibrate in his vest pocket. It could only be a call from someone at the National Security Agency. But the signal absolutely should not be able to reach him out here. Not with the mountains surrounding the glacier, the distance from the radio towers in Kashmir, and the ice storms that whipped around the peaks in the dark. The friction of the ice particles produced electrostatic charges that made even point-to-point radio communications difficult.
Yet the phone line was definitely active. Absurdly so, as if he were riding the Metro in Washington instead of standing on a glacier in the middle of the Himalayas. Friday stopped and let the gun slip back into his pocket. He reached inside his coat, withdrew the phone, and hit the talk button.
"Yes?" Friday said.
"Is this Ron Friday?" the caller asked in a clear, loud voice.
"Who wants to know?" Friday asked incredulously.
"Colonel Brett August of Striker," said the caller.
"Striker?" Friday said. "Where are you? When did you land?"
"I'm with Sharab in the mountains overlooking your position," August said. "I'm calling on our TAC-SAT. Director Lewis gave us your number and the call code 1272000."
That was the correct ID number for the NSA director in coded communications. Still, Friday was suspicious.
"How many of you are there?"
"Only three of us," August informed him.
"Three? What happened?" Friday asked.
"We were caught in fire from the Indian army," August told him. "Is General Rodgers with you?"
"No," Friday replied.
"It's important that you watch for him and link up," August said.
"Where is he?" Friday asked.
"The general reached the Mangala Valley and is headed east," August said. "Satellite recon gave him your general position."
"The valley," Friday said. His eyes drifted to where Samouel was moving through the darkness. "That's just ahead."
"Good. When you link up you are to proceed to these coordinates on the pilot's map you're carrying," August went on.
"Hold on while I get it," Friday said.
The American crouched and set the phone on the ice. He pulled the map and a pen from his pocket. Friday tried to read the map by the green glow of the cell phone but that was not possible. He was forced to light one of his torches. The sudden brightness caused him to wince. He tried jamming the branch into the glacier but the surface was too solid. Apu reached over and held it for him. Friday remained crouching with the map spread before him.
"I'm set," Friday said as his eyes adjusted to the light.
"Go to seventeen-point-three degrees north, twenty-one-point-three degrees east," August told him.
Friday looked at the coordinates. He saw absolutely nothing on the map but ice.
"What's there?" Friday asked.
"I don't know," August told him.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't know," August repeated.
"Then who does?" Friday demanded.
"I don't know that either," August admitted. "I'm just relaying orders from our superiors at Op-Center and the NSA."
"Well, I don't go on blind missions," Friday complained as he continued to study the map. "And I see that following the coordinates you gave me will take us away from the line of control."
"Look," August said. "You know what's at stake in the region. So does Washington. They wouldn't ask you to go if it weren't important. Now I'm sitting up here with my forces depleted and the Indian army at my feet. I've got to deal with that. Either I or William Musicant will call back in two hours with more information. That's about how long it should take you to reach the coordinates from the mouth of the valley."
"Assuming we go," Friday said.
"I assume you'll follow orders the same way my Strikers did," the colonel said. "August out."
The line went dead. Friday shut his phone off and put it away. Arrogant son of a bitch.
Nanda's voice rose from the darkness. "What is it?" she asked.
Friday continued to squat where he was. The heat of the torch was melting the ice beside him but the warmth felt good. The woman obviously had not seen what he was about to do before the telephone vibrated.