"You don't know that," Rodgers said.
"Correct," Friday said. "But I do know that if we go to Islamabad, as Americans who saved Pakistan from nuclear annihilation, we create new avenues of intelligence and cooperation in that world."
"Mr. Friday, that's a political issue, not a tactical military concern," Rodgers said. "If we're successful then Washington can make some of those inroads you mention."
With Apu still clinging to him, Rodgers started moving around Friday. The NSA operative put out a hand and stopped him.
"Washington is helpless," Friday said. "Politicians live on the surface. They are actors. They engage in public squabbles and posturing where the populace can watch and boo or cheer. We are the people who matter. We burrow inside. We make the tunnels. We control the conduits."
"Mr. Friday, move," Rodgers said.
This was about personal power. Rodgers had no time for that.
"I will move," Friday said. "With Nanda, to the line of control. Two people can make it across."
Rodgers was about to push past him when he felt something. A faint, rapid vibration in the bottoms of his feet. A moment later it grew more pronounced. He felt it crawl up his ankles.
"Give me the torch!" he said suddenly.
"What?" Friday said.
Rodgers leaned around Friday. "Samouel — don't turn on the light!"
"I won't," he said. "I feel it!"
"Feel what?" Nanda said.
"Shit," Friday said suddenly. He obviously felt it too and knew what it meant. "Shit."
Rodgers pulled the torch from Friday. The NSA agent was surprised and did not struggle to keep it. Rodgers held the torch above his head and cast the light around him. There was a mountain of ice to the right, about four hundred yards away. It stretched for miles in both directions. The top of the formation was lost in the darkness.
Rodgers handed the torch to Nanda.
"Go to that peak," he said. "Samouel! Follow Nanda!"
Samouel was already running toward them. "I will!" he shouted.
"My grandfather—!" Nanda said.
"I'll take him," Rodgers assured her. He looked at Friday. "You wanted power? You've got it. Protect her, you son of a bitch."
Friday turned and half-ran, half-skated across the ice after Nanda.
Rodgers leaned close to Apu's ear. "We're going to have to move as fast as possible," he said. "Hold tight."
"I will," Apu replied.
The men began shuffling as quickly as possible toward the peak. The vibrations were now strong enough to shake Rodgers's entire body. A moment later, the beat of the rotors was audible as the Indian helicopter rolled in low over the horizon.
FIFTY-THREE
The powerful Russian-made Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter soared swift and low over the glacier. Its two-airman crew kept a careful watch on the ice one hundred and fifty feet beneath them. They were flying at low light so the chopper could not be easily seen and targeted from the ground. Radar would keep them from plowing into the towers of ice. Helmets with night-vision goggles as well as the low altitude would allow them to search for their quarry.
The Mi-35 is the leading attack helicopter of the Indian air force. Equipped with under-nose, four-barrel large-caliber machine guns and six antitank missiles, it is tasked with stopping all surface force operations, from full-scale attacks to infiltration.
The aircrew was pushing the chopper to move as quickly as possible. The men did not want to stay out any longer than necessary. Even at this relatively low level the cold on the glacier was severe. Strong, sudden winds whipping from the mountains could hasten the freezing of hoses and equipment. Ground forces were able to stop and thaw clogged lines or icy gears. Helicopter pilots did not have that luxury. They tended to find out about a problem when it was too late, when either the main or the tail rotor suddenly stopped turning.
Fortunately, the crew was able to spot "the likely target" just seventy minutes after taking off. The copilot reported the find to Major Puri.
"There are five persons running across the ice," the airman said.
"Running?" Major Puri said.
"Yes," reported the airman. "They do not appear to be locals. One of them is wearing a high-altitude jump outfit."
"White?" Puri asked.
"Yes."
"That's one of the American paratroopers," Puri said. "Can you tell who is with him?"
"He is helping someone across the ice," the airman said. "That person is wearing a parka. There are three people ahead. One is in a parka, two are wearing mountaineering gear. I can't tell the color because of the night-vision lenses. But it appears dark."
"The terrorist who was killed in the mountain cave was wearing a dark blue outfit," Puri said. "I have to know the color."
"Hold on," the airman replied.
The crew member reached for the exterior light controls on the panel between the seats. He told the pilot to shut down his night-vision glasses for a moment. Otherwise the light would blind him. The pilot and copilot disengaged their goggles and raised them. The copilot turned the light on. The windshield was filled with a blinding white glow reflected from the ice. The airman retrieved his binoculars from a storage compartment in the door. His eyes shrunk to slits as he picked out one of the figures and looked at his clothing.
It was dark blue. The airman reported the information to Major Puri.
"That's one of the terrorists," the major said. "Neutralize them all and report back."
"Repeat, sir?" the airman said.
"You have found the terrorist cell," Major Puri said. "You are ordered to use lethal force to neutralize them—"
"Major," the pilot interrupted. "Will there be a confirming order from base headquarters?"
"I am transmitting an emergency command Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight," Puri said. "That is your authorization."
The pilot glanced at his heads-up display while the copilot input the code on a keyboard located on the control panel. The onboard computer took a moment to process the data. Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight was the authorization code of Defense Minister John Kabir.
"Acknowledge Gamma-Zero-Red-Eight authorization," the pilot replied. "We are proceeding with the mission."
A moment later the pilot slid his goggles back into place. The copilot switched the exterior lights off and replaced his own night-vision optics. Then he descended through one hundred feet to an altitude of fifty feet. He flipped the helmet-attached gunsights over his night-vision glasses, slipped his left hand onto the joystick that controlled the machine gun, and bore down on the fleeing figures.
FIFTY-FOUR
Mike Rodgers's arm was hooked tightly around Apu's back as he looked out on terrain that was lit by the glow of the helicopter's light. The American watched helplessly as Nanda fell, slid, and then struggled to get up.
"Keep moving!" Rodgers yelled. "Even if you have to crawl, just get closer to the peaks!"
That was probably the last thing Rodgers would get to say to Nanda. The rotor of the approaching chopper was getting louder every instant. The heavy drone drummed from behind and also bounced back at them from the deeply curved slope of ice ahead.
Ron Friday was several paces ahead of Nanda and Samouel was in front of him. Before the lights from the helicopter were turned off, Rodgers saw both men look back then turn and help the young woman. Friday was probably helping her to further his own cause of intelligence control or whatever he had been raving about. Right now, however, Mike Rodgers did not care what Ron Friday's reasons were. At least the man was helping her.