Bullets pinged furiously from the top of the formation. The onslaught showered the two with ice. As the barrier was whittled down Samouel looked around. Mike Rodgers was behind and slightly to the right of the two. The Pakistani did not appear to notice him.
"Samouel!" Rodgers yelled.
The Pakistani looked over. Rodgers sidled to his right, behind a boulder-shaped formation. He wanted Nanda as close as possible, in case they managed to get inside the silo.
"Come back here!" Rodgers shouted. "I'll cover you!"
Samouel nodded. The Pakistani pulled Nanda away from the ice and bundled her in his arms. Crouching as low as possible, Samouel ran toward Rodgers. The general rose and fired several rounds at the Indians. But as the light of the flares began to fade, and the last streaming embers fell to earth, the soldiers stopped shooting. Obviously, they wanted to conserve both their flares and their ammunition. Though Rodgers kept his automatic trained on the entrance there was no further exchange of gunfire. The ice walls kept even the wind outside. An eerie stillness settled on the enclosure. There was only the crunch of Samouel's boots on the ice and a deep, deep freeze that caused the exposed flesh around Rodgers's eyes to burn.
Samouel and Nanda reached the ice boulder. The Pakistani slid to his knees beside Rodgers. He was breathing heavily as he sat Nanda with her back to the ice. The young woman was no longer in the near-catatonic state she had been in earlier. Her eyes were red and tearing, though Rodgers did not know whether it was from sadness or the cold. Still, they were moving from side to side and she seemed to be registering some awareness of her surroundings.
Samouel moved toward Rodgers. "General, I saw something when the flares went off," Samouel panted.
"What did you see?" Rodgers asked.
"It was directly behind the place where you and Mr. Friday were," the Pakistani said. "On one of the lower ledges of the slopes, about nine or ten feet up. It looked like a satellite dish."
An uplink, Rodgers thought. Of course.
"Maybe that has something to do with why we were sent to this place," Samouel continued.
"I'm pretty sure it does," Rodgers said. "Was the dish out in the open?"
"Not really," Samouel said. "It was set back, in a little cave. About five or six feet it seemed." The Pakistani shook his head. He sighed. "I can't say for sure that it was a dish. There was white lattice, but it could have been icicles and a trick of the light."
"Would the site have been visible from the air?" Rodgers asked.
"Not from directly overhead," Samouel told him.
Rodgers glanced back. It was too dark to see the ice wall now. But what Samouel just said made sense. If there were a video setup somewhere inside the Pakistani missile silo, then there had to be an uplink somewhere on the outside. The dish or antenna did not have to be on the top of a peak. All the dish needed was an unobstructed view of one area in the sky. A single spot where a communications satellite, possibly Russian or Chinese built-and-launched, was in geosynchronous orbit. The cables connecting the relay to the silo would probably be relatively deep inside the ice wall. Whoever designed an uplink for this area would not want the wiring too close to the surface. Melting ice might expose the cables to wind, sleet, or other corrosive forces, not to mention leaving it visible to passing recon aircraft.
"Tell me something, Samouel," Rodgers said. "You wired some of the bombs and remote detonators for Sharab, didn't you?"
"Yes," Samouel said softly.
"Do you have experience with radios?" Rodgers asked.
"I have worked with all kinds of electronics," the Pakistani told him. "I did repair work for the Islamabad militia and—"
"On handsets too?" Rodgers interrupted.
"Walkie-talkies?" Samouel asked.
"Not just walkie-talkies," Rodgers said. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. His questions and plans were racing ahead of the answers. "What I mean is this. If there is a satellite dish on the ledge would you be able to hook a cell phone to it?"
"I see," Samouel replied. "Is it a government cell phone with safeguards of any kind?"
"I don't think so," Rodgers said.
"Then I can probably rig something as long as you can expose the satellite cable," Samouel told him.
"What kind of tools would you need?" Rodgers asked.
"Not more than my pocket knife, I would imagine," Samouel said.
"Very good," Rodgers said. "Now tell me more about the ledge. Was there any way to get to the dish? Ledges, projections, handholds."
"I don't think so," Samouel told him. "It looked like a straight climb up a smooth wall."
"I see," Rodgers said.
The general had become slightly disoriented in the dash to save Nanda. He needed to get his bearings again. He turned himself completely around so he was facing what he believed was the back of the enclosure. He crouched on the balls of his feet.
"Friday, are you still at the slab?" Rodgers yelled.
Friday was silent.
"Say something!" Rodgers screamed.
"I'm here!" Friday said.
Rodgers pinpointed Friday's voice. He kept his eyes on the dark spot. At the same time, he reached into his vest and removed the cell phone. He gave the unit to Samouel.
"If Colonel August calls, tell him to keep the line open," Rodgers told Samouel.
"What are you going to do?" the Pakistani asked.
"Try and get to that dish," Rodgers replied. "How are you set for ammunition?"
"I have a few rounds and one extra clip," Samouel told him.
"Use them sparingly," Rodgers said. "I may need the cover when I start up the slope."
"I will be very careful," Samouel promised.
Mike Rodgers flexed his cold, gloved fingers then put his hands on the ground. He was anxious. A lot was riding on what he knew to be a long shot. He was also concerned about Ron Friday, about something the NSA operative had said earlier. Even if they got through this impasse Rodgers wondered if a deadlier one lay ahead. But that was not something he could afford to worry about now. One battle at a time.
After pausing to take a long, calming breath, the general once again began moving crablike across the rugged terrain.
FIFTY-NINE
Ron Friday listened as someone approached. He assumed it was either Rodgers or Samouel.
Probably Rodgers, the NSA operative decided. The go-get'em warrior. The general would have a plan to salvage this mission. Which was fine with Friday. No one wanted a nuclear war. But barring such a plan, Friday also cared about getting the hell off this glacier and into Pakistan. And then from Pakistan to somewhere else. Anywhere that was upwind from the fallout that would blanket the Indian subcontinent.
Friday wanted out of here not because he was afraid to die. What scared him was dying stupidly. Not for a trophy or a jewel but because of a screwup. And right now they were in the middle of a massive screwup. A side trip that should never have happened. All because they had trusted the bureaucrats in Washington and Islamabad.
Friday waited behind the slab. The Indians must have heard the movement too because fresh gunfire pinged around the perimeter. There was not a lot of it. They were obviously conserving ammunition. They fired just enough to keep the person low and on the move.
Friday peered out at the blackness. His own weapon was drawn. His nostrils and lungs hurt from the knife-edged cold. His toes and fingertips were numb, despite the heavy boots and gloves. If he were shot, he wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze.