Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the left. The short burst had come from Ron Friday.
"Our buddies are on the move again!" Friday said.
"Get down!" the general shouted.
Rodgers had no time for them. He reached into his vest and removed one of the two cylindrical "eight ball" grenades he carried. Those were the ones no one wanted to find themselves behind, the shrapnel-producing grenades. Without hesitation the general yanked the pin, let the no-snag cap pop off, and stiff-armed the explosive across the clearing. He did not want to kill the Indians but he could not afford to waste time. Not with Samouel injured.
Rodgers ducked and pulled Nanda down. Several seconds later the eight ball exploded, echoing off the walls and shaking the ground. Even before the reverberations stopped, Rodgers had pulled the nine-inch knife from his equipment vest. He had immediately begun prioritizing. Stop the Indians. Stop Samouel's bleeding. Then he would worry about the phone.
"Don't bother with me," Samouel said. "I'm all right."
"You're hit," Rodgers said.
The general cut into the man's coat. He put his right hand through the opening. He felt for a wound.
Rodgers found it. A bullet hole just below the left shoulder blade. He reached out to the right and felt for his gloves. He found them, cut out the soft interior linings, and placed them on the wound. He pressed down hard. He could not think of anything else to do.
The clearing was silent as the reverberation of the grenade subsided. There were no moans from the other side, no shouting. There was just deadly silence as time and options slipped away. Without the cell phone they could not communicate with August or hook up to the dish. Finding the unit in the dark would be time consuming, if it was even possible. Going out with a torch was suicide. And if they lost Samouel, none of it even mattered.
It had been a good plan. Ironically, they would have been better off following the instincts of a man who might well be a traitor.
Mike Rodgers crouched there, his arms held low. He continued to press on the makeshift bandage, hoping the blood on the underside would freeze. When that happened he would have to try to recover the phone, even if it cost him his life.
As Rodgers waited, his right elbow knocked into something in his belt.
He realized at once what it was.
Possible salvation.
SIXTY-ONE
The Mikoyan Mi-35 helicopter set down on its small, dark pad. The square landing area was composed of a layer of asphalt covered with cotton and then another layer of asphalt. The fabric helped keep the ice from the lower layer from reaching the upper layer.
No sooner had the pilot cut the twin rotors than he received a message over his headset.
"Captain, we just received a message from Major Puri," the base communications director informed him. "You're to refuel, deice, and go back out."
The captain exchanged a disgruntled look with the copilot. The cockpit was poorly heated and they were both tired from the difficult flight. They did not feel like undertaking a new mission.
As the pilot looked over, he glanced past his companion. Through the starboard window of the cockpit he could already see ground crews approaching. There were two trucks crossing the landing area. One was a fuel tank, the other a truck loaded with high-volume hoses and drums of a solution of sodium chloride-ferric ferrocyanide.
"What is the objective?" the captain asked.
"The cell you were tracking before," the BCD replied. "One of Major Puri's units has them cornered. The unit estimates that there are four individuals but they do not know how heavily armed they are."
The captain felt a flush of satisfaction at the news. Although he had admired the way one man, armed with a pistol, had driven them back, he did not like being outsmarted.
"Where are they?" the captain asked. At the same time he punched up the topographical map on the computer.
"The Upper Chittisin Plateau," the officer replied, and provided the coordinates.
The pilot entered the figures. The criminals had simply followed the mountain. It was a particularly high, cold, inhospitable section of the glacier. He wondered if they had gone there intentionally or ended up there by accident. If intentionally, he could not imagine what was there. Perhaps a safe house of some kind, or a weapons cache.
Whatever it was, he could take the chopper around the glacier on the southwest side and be there in forty-five minutes.
"When we find them, what are our orders?" the captain asked.
"You are to retrieve Major Puri's team and then complete your previous mission," the BCD informed him.
The captain acknowledged the order.
Ten minutes later he was in the air heading toward the target. This time, he would not fail to exterminate the terrorists.
SIXTY-TWO
Samouel's blood was beginning to freeze. Rodgers felt it in his fingertips. They were the only part of his hands that had stayed warm.
As soon as that happened he picked up his knife and leaned close to Nanda. "I want you to come with me," he said.
"All right," she replied.
Together, they crept across the area between the ice barricade and the entrance to the silo.
"I'm coming in with Nanda," Rodgers said in a loud whisper. He did not want Friday thinking it was the Indians circling around.
"Is everything all right?" Friday asked.
"Samouel's been hit," Rodgers told him.
"How bad?"
"Bad," Rodgers said.
"You dumb bastard," Friday said. "And I'm even dumber for following you assholes."
"I guess so," Rodgers replied. He sidled next to Friday and handed him the knife. "If we're through with your debriefing, I'm going back to get Samouel. Meantime, I need you to start digging me a hole in the ice along the side of the silo entrance."
"That's how you're planning to get to the cable?" Friday asked.
"That's how," Rodgers admitted.
"It could be ten feet down!" Friday exclaimed.
"It won't be," Rodgers said. "The ice melts and refreezes out here. The conduit probably cracks a lot. They would not put it so far down that they couldn't reach it for repairs."
"Maybe," Friday said. "Even so, digging through three or four feet of ice is going to take—"
"Just do it," Rodgers told him.
"Up yours," Friday replied. "If Sammy boy croaks we're dead anyway. I think I'm going to have a talk with our Indian neighbors. See if we can't work something out."
Rodgers heard the knife clunk on the ice.
A moment later he heard the blade scrape the ice.
"I'll do it," Nanda said as she began chopping.
That caught Rodgers by surprise. Her voice sounded strong. It was the first indication he had that she was "back." It was their first bit of luck and the timing could not have been better.
Rodgers could not see Friday but he could hear his harsh breathing. The general had his right hand in his coat pocket. He was prepared to shoot Friday if he had to. Not for leaving them. He had that right. But he was afraid of what a cold, tired, and hungry man might say about their situation.
Ron Friday's breathing stayed in the same place. Nanda's action must have shamed him. Or maybe Friday had been testing Rodgers. Sometimes, what a man did not say in response to a threat said more, and was more dangerous, than a saber-rattling reply.
"I'll be right back with Samouel," Rodgers said evenly.
The general turned and recrossed the small area between the two positions. The Indians maintained their silence. Rodgers was now thinking they had been advance scouts for another party. Their orders were obviously to keep the enemy pinned until backup could arrive. Hopefully, that would not be for another half hour or so. If everything else went right in his improvisation, that was all the time Rodgers would need.