Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Read online

  under the desk. He packed his laptop and began collecting the diskettes

  he would need for his journey. The files contained intelligence reports

  from India and Pakistan, maps of Kashmir, and the names of contacts as

  well as safe houses throughout the region. As he packed the tools of his

  trade Rodgers felt almost like he did as a kid growing up in Hartford,

  Connecticut. Hartford endured fierce winter storms. But they were damp

  storms that brought packing snow. Before putting on his snow suit

  Rodgers would get his bucket, rope, spade, and swimming goggles and toss

  them into his school gym bag. His mother insisted on the goggles. She

  knew she could not prevent her son from fighting but she did not want

  him getting hit by a snowball and losing an eye. Once outside, while all

  the other kids were building snow forts, Rodgers would climb a tree and

  build a snow tree house on a piece of plywood. No one ever expected

  that. A rain of snowballs from a thick branch.

  After Rodgers had his briefcase packed he would head to the "Gulf cart"

  parked at the back door. That was what the military had christened the

  motorized carts that had shuttled officers from meeting to meeting

  during both Desert Shield and Desert Storm. The Pentagon bought

  thousands of them just before what turned out to be the last gasp of

  face-to-face strategy meetings before secure video-conferencing was

  created.

  After that, the obsolete carts had been distributed to bases around the

  country as Christmas presents to senior officers.

  The Gulf cart would not have far to travel. A C-130 Hercules was parked

  just a quarter of a mile away, in the holding area of the airstrip that

  passed directly behind the NCMC building. In slightly under an hour the

  hundred-foot-long transport would begin a NATO supply trek that would

  secretly ferry Rodgers and his Striker unit from Andrews to the Royal

  Air Force Alconbury station in Great Britain to a NATO base outside

  Ankara, Turkey. There, the team would be met by an Indian Air Force

  AN-12 transport, part of the Himalayan Eagles squadron. They would be

  flown to the high-altitude base at Chushul near the Chinese border and

  then choppered to Srinagar to meet their contact. It would be a long and

  difficult journey lasting just over twenty-four hours. And there would

  be no time to rest when they reached India. The team had to be ready to

  go as soon as they touched down.

  But that was fine with Mike Rodgers. He had been "ready to go" for

  years. He had never wanted to be second-in command of anything.

  During the Spanish-American War, his great-great-grandfather Captain

  Malachai T. Rodgers went from leading a unit to serving under upstart

  It. Colonel Teddy Roosevelt. As Captain Rodgers wrote to Mrs. Rodgers at

  the time, "There is nothing better than running things. And there is

  nothing worse than being a runner-up, even if that happens to be under a

  gentleman you respect."

  Malachai Rodgers was right. The only reason Mike Rodgers had taken the

  deputy director's position was because he never expected Paul Hood to

  stay at Op-Center. Rodgers assumed that the former Los Angeles mayor was

  a politician at heart who had eyes on the Senate or the White House.

  Rodgers was wrong. The general hit another big bump in the road when

  Hood resigned from Op-Center to spend more time with his family.

  Rodgers thought Op-Center would finally be his. But Paul and Sharon Kent

  Hood weren't able to fix what was wrong with their marriage. They

  separated and Hood came back to Op-Center. Rodgers went back to being

  number two.

  Rodgers needed to command. A few weeks before, he and Hood had ended a

  hostage siege at the United Nations. Rodgers had directed that

  operation. That reminded him of how much he enjoyed risking everything

  on his ability to outthink and outperform an adversary. Doing it safely

  from behind a desk just was not the same thing.

  Rodgers turned to the open door a moment before Bob Herbert arrived.

  Op-Center's number three man was always announced by the low purr of his

  motorized wheelchair.

  "Good morning," Herbert said as he swung into view.

  "Good morning. Bob," Rodgers replied.

  "Mind if I come in?" "Not at all," Rodgers told him.

  Herbert swung the wheelchair into the office. The balding,

  thirty-nine-year-old intelligence genius had lost the use of his legs in

  the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. The terrorist attack had also taken

  the life of Herbert's beloved wife. Op Center computer wizard Matt Stoll

  had helped design this state-of-the-art wheelchair. It included a

  computer that folded into the armrest and a small satellite dish that

  opened from a box attached to the back of the chair.

  "I just wanted to wish you good luck," Herbert said.

  "Thanks," Rodgers replied.

  "Also, Paul asked if you would pop in before you left," Herbet said.

  "He's on the phone with Senator Fox and didn't want to miss you."

  Rodgers glanced at his watch.

  "The senator is up early.

  Any particular reason?"

  "Not that I know of, though Paul didn't look happy," Herbert said.

  "Could be more fallout over the UN attack."

  If that were true then there was an advantage to being the number two

  man, Rodgers thought. He did not have to put up with that bullshit.

  They had absolutely done the right thing at the United Nations. They had

  saved the hostages and killed the bad guys.

  "They're probably going to beat us up until the secretary general cries

  uncle," Rodgers said.

  "Senator Fox has gotten good at that," Herbert said.

  "She slaps your back real hard and tells your enemies it's a lashing.

  Tells your friends it's a pat on the back. Only you know which it is.

  Anyway, Paul will deal with that," Herbert went on. He extended his

  hand.

  "I just wanted to wish you well.

  That's a remote, hostile region you're heading into."

  Rodgers clasped Herbert's hand and grinned.

  "I know. But I'm a remote, hostile guy. Kashmir and I will get along

  fine."

  Rodgers went to withdraw his hand. Herbert held it.

  "There's something else," Herbert said.

  "What?" Rodgers asked.

  "I can't find out who your contact man is over there," Herbert said.

  "We're being met by an officer of the National Security Guard, Captain

  Prem Nazir," Rodgers replied.

  "That's not unusual."

  "It is for me," Herbert insisted.

  "A few calls, some promises, a little intel exchange usually gets me

  what I want. It lets me check up on people, make sure there isn't a

  double cross on the other end. Not this time. I can't even get anything

  on Captain Nazir."

  "To tell you the truth, I'm actually relieved that there's tight

  security for once," Rodgers laughed.

  "Tight security is when the opposition doesn't know what is going on,"

  Herbert said.

  "I get worried when our own people can't tell me exactly what is going

  on." "Cannot or will not?" Rodgers asked.

  "Cannot," Herbert said.

  "Why don't you c
all Mala Chatterjee," Rodgers suggested.

  "I bet she would be delighted to help."

  "That's not funny." Herbert said.

  Chatterjee was the young Indian secretary-general of the United Nations.

  She was a career pacifist, the most vocal critic of Op-Center and the

  way they had taken over and resolved the crisis.

  "I talked to my people at the CIA and at our embassies in Islamabad and

  New Delhi," Herbert went on.

  "They don't know anything about this operation. That's unusual. And the

  National Security Agency does not exactly have things under control. The

  plan has not gone through the usual com-sim.

  Lewis is too busy housecleaning for that." "I know," Rodgers said.

  "The usual com-sim" was a computer simulation that was run on any plan

  that had been approved for the field. The sponsoring agency typically

  spent days running the simulations to find holes in the main blueprint

  and also to give backup options to the agents heading into the field.

  But the National Security Agency had recently been shaken up by the

  resignation of their director. Jack Fenwick. That occurred after Hood

  had identified Fenwick as one of the leaders of a conspiracy to help

  remove the president from office. His replacement, Hank Lewis, formerly

  assistant to the president, coordinator of strategic planning, was

  spending his time removing Fenwick loyalists.

  "We'll be okay," Rodgers assured him.

  "Back in Vietnam my plans were always held together with spit."

  "Yeah, but there at least you knew who the enemy was," Herbert pointed

  out.

  "All I want you to do is stay in touch.

  If something seems out of whack I want to be able to let you know."

  "I will," Rodgers promised. They would be traveling with the TAC-SAT

  phone. The secure uplink would allow Striker to call Op-Center from

  virtually anywhere in the world.

  Herbert left and General Rodgers picked up the files and diskettes he

  wanted to take. The hall outside the door was getting busier as

  Op-Center's day crew arrived. It was nearly three times the size of the

  skeletal night crew. Yet Rodgers felt strangely cut off from the

  activity. It was not just the focused "mission mode" Rodgers went into

  before leaving the base. It was something else. A guardedness, as if he

  were already in the field. In and around Washington that was not far

  from the truth.

  Despite Rodgers's assurances, what Herbert said had resonated with him.

  Herbert was not an alarmist and his concerns did worry Rodgers a little.

  Not for himself or even his old friend Colonel Brett August.

  August would be commanding Op-Center's elite Striker unit. Rodgers was

  worried about the young multi service members of Striker who would be

  joining him in Kashmir. Especially the ones with families.

  That was never far from any commander's mind. Herbert had helped to give

  it a little extra volume.

  But risk came with the uniform and the generous pension.

  Rodgers would do everything he could to safeguard the personnel and the

  mission. Because, in the end, there was one inescapable truth about

  actions taken by men like Mike Rodgers and Brett August.

  The goal was worth the risk.

  CHAPTER TWO.

  Srinagar, India Wednesday, 3:51 p. m.

  Five hours after giving a false name to officials at the Foreigners'

  Regional Registration Office at Srinagar Airport, Ron Friday was walking

  the streets of what he hoped would be his home for the next year or two.

  He had checked into a small, cheap inn off Shervani Road.

  He'd first heard about Binoo's Palace the last time he was here. There

  was a gaming parlor in the back, which meant that the local police had

  been paid to keep the place secure. There, Friday would be both

  anonymous and safe.

  The National Security Agency officer was happy to have gotten out of

  Baku, Azerbaijan. He was happy not only to get out of the former Soviet

  Republic but to be here, in Srinagar, less than twenty-five miles from

  the line of control.

  He had been to the capital of the northern state before and found it

  invigorating. Distant artillery fire was constant. So were the muted

  pops of land mines in the hills. During early morning there was the

  scream of jets and the distinctive whumping sound of their cluster bombs

  and the louder crashes of their guided missiles.

  Fear was also in the air day and night. The ancient resort city was

  governed and patrolled by Indian Hindu soldiers while commerce was

  controlled by Kashmiri Muslims. Not a week went by without four or five

  deaths due to terrorist bombings, shoot-outs, or hostage situations.

  Friday loved it. Nothing made each breath sweeter than when you were

  walking through a minefield.

  The forty-seven-year-old Michigan native walked through the largest

  open-air market in the city. It was located on the eastern end of the

  town, near hills that had once been fertile grazing areas. That was

  before the military had appropriated the hills as a staging area for

  helicopter nights and convoys headed out toward the line of control. A

  short walk to the north was the Centanr Lake View Hotel, which was where

  most foreign tourists stayed. It was located near the wellkept

  waterfront region known collectively as the Mughal Gardens. These

  gardens, which grow naturally, helped give the region its name Kashmir,

  which meant "Paradise" in the language of the Mughal settlers.

  A cool, light rain was falling, though it did not keep away the regular

  crowds and foreigners. The market smelled like nowhere else Friday had

  ever been. It was a combination of musk--from the sheep and damp rattan

  roofs on the stalls-lavender incense, and diesel fuel. The fuel came

  from the taxis, minibuses, and scooter-rickshaws that serviced the area.

  There were women in saris and young students in western clothing. All of

  them were jockeying for position at the small wooden stands, looking for

  the freshest fruits or vegetables or baked goods.

  Merchants whipped small switches at sheep who had been driven from

  adjacent fields by depleted pasturage or by soldiers practicing their

  marksmanship.

  The strays tried to steal carrots or cabbage. Other customers, mostly

  Arab and Asian businessmen, shopped at a leisurely pace for shawls,

  papier-mache trinket boxes, and leather purses. Because Srinagar and the

  rest of Kashmir were on the list of "no-go zones" at the State

  Department, British Foreign Office, and other European governments, very

  few Westerners were here.

  A few merchants hawked rugs. There were farmers, who had parked their

  trucks and carts at one end and were carrying baskets with fresh produce

  or bread to various stands.

  And there were soldiers. Except in Israel, Friday had never seen a

  public place where there were nearly as many soldiers as there were

  civilians. And those were only the obvious ones, the men in uniform.

  He was sure that there were members of the Special Frontier Force, which

  was a co creation of the CIA and India's Research and Analysis Wing,

  their foreign espionage serv
ice. The job of the SFF was to disrupt the

  flow of materiel and intelligence to and from enemy positions. Friday was

  equally sure the crowd included members of Pakistan's Special Services

  Group. A division of the army's Directorate for Inter-Services

  Intelligence, the group monitored actions behind enemy lines. They also

  worked with freelance operatives to commit acts of terrorism against the

  Indian people.

  There was nothing like this in Baku, where the markets were quiet and

  organized and the local population was small and relatively well

  behaved. Friday liked this better. One had to watch for enemies while

  trying to feed one's family.

  Having a desk at the embassy in Baku had been interesting but not

  because of the work he was doing for Deputy Ambassador Dorothy

  Williamson. Friday had spent years working as an attorney for Mara Oil,

  which was why Williamson had welcomed him to her staff.

  Officially, he was there to help her draft position papers designed to

  moderate Azerbaijani claims on Caspian oil. What had really made

  Friday's tenure exciting was the undercover work he had been doing for

  Jack Fenwick, the president's former national security advisor.

  The broad-shouldered man had been recruited by the NSA while he was