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

Out here men and women were about to buy their way into India using

  their lives as collateral.

  The day that became routine was the day Rodgers vowed to hang up his

  uniform.

  Stepping briskly, proudly, Rodgers made his way toward the shadow of the

  plane and the sharp, bright salutes of his waiting team.

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  Kargu, Kashmir Wednesday, 4:11 p. m.

  Apu Kumar sat on the old, puffy featherbed that had once been used by

  his grandmother. He looked out at the four bare walls of his small

  bedroom. They had not always been bare. There used to be framed pictures

  of his late wife and his daughter and son-in-law, and a mirror. But

  their houseguests had removed them. Glass could be used as a weapon.

  The bed was tucked in a corner of the room he shared with his

  twenty-two-year-old granddaughter Nanda. At the moment the young woman

  was outside cleaning the chicken coop. When she was finished she would

  shower in the small stall behind the house and then return to the room.

  She would unfold a small card table, set it beside her grandfather's

  bed, and pull over a wooden chair. The bedroom door would be kept ajar

  and their vegetarian meals would be served to them in small wooden

  bowls. Then Apu and Nanda would listen to the radio, play chess, read,

  meditate, and pray. They would pray for enlightenment and also for

  Nanda's mother and father, both of whom died in the roaring hell that

  was unleashed on Kargil just four years ago. Sometime around ten or

  eleven they would go to sleep. With any luck Apu would make it through

  the night. Sudden noises tended to wake him instantly and bring back the

  planes and the weeks of endless bombing raids.

  In the morning, the Kargil-born farmer was permitted to go out and look

  after his chickens. One of his houseguests always went with him to make

  sure he did not try to leave.

  Apu's truck was still parked beside the coop. Even though the Pakistanis

  had taken the keys Apu could easily splice the ignition wires and drive

  off. Of course, he would only do that if his granddaughter Nanda were

  with him. Which was why they were never allowed outside together.

  The slender, silver-haired man would feed the chickens, talk to them,

  and look after any eggs they had left. Then he was taken back to the

  room. In the late afternoon it was Nanda's turn to go out to do the more

  difficult work of cleaning the coop. Though Apu could do it, their

  guests insisted that Nanda go. It helped keep the headstrong young woman

  tired. When they had enough eggs to bring to market one of their

  houseguests always went to Srinagar for them. And they always gave the

  money to Apu. The Pakistanis were not here for financial profit. Though

  Apu tried hard to eavesdrop, he was still not sure why they were here.

  They did not do much except talk.

  For five months, ever since the five Pakistanis arrived in the middle of

  the night, the physical life of the sixty-three year-old farmer had been

  defined by this routine. Though daily visits to the coop had been the

  extent of the Kumars' physical life, Apu had retained his wits, his

  spirit, and most importantly his dignity. He had done that by devoting

  himself to reading and meditating on his deep Hindu beliefs. He did that

  for himself and also to show his Islamic captors that his faith and

  resolve were as powerful as theirs.

  Apu reached behind him. He raised his pillow a little higher. It was

  lumpy with age, having been through three generations of Kumars. A smile

  played on his grizzled, leathery face. The down had suffered enough.

  Perhaps the duck would find contentment in another incarnation.

  The smile faded quickly. That was sacrilegious. It was something his

  granddaughter might have said. He should know better. Maybe the months

  of incarceration were affecting his reason. He looked around.

  Nanda slept in a sleeping bag on the other side of the room. There were

  times when Apu would wake in the small hours of the night and hear her

  breathing. He enjoyed that.

  If nothing else their captivity had allowed them to get to know each

  other better. Even though her nontraditional religious views bothered

  him, he was glad to know what they were. One could not fight the enemy

  without knowing his face.

  There were two other rooms in the small stone house. The door to the

  living room was open. The Pakistanis stayed there during the day. At

  night they moved to the room that used to be his. All save the one who

  took the watch. One of them was always awake. They had to be. Not just

  to make sure Apu and Nanda stayed inside the house but to watch for

  anyone who might approach the farm. Though no one lived close by, Indian

  army patrols occasionally came through these low-lying hills.

  When this group of Pakistanis first arrived they had promised their

  unwilling hosts that they would stay no more than six months. And if Apu

  and Nanda did what they were told they would not be harmed after that

  time. Apu was not sure he believed the four men and one woman but he was

  willing to give them the time they asked for. After all, what choice did

  he have?

  Though he would not mind if the authorities came and shot them dead. As

  long as he did not cause harm to befall them it would not affect his

  future in this life or the next.

  The shame of it was that as people they would all get along fine. But

  politics and religion had stirred things up. That was the story of this

  entire region from the time Apu had been a young man. Neighbors were

  neighbors until outsiders turned them into enemies.

  There was one small window in the room but the shutters had been nailed

  closed. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. The

  glow illuminated a small, old, leather bound copy of the Upanishads.

  Those were the mystical writings of Apu's faith. The Upanishads

  comprised the final section of the Veda, the Hindu holy scriptures.

  Apu turned his mind back to the text. He was reading the earliest of the

  Upanishads, the sections of verse that addressed the doctrine of

  Brahman, the universal self or soul.

  The goal of Hinduism, like other Eastern religions, was nirvana, the

  eventual freedom from the cycle of rebirth and the pain brought about by

  one's own actions or karma. This could only be accomplished by following

  spiritual yoga, which led to a union with God. Apu was determined to

  pursue that goal. though actually achieving it was a dream. He was also

  devoted to the study of the post-Vedic Puranas, which address the

  structure of' life in an individual and social sense and also take the

  reader through the repeating cycle of creation and end of the universe

  as represented by the divine trinity of Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the

  preserver; and Shiva, the destroyer. He had had a hard life, as befitted

  his farmer caste. But he had to believe that it was just a blink in the

  cosmic cycle. Otherwise, there would be nothing to work toward, no

  ultimate end.

  Nanda was different. She put more trust in the poet-saints who wrote

  religious songs and epics.
The literature was essential to Hinduism but

  she responded to the outpourings of men more than the doctrines they

  were describing. Nanda had always liked heroes who spoke their minds.

  That had been her mother's nature as well. To say what she believed.

  To fight. To resist.

  That was what had helped cost Apu his daughter and sonin-law.

  When the Pakistani invaders first arrived, the two sheep farmers made

  Molotov cocktails for the hastily organized resistance fighters. After

  two weeks both Savitri and her husband, Manjay, were caught transporting

  them inside bags of wool. The bags were ignited with the couple bound in

  the cab of their truck. The next day Apu and Nanda found their bodies in

  the blackened ruins. To Nanda they were martyrs.

  To Apu they had been reckless. To Apu's ailing wife, Pad, they were the

  final blow to a frail body. She died eight days later.

  "All human errors are impatience," it was written. If only Savitri and

  Manjay had asked, Apu would have told them to wait. Time brings balance.

  The Indian military eventually pushed most of the Pakistanis out. There

  was no reason for his children to have acted violently. They hurt others

  and added that burden to their spiritual inventory.

  Tears began to fill his eyes. It was all such a waste.

  Though, strangely, it made him cherish Nanda all the more.

  She was the only part of his wife and daughter that he had left.

  There was a sudden commotion in the other room. Apu shut his book and

  set it on the rickety night table. He slid into his slippers and quietly

  crossed the wooden floor. He peeked out the door. Four of the Pakistanis

  were all there.

  The houseguests were working on something, arms and heads moving over

  something between them. The backs of three of the men were toward him so

  he could not see what they were doing. Only the woman was facing him.

  She was a slender, very swarthy woman with short black hair and a

  frowning, intense look. The others called her Sharab but Apu did not

  know if that was her real name.

  Sharab waved a gun at him.

  "Go back!" she ordered.

  Apu lingered a moment longer. His houseguests had never done anything

  like this before that he was aware of. They came and went and they

  talked. Occasionally they looked at maps. Something was happening. He

  edged forward a little more. There appeared to be a burlap sack on the

  floor between the men. One of the men was crouching beside it. He

  appeared to be working on something inside the bag.

  "Get back!" the woman yelled again.

  There was a tension in her voice that Apu had never heard before. He did

  as he was told.

  Apu kicked off his slippers and lay back on the bed. As he did he heard

  the front door open. It was Nanda and presumably the fifth Pakistani. He

  could tell by how loud the door creaked. The young woman always opened

  it boldly, as if she wanted to hit whoever might be standing behind it.

  Apu smiled. He always looked forward to seeing his granddaughter. Even

  if she had only been gone an hour or two.

  This time. however, things were different. He did not hear her

  footsteps. Instead he heard quiet talking. Apu held his breath and tried

  to hear what was being said. But his heart was beating louder than usual

  and he could not hear. Quietly, he raised himself from the bed and eased

  toward the door.

  He leaned closer, careful not to show himself. He listened.

  He heard nothing.

  Slowly, he nudged the door open. One of the men was there, looking out

  the window. He was holding his silver handgun and smoking a cigarette.

  The Pakistani glanced back at Apu.

  "Go back in the room," the man said quietly.

  "Where is my granddaughter?" Apu asked. He did not like this.

  Something felt wrong.

  "She left with the others," he said.

  "Left? Where did they go?" Apu asked.

  The man looked back out the window. He drew on his cigarette.

  "They went to market," he replied.

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 7:00 a. m.

  Colonel Brett August had lost track of the number of times he had ridden

  in the shaking, cavernous bellies of C-130 transports. But he remembered

  this much. He had hated each and every one of those damn nights.

  This particular Hercules was one of the newer variants, a long-range SAR

  HC-130H designed for fuel economy. Colonel August had ridden in a number

  of customized C-130s:

  the C-130D with ski landing gear during an Arctic training mission, a

  KC-130R tanker, a C-130F assault transport, and many others. The amazing

  thing was that not one of those versions offered a comfortable ride. The

  fuselages were stripped down to lighten the aircraft and give it as much

  range as possible. That meant there was very little insulation against

  cold and noise. And the four powerful turboprops were deafening as they

  fought to lift the massive plane skyward.

  The vibrations were so strong that the chain around Colonel August's dog

  tags actually did a dance around his neck.

  Comfort was also not in the original design-lexicon. The seats in this

  particular aircraft were cushioned plastic buckets arranged side by side

  along the fuselage walls. They had high, thick padded backrests and

  headrests that were supposed to keep the passenger warm.

  Theoretically that would work if the air itself did not become so cold.

  There were no armrests and very little space between the chairs. Duffel

  bags were stowed under the seats. The guys who designed these were

  probably like the guys who drew up battle plans. It all looked great on

  paper.

  Not that Colonel August was complaining. He remembered a story his

  father once told him about his own military days. Sid August was part of

  the U. S. 101st Airborne Division, which was trapped by the 15th Panzer

  Grenadier Division shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. The men had

  only K rations to eat. Invented by an apparently sadistic physiologist

  named Ancel Benjamin Keys, K rations were flat-tasting compressed

  biscuits, a sliver of dry meat, sugar cubes, bouillon powder, chewing

  gum, and compressed chocolate.

  The chocolate was code-named D ration. Why chocolate needed a code name

  no one knew but the men suspected the starving Germans would fight

  harder knowing there was more than just dry meat and card boardlike

  biscuits in the enemy foxholes.

  The airmen ate the K rations sparingly while lying low.

  After a few days the air force managed to night-drop several cases of C

  rations and extra munitions to the soldiers. The C rations contained

  dinner portions of meat and potatoes. But introducing real food to their

  systems made the men so sick and flatulent that the noise and smell

  actually gave their position away to a German patrol. The airmen were

  forced to fight their way out. The story always made Brett August uneasy

  with the idea of having too much comfort available to him.

  Mike Rodgers was sitting to August's right. August smiled to himself.

  Rodgers had a big, high-arched nose that had been broken four times<
br />
  playing college basketball. Mike Rodgers did not know any way but

  forward. They had just taken off and that nose was already hunkered into

  a briefcase thick with folders. August had flown with Rodgers long

  enough to know the drill. As soon as the pilot gave the okay to use

  electronic devices, Rodgers would pull some of those folders out.

  He would put them on his left knee and place his laptop on the right

  knee. Then, as Rodgers finished with material, he would pass it to

  August. About halfway over the Atlantic they would begin to talk openly

  and candidly about what they had read. That was how they had discussed

  everything for the forty-plus years they had known each other. More

  often than not it was unnecessary to say anything.

  Rodgers and August each knew what the other man was thinking.

  Brett August and Mike Rodgers were childhood friends.

  The boys met in Hartford, Connecticut, when they were six.

  In addition to sharing a love of baseball they shared a passion for

  airplanes. On weekends, the two young boys used to bicycle five miles

  along Route 22 out to Bradley Field. They would just sit on an empty

  field and watch the planes take off and land. They were old enough to

  remember when prop planes gave way to the jet planes. Both of them used

  to go wild whenever one of the new 707s roared overhead. Prop planes had

  a familiar, reassuring hum. But those new babies--they made a boy's