Clancy, Tom - Op Center 8 - Line of Control Page 8

  Maybe the SFF was right. Maybe this was the time and place to stop the

  Pakistani aggression. Major Puri only wished there had been some other

  way to trigger the event.

  He drew long and hard on the cigarette and then crushed it in the

  ashtray beside the phone. The tin receptacle was filled with partly

  smoked cigarettes. They were the residue of three afternoons filled with

  anxiety, doubt, and the looming pressure of his role in the operation.

  His aide would have emptied it if a Pakistani artillery shell had not

  blown his right arm off during a Sunday night game of checkers.

  The major rose. It was time for the late afternoon intelligence report

  from the other outposts on the base. Those were always held in the

  officers' bunker further along the trench.

  This meeting would be different in just one respect. Puri would ask the

  other officers to be prepared to initiate a code yellow nighttime

  evacuation drill. If the Indian air force planned to "light up" the

  mountains with nuclear missiles, the front lines would have to be

  cleared of personnel well in advance of the attack. It would have to be

  done at night when there was less chance of the Pakistanis noticing.

  The enemy would also be given a warning, though a much shorter one.

  There would be no point in striking the sites if the missiles were

  mobile and Pakistan had time to move them.

  Around seven o'clock, after the meeting was finished, the major would

  eat his dinner, go to sleep, and get up early to start the next phase of

  the top-secret operation. He was one of the few officers who knew about

  an American team that was coming to Kashmir to help the Indian military

  find the missile silos. The Directorate of Air Intelligence, which would

  be responsible for the strikes, knew generally where the silos were

  located. But they needed more specific information.

  Scatter-bombing the Himalaya Mountains was not an efficient use of

  military resources. And given the depth at which the silos were probably

  buried, it might be necessary to strike with more than conventional

  weapons. India needed to know that as well.

  Of course, they had not shared this plan with their unwitting partners

  in this operation.

  The United States wanted intelligence on Pakistan's nuclear capacity as

  much as India did. The Americans needed to know who was helping to arm

  Islamabad and whether the missiles they had deployed could reach other

  non-Muslim nations. Both Washington and New Delhi knew that if an

  American unit were discovered in Kashmir it would cause a diplomatic row

  but not start a war. Thus, the U. S. government had offered to send over

  a team that was off the normal military radar. Anonymity was important

  since Russia, China, and other nations had moles at U. S. military

  installations.

  These spies kept an eye on the comings and goings of the U. S. Navy

  SEALs, the U. S. Army Delta Force 1st Special Forces Operational

  Detachment, and other elite forces. The information they gathered was

  used internally and also sold to other nations.

  The team that was enroute from Washington, the National Crisis

  Management Center's Striker unit, had experience in mountain silo

  surveillance going back to a successful operation in the Diamond

  Mountains of North Korea years before.

  They were linking up with a NSA operative who had worked with the the

  Indian government and knew the area they would be searching.

  Major Puri had to make certain that as soon as the American squad

  arrived the search-and-identify mission went smoothly and quickly. The

  Americans would not be told of the capture of the Pakistani cell. They

  would not know that a strike was actually in the offing. That

  information would only be revealed when it was necessary to blunt

  international condemnation of India's actions. If necessary, the

  participation of the Striker unit would also be exposed. The United

  States would have no choice then but to back the Indian strike.

  Puri tugged on the hem of his jacket to straighten it. He picked up his

  turban, placed it squarely on his head, and headed for the door. He was

  glad of one thing, at least. His name was not attached to the SFF action

  in any way. As far as any official communiques were concerned, he had

  simply been told to help the Americans find the silos.

  He was just doing his job.

  He was just carrying out orders.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 8:21 a. m.

  "This is not good," Bob Herbert said as he stared at the computer

  monitor.

  "This is not good at all."

  The intelligence chief had been reviewing the latest satellite images

  from the mountains bordering Kashmir. Suddenly, a State Department news

  update flashed across the screen. Herbert clicked on the headline and

  had just started reading when the desk phone beeped. He glanced with

  annoyance at the small black console. It was an outside line.

  Herbert jabbed the button and picked up the receiver. He continued

  reading.

  "Herbert here," he said.

  "Bob, this is Hank Lewis," said the caller.

  The name was familiar but for some reason Herbert could not place it.

  Then again, he was not trying very hard. He was concentrating on the

  news brief. According to the update there had been two powerful

  explosions in Srinagar. Both of them were directed at Hindu targets.

  That was going to ratchet up tensions along the line of control.

  Herbert needed to get more information and brief Paul Hood and General

  Rodgers as soon as possible.

  "I've been meaning to call since I took over at NSA," Lewis said, "but

  it's been brutal getting up to speed."

  Jesus, Herbert thought. That's who Hank Lewis was. Jack Fenwick's

  replacement at the National Security Agency.

  Lewis had just signed off on the NSA's participation in the Striker

  mission. Herbert should have known the name right away. But he forgave

  himself. He had a mission headed into a hot zone that had just become

  hotter. His brain was on autopilot.

  "You don't have to explain. I know what the workload is like over

  there," Herbert assured him.

  "I assume you're calling about the State Department update on Kashmir?"

  "I haven't seen that report yet," Lewis admitted.

  "But I did receive a call from Ron Friday, the man who's supposed to

  meet your Striker team. He told me what you probably read. That an hour

  ago there were three powerful bomb blasts in a bazaar in Srinagar."

  Three?" Herbert replied.

  "The State Department says there were two explosions."

  "Mr. Friday was within visual range of ground zero," Lewis informed him.

  "He said there were simultaneous explosions in both the police station

  and in the Hindu temple.

  They were followed by a third blast onboard a bus full of Hindu

  pilgrims."

  Hearing the event described, Herbert flashed back to the embassy bombing

  in Beirut. The moment of the explosion was not what stayed with him.

  That was like running a car into a wall, a full-body hit.

  What he reme
mbered, vividly, was the sickness of coming to beneath the

  rubble and realizing in a sickening instant exactly what had happened.

  "Was your man hurt?" Herbert asked.

  "Incredibly, no," Lewis said.

  "Mr. Friday said the explosions would have been worse except that

  high-impact concussive devices were employed. That minimized the damage

  radius." "He was lucky," Herbert said. Hi Con explosives tended to

  produce a big percussive center, nominal shock waves, and very little

  collateral damage.

  "So why is Friday so sure the first two hits were separate blasts? The

  second one could have been an oil or propane tank exploding. There are

  often secondary pops in attacks of this kind."

  "Mr. Friday was very specific about the explosions being simultaneous,

  not successive," Lewis replied.

  "After the attack he also found two very similar but separate debris

  trails leading from the buildings. That suggests identical devices in

  different locations."

  "Possibly," Herbert said.

  An expression from Herbert's childhood came floating back: He who smelt

  it dealt it. Op-Center's intelligence chief briefly wondered if Friday

  might have been responsible for the blasts. However, Herbert could not

  think of a reason for Friday to have done that. And he had not become

  cynical enough to look for a reason. Not yet, anyway.

  "Let's say there were three blasts," Herbert said.

  "What do your nerve endings tell you about all this?"

  "My immediate thought, of course, is that the Pakistans are turning up

  the heat by attacking religious targets," Lewis replied.

  "But we don't have enough intel to back that up."

  "And if the idea was to hit at the Hindus directly, why would they

  strike the police station as well?" Herbert asked.

  "To cripple their pursuit capabilities, I would imagine," Lewis

  suggested.

  "Maybe," Herbert replied.

  Everything Lewis said made sense. Which meant one of two things.

  Either he was right or the obvious answer was what the perpetrators

  wanted investigators to believe.

  "Your Strikers won't be arriving for another twenty-two hours and

  change," Lewis said.

  "I'm going to have Mr. Friday go back to the target area and see what he

  can learn.

  Are there any resources you can call on?" "Yes," Herbert said.

  "India's Intelligence Bureau and the Defense Ministry helped us to

  organize the Striker mission.

  I'll see what they know and get back to you."

  "Thanks," Lewis said.

  "By the way, I'm looking forward to working with you. I've followed your

  career ever since you went over to Germany to take on those neo-Nazis. I

  trust men who get out from behind their desk. It means they put job and

  country before personal security."

  "Either that or it means they're crazy," Herbert said.

  "But thanks. Stay in touch." Lewis said he would. Herbert hung up.

  It was refreshing to talk to someone in the covert community who was

  actually willing to share information. Intelligence chiefs were

  notoriously secretive. If they controlled information they could control

  people and institutions. Herbert refused to play that game.

  While it was good for job security it was bad for national security.

  And as Jack Fenwick had demonstrated, a secretive intelligence chief

  could also control a president.

  But though Ron Friday was a seasoned field operative, Herbert was not

  quite as willing to bet the ranch on his report.

  Herbert only believed in people he had worked with himself.

  Herbert phoned Paul Hood to brief him on the new development.

  Hood asked to be conferenced on the call to Mike Rodgers whenever that

  took place. Then Herbert put in a call to the Indian Intelligence

  Bureau. Sujit Rani, the deputy director of internal activities, told

  Herbert pretty much what he expected to hear: that the IIB was

  investigating the explosions but did not have any additional

  information. The notion that there had been three explosions, not two,

  was something the IIB had heard and was looking into. That information

  vindicated Ron Friday somewhat in Herbert's eyes. Herbert's contact at

  the Defense Ministry told him basically the same thing. Fortunately,

  there was time before Striker reached India.

  They would be able to abort the mission if necessary.

  Herbert went into the Kashmir files. He wanted to check on other recent

  terrorist strikes in the region. Maybe he could find clues, a pattern,

  something that would help to explain this new attack.

  Something about it did not sit right. If Pakistan were really looking to

  turn up the heat in Kashmir they probably would have struck at a place

  that had intense religious meaning, like the shrine at Pahalgam.

  Not only was that the most revered site in the region but the terrorists

  would not have had to worry about security. The Hindus trusted

  completely in their sacred trinity. If it was the will of Vishnu the

  preserver then they would not be harmed. If they died violently then

  Shiva the destroyer would avenge them. And if they were worthy, Brahma

  the creator would reincarnate them.

  No. Bob Herbert's gut was telling him that the Hindu temple, the bus,

  and the police station were struck for some other reason. He just did

  not know what that reason was.

  But he would.

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  C-130 Cabin Wednesday, 10:13 a. m.

  When he first joined Striker, Corporal Ishi Honda discovered that there

  was not a lot of downtime on the ground.

  There was a great deal of drilling, especially for him. Honda had joined

  the team late, replacing Private Johnny Pucketl who had been wounded on

  the mission to North Korea. It was necessary for Honda, then a

  twenty-two-year-old private, to get up to speed.

  Once he got there Honda never let up. His mother used to tell him he was

  fated never to rest. She ascribed it to the different halves of his

  soul. Ishi's maternal grandfather had been a civilian cook at Wheeler

  Field. He died trying to get home to his family during the Japanese

  attack on Pearl Harbor. Ishi's paternal grandfather had been a

  high-ranking officer on the staff of Rear Admiral Takajiro Onishi, chief

  of staff of the Eleventh Air Fleet. Onishi was the architect of the

  Japanese attack. Ishi's parents were actors who met and fell in love on

  a show tour without knowing anything about the other's background. They

  often debated whether knowing that would have made a difference. His

  father said it absolutely would not have. With a little shake of her

  head, her eyes downturned, his mother said it might have made a

  difference.

  Ishi had no answers and maybe that was why he could not stop pushing

  himself. Pan of him believed that if he ever stopped moving he would

  inevitably look at that question, whether or not a piece of information

  would have kept him from being born. And he did not want to do that

  because the question had no answer. Honda did not like problems without

  solutions.

  What he did like was living the life of a Striker. It not only t
axed him

  mentally, it challenged him physically.

  From the time he was recruited to join the elite unit there were long

  daily runs, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand combat, arms practice,

  survival training, and maneuvers. The field work was always tougher for

  Honda than for the others. In addition to his survival gear he had to

  carry the TAC-SAT equipment. There were also tactical and political

  sessions and language classes. Colonel August had insisted that the

  Strikers learn at least two languages each in the likely event that

  those skills would one day be required. At least Honda had an advantage

  there. Because his father was Japanese, Honda already had a leg up on

  one of the languages he had been assigned. He selected Mandarin Chinese

  as the other. Sondra Devon the had chosen Cantonese as one of her

  languages. It was fascinating to Honda that the languages shared

  identical written characters. Yet the spoken languages were entirely

  different. While he and Devon the could read the same texts they could

  not communicate verbally.

  Though the time the Strikers spent on the ground was rewarding, Honda

  had learned that their time in the air was anything but. They rarely

  took short trips and the long journeys could be extremely dull. That was