he realized Friday had deserted them.
'They're dead now.'
The men left the entrance and ran the last twenty-five yards to the chopper. Rodgers and the sergeant jumped into the open door of the Mi-35. The aircraft rose quickly, simultaneously angling from the hot Pakistani base.
As the helicopter door was slid shut behind him, Rodgers staggered toward the side of the crowded cargo compartment.
There were no seats, just the outlines of cold, tired bodies.
The general felt the adrenaline kick leave as his legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. He was not surprised to find Nanda already there, slumped against an ammunition crate.
Rodgers slid toward her as the helicopter leveled out and sped to the north. He took her hand and snuggled beside her, the two of them propping each other up. The Indians sat around them, lighting cigarettes and blowing warmth on their hands.
The cabin temperature inside the helicopter was little higher than freezing, but the relative warmth felt blissful.
Rodgers's skin crackled warmly. His eyelids shut. He could not help it.
His mind started to shut down as well.
Before it did, the American felt a flash of satisfaction that Samouel had died on something that was nominally his homeland. Silo, arsenal, whatever Islamabad called it, at least it was built by Pakistanis.
As for Friday, Rodgers was also glad. Glad that the man was about to die on the opposite side of the world from the country he had betrayed.
Joy for a terrorist. Hate for an American.
Rodgers was happy to leave those thoughts for another time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT.
The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:07 a. m.
Ron Friday had been confused, at first, when he saw the chopper leave the clearing.
His plan had been simple. If Eagle Scout Rodgers had managed to come out on top of this, Friday would have told him that he had gone off to the side to watch for an Indian assault. If the Indians had won, as Friday expected, he would have said he had been trying to reach them to help end the standoff.
Friday had not expected both sides to reach some kind of sudden detente and leave together. He did not expect to be stranded on the far side of the clearing where the drumming of the chopper drowned out his shouts to the men. He did not expect to be stranded here.
But as Ron Friday watched the chopper depart he did not feel cheated or angry. He felt alone, but that was nothing new. His immediate concern was getting rest and surviving what remained of the cold night. Having done both, he could make his way back to the line of control the next day. Where he had wanted to go in the first place.
Accomplishing that, Friday would find a way to work this to his advantage. He had still been a key participant in an operation that had prevented a nuclear incident over Kashmir.
Along the way he had learned things that would be valuable to both sides.
Friday was slightly northeast of the center of the clearing when the light of the rising chopper disappeared behind the peaks. He had only seen two people join the Indians. That meant one of them, probably Samouel, was dead near the entrance to the silo. The Pakistani would no longer need his clothing. If Friday could find a little niche somewhere, he could use the clothes to set up a flap to keep out the cold.
And he still had the matches. Maybe he could find something to make a little campfire. As long as life remained, there was always hope.
A moment later, in a chaotic upheaval of ice and fire, hope ended for Ron Friday.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE.
The Hemachal Peaks Friday, 4:12 a. m.
Crouched against the boulders on the edge of the plateau, Brett August and William Musicant were able to see and then hear a distant explosion.
It shook the ledge and threw a deep red flush against the peaks and sky to the northeast. The light reminded August of the kind of glow that emerged from a barbecue pit when you stirred the dying coals with a stick.
It was a wispy, blood-colored light that was the same intensity on all sides.
August watched to see if a contrail rose from the fires. He did not see one. That meant it was not a missile being launched. The blast came from the direction in which Mike Rodgers had been headed. August hoped his old friend was behind whatever it was rather than a victim of it.
The inferno remained for a few moments and then rapidly subsided.
August did not imagine that there was a great deal of combustible material out there on the glacier. He turned his stinging, tired eyes back to the valley below. Down there were the men who had killed his soldiers. Shot them from the sky without their even drawing their weapons. As much as the colonel did not want the situation to escalate, part of him wanted the Indians to charge up the peak. He ached for the chance to avenge his team.
The ice storm had stopped, though not the winds. It would take the heat of the sun to warm and divert them. The wind still swept down with punishing cold and force and a terrible sameness. The relentless whistling was the worst of it. August wondered if it were winds that inspired the legends of the Sirens. In some tales, the song of the sea nymphs drove sailors mad. August understood now how that could happen.
The colonel's hearing was so badly impaired that he did not even hear the TAC-SAT when it beeped.
