'You still there?' 'I'm here,' Herbert said. He told Lewis and Friday to hold the line.
'Are you looking at the monitor?' Viens asked.
'I am,' Herbert said.
'You see that?' Viens asked.
'I do,' Herbert replied.
There were footprints. And they were made during the previous night.
The sun had not had a chance to melt and refreeze them. The cell had definitely left the cave and was heading north, toward Pakistan.
Unfortunately, they could not tell from the jumble of footprints how many people were in the party.
'Good work, Stephen,' Herbert said. He archived the image with the rest of them.
'Have you got time to follow them?'
'I can track them for a bit but that won't tell you much,' Viens said.
'I looked at one of the overviews. We're going to lose the trail behind the peak about a quarter of a kilometer to the northwest. After that all we've got is a shitload of mountain to examine.' 'I see,' Herbert said.
'Well, at least let's make sure they went as far as the turn. And see if we can get a better idea of how many people there were and maybe what they were carrying.'
'I'm guessing they weren't carrying much,' Viens said.
'Three inches or so of snow cover, two inches of print. They look about the right depth for an average hundred-and-sixty pound individual. Besides, I can't imagine they'd be carrying much more than ropes and pitons trekking through that region.'
'You're probably right,' Herbert said.
'But I'll see if we can't get a head count for the group,' Viens said.
'Thanks, Stephen,' Herbert said.
'Anytime,' Viens replied.
Herbert clicked off the speakerphone and got back on with Hank Lewis and Ron Friday.
'Gentlemen, we've definitely got the cell heading north,' he said.
'I suggest we table the political debate and concentrate on managing the crisis. I'll have a talk with Paul. See if he wants to get involved with this or whether we should abort the Striker mission altogether and turn the problem over to the State Department. Hank, I suggest you and Mr. Friday talk this over and see what you want your own involvement to be. Whether we stick to the original mission or work out a new one, it could get ugly out there.'
'We'll also have to talk about what to tell the president and the CIOC,' Lewis said.
'I have a suggestion about that,' Herbert told him.
'If you tag Mr. Friday as a loan-out to Striker as of right now, the NSA doesn't have to be involved in making that decision.' 'That's a negative,' Lewis told him.
'I'm new on the job, Bob, but I'm not a novice. You let me know what Paul's thinking is and I'll make the call on our end.'
'Pair enough,' Herbert said. He smiled. He respected a man who did not pass the buck. Especially a buck this big.
'Ron,' Lewis said, 'I'd like you to talk to the farmer and to Captain Nazir. See if they're with you on a possible search-and-capture. I agree with Bob. Mr. Kumar can be very useful if we're able to locate his granddaughter.' 'I'll do it,' Friday said.
'Good,' Herbert said.
'Hank, you and I will talk after I've discussed this with Paul and General Rodgers. Mr. Friday-thank you for your help.' Friday said nothing.
Herbert hung up. He swore at the very thought of Ron Friday and then put him from his mind--for now. There were larger issues to deal with.
He made an appointment to see Paul Hood at once.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
Kargil, Kashmir Thursday, 7:43 a. m.
Before leaving the helicopter Ron Friday opened a compartment between the seats. He found an old backup book of charts in there. The chopper's flight plan was dictated by computer-generated maps. These animated landscapes and grid overlays were presented on a monitor located above the primary flight display screen between the pilot and copilot stations. A keypad beneath the monitor was used to punch in coordinates. Friday tore out the maps he wanted and shoved them in the pocket of his windbreaker.
As he headed back to the farm, Friday punched the air.
He unleashed a flurry of strong, angry uppercuts that did not just hit the imaginary chin of Bob Herbert. The punches went through his new nemesis as he struck at the sky. Who the hell did Bob Herbert think he was? The man had been wounded in the line of duty. That entitled him to disability compensation, not respect.
The pis mire Friday thought. Bob Herbert was just a wage slave drone in the hive.
Friday finished his flurry of blows. His heart was ramming his chest, his arms perspiring. Breathing heavily, he
