Rodgers took a moment to walk along the bottom of the glacier. It did not seem to matter where he started. He had to pull himself up one of the 'toes' and start walking.
There were collapsible steel bipoint ice cram pons in his vest.
Rodgers removed them and slipped them over his rigid boots. The two-pronged claws on the bottoms would allow for a surer grip on the ice.
He strapped them on and removed the pitons from another pocket. He would hold them in his fists and use them to assist his climb. He would not take the time to hammer them in unless he had to.
Before he left, Rodgers secured the flashlight in his left hand shoulder strap. There were powerful cadmium batteries in the specially made lights. The bulb itself was a low intensity scatter-beam in front of a highly polished mirror.
They would definitely last through the night. As he rested the toe of his left boot on the 'toe' of the glacier, he took one last look up the mountain of ice.
'I'm going to beat you,' he muttered.
'I'm going to get up there and finish the job my team started.'
Rodgers's eyes continued up through the darkness. He saw the stars, which were dimly visible through the wispy clouds.
Time seemed to vanish and Rodgers suddenly felt as if he were every warrior who had ever undertaken a journey, from the Vikings to the present. And as he jabbed the base of one crampon into the ice and reached up with a piton, Mike Rodgers no longer saw stars. He saw the eyes of those warriors looking down on him.
And among them the eyes of the Strikers looking after him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX.
Washington, D. C. Thursday, 12:00 p. m.
The embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan is located in a small, high-gated estate on Massachusetts Avenue in northwest D. C. Ron Plummer drove his Saab to the gate, where a voice on the other end of the intercom buzzed him through. He headed up the curving concrete driveway to a second security checkpoint at the back of the mansion.
Plummer pulled up to the white double doors and was greeted by a security guard. The man was dressed in a black business suit. He wore sunglasses, a headset, and a bulletproof vest under his white shirt. He carried a handgun in a shoulder holster. The man checked Plummer's ID then directed him to a visitor's spot in the small lot. The guard waited while Plummer parked.
As he hurried back to the mansion, Ron Plummer ran a hand through his untamed, thinning brown hair and adjusted his thick, black-framed glasses. The thirty-nine-year-old former CIA intelligence analyst for Western Europe was not just feeling the pressure of his own part in this drama. The political and economics officer was also aware of how many things had to go right or the Indian subcontinent would explode.
The National Crisis Management Center had not had a lot of dealings with the Pakistani embassy. The only reason the ambassador. Dr. Is mail Simathna, personally knew them was because of Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers. After the men had ended the hostage stalemate at the United Nations, Simathna asked them to visit the embassy. Plummer was invited to join them. The ambassador claimed to be paying his respects to a brave and brilliant American intelligence unit. Among the many lives they had saved were those of the Pakistani ambassador to the United Nations and his wife. But Hood and Plummer both suspected that Simathna simply wanted to meet the men who had embarrassed the Indian secretary general That feeling was reinforced when the visit received considerable coverage in the Islamabad media. Hood was glad, then, that Plummer had come along. Op-Center's PEO gave the appearance of substance to a meeting that was conceived to make a statement about India's ineffective contribution to world peace.
The security officer turned Plummer over to the ambassador's executive secretary. The young man smiled pleasantly and led Plummer to Simathna's office. The white-haired ambassador came out from behind his glass topped desk. He was wearing a brown suit and a muted yellow tie. The sixty-three-year-old ambassador had been a front line soldier and bore a scar on both cheeks where a bullet had passed through his jaw. He had also been an intelligence expert and a professor of politics and political sociology at Quaid-E-Azam University in Islamabad before being tapped to represent his nation in Washington, D. C. He greeted Op-Center's political officer warmly.
Plummer had not told Ambassador Simathna why he needed to see him, only that it was urgent.
The men sat in modern armchairs on the window side of the office. The thick bullet-proof glass muted their voices.
As Plummer spoke he sounded almost conspiratorial.
The ambassador's lean face was serious but unemotional as Plummer spoke. He leaned forward, listening quietly, as Plummer told him about the Striker operation from conception to present, and Hood's fears about the actions of India's SFF. When Plummer was finished, the ambassador sat back.
'I am disappointed that you did not come to me for intelligence on the nuclear situation in Kashmir,' the ambassador said.
'We did not want to impose on your friendship,' Plummer replied.
'It means a great deal to us.'
'That was thoughtful of you,' he replied with a little smile.
'But you have come to me now.'
'Yes,' Plummer replied.
'For your advice, your confidence, your patience, and most of all your trust. We believe we have a good chance to keep this under control but the hours ahead will be extremely difficult.'
'One could describe nuclear brinkmanship in those terms,' the ambassador said softly.
'Your Strikers were quite brave, going into the mountains the way they did. And the surviving members give me hope. Nations are not monolithic, not even India and Pakistan. When people care enough about one another great
