By Dawn's Early Light (14 page)

1050 GMT
SEAWOLF

“Quite a racket, sir,” Zimenski said. The sophisticated Oaktree Resource computer program filtered out the sonar noises made by the two buoys, leaving behind a relatively quite ocean except for the sounds of the
V.I. Lenin
bugging out to the north at flank speed.

He went back to the control room. “Secure from battle stations. Make your speed flank, course one-eight-zero, depth twelve hundred feet.”

The COB repeated the orders.

“Mr. Alvarez, shape us a course that'll get us away from the
Lenin
and
Brezhnev
ASAP. I want to get back to our baseline when we're clear.”

“Aye, skipper,” Alvarez said.

“XO.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Pizza tonight. I want thin and crispy, meat lovers, and lots of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

0005 LOCAL
IN THE MOUNTAINS

“Major, I have two, possibly three heat sources above and to our right,” the pilot called back. He had never seen any real combat and he was excited.

“Are they man-size?” Zafar demanded.

“They would appear to be—” the pilot said. “Wait. There're definitely three of them, and now perhaps a fourth. They're hidden in the trees, so it's hard to make them out.”

“Stay on your present heading as if you haven't seen them,” Zafar ordered. “Units two and three, drop behind the rise to the west of the cliff and deploy your people. Unit four, I want you to stand by to the east, a couple of hundred meters below, but remain airborne.”

All three unit leaders acknowledged their orders. Two of the Alouettes headed farther up the mountain, while the third peeled off to the east and dropped back.

Zafar gave his rangers the heads-up sign. “We've found them,” he shouted over the noise. “I want to take them alive. But I don't want any martyrs.”

They nodded their understanding.

Zafar yanked open the door, pulled his Odelf image intensifiers over his eyes and searched the suddenly bright woods for the four American spies. He very much wanted to return to base with four intact prisoners and no casualties of his own.

0010 LOCAL
IN THE MOUNTAINS

The two helicopters that had topped the rise above the cache had probably landed and deployed their troops, Hanson figured. There would be no easy escape that way. The nearest chopper had disappeared somewhere to the west; they could hear its rotors in the trees. But the fourth Alouette had taken up station a couple of hundred meters below them at the edge of a narrow clearing.

Hauglar scrambled to where Hanson was crouched behind a tree. “The Claymores and Semtex are in place on either side of the cliff. Don's got the firing switches, so we're going to have to tell him when to do it.”

“Good enough,” Hanson said. He looked over to where Harvey waited with the Stinger. He was the only one in the group that Hanson could not understand. Harvey was a cold fish; the only thing he seemed to care about were the weapons and the explosives. He never went anywhere, never received letters or phone calls, and never talked about his life outside the service or the CIA. But he was very good at what he did, even if he wasn't Mr. Personality.

“We're not getting out of this one,” Hauglar said. He, on the other hand, was their pessimist, while Hanson thought of himself as the realist.

“Probably not. But I think I got through to Kuwait City so they know the situation we're in.”

“Maybe Washington can bend a few arms, but it'll probably be too little too late.”

Hanson had to smile inwardly. Hope springs eternal, his wife told him from the day they'd met in high school. “I want you and I'm going to get my wish. You want children and I'm going to give them to you.”

He stared for a moment at the Alouette hovering below them. Waiting. For what? He made his decision. “Go over and spot for Mike. I want that chopper bagged right now.”

“That's gonna get their attention.”

“They're not here to negotiate.”

Hauglar scrambled back to Harvey, who immediately got to his feet, shouldered the missile launcher, and aimed it toward the hovering helicopter.

Nothing seemed to happen for several seconds as Harvey switched on the battery, then uncaged the seeker head that locked onto the target.

Hauglar glanced back at Hanson, then tapped Harvey on the ear. “Clear to fire.”

The missile was away on a long flash of light, and within a couple of seconds the helicopter exploded with a tremendous boom that hammered off the side of the mountains, spewing flames and white-hot fragments in every direction as the fuselage turned over and fell to the ground.

“The second chopper will be back any minute,” Hanson warned. Because of the weight restrictions they had carried only the one Stinger missile for the launch system with no backup.

Hauglar motioned that he was going to spot for Amatozio, leaving Harvey and Hanson with the two LAWs, antitank weapons that weighed less than one-third what a Stinger did. It was a safe bet that their silenced Sterling submachine guns would not take down an Alouette unless they got very lucky. And the LAW rocket was not much better because it was slow enough for an alert helicopter pilot to get out of its way. But for now it was all they had.

They heard the helicopter off to the west, farther up the mountain. It was coming back slowly, the crew cautious now that they'd gotten a taste of what they were up against.

Hanson motioned for Harvey to move off a few meters farther east. They had hastily discussed just this possibility ten minutes ago. They figured that they could down one of the choppers with the Stinger, but the best they could do after that was try for one more.

Hanson would shoot his LAW first. While the pilot was busy evading that missile, Harvey might be able to bag him with the second LAWs. That's if they were stupid enough to bring a second chopper within range.

After that it would devolve into a firefight on the ground. If they were captured alive there was a good chance that someone would recognize who he was. They wouldn't be taking fingerprints or DNA, but Hanson's face was not unknown on CNN and the other television news networks. When he had joined the CIA a few years ago he had managed to all but drop out of the media's attention for obvious reasons.

But all it would take was one Pakistani soldier with a long memory and a facility for faces for the game to be up.

He'd discussed this at length with his brother, with Dr. Tyson, who was the incoming DCI, and with several Secret Service supervisors whose job it was to keep the president
and
his family alive and out of the hands of their enemies.

No one had been happy about Scott's decision to join the CIA, nor Carolyn Tyson's hiring him. But the president had overridden all the objections.

“All I ask is that you understand your responsibilities.
All
of your responsibilities,” his brother had cautioned.

Until this moment the warning had been a moot point.

There was another possibility here, however. A remote chance, one that Hanson didn't even want to think about, that they might get out of this. With two helicopters down, and the troops above them chewed up by the perimeter of Claymores and Semtex mantraps, an end run was just possible.

It would be daylight before the Pakistanis could get anyone else up here. Time enough for them to make it over the pass, and use the paragliders to get a long way down the other side.

Success would depend on none of them sustaining any wounds. The situation was bad enough because of Amatozio's blindness. If they had to carry someone too, using the paragliders would be totally out of the question. He was not leaving anybody behind.

But there was even another possibility. One that was developing in his mind.

The helicopter was farther to the west now, and lower, maybe even below them. Their perimeter was being probed. The Pakistanis couldn't possibly know the size of the force that they were facing. Even if they had spotted all four heat sources, they would have to suspect that there might be others hiding under the overhang, or perhaps farther up or down the mountain. One of their helicopters had been shot out of the sky, so they would be very cautious from now on.

They lost the sounds of the helicopter. Hanson cocked an ear and he heard it again, back to the west, and then it was gone. But the noise hadn't faded in the distance. The rotors had spooled down. The chopper had landed.

The Pakistanis were coming.

0015 LOCAL
IN THE MOUNTAINS

Major Zafar stood beside his chopper, which had touched down about two hundred meters directly west of where the four Americans had dug in, his stomach sour. He had lost six rangers, a pilot and copilot and a multimillion-rupee helicopter because of his criminal stupidity. He wanted to rush in there with every means at his disposal and crush the bastards; kill them, destroy their infidel, godless bodies; grind them into the dirt.

His six rangers were fanned out about twenty meters into the woods where they had taken up defensive positions. Their safety as well as the ultimate success of the mission was his responsibility, and his alone.

Flames from unit four were still at treetop level. He could smell the burning fuel and plastic. He imagined that he could smell burning flesh.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, then keyed his tactical radio. “Units two and three, say your present positions.”

“Command, two. We're one hundred meters above the Americans and west of the cliff.”

“Command, three. We're east, about the same distance. What happened, sir?”

Zafar's grip tightened on his 9mm Steyr pistol. “They're somewhat better equipped than we suspected, so watch yourself. We're on the ground two hundred meters west of them, As soon as we're in position we'll begin a diversion. When you hear it, attack them from above. We'll have them boxed in on three sides. If they try to move down the mountain, we'll herd them back to the depot like goats.”

“Command, three. Do we still have to take them as prisoners, Major? After what they've done.”

“There have been enough casualties. I want them as prisoners, if possible.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. ‘If possible.'”

It would become increasingly difficult to control them now that their honor was at stake. They still had to return to their duties at the depot where they would face the derision of the ISI troops.

Perhaps bringing back four American bodies would be best.

Despite orders.

Captain Amin's wrath would be bad enough. But Allah could only know what General Phalodi would do to them if they failed. Even President Musharraf had respect for the old warhorse. The Butcher of Punjab.

The Indian army had killed his son. In retaliation, Phalodi had taken thirty-seven Indian army prisoners of war, affixed them with chains to a huge funeral pyre, and burned them alive. Nobody who was there could ever forget the inhuman screams of agony.

That was after the general had himself been held as a prisoner of war.