Line of Control - Tom Clancy [2]
Mentally and physically, it was such a trying and unforgiving environment that any officer who successfully completed a one-year tour of duty was automatically eligible for a desk job in a "safe zone" like Calcutta or New Delhi. That was what the forty-one-year-old Puri was working toward.
Three months before, he had been transferred from the army's HQ Northern Command where he trained border patrols.
Nine more months of running this small base, of "kiting with tripwire," as his predecessor had put it, and he could live comfortably for the rest of his life. Indulge his passion for going out on anthropological digs. He loved learning more about the history of his people. The Indus Valley civilization was over 4,500 years old. Back then the Pkitania and Indian people were one. There was a thousand years of peace. That was before religion came to the region.
Major Puri chewed his tobacco. He smelled the brewed tea coming from the mess tent. It was time for breakfast, after which he would join his men for the morning briefing.
He took another moment to savor the morning. It was not that a new day brought new hope. All it meant was that the night had passed without a confrontation.
Puri turned and stepped down the stairs. He did not imagine that there would be very many mornings like this in the weeks ahead. If the rumors from his friends at HQ were true, the powder keg was about to get a new fuse.
A very short, very hot fuse.
CHAPTER ONE.
Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 5:56 a. m.
The air was unseasonably chilly. Thick, charcoal-gray clouds hung low over Andrews Air Force Base. But in spite of the dreary weather Mike Rodgers felt terrific.
The forty-seven-year-old two-star general left his black 1970 Mustang in the officers' parking lot. Stepping briskly, he crossed the neatly manicured lawn to the Op-Center offices.
Rodgers's light brown eyes had a sparkle that almost made them appear golden. He was still humming the last tune he had been listening to on the portable CD player. It was Victoria Bundonis's recording of the 1950s David Seville ditty "Witch Doctor." The young singer's low, torchy take on "Oo-ee-oo-ah-ah" was always an invigorating way to start the day. Usually, when he crossed the grass here, he was in a different frame of mind. This early, dew would dampen his polished shoes as they sank into the soft soil. His neatly pressed uniform and his short, graying black hair would ripple in the strong breeze. But Rodgers was usually oblivious to the earth, wind, and water-three of the four ancient elements.
He was only aware of the fourth element, fire. That was because it was bottled and capped inside the man himself.
He carried it carefully as though it were nitroglycerin.
One sudden move and he would blow.
But not today.
There was a young guard standing in a bullet-proof glass booth just inside the door. He saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.
"Good morning, sir," the sentry said.
"Good morning," Rodgers replied. "
"Wolverine."
That was Rodgers's personal password for the day. It was left on his Govnel e-mail pager the night before by Op Center internal security chief, Jenkin Wynne. If the password did not match what the guard had on his computer Rodgers would not have been allowed to enter.
"Thank you. sir," the guard said and saluted again. He pressed a button and the door clicked open. Rodgers entered.
There was a single elevator directly ahead. As Rodgers walked toward it he wondered how old the airman first class was. Twenty-two?
Twenty-three? A few months ago Rodgers would have given his rank, his experiences, everything he owned or knew to be back where this young sentry was.
Healthy and sharp, with all his options spread before him.
That was after Rodgers had disastrously field-tested the