It was the last thing Ron Friday expected to feel.

As he neared the kneeling body of Apu Kumar, Friday felt the cell phone begin to vibrate in his vest pocket. It could only be a call from someone at the National Security Agency.

But the signal absolutely should not be able to reach him out here. Not with the mountains surrounding the glacier, the distance from the radio towers in Kashmir, and the ice storms that whipped around the peaks in the dark. The friction of the ice particles produced electrostatic charges that made even point-to-point radio communications difficult.

Yet the phone line was definitely active. Absurdly so, as if he were riding the Metro in Washington instead of standing on a glacier in the middle of the Himalayas. Friday stopped and let the gun slip back into his pocket. He reached inside his coat, withdrew the phone, and hit the talk button.

"Yes?" Friday said.

"Is this Ron Friday?" the caller asked in a clear, loud voice.

"Who wants to know?" Friday asked incredulously.

"Colonel Brett August of Striker," said the caller.

"Striker?" Friday said.

"Where are you? When did you land?"

"I'm with Sharab in the mountains overlooking your position," August said.

"I'm calling on our TAC-SAT. Director Lewis gave us your number and the call code 1272000."

That was the correct ID number for the NSA director in coded communications. Still, Friday was suspicious.

"How many of you are there?"

"Only three of us," August informed him.

"Three? What happened?" Friday asked.

"We were caught in fire from the Indian army," August told him.

"Is General Rodgers with you?"

"No," Friday replied.

"It's important that you watch for him and link up," August said.

"Where is he?" Friday asked.

"The general reached the Mangala Valley and is headed east," August said.

"Satellite recon gave him your general position." "The valley," Friday said. His eyes drifted to where Samouel was moving through the darkness.

"That's just ahead."

"Good. When you link up you are to proceed to these coordinates on the pilot's map you're carrying," August went on.

"Hold on while I get it," Friday said.

The American crouched and set the phone on the ice. He pulled the map and a pen from his pocket. Friday tried to read the map by the green glow of the cell phone but that was not possible. He was forced to light one of his torches.

The sudden brightness caused him to wince. He tried jamming the branch into the glacier but the surface was too solid.

Apu reached over and held it for him. Friday remained crouching with the map spread before him.

"I'm set," Friday said as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Go to seventeen-point-three degrees north, twenty-one point-three degrees east," August told him.

Friday looked at the coordinates. He saw absolutely nothing on the map but ice.

"What's there?" Friday asked.

"I don't know," August told him.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know," August repeated.