While Viens had been speaking, Hood and Herbert swapped quick, hopeful looks. The men did not have to say anything. There was suddenly an option. The question was whether there was time to use it.

"Stephen, stay on the line," Hood said.

"And thank you.

Thank you very much."

Moving with barely controlled urgency, Herbert scooped up his wheelchair phone and speed-dialed his Indian military liaison.

Hood also did something. Inside, in private.

He speed-dialed a silent word of thanks to whoever was looking after Mike.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN.

The Siachin Glacier Friday, 4:00 a. m.

Rodgers was crouched behind the slab, his gun drawn as he looked across the clearing. He had allowed the fire to die while Nanda continued to make her broadcast. Although the Indians had not moved on them, he did not want to give them a target if they changed their minds. He could think of several reasons they might.

If Nanda's message had gotten through, the soldiers certainly would have let Rodgers know by now. The Indians would not want to risk being shot any more than he did.

Their silence seemed to indicate that either the Indians were waiting for Rodgers to slip up or for reinforcements to arrive.

Possibly they were waiting for dawn to attack. They had the longer-range weapons. All they needed was light to climb the slopes and spot the targets. It could also be that the Indians were already moving on them, slowly and cautiously.

Ron Friday may have gone over to rat out their position in exchange for sanctuary. That would not surprise Rodgers at all. The man had given himself away when he registered no surprise about why Fenwick had resigned. Only Hood, the president, the vice president, the First Lady, and Fenwick's assistant had known he was a traitor.

But Friday knew. Friday knew because he may have been the son of a bitch's point man in Baku, Azerbaijan. For all Rodgers knew, Friday may have had a hand in the attacks on the CIA operatives who had been stationed there. One way or another, Ron Friday would answer for that.

Either he'd hunt him down here or end their broadcast with a message for Hood.

With the fire gone, however, Mike Rodgers had another concern. He had sacrificed his gloves and jacket for the cause. His hands were numb and his chest and arms were freezing. If he did not do something about that soon he would perish from hypothermia.

He took a moment to make sure that Nanda was protected from gunfire by what remained of the slab. Then he crept back to where he had left Samouel behind the ice barricade.

The Pakistani was dead.

That did not surprise Rodgers. What did surprise him was the sadness he felt upon finding the lifeless body.