Line of Control by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Military, War & Military, Adventure stories, Fiction - Espionage, India, Pakistan, Intrigue, Crisis Management in Government - United States, Crisis Management in Government, Government investigators - United States, National Crisis Management Centre (Imaginary place)
Ads: Link
was a movie theater with an old style marquee.
India made more motion pictures than any nation in the world. Friday had seen several of them on videotape, including Fit to Be a King and Flowers and Vermilion.
Friday believed that the dreams of a people-hence, their weaknesses-could be found in the stories, themes, and characters of their most popular films. The Indians were especially drawn to the three-hour-long contemporary action musicals These films always starred attractive leads who had no names other than "Hero" and "Heroine." They were Everyman and Everywoman in epic struggles yet there was always music in their hearts. That was how the Indians viewed themselves. Reality was a disturbing inconvenience they did not choose to acknowledge. Like an often times cruel caste system. Friday had a theory about that. He had always believed that castes were an embodiment of the Indians' faith. In society as in the individual there was a head, feet, and all parts in between. All parts were necessary to create a whole.
Friday glanced back at the market proper. Movement continued unabated.
If anything it was busier than before as people stopped by before dinner or on their way home from work. Customers on foot and on bicycles made their way to different stalls. Baskets, wheelbarrows, and occasionally truckloads of goods continued to arrive. The markets usually remained open until just after sunset. In Srinagar and its environs, workers tended to be very early risers. They were expected to arrive at the local factories, fields, and shops around seven in the morning.
Friday finished eating and looked over at the bus. The driver had returned and was helping people board. The bus stop employee was back on his stepladder loading bags onto the roof. What was amazing to Friday was that amid all the seeming chaos there was an internal order.
Every individual system was functioning perfectly, from the booths to the shoppers, from the police to the bus. Even the supposedly antagonistic religious factions were doing just finea fine drizzle started up again. Friday decided to head over to the bus station. It looked as if there were new construction there and he was curious to see what lay beyond. As Friday followed the last of the pilgrims he watched the bus driver take tickets and help people onboard.
Something was not the same.
It was the driver. He was not a heavyset man but a rather slender one.
Maybe he was a new driver. It was possible; they all wore the same jackets. Then he noticed something else. The clerk who was loading bags into the rack was being very careful with them. Friday had not gotten a very good look at the clerk. The exiting passengers had blocked his view. He could not tell if this were the same man.
The bus was still two hundred yards away. The American quickened his pace.
Suddenly the world to Friday's left vanished, swallowed in a flash of bright white light, infernal white heat, and deafening white noise.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 7:10 a. m.
Paul Hood sat alone in his office. Mike Rodgers and Striker were on their way and nothing else was pressing.
Hood's door was shut and a file labeled "Working OCIS" was open on his computer. The "working" part of the heading indicated that this was not the original draft but a copy.
The OCIS was a click able chart of Op-Center's internal structure.
Under each division was a list of the departments and personnel.
Attached to each name was a sub file These were logs that were filed each day by every employee. They outlined the activities of the individual. Only Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had access to the files.
They were maintained to allow the Op-Center directors to track and cross-reference personnel activities with phone records, e-mail lists, and other logs. If anyone were working at
India made more motion pictures than any nation in the world. Friday had seen several of them on videotape, including Fit to Be a King and Flowers and Vermilion.
Friday believed that the dreams of a people-hence, their weaknesses-could be found in the stories, themes, and characters of their most popular films. The Indians were especially drawn to the three-hour-long contemporary action musicals These films always starred attractive leads who had no names other than "Hero" and "Heroine." They were Everyman and Everywoman in epic struggles yet there was always music in their hearts. That was how the Indians viewed themselves. Reality was a disturbing inconvenience they did not choose to acknowledge. Like an often times cruel caste system. Friday had a theory about that. He had always believed that castes were an embodiment of the Indians' faith. In society as in the individual there was a head, feet, and all parts in between. All parts were necessary to create a whole.
Friday glanced back at the market proper. Movement continued unabated.
If anything it was busier than before as people stopped by before dinner or on their way home from work. Customers on foot and on bicycles made their way to different stalls. Baskets, wheelbarrows, and occasionally truckloads of goods continued to arrive. The markets usually remained open until just after sunset. In Srinagar and its environs, workers tended to be very early risers. They were expected to arrive at the local factories, fields, and shops around seven in the morning.
Friday finished eating and looked over at the bus. The driver had returned and was helping people board. The bus stop employee was back on his stepladder loading bags onto the roof. What was amazing to Friday was that amid all the seeming chaos there was an internal order.
Every individual system was functioning perfectly, from the booths to the shoppers, from the police to the bus. Even the supposedly antagonistic religious factions were doing just finea fine drizzle started up again. Friday decided to head over to the bus station. It looked as if there were new construction there and he was curious to see what lay beyond. As Friday followed the last of the pilgrims he watched the bus driver take tickets and help people onboard.
Something was not the same.
It was the driver. He was not a heavyset man but a rather slender one.
Maybe he was a new driver. It was possible; they all wore the same jackets. Then he noticed something else. The clerk who was loading bags into the rack was being very careful with them. Friday had not gotten a very good look at the clerk. The exiting passengers had blocked his view. He could not tell if this were the same man.
The bus was still two hundred yards away. The American quickened his pace.
Suddenly the world to Friday's left vanished, swallowed in a flash of bright white light, infernal white heat, and deafening white noise.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 7:10 a. m.
Paul Hood sat alone in his office. Mike Rodgers and Striker were on their way and nothing else was pressing.
Hood's door was shut and a file labeled "Working OCIS" was open on his computer. The "working" part of the heading indicated that this was not the original draft but a copy.
The OCIS was a click able chart of Op-Center's internal structure.
Under each division was a list of the departments and personnel.
Attached to each name was a sub file These were logs that were filed each day by every employee. They outlined the activities of the individual. Only Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had access to the files.
They were maintained to allow the Op-Center directors to track and cross-reference personnel activities with phone records, e-mail lists, and other logs. If anyone were working at
Similar Books
