Line of Control by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin Page B

had jabbed tuning forks in his ears.
        His ears and the inside of his skull seemed to be vibrating. There was a high-pitched ringing and he could not hear anything except for the ringing. His eyes were open but he could not tell what he was looking at. The world was a cottony haze, as though a still fog had moved in.
        Friday blinked. White powder dropped into his eyes, causing them to burn. He blinked harder then pushed a palm into one eye, then the other.
        He opened them wide and looked out again. He still was not sure what he was looking at but he realized one thing. He was lying on his belly with his face turned to the side. He put his hands under him and pushed up.
        White powder fell from his arms, his hair, his sides.
        He blinked it away. He tasted something chalky and spit. His saliva was like paste. The chalky taste was still there. He spit again.
        Friday got his knees under him. His body ached from the fall but his hearing was beginning to return. Or at least the ringing was going away; he did not hear anything else. He looked to his left. For a moment he felt as if he were inside a cloud that was inside a cloud.
        Then the dust that had been shaken from his body began to settle. He could see what he had been looking at a moment ago, what had made no sense to him.
        It was wreckage. Where the temple and the police station had stood there was now a hodgepodge of rubble between jagged walls. Through the mist of the powder he could see the sky.
        The ringing continued to subside. As it did, Friday heard moans. He put a hand on his knee, pushed down, and began to rise. His back ached and he was trembling. Then his head grew light and his vision darkened. He settled back down on his knees for a moment. He looked ahead and saw the bus through the hanging dust. He also saw people coming toward him.
        Suddenly, behind the people, the area around the bus turned yellow-red.
        Time seemed to slow as the colors exploded in all directions. It was followed by another loud crack that quickly became a rumble. The bus seemed to jump apart. It looked like a balloon that someone had stepped on-stretched out at both ends and then gone. Most of the pieces flew out, away, or down. Some shards skidded along the ground, moving fast and straight like vermin. Larger chunks such as the seats and tires tumbled away, end over end. The people standing nearest the bus were swallowed whole by the fire. Those who were farther away were thrown left, right, and back like the bigger pieces of the bus.
        He continued to watch as a charcoal-gray cloud surged forward. Like lightning, flashes of blood and flame punctuated the rolling darkness.
        Friday removed his hands from his ears. He rose slowly.
        He looked down, checking his legs and torso to make sure he had not been hurt. The body had a way of shutting off pain in cases of extreme trauma. His side and right arm ached where he had hit the asphalt. His eyes were gummy from the dust and he had to keep blinking to clear them.
        Except for the coating of dust from the blasted temple he appeared to be intact.
        Papers from books and offices had been lofted high by the blast. They were just now beginning to return to earth. Many of them were just fragments, most were singed, some were ash. A few of the more delicate pages looked like they had belonged to prayer books. Perhaps they had been part of the Sanskrit text the pilgrim had been studying just minutes before.
        The gray cloud reached Friday and engulfed him. Nine or ten feet high, it carried the distinctive, noxious smell of burning rubber. Beneath that smell was a sweeter, less choking odor. The stench of charred human flesh and bone. Friday drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. Then he turned away from the stinging cloud.
        Behind him the bazaar was still. People had flung themselves to