KELNOR, INDIA
It was a six-year-old flip phone with a range close to nowhere, but Maryam got a number from their now cooperating Indian border patrol.
The station, nestled in the middle of the desolate mountain range, smelled of heavy cigarette smoke and curry. Lacking air conditioning, everyone was perspiring, even at dusk.
Everyone was also visibly nervous. After all, the United States had pretty much demolished Pakistan, and the last thing the young Captain Hindaru wanted was to focus any of that anger toward his country by killing an American agent.
She had patched up Gorman as best she could, given the limited first aid supplies in Hindaru’s office, plus the gear Akbir had kept in his truck for emergencies. Her main concern was blood loss. She had stanched it but Gorman could really use an infusion to keep him from going into shock.
“This … could have been avoided,” said Captain Hindaru in heavily accented English. He was a thin man with a wispy mustache. The rifle responsible for Gorman’s two bullet wounds now strapped across his back, Hindaru nervously looked from Maryam to Gorman. Gorman was out cold on a small bed in the back of the captain’s office while Akbir kept close watch on him to make sure the bandages continued to hold.
“What we need,” Maryam explained, tossing the useless phone back at Hindaru, “is to reach the American embassy in New Delhi.”
The Indian captain stared at the phone, and then motioned to his two-way radio operator, who went to work turning dials on the massive equipment on a plain wooden table next to the cot.
Static filled the room as he fidgeted with the knobs for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke in very fast Hindi, which Maryam understood. He finally got a response from a larger command post south of New Delhi.
Hindaru then grabbed the microphone from the operator and began to explain the situation to his superior officer.