was the only constant here. The illusion of warmth signified his body trying to compensate. It was the first sign that it—that he was succumbing to the dreaded cold. He knew the process well by now.
From within his parka he struggled to remove the rugged GPS unit. The aluminum housing of the electronic box made him wince even through his gloves. It was so cold. Everything was so very cold.
He was forced to scrape another layer of frost from his goggles before he could read the GPS unit. What it would tell him, he already knew very well. He and the men of his unit were just beyond the Line of Control, sometimes called the Berlin Wall of Asia, somewhere between the Karakoram and Ladakh ranges and below Karakoram Pass. They had not yet crossed over into Shaksam Valley.
The Line of Control was the demarcation between territory held by India and territory held by Pakistan in what was once Jammu and Kashmir. This landlocked “princely state” had once boasted a Maharaja, whose pretensions of neutrality had not lasted much longer than the 1947 Indian Independence Act. This was when British India was officially divided into Pakistan and India.
Torn by localized rebellions and plunged into armed conflict, the region had been ripped apart from within by insurgents who favored either India or Pakistan. The legacy of Kashmir was one of violence. Recently, an uneasy ceasefire had been called, and held, for some months. But that was over now.
The coordinates finally resolved. The GPS device was sluggish. It was difficult to acquire a clean line of sight to the satellites overhead through this weather. Janwari supposed he should be grateful he was able to take the reading at all.
He was not. The coordinates were not nearly different enough. They should have covered three times as much ground during the waking hours. They had made very poor distance in this weather. Janwari had begged his superiors by radio to allow the men to camp, to seek the relative warmth of their storm shelters, while waiting out the worst of the current weather. But the higher-ups would not listen. They had told him to carry on, to follow his orders.
He did as he was told.
From the pouch on his waist he took one of the last of his flares. He was not sure what they would do tomorrow, when the last flare was used. Perhaps he would be reduced to firing in the air and hoping his men could hear the shot over the howling wind. At the moment he was too cold to care. He popped the cap on the flare, held the tube away from his body and pulled the release cord to fire the flare. He could not smell the acrid fumes through the snowstorm.
The glowing green star that floated to the ground on a silken parachute was almost beautiful. He watched the flare descend, willing the ache in his shoulders to go away, knowing that if he was not within shelter soon, the cold would take the ache and everything else readily enough. Too readily he understood the siren song of the deathly cold. It sang to a man about the end of pain. It told a man everything would finally be all right. It was the easiest thing to do...simply let go, close your eyes and let the cold take you.
Janwari forced himself to open his eyes wide. No. He would not give in. He would not let the glacier have him. He would not die in these frozen mountains.
To his left, Hooth and Gola began setting up the shelter. Simple as it was, it was harder in the searing cold. Still, they were practiced. Their lives had revolved around this ritual for the past five days, plodding through pointless “patrols” and then setting up the portable shelter every night. Often Janwari helped them, although strictly speaking, they were his subordinates and he was not required to do so. This night he could not bring himself to move from the spot on which he was now rooted. He waited as they erected the shelter, then followed when they beckoned him to enter.
Once inside, Hooth switched on the LED lantern. It was feeble, both from cold and because the batteries were not fully charged. The lantern was solar with a crank backup. Later, after they ate, they would draw lots to see who cranked it this evening. There was never enough time, before sleep beckoned, to charge the lantern fully.
Gratefully, Janwari took off his pack and let it fall to the floor of the shelter. From his shoulder he took the Type 56 Kalashnikov-pattern assault rifle and placed it next to the pack. Many Pakistani troops were issued the excellent Heckler & Koch G-3 battle rifle. There weren’t enough to go around, particularly here. He and his men were forced to make do with the Chinese-produced AK clone. Most of these, like Janwari’s, were wrapped in strips of white adhesive-backed cloth tape. The tape on Janwari’s weapon was dirty and worn.
As Janwari took out his bedroll and began to spread it across his third of the shelter, Gola was already lighting a can of Sterno. The three men huddled around the wisp of flame, spreading their parkas to catch the scant heat. Gola began working on a can of soup with his pocketknife, sawing away at the top of the can. If Janwari counted correctly, this was the last of the smuggled cans Gola had crammed into his pack before they’d left their base camp near Rawalpindi.
“‘The land is so barren,’” Hooth said.
“‘The passes so high,’” Gola continued.
“‘Only best friends and worse enemies come by,’” Janwari recited, finishing the traditional quote about the inhospitable land in which they found themselves. Gola smiled as he shifted the can of soup atop the Sterno can. The heat had to be burning his fingers, at this point, but he did not seem to mind. It was also possible he could not feel his digits. Janwari made a mental note to check Gola for frostbite.
“It is not much of a ceasefire,” Hooth said. “Walking in circles in the cold.”
“You have said the same thing every night for five days,” Gola said. He stirred the soup with the blade of his pocketknife. “I believe we all know your opinion on the subject by now.”
“It is better than fighting,” Janwari said. “But not much.”
“And you have said the same, as well,” Gola accused.
“Shall I complain that the soup has been the same for five days?” Janwari asked. He allowed himself a smile as he pried his frosted goggles from his stiff, frozen head wrap.
“We should all be grateful,” Hooth said. “I suppose. But this marching to nothing...”
“Crawling to nothing,” Gola corrected.
Snow pelted the shelter. They would be forced to unfold their shovels and dig out of the snow in the morning.
“Yes,” Hooth said. “Crawling to nothing.” He looked to Janwari. “When will the patrol be released? When can we return to base?”
“I cannot get anyone at Command to acknowledge my requests,” Janwari said. “Always it is the same. ‘Return to your scheduled patrol route. Follow your orders. Stop asking questions.’”
“They say this?” Hooth asked.
“They imply this,” Janwari said. “One learns to read what is meant and not what is said.”
“It is ready,” Gola said. “The soup is as warm as I can make it.” As cold as it was here, that meant simply tepid by normal standards. But Janwari’s mouth watered at the thought of a meal that was not rock-hard, frozen protein bars or the unappealing rations issued by his military. From his pack he took his canteen cup. Gola and Hooth were already prepared with their own.
Outside the shelter the howling winds were growing even stronger. The fabric of the little tent was whipped to and fro. Hooth shook a fist at the walls, then rubbed his hands together.
Gola
