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were ignited with the couple bound in the cab of their truck. The next day Apu and Nanda found their bodies in the blackened ruins. To Nanda they were martyrs.
        To Apu they had been reckless. To Apu's ailing wife, Pad, they were the final blow to a frail body. She died eight days later.
        "All human errors are impatience," it was written. If only Savitri and Manjay had asked, Apu would have told them to wait. Time brings balance.
        The Indian military eventually pushed most of the Pakistanis out. There was no reason for his children to have acted violently. They hurt others and added that burden to their spiritual inventory.
        Tears began to fill his eyes. It was all such a waste.
        Though, strangely, it made him cherish Nanda all the more.
        She was the only part of his wife and daughter that he had left.
        There was a sudden commotion in the other room. Apu shut his book and set it on the rickety night table. He slid into his slippers and quietly crossed the wooden floor. He peeked out the door. Four of the Pakistanis were all there.
        The houseguests were working on something, arms and heads moving over something between them. The backs of three of the men were toward him so he could not see what they were doing. Only the woman was facing him.
        She was a slender, very swarthy woman with short black hair and a frowning, intense look. The others called her Sharab but Apu did not know if that was her real name.
        Sharab waved a gun at him.
        "Go back!" she ordered.
        Apu lingered a moment longer. His houseguests had never done anything like this before that he was aware of. They came and went and they talked. Occasionally they looked at maps. Something was happening. He edged forward a little more. There appeared to be a burlap sack on the floor between the men. One of the men was crouching beside it. He appeared to be working on something inside the bag.
        "Get back!" the woman yelled again.
        There was a tension in her voice that Apu had never heard before. He did as he was told.
        Apu kicked off his slippers and lay back on the bed. As he did he heard the front door open. It was Nanda and presumably the fifth Pakistani. He could tell by how loud the door creaked. The young woman always opened it boldly, as if she wanted to hit whoever might be standing behind it.
        Apu smiled. He always looked forward to seeing his granddaughter. Even if she had only been gone an hour or two.
        This time. however, things were different. He did not hear her footsteps. Instead he heard quiet talking. Apu held his breath and tried to hear what was being said. But his heart was beating louder than usual and he could not hear. Quietly, he raised himself from the bed and eased toward the door.
        He leaned closer, careful not to show himself. He listened.
        He heard nothing.
        Slowly, he nudged the door open. One of the men was there, looking out the window. He was holding his silver handgun and smoking a cigarette.
        The Pakistani glanced back at Apu.
        "Go back in the room," the man said quietly.
        "Where is my granddaughter?" Apu asked. He did not like this.
        Something felt wrong.
        "She left with the others," he said.
        "Left? Where did they go?" Apu asked.
        The man looked back out the window. He drew on his cigarette.
        "They went to market," he replied.

CHAPTER FIVE.
        
        Washington, D. C. Wednesday, 7:00 a. m.
        Colonel Brett August had lost track of the number of times he had ridden in the shaking, cavernous bellies of C-130 transports. But he remembered this much. He had hated each and every one of those damn nights.
        This particular Hercules was one of the newer variants, a long-range SAR HC-130H designed for fuel economy. Colonel August had ridden in a number of customized C-130s: the C-130D with ski landing