In seconds, watertight doors imperfectly seated in concussion-warped frames gave way, and the Indian submarine began its final dive into darkness.
1654 hours, 23 March
Bridge, U.S.S. Biddle
White water fountained high into the sky a mile off Biddle’s starboard side, accompanied by a bass earthquake rumble felt through the ship’s hull and decks.
“Bridge, sonar! Torpedo has gone ballistic. Passing two hundred yards astern.”
Farrel’s eyes stayed riveted to the plume of seawater, now cascading back across a troubled sea. “Make to the LAMPS helo,” he said. “Lay more buoys and listen for the sub. Stand by to recover survivors.”
But he already knew there would be no survivors. He’d saved the Biddle … but sent a submarine and seventy-eight men to their deaths.
The political repercussions would be spreading out already … and far more quickly than the base surge from the underwater explosion now rocking the Biddle.
1710 hours, 23 March
Admiralty Offices, New Delhi, India
The Indian rear admiral studied the teletype message in his hand and felt tears of loss and anger burn his eyes. There was precious little information there, but the statement needed no elaboration.
INSS KALVARI SUNK BY U.S. FFG, PERRY CLASS. NO SURVIVORS.
The message, transmitted from an IAF Mig-25 reconnaissance aircraft overlying the area, included coordinates positioning the loss one hundred miles west of Bombay, in international waters but well within the usual Indian patrol zones.
Kalvari sunk by a U.S. frigate! Why had the American opened fire? Why?
The admiral crumpled the message in his fist, then stood at his desk. It seemed plain enough. The Americans were coming to the aid of their Moslem ally after all. The Indian Parliament might have something to say about that. The war fever gripping the entire nation was like nothing he had ever seen before.
And Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh would win his vengeance for the death of Joshi, his son.
CHAPTER 4
1829 hours (1759 hours India time), 23 March
50 km southeast of Derawar Fort, Thar Desert, Pakistan
The sun had set moments before, leaving the sky a glory of yellow, pink, and blue. General Abdul Ali Hakim was less interested in the sky than in a spindly tower silhouetted against the sunset some twenty kilometers west of the bunker.
The Great Thar Desert stretched from the swamps of the Rann of Kutch in the south clear to Haryana State and the Punjab, straddling more than eight hundred kilometers of Indian-Pakistani border. Until this day it had been a barren waste of sand and gravel with but one significance to Pakistani military strategy: more than once the Thar had proved to be a superb barrier against the Indian army. Now it was going to have a second significance, one arguably far more vital than the first.
“One minute, General,” an aide said at his side.
Hakim grunted in reply. His mind was on the border, some fifty kilometers further to the southeast. A hostile border, now that the Indians had finally stopped rattling their sabers and actually drawn them.
Not that the New Delhi regime’s army was anywhere that close. As always, the Tharparkar, as Hakim thought of it, was a natural barrier more formidable than endless fortifications, mine-fields, and interlocking fields of fire. While there were rumors of enemy armor massing near the Jodhpur-Hyderabad Road far to the south, the nearest Indian troops were probably at the Rajasthan Canal, fully a hundred kilometers from this lonely outpost on Pakistan’s frontier.
It was a pity, Hakim thought with a rare flash of humor, that the pigs weren’t closer. Much closer.
“It’s been a long road, Abdul.”
Hakim turned to face the speaker. General Mushahid ul Shapur was a powerful man, a member of Pakistan’s ruling military clique and Hakim’s own patron at Islamabad.
“It has indeed, sir.”
“But a worthwhile one. Today, the nations of Islam take their rightful place with the superpowers of this world. No longer will the kafir of India seek to dominate us by force of arms!”
“Inshallah,” Hakim said softly. “As God wills.”
Shapur looked at him with hawk’s eyes, then turned back to the viewing slit in the bunker wall without another word. Hakim himself was surprised at his response to the general’s observation. Moslem by birth and upbringing, he nonetheless had always resisted the insidious Islamic lure of allowing Allah to take the blame for everything, good or ill.
Surely, a man bore some responsibility for the deeds of his own hands.
“Twenty seconds,” a technician behind him in the bunker said.
“Sir,” the aide said. “Your goggles.”
“Of course.” He lowered the binoculars, then slid the dark-lensed goggles he wore under his high-peaked army cap down over his eyes.
Around him in the bunker, aides, officers, and politicians likewise settled their goggles into place, shielding their eyes.
“Five,” a young Pakistani technician intoned from his console farther back in the bunker. “Four … three … two … one … detonate!”
Daylight returned to the empty desert, first as a pinprick of unutterably brilliant blue-white radiance, then as an expanding ring of white flame burning through the protective layers of the goggles. The desert lit up with stroboscopic clarity, with each pebble, each chunk of gravel and depression in the lifeless ground throwing ink-black shadows across the sand.
Hakim was surprised at the complete absence of sound, even though he’d known what to expect. Every man within the bunker seemed to be holding his breath. The silence stretched on and on and on as that first blindingly intense light faded, replaced by the angry yellow-orange glare from the rising fireball. The shock wave became visible, a blurring against the growing pillar of light. Ground wave and sound reached the bunker at the same moment, almost a full minute after the first searing flash. Suddenly, Hakim was leaning into a windstorm, sand and grit burning the unprotected skin of his face. The thunder of the detonation was muted by the roar of the wind.
Pandemonium broke loose within the claustrophobic confines of the bunker. At his elbow, Shapur was dancing and clapping his hands, a look of triumph on his face, but Hakim could hear nothing but the shout of God Himself, rolling on and on and on … And this, Hakim thought, this was only a five-kiloton tactical device, with an explosive force of a quarter of the weapon exploded by the Americans over Hiroshima!
The blinding light faded, and Hakim removed his goggles. In the desert, a roiling cloud of sand and debris boiled skyward, spreading near the top into the familiar, flattened mushroom shape, its upper reaches high enough now that it caught the rays of the sun from beyond the horizon and reflected them, blood-red and ominous.
Surely it was a sign from God, a holy sign … but was it blessing or curse for his country, his people? Hakim could not be sure.
He watched the cloud continue to crawl toward heaven in blood-red splendor.
1044 hours EST (2114 hours India time), 23 March
National Security Council Conference Room, Washington, D.C.
The room was wood-paneled and richly furnished, dominated by a large conference table and an array of executive-style leather chairs. One wall could open at the touch of a button to reveal display screens or maps. That wall was closed now, however, flanked by the flag of the United States and the Presidential Seal. The room, one of many, was located some dozens of feet beneath the Executive Building within the network of underground corridors that connected with the White House basement.
The men waiting around the table stood as Phillip Buchalter entered the room. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in a brisk voice. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. We seem to have a situation here.”
As National Security Advisor, Buchalter was responsible for the day-to-day operation of the National Security Council.
In 1989, President Bush had organized the NSC into three subgroups.
Senior of these was
the Principals Committee. It was currently chaired by Buchalter, and its members included Ronald Hemminger, the Secretary of Defense; James A. Schellenberg, the Secretary of State; General Amos C. Caldwell, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs; Victor Marlowe, Director of Central Intelligence and head of the NSA and the rest of the U.S. intelligence network; and George Hall, White House Chief of Staff.
There were others in the room, aides and secretaries for the most part.
The ID card pinned to the breast pocket of one elderly man identified him as Dr. Walter Montrose of the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory.
Buchalter stood at the end of the table, hands braced on the wooden surface. “Gentlemen, we are facing a NUCFLASH crisis.”
There was an uneasy stir around the table, followed by an absolute and unnerving silence. NUCFLASH was the flag-word on an OPREP-3 PINNACLE message which indicated that a serious risk of nuclear war existed.
Normally, the coded alert was concerned with accidents, launchings, overflights, or malfunctions that could lead to war with the Soviet Union. A NUCFLASH alert could also apply, however, to any unauthorized or unexplained nuclear detonation.
“Just over two hours ago, several of our NDDS orbital packages detected a nuclear explosion in the Pakistan desert near Derawar Fort, about three hundred fifty miles northeast of Karachi. We calculate the yield at about five kilotons.”
“Damn,” General Caldwell said in the silence that followed. “They’ve finally gone and done it.”
“They have indeed,” Buchalter said. “We know Pakistan has been working to develop a nuclear capability since 1972. It was believed that their research reactor facility outside of Islamabad had the potential for assembling warheads for the past several years. “Only a screwdriver away,” as they say.” He gave a wan smile. “Their test this morning confirms it.”
“Five kilotons,” Schellenberg said. “That’s not very big. Strictly tactical stuff.”
“Nuclear artillery shells … atomic warheads on Frog 7 missiles?”
Caldwell pointed out. “That’s plenty bad enough, Mr. Secretary, believe me.”
“It’s worse than that, gentlemen,” Dr. Montrose said. He carefully folded his hands on the table top before him. “The orbital sensors gave us quite precise data on the device, precise enough that we were able to make some educated guesses about its employment. The Derawar blast was almost certainly the field test of a nuclear trigger.”
The reactions of the men around the table ran the gamut from surprise to outright shock. “A trigger!” Hemminger said. “You mean-“
“For a thermonuclear device.” Montrose nodded. “Yes. The low-yield trigger is used to create the temperature and pressure necessary to induce nuclear fusion. They might well have the capability of manufacturing nuclear devices in the megaton range, a thousand times more powerful than the blast we detected this morning.”
“That’s ridiculous,” George Hall said. “You’re saying the Pakistanis are leaping straight to H-bombs and superpower status in one jump.
That’s just not possible!”
“I’m afraid it is,” Marlowe said, shaking his head. “We’ve been expecting this for years, you know. Our old friend Qaddafi has poured millions of dollars into Pakistan’s atomic research program since the seventies … and supplied them with uranium from his territorial acquisitions in Chad as well. The theory is simple enough. The hard part, as I understand it, is purely technical, separation and purification of the uranium and so on. They were bound to get it sooner or later.”
Hemminger pursed his lips. “I find the timing of this … this test somewhat coincidental. Anyone else here concur on that?”
Marlowe nodded. “My people are looking into that, but I think I can tell you the result now. Pakistan has probably had the capability to assemble a thermonuclear bomb for at least the past five years. It is possible they have been hiding the fact even from the Libyans … who, of course, would expect some return on their investment in the form of several complete warheads.”
George Hall shuddered. “The Libyans with nuclear weapons. God help us.”
“God help the world,” Buchalter said. A shiver ran down his spine. He remembered watching a televised interview with Qaddafi. Libya’s dictator had been insisting that had he possessed nuclear weapons, he would have used them to retaliate for the 1986 bombing of Tripoli and Benghazi by Navy and Air Force jets. “Wait a sec, Victor. You say they were hiding their capabilities from the Libyans?”
“Yes, sir.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Pakistan gets several billion dollars of aid from us every year. They know damn well they’re not likely to stay on the gravy train if they turn nukes over to a flake like Qaddafi. But the Indian attack may have changed things over there.
India is a thermonuclear power too, remember, has been since 1974.
Pakistan has its back up against the wall. They could do something … extreme.”
Hemminger’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that we could be looking at a nuclear war over there?”
“Mr. Secretary, we think that the detonation this morning was a test … and a warning. They did nothing to try to hide it. They set it off on the surface instead of underground, where the shock could have been blamed on an earthquake, or out at sea, where they could have denied any knowledge of it. We think that it was meant as a clear signal to the Indians: “Back off. We have nukes too.’”
“Will India press her attack?” Schellenberg asked. “Damn, they’re not suicidal!”
Marlowe studied his hands, folded before him. “Maybe not. But these two countries have been at each other since Partition in 1947. Islamic extremists have slaughtered Hindus living in Pakistan and waged a terrorist war in Kashmir, which is still officially Indian but predominantly Moslem. Slaughter has been answered with slaughter by Hindi extremists in India. New Delhi has accused Pakistan of interfering with Indian affairs, aiding rebels, spreading unrest, and preaching open revolution.
“We’re afraid that India might react to Pakistan’s warning in an … unexpected way. They have a population of nine hundred million to Pakistan’s ninety million … that’s ten to one, gentlemen. They have the eighth largest navy, the fifth largest air force, and the third largest army in the world. They might decide that they could end the Pakistan threat once and for all by replacing the government in Islamabad with one of their own choosing, just like they did with Bangladesh in 1971.”
“But, my God!” Hemminger said. “if they start tossing nukes at each other …”
“Pakistan’s only delivery system would be by air,” General Caldwell observed. “They bought thirty F-16 Falcons off of us a few years back.
They’d do the trick.”
“That’ll look good in the press,” Hall muttered aloud. “American-made planes nuke New Delhi!”
The DCI ignored the interruption. “Early indications are that the Indian air force is specifically hitting Pakistan’s offensive air capabilities,” Marlowe said. “Pakistan has suffered heavy losses already, possibly as high as forty percent. If India can knock out Pakistan’s air, Pakistan won’t have any way of delivering her bombs.
“Even if that doesn’t work out, the present Indian leadership might decide that the loss of a city or two would be worth it. There’s at least an even chance that the Indians will call the Pakistanis’ bluff.”
“God in heaven,” someone breathed softly.
Schellenberg nodded slowly. “When the antagonists are as unpredictable as Pakistan and India, anything is possible.”
“Nuclear war on the Indian subcontinent is unacceptable,” Buchalter said. He marveled at the calm way he said it, as though discussing weekend plans for golf. “I’ve already conferred with the President on this.” He shook his head slightly as he remembered the President’s anger.
Or was it fear?
“Damned right it’s unacceptable,” Caldwell said. “it would be opening the genie’s bottle. We’d never get the damned thing back in again.”
“Not to mention tens of millions of folks dying,” Hemminger said sarcastically.
Caldwell held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I’m not forgetting the casualties. But think of this. In all of history, there have been two, and only two, nuclear weapons dropped in wartime. We’ve managed to keep the lid on things ever since. Now some damned Third World country nukes a Third World neighbor. Suddenly people start thinking about using those nukes in their stockpiles. And those who don’t have them start looking for ways to join the club. Everything we’ve accomplished in holding back proliferation could be negated by a single attack.”
“It would be a nightmare,” Marlowe said. “A nightmare come to life.”
“How can the United States fit into this?” Hall asked. “I mean, like you said, Pakistan depends on us for aid. Maybe we could pull some strings.”
“Might work with Pakistan,” Buchalter said. “But not India. Especially now.”
“What do you mean, ‘especially now?’” Schellenberg asked.
Buchalter opened a folder and removed a sheet of paper. “This just came in from CBG-14,” he said. He glanced at Marlowe, who nodded. “Confirmed by NSA intercepts of Indian communications. Approximately four hours ago, one of our ships was fired on by an Indian sub, Our ship returned fire … and sank the submarine.”
“Oh, God, no,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Now India thinks we’ve already sided with Pakistan.”
“So much for our getting them to arrange an armistice,” Hall added.
“What about the Russians?” one of the Defense Secretary’s aides asked.
He held up two fingers, tightly crossed. “India and the former USSR have always been like that.”
Schellenberg shook his head. “It’s not that simple, son. India has pursued a policy of strict neutrality. What was the Soviet Union was India’s largest trading partner, and India has been one of Russia’s best sources of hard currency. India’s armed forces are mostly outfitted with Russian equipment, yeah, but with a few exceptions, India managed to steer clear of East-West politics. I doubt that the Russians exert that much influence over them, not if knocking out Pakistan is really important to New Delhi.”
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