Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  Her eyes were warm. She brushed her hand on his right knee then left it there.

  “I’m from farther up. A town called Castine.”

  “What brought you here?” Charlotte removed her hand from his knee, reached up and took a sip from her drink.

  “A job, that’s all.”

  “Station hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “What station?”

  Dewey smiled but didn’t answer. “Where are you from, Charlotte?”

  “Melbourne,” she said. “Have you been there?”

  “Sure.”

  “By the way, name please? Wait, let me guess. Chet? No, not Chet. Bill? Boris? Bart? Bleck? Blick?” Charlotte giggled. “Jim? Jim-Bob? Jim-Bob. I knew it. Okay. I give up.”

  “Dewey.”

  “Dewey? Dewey. Okay. I like that. Probably the first and last Dewey I’ll ever meet. Actually, I love it.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “We have a station. It’s called Masters. That’s my last name.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “We come out here in the summer. At least, I do. I have two older sisters. They don’t really come anymore.”

  “Why do you come?”

  “The quiet,” she said, sipping her drink. “I like to ride. Mostly I like to be off on my horse. Hearing nothing. Seeing no one.”

  Dewey smiled. “I like that too.”

  Charlotte leaned down, put her face near Dewey’s, leaned forward, made a slightly awkward, goofy smile, then moved forward and kissed him on the lips. She stayed there for one, then two, then five seconds. She moved her head back.

  “Oh, Dewey, why can’t you be at our ranch? I could just stare at you all day.”

  Dewey tasted lime from her lips and smelled the warmth of her breath. He reached his right hand out and placed it on her hip. He looked again at the stunning blue of her eyes.

  Behind her brown hair, in the mirror of the bar: a glint.

  His attention was drawn behind her.

  The momentary freeze of one eye. Darkness, dark eyes, a glint in one man’s black eyes, one instant: anger.

  He processed the sight. Reflected in the mirror was a man. He stood near the back wall, staring at Dewey.

  25

  RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN

  NORTH AVENUE

  NEW DELHI

  Six stories below ground, Jessica stepped out of the elevator. President Allaire and President Ghandra both waited for her to exit before them. Hector Calibrisi from the CIA, Tim Lindsay, the secretary of state, and Harry Black, the secretary of defense, stepped out next, followed by a pair of Deltas, who had been on board since Andrews.

  In the hallway stood four armed soldiers from India’s Special Protection Group, rifles clutched chest high, pointed sideways.

  The group walked down the corridor and into the Security Room, equivalent to the White House Situation Room; a top secret, highly secure room beneath the Presidential Compound where the most important discussions in government took place. Ghandra’s war cabinet was already waiting inside the Security Room as President Allaire stepped inside.

  Jessica glanced up at Calibrisi as they came to the end of the hallway just outside the entrance to the Security Room. He grinned at her. His smile, at that moment, sent a warm calm through her body.

  Jessica knew, as did Calibrisi, that the coming meeting was nearly incalculable in its importance—and its danger. Its outcome could serve to bring the two nuclear powers, India and Pakistan, back from the brink of mutual destruction. Alternatively, the meeting could lead to the destruction of both countries and the involvement of the United States in a broader theater war that would inevitably involve China.

  “Here we go,” Jessica whispered to Calibrisi before entering the Security Room.

  “Let’s make this quick,” Calibrisi said quietly to Jessica, “before El-Khayab drops one on the building.”

  “Not funny, Hector.”

  The flight to New Delhi had taken ten hours. They traveled on a specially designed Gulfstream G650—faster than production models, and designated as Air Force One due to the president’s presence aboard the craft. Luxurious on the inside, the jet had souped-up Rolls-Royce engines, room for extra fuel, and was equipped with a variety of systems designed to cloak its presence in the air, including low-probability-of-intercept radar, specialized radios, laser designators as well as state-of-the-art active defenses and electronic countermeasures.

  Throughout the flight, the plane had been surrounded by three U.S. fighter jets—one in front, two behind—at a distance.

  The Security Room, six stories beneath the Indian presidential offices, was hot and humid, despite the air-conditioning. As they took their seats, Jessica glanced quickly into the faces of Ghandra’s war cabinet. A palpable mood of anxiety clouded the room. Jessica sensed anger, confusion, and exhaustion. Worse, beyond the fatigue, she sensed helplessness, as if the Indian president and his war council did not know what to say or do.

  But then, as she moved to the empty chair at the table that was reserved for her, next to President Allaire, Jessica had a stark, fleeting, but powerful realization. Deep down, despite the confidence of her demeanor, despite the carefully planned agenda she, Lindsay, Calibrisi, and the president had worked out on the plane, Jessica realized that she felt helpless as well. This was uncharted land. It was the unknown. So many lives depended on them making the right decision. What was the right decision?

  It was precisely this moment the president had looked to Jessica for. This was the crisis she’d been born to face. This wasn’t a dream, a book, or a Hollywood movie. This was history being made. Future generations would study the decisions that were about to take place in this sweaty, crowded conference room six stories below the crowded New Delhi streets.

  Would Jessica sit silently, take the middle ground of anonymity and mildness? Or, would she help to solve this crisis? Was she a leader?

  Trust your instincts, Jessica told herself. Trust yourself, Jess.

  “Thank you for coming,” said President Ghandra, sitting down next to President Allaire. “I wish it was under different circumstances.”

  “Me too,” said President Allaire. “Thank you, all of you, for agreeing to meet with us. I know that you’ve held off taking action, and I appreciate that.”

  “To the contrary, Mr. President,” said Indra Singh, India’s minister of defense. “The Indian government has taken action, and we should update you. First, we’ve scrambled seventy-two Indian Air Force planes, all armed with nuclear bombs, and these planes are now in the sky. We have also taken those mobile units near the western border and positioned them—”

  “Indra, we spoke three times on our flight over,” said Jessica. “You never said a thing about this.”

  “I don’t know how secure these transmissions are,” interrupted Singh. “We cannot take the risk that Pakistan or China is eavesdropping.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” said President Allaire, looking at Ghandra. “Has India made the decision to retaliate?”

  “Yes,” said Ghandra.

  “How many bombs are we talking about?” asked Allaire.

  “We have seventy-two planes in the air,” said Singh. “Each plane holds two devices. Plus the mobile units positioned at the border. India has one hundred and eighty nuclear devices ready to go.”

  “That would—” began President Allaire.

  “Wipe out Pakistan,” interrupted Jessica. “Completely, I imagine.”

  “India has been attacked,” Singh began.

  “Be quiet, Indra,” barked President Ghandra, staring at his minister of defense and oldest friend. He paused, looked blankly down at the table, then turned to Allaire. “If you came here with the expectation that you could convince India to not respond, you’ve wasted your time, Mr. President. To not respond is not an option. It would be suicide.”

  “We cannot be pacifists,” added Singh, “as you in America might wish us to be. India will
not swallow the casualties in Karoo so as not to drag America into a theater war.”

  “I have not stated an opinion,” said President Allaire, anger rising in his voice. “And I don’t appreciate you ascribing an opinion or philosophy to me, my people, or my words. America understands that, for New Delhi, not responding is not an option. We agree that to not respond is not an option. Unlike India, America is a country that was born in blood. Our freedom was won with the barrels of our shotguns. We were the country that first dropped nuclear bombs in a foreign land. We are the country that has protected our allies, including India, with the threat of our nuclear arsenal, for more than half a century. So don’t any of you sitting in this room think or imply that you know more than we do about protecting India’s vital interests, about warfare, or about nuclear weapons. India is about to bite off a responsibility and a set of results whose import and consequence you have no experience with. You simply have no idea how powerful the decision you are making is. This is a real decision and getting it wrong could result in the annihilation of hundreds of millions of people in India, Pakistan, China, and perhaps beyond. Yes, perhaps even in America.”

  President Allaire trembled as he finished speaking, staring at Indra Singh, then Ghandra.

  Jessica felt a shiver move up her spine. She had never seen President Allaire so forceful.

  “If you came here to insult us, Mr. President—” said Ghandra calmly.

  “This is how allies, how friends, speak to one another,” said Allaire, “when one of them is about to alter their own history in such a dramatic and potentially lethal way. You are not about to build an airport. You’re not passing a budget, building a dam. You are, all of you, none of you having slept for days, about to make a decision that will wipe out millions of innocent people. And my only point is not that you shouldn’t do that, but that to say you’ve already made that decision—without the debate and counsel of your closest ally, the one country who has done this before—is insanity. This meeting should be the one before you make the decision. Not after. Do you understand that? Are you so prideful that you can’t admit that you need our help in this decision?”

  President Ghandra held his hand in the air. The room became quiet again.

  “We are starting off on the wrong foot, Mr. President,” Ghandra said. “You’re right, we should hear you out. But the clock is ticking. Our silence will only embolden Pakistan. Even worse than Pakistan is China. It lurks like a hungry snake at the border. Furthermore, it would be unwise for you to believe that anything you could say, or do, at this point would alter our sentiment. We are unanimous on this point. India must strike back with nuclear weapons, and we must do so in an overwhelming fashion. This is the only way we can preserve Indian lives.”

  “This is the very situation that diplomacy was meant for,” said Tim Lindsay, the U.S. secretary of state.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Singh, exasperated. “Diplomacy. Everyone wants to talk diplomacy.”

  “I fought in two wars, Indra,” said Lindsay calmly. “I’ve spilled plenty of blood and I know you have too. I’m willing to do it. But let’s take a step back. Let’s talk about what diplomatic options, if any, exist.”

  “Well, Mother Teresa is dead,” said Singh. “How about we send, what’s his name, from American television, Barney? He can fly to Islamabad and meet with El-Khayab.”

  “That’s funny,” Lindsay said flatly, staring at Singh. He turned to Ghandra. “But I ask you, President Ghandra, why not at least try? There is no reason not to try. America, the Chinese, Russia, Europe; the free world is ready to help.”

  “Say we are successful,” interrupted Ghandra. “We prevent more nuclear weapons from being dropped. We keep China at bay. What happens in six days? In six months? Six years?”

  “We deal with it then,” said Lindsay.

  “There won’t be a then,” said Singh. “Not with the terrorist-sympathizing United Nations, and duplicitous France and Russia, our fair-weather friends.”

  “Diplomacy is acknowledging our fundamental weakness,” interrupted Ghandra calmly. “Read your own report, Secretary Lindsay. It states very clearly that the pursuit of a diplomatic solution will be seen as weakness. Inaction. And this will only invite more peril for my people. If we fall into the lull of a would-be diplomatic solution, we expose ourselves and we rely upon the word of a country and a man who just dropped a nuclear bomb on our people.”

  “The complexity of your decision is compounded by China,” said Jessica. “Privately, they acknowledge the necessity of a hard response. But if India’s response goes further than what they believe it should, there will be consequences.”

  “They have publicly condemned El-Khayab,” interrupted Singh. “Privately, they believe the man is insane.”

  “Indra, have you spoken with anyone in China?” asked Jessica.

  “Yes,” said Singh.

  “How recently?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Two days ago?” said Jessica. “I’ve spoken with my counterpart in Beijing no less than eight times since Wednesday. You are absolutely incorrect if you believe China thinks President El-Khayab is insane. China and Pakistan are as tight as peas in a pod. And you are mistaken, by the way, if you believe El-Khayab is insane. I wish he was, but he’s not. Furthermore, what the Chinese say publicly is irrelevant. Frankly, what they say even privately is irrelevant too. They keep their own counsel. But there are three things that you can be sure of. One, China backs Pakistan over India in this conflict and in any conflict; you are a threat, Pakistan is a weak sister that does what they tell it to. Two, China covets India and its natural resources, particularly in the north. Three, China will respond to opportunities that are created, and they will do so quickly. This is the most important thing to remember. For Beijing, the current conflict represents an opportunity.

  “If India alters the chemistry of the region by launching a full-scale nuclear counterstrike,” continued Jessica, “China will alter its outlook on the region. So you drop, you said, a hundred and eighty nuclear devices? You destroy Pakistan, okay. I understand. But then how many weapons are left in your arsenal? A few dozen? China has more than five hundred warheads. And unlike India, which has to strap most of its warheads to the underside of an airplane, the Chinese have but to press a few buttons to send their nuclear warheads raining down on this city and every city in India. And trust me, they will do it. And they will probably only need to drop half a dozen nukes before everyone in this room surrenders, or, more likely, you’re dead, and the group that follows you amid the terrible carnage surrenders.”

  The room was silent. Everyone stared at Jessica, and she felt their eyes upon her. A tense silence hung over the room. She glanced at President Allaire, who returned her look with a slight nod.

  “So tell us, President Allaire, Secretary Lindsay, Mr. Calibrisi, Ms. Tanzer,” said President Ghandra, “what should we do?”

  The room was silent.

  “We believe we should pursue an aggressive multilateral diplomatic solution,” said President Allaire. “We should engage Europe, the UN, China, and Russia. We should give it a week, perhaps two. I will personally manage the crisis, along with Secretary Lindsay.”

  Jessica glanced at President Ghandra, whose eyes stared down at his lap and his hands that were crossed on top of it. Ghandra shook his head slightly, then looked at Singh, his minister of defense. They exchanged glances. Ghandra’s eyes then moved to Priya Vilokan, his foreign minister.

  “Thank you, President Allaire,” interrupted Ghandra. “And thank you all for coming. We have listened to you. America is our greatest friend, and today reminds us why. Our shared desire for freedom and peace for our people ties us together. But today you have told us nothing we do not know. Your ideas are ones we’ve considered and rejected. We rejected them because they will not work. India faces its gravest hour. Diplomacy is the equivalent of not responding. If you don’t believe me, ask Neville Chamberlain. Indra and I thought you
would come here with an argument for a proportional nuclear counterattack. We would have rejected that too, but at least it would have made some sense.”

  President Allaire smiled. He reached out to his coffee cup and took a final sip, drained the cup, then put it back on the conference table.

  “The Pakistanis have dropped a nuclear bomb on our country,” said Singh, leaning forward, pounding the table with his right fist, his face red with emotion. “More than eight thousand Indian men, women, and children are dead today. And for what reason? Because they are Indian. That is all, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “That’s a slippery slope,” said Lindsay. “If you strike Pakistan, how many innocent people will die? How many men, women, and children for the simple reason they happen to be Pakistani?”

  “Honestly, I don’t care,” barked Singh. “Don’t lecture me with your American sanctimony, Mr. Lindsay. You live on an island. This is the fourth war we’ve fought with our enemy. They pursue us always, the desire to exterminate India running like a fever in the blood of every man, woman, and child in that godforsaken country. What we do today will resonate for generations. This war cabinet will be condemned, but our children, our grandchildren, and their children and grandchildren, will live in peace from the vile Pakistanis. I am willing to die a condemned man, condemned by the Americans, by the history books, if it delivers freedom for future Indians.”

  “One man made the decision to drop the bomb on Karoo,” said President Allaire. “And for that you will exterminate a people.”

  “That one man happens to be the president of the country,” said Vilokan. “The democratically elected president of his country. The representative of a majority of his people. In fact, nearly seventy percent of his people.”

  “We told you of our concerns three years ago,” said Singh. “A team from RAW flew to Langley and practically begged for your help.”

  “We saw the threat of El-Khayab long before he was elected,” said Guta Morosla, secretary of the Research and Analysis Wing, India’s version of the CIA. “Even then, before he was elected, before he was even a candidate. And what did you do? You scoffed at us. Now we’re living with the results.”