by Jeff Edwards
“I’m not talking about details,” said the president. “And I’m not talking about independent confirmation of the facts.”
He looked at the enormous aerial view of the Three Gorges Dam on the display screen. “We’re missing a critical piece in the chain of logic.”
“I don’t think I’m following you, sir,” Brenthoven said.
“Mary just summed it up perfectly,” the president said. “You don’t sit around trading punches when somebody slams you that hard. You crush them. Right?”
Brenthoven nodded, but didn’t speak.
“I don’t claim to understand the mindset of the Indian government,” the president said. “But they can’t possibly be too blind to know what will happen if they cripple China with an assault of this magnitude. This entire plan is practically begging for nuclear retaliation. So why in the hell are they even thinking about it?”
No one offered an answer.
“We’re missing something here,” the president said again. “Some vital piece of logical thinking.”
The Chief of Naval Operations drummed the fingertips of his left hand lightly on the table top. “What if it’s not logical?” he asked. “Before that nutcase, Zhukov, bombed Pearl Harbor, I would have said that nobody is fanatical enough to do something that idiotic. But these days, Mr. President, I’m not quite as quick to underestimate the power of stupid and crazy.”
President Wainwright grimaced. “You’ve got a point there, Admiral” he said. “But—crazy or not—our friends in India have got something up their sleeve. And we had damned well better find out what it is…”
CHAPTER 24
EMBASSY OF INDIA
WASHINGTON, DC
THURSDAY; 27 NOVEMBER
5:15 PM EST
Gita Shankar, the Republic of India’s Ambassador to the United States, rose from her seat as the American National Security Advisor was ushered into her office. She came around her desk to meet him, and extended her hand to be shaken as he crossed the last few meters of carpet.
The ambassador wore a dark blue sari of raw silk, over a simple gray blouse and a pleated business skirt. The broad strip of rich fabric wound around her waist, and crossed her upper body diagonally, allowing the loose end to drape over her left shoulder in a businesslike approximation of the traditional fashion. Around her neck was a single strand of pearls, and her short black hair was drawn back to reveal matching earrings.
Ambassador Shankar smiled as her visitor accepted her proffered hand and shook it. “Welcome, Mr. Brenthoven,” she said. “It appears that we have coordinated our colors today.”
Gregory Brenthoven glanced down at the sleeve of his suit. It was almost exactly the same shade of gray as the ambassador’s blouse, and his blue Salvatore Ferragamo necktie was a surprisingly close match for the color of her sari.
Brenthoven smiled. “I phoned ahead, Madam Ambassador, to find out what you were wearing. Then I dashed home and dressed myself to match.”
The ambassador laughed, and then motioned him to a pair of sofas rendered in the British Colonial style that remained popular among representatives of the Indian government.
“Please,” the ambassador said. “Make yourself comfortable, and then tell me what takes you away from your family on such an important American holiday.”
Brenthoven seated himself on one sofa, and the ambassador chose a seat across from him, on the other sofa.
Brenthoven’s eyes made a quick sweep around the elegantly-appointed office. “I don’t want to sound melodramatic, Madam Ambassador, but is this room secure?”
This brought a raised eyebrow from the ambassador. “It should be reasonably secure,” she said. “My office is swept daily for electronic eavesdropping devices, and my security staff employs certain technical measures to disrupt remote surveillance by other means. I’m sure you’re accustomed to similar precautions in your own government buildings.”
“Of course,” Brenthoven said.
“And I’m equally sure,” the ambassador said, “you realize that such defenses only reduce the threat of hostile surveillance. They do not guarantee privacy.”
The American National Security Advisor hesitated. He was not a representative of the State Department, and he had no diplomatic credentials. He was also not a trusted confidant of the Indian government, which meant that the rules of protocol would not allow him to request the use of the embassy’s ‘bubble.’
Like nearly every other embassy in the world, the Indian chancery building was equipped with an acoustically-isolated Plexiglas security chamber with specialized coatings to repel electromagnetic radiation. In diplo-speak, such a chamber was commonly referred to as a bubble. Theoretically, a properly-designed bubble was immune to external surveillance devices, and virtually impossible to bug internally. In reality, the ceaseless evolution of technology meant that any room—no matter how carefully protected—was potentially vulnerable to eavesdropping. Even so, a properly maintained bubble was as close to absolute security as it was possible to come.
Ambassador Shankar had not missed Brenthoven’s not-too-casual visual sweep of her office, and she had no doubt that he was fishing for an invitation to use her embassy’s bubble. But he had asked for this appointment on very short notice, and had circumvented many of the political niceties in the process. He had also not offered any hints about the topic he intended to discuss, which gave the ambassador and her deputy chief of mission no opportunity to prepare an official position on whatever it was that he wanted to talk about.
In view of these diplomatic lapses—minor as they were—she was not inclined to grant the man any immediate favors. When he revealed the mysterious topic of this meeting, she might change her mind and suggest a recess to the bubble, if she judged that such a precaution was necessary. Until then, it wouldn’t kill the man to deal with a bit of discomfort.
“I’m afraid that I don’t speak Sanskrit,” Brenthoven said, “so I must ask you to forgive my poor pronunciation.”
The ambassador smiled and waved a hand dismissively. “Of course.”
Brenthoven gave a final glance around the office and paused again before speaking. “Madam Ambassador, have you ever heard of a missile warhead with the codename ‘Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ’?”
Ambassador Shankar frowned slightly. “I don’t believe so.”
“It’s my understanding,” Brenthoven said, “that the phrase refers to a sword owned by the Hindu god, Shiva, when he manifests himself as Rudra—the bringer of storms, death, and destruction.”
“That sounds like a reasonable translation,” the ambassador said. “But I’m not aware of any missile with such a codename.”
“It’s a Next Generation Penetrator,” Brenthoven said. “It was developed by your country’s Defense Research and Development Organization, to attack and breach exceptionally-hardened targets, such as massively-reinforced underground bunkers, or armored concrete missile silos.”
The ambassador shifted slightly in her seat. She didn’t know where this conversation was going, but she was already becoming uncomfortable with the tone. “I will take your word for that,” she said. “I believe I have a solid fundamental grasp of my country’s military capabilities, but I can’t claim to know every detail of every weapon system under development.”
Her voice grew a fraction sharper. “Is the United States suddenly concerned that this warhead you speak of is somehow in violation of international laws or treaties?”
“Not at all,” Brenthoven said. “It’s my understanding that the Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ warhead design is perfectly legal under all existing agreements.”
The ambassador relaxed back into the sofa cushions. “Then, may I ask what the problem is? It must be something serious, for you to show such concern regarding the security of this conversation.”
“It is serious, Madam Ambassador,” Brenthoven said. “We have received credible indications that your military is planning to use a number of these advanced penetrator warheads to force a
catastrophic failure of the Chinese Three Gorges Dam.”
“I have not been briefed on any such plan,” the ambassador said. “But my country is engaged in defensive combat operations against an unprovoked aggressor. India was not the instigator of the current hostilities, Mr. Brenthoven, as I’m sure you are aware. So—given your own admission that the proposed weapons are not prohibited by treaty or law, and also given the fact that we are reacting to the slaughter of an entire village of unarmed civilians—I’m curious to know why my country’s military intentions have suddenly attracted the attention of the United States Government. I don’t mean to sound abrupt, but how does this qualify as your business?”
“We’ve done some initial assessments of the potential consequences if the Three Gorges Dam should suffer catastrophic failure,” Brenthoven said. “Our analysts estimate that the death toll in China could go as high as 350 million. It’s also likely that three of China’s most prosperous cities will be completely wiped out, crippling the Chinese economy for several decades.”
“I haven’t seen any such projections,” the ambassador said, “but that sounds like a bit of an exaggeration to me.”
“We don’t think so,” Brenthoven said. “In fact, our early calculations may actually turn out to be optimistic.”
Ambassador Shankar said nothing. All of this really was a surprise to her. She had no idea how much of it—if any—might be true.
Brenthoven closed his little notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “Madam Ambassador, if this attack on the Three Gorges Dam takes place, we believe there’s a very strong chance that the People’s Republic of China will retaliate with a major nuclear strike.”
“That’s absurd!” the ambassador said.
“We don’t think so,” Brenthoven said. “If you hit the PRC that hard, we think they’ll strike back even harder.”
The ambassador found her own eyes travelling around her office. “We shouldn’t talk about this here,” she said. “We should move this discussion to the bubble.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Gregory Brenthoven said. “Why don’t we do that?”
CHAPTER 25
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
FRIDAY; 28 NOVEMBER
1924 hours (7:24 PM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
The Tactical Action Officer, Lieutenant Ben Lambert, kept an eye on the giant Aegis display screens that dominated the central section of Combat Information Center. On the tactical display, four unknown-aircraft symbols were moving rapidly toward the perimeter of the USS Midway’s defensive ring of surface ships.
Lambert pressed the electronic soft-key that patched his comm headset into the ship’s telephone system, and he punched the three-digit phone number for the captain’s stateroom. “Captain, this is the TAO. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got four Bogies inbound from the west. No modes, no codes, and no IFF.”
“Thank you,” Captain Bowie said. “I’m on my way. Do me a favor, and give Commander Silva a call. I’m sure she’ll want to be in on this.”
“Will do, sir,” the TAO said.
Less than three minutes later, Captain Bowie and Commander Silva were standing behind the TAO, looking over his shoulder at the tactical display.
“Whose tracks are we seeing, here?” Bowie asked.
USS Towers was running quiet and dark—taking full advantage of her cutting-edge stealth capabilities to hide from the sensors of other ships and aircraft. The odd angles of the destroyer’s hull and superstructure had been meticulously calculated to deflect incoming radar, robbing potential enemies of the return signals needed to detect and track the ship. This advanced geometry design was enhanced by the radar absorbent polymerized carbon fiber tiles and phototropic camouflage that covered the majority of the ship’s exposed surfaces.
Coupled with acoustic masking and thermal suppression systems, these technologies did an astoundingly effective job of concealing a 9,800 ton warship on the open sea. But no amount of crafty engineering could disguise the transmissions of the ship’s own radar systems. If the Towers energized her radars, they would light up the electromagnetic spectrum like the proverbial Christmas tree. Any chance of concealment would be instantly gone.
The only way to achieve effective stealth was to shut down all radars and transmitters, and depend on sensor feeds from other U.S. Navy assets in the area.
That’s what the Towers was doing now, sliding quietly through the night, guided only by tactical data inputs from the ships and aircraft in the USS Midway strike group.
“These tracks are coming in from Hawkeye,” the TAO said.
‘Hawkeye,’ referred to one of the E-2D Airborne Early Warning planes providing long-range radar surveillance coverage for the aircraft carrier and the air wing.
Commander Silva nodded. “Doesn’t look like they’re going to overfly us directly,” she said.
The TAO checked his console for amplified target motion data on the four unknown aircraft. “Good eye, ma’am. The Bogies won’t overfly us. Unless their flight profile changes, they’ll CPA us about ten miles to the north, in roughly eight minutes.”
“They’re going after the Midway,” Silva said.
“Looks that way to me,” the TAO said. “They’re flying low and fast, with their radars shut down. I think they’re trying to give our carrier a little goose.”
“That sounds like a pretty fair assessment,” said Captain Bowie.
His eyes stayed fixed on the four aircraft symbols. “If I had to guess, I’d say we’re looking at J-15s from the Chinese carrier group. Two flights of two.”
“Could be,” the TAO said. “Do we let them pass, or do we challenge?”
“We could let them go,” Bowie said. “That Hawkeye has got them nailed. Our Bogies will have F-18s crawling all over them before they get close to the carrier.”
“True,” the TAO said. There was a wistful note in his voice, as though he’d been hoping for something a bit more exciting out of his first real-world encounter with a potential air threat.
Bowie smiled. “On the other hand, our current EMCON status is self-imposed. We’re running dark and quiet for the practice, not because we have orders to maintain emission control.”
The TAO grinned. “Think we should rattle their cage, sir?”
The captain returned his grin. “Why not? No fire control radars. It’s okay to spook these guys, but let’s not give them an excuse to shoot.”
The TAO keyed his mike. “All Stations—TAO, now set Modified EMCON Delta. Unrestricted emissions except for fire control, effective immediately. Maximum safe power levels. I say again, all transmitters on line immediately at maximum safe power levels. Break. Air—TAO, I want a high-power SPY sweep of sector two-niner-zero to three-five-zero.”
The AN/SPY-1D(V)2 phased-array radar was the backbone of the ship’s Aegis integrated sensor and weapons suite. With a power output of over four million watts, SPY could confuse or even damage the sensitive avionics in most aircraft.
The TAO was still grinning. Those Chinese pilots were about to get the surprise of their lives. One second, they’re sneaking along in the dark, hugging the waves and trying to be invisible. Everything is nice and quiet—no sign of anything at all between them and their objective. The next second, bam! A U.S. Navy destroyer right in their faces, pumping out four megawatts of microwave power, making their warning buzzers scream and their instruments go haywire.
The Air Supervisor’s voice came over the net. “TAO—Air. SPY is on line and transmitting. Full power sweep of sector two-niner-zero to three-five-zero in progress.”
“And here we go…” the TAO said.
On the Aegis tactical display, the four unknown aircraft symbols swung hard to the left, sheering away from the Towers and the Midway.
A half-second later, the Air Supervisor’s voice came over the net again. “TAO—Air, Bogies are bugging out. Looks like they’re running home to the barn.”
; The TAO keyed up. “Roger, Air. Keep an eye on them anyway. We don’t want them sneaking back around to return the surprise.”
“That was easy,” Commander Silva said.
The Tactical Action Officer nodded. “Just a friendly gesture, to let our Chinese buddies know that the United States Navy is in the neighborhood. Sort of like the Welcome Wagon.”
Silva shook her head. “We were early,” she said. “We should have waited, and done that next month.”
The TAO looked at her. “I’m not sure what you mean, Commander…”
“Thanksgiving is over,” Silva said. “And we just gave those guys their Christmas goose a whole month ahead of time.”
The TAO grinned again. “I think they’ll forgive us, ma’am.”
“I hope you’re right about that,” Captain Bowie said. “I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER 26
FINAL TRAJECTORY:
A DEVELOPMENTAL HISTORY OF THE CRUISE MISSILE
(Excerpted from working notes presented to the National Institute for Strategic Analysis. Reprinted by permission of the author, David M. Hardy, PhD.)
With the V-1 rocket, the Luftwaffe’s flying bomb effort made a complete break from the propeller-driven airframes and remote control systems of previous designs. The new German weapon was a self-controlling robot, utilizing automatic onboard guidance mechanisms in place of a remote human operator. The new design eliminated propeller-driven engines, in favor of a rudimentary (but effective) pulse jet engine that was little more than a tube-shaped fuel combustion chamber.
The weapon was formally designated as the Fiesler Fi-103, but the Nazi propaganda corps began referring to it as the Vergeltungswaffe Einz (Vengeance Weapon 1), a title that was quickly shortened to V-1 in common usage.
Unlike prior generations of drones and aerial torpedoes, the V-1 did not resemble conventional aircraft of the day. Its sheet-steel fuselage was streamlined and severely tapered, giving it a profile similar to a throwing dart. The weapon’s abrupt cruciform wings were skinned with plywood, to reduce weight and minimize cost, and the narrow stovepipe engine at its tail was like nothing before seen outside of the fictional stories of Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon.
