Armageddon Mode

CHAPTER 9

“Off the line!” The words struck Tombstone like a smash to the solar plexus. “God, CAG! You’re putting me in hack! What did I do?”

CAG Marusko leaned forward in his swivel chair, hands spread helplessly on the desk in front of him. “I don’t make ‘em, Stoney. I just read ‘em. The word I got was that you’re off the flight line until they can pull a full investigation of the battle. There … may be some problem with your interpretation of the ROES. May be, I said.”

Tombstone knew that they meant Admiral Vaughn. “Court-martial?”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that, Stoney.”

It was very quiet in the office. Despite the fact that each department in a supercarrier was manned and fully operational around the clock, it was always quieter in the admin and other office spaces during the late hours. Indeed, Tombstone knew that many men went back to their offices in the evening to read, to strum guitars, or just to be alone and escape the crowding and noise of their quarters. For a long moment, the only sounds Tombstone heard were the whir from the air vent high up on the bulkhead and the never-ceasing, usually forgotten throb of the ship’s engines through the deck.

Court-martial. Tombstone thought back to the chain of decisions he’d made that night over the ocean and knew that there was nothing he would change now. But he’d also been in the Navy long enough to know that the wisdom of any decision or order can be picked apart by some higher authority.

“I’m assigning you to Air Ops, Stoney,” Marusko said, breaking the silence. “We’re getting some new aviators in tomorrow, and we’ll need some experienced hands looking over their shoulders up in CATCC.”

There were always several aviators assigned to the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center. Sometimes they could read impressions or emotions in a squadron mate’s words as they came in over the speaker that the men manning the consoles would miss. More often than not, though, the Air Ops watch standers were Me Jo types, the ensigns and newer lieutenants jokingly referred to as marginally effective junior officers. By watching operations in CATCC and Ops, new flight officers could get the feel of the electronic network that would be backing them up once they were in the air.

“So I’m a Me Jo now, huh?” Tombstone felt the growing anger, tried to keep it out of his voice … and failed. “Do they trust me with that much responsibility?”

“Getting a damned attitude isn’t going to help, Stoney,” CAG said.

“We’re both stuck with this, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.

Not now anyway.”

Tombstone looked around the tiny room. It was cluttered with bits and pieces of Steve Marusko’s life: a photograph of his family, a plastic model from the ship’s store of an F/A-18 Hornet, books from the ship’s library. Tacked to a bulletin board was a crudely rendered crayon drawing of an aircraft carrier with huge stars scrawled on the wings of each misshapen airplane. As much as he wanted to lash out at someone, Tombstone found it impossible to be angry at CAG. The decision had not been his.

“Right, CAG.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I’ll accept this as a paid vacation.”

“That’s the stuff. Now haul ass out of here.”

As Tombstone stepped into the deserted passageway outside CAG’s office, he wondered if his getting grounded might not actually be a twisted kind of blessing. It would give him a chance to think about his role as a career fighter pilot, about his decision to quit the Navy.

He glanced at his watch. He could still get a bite to eat at the Dirty Shirt Mess. He turned and started down the passageway, endlessly alive.

How much did he really love carrier flying? These next few days might tell him.

“Thank you for coming, Admiral.” The President gestured to the upholstered chair in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.” The Oval Office was brilliantly lit by the early afternoon light streaming through the Rose Garden window.

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Admiral Magruder took the offered chair and watched the man behind the desk with a guarded expression. George Hall, who had brought him from his new basement office, had told him nothing about the reason for the summons. The White House Chief of Staff took a seat across the room but said nothing. Something was bothering Hall, but Magruder didn’t know what.

“Things are hotting up over there,” the President said. He looked drawn and tired, as though he’d been up the entire night before. Magruder noticed that a large map of western India had been mounted on an easel set up in front of the Oval Office’s north wall. There were a number of new marks and notations off the coast near Bombay, and a heavy red line threading south through the Red Sea, then turning sharply toward the northeast, bearing on Turban Station. From where he sat, Magruder could not make out the cryptic notations next to the line.

The President cleared his throat. “Tom, as usual, this is all confidential.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Three hours ago, the Jefferson battle group was attacked off Bombay. It seems evident that the Indians were trying to punish us for sinking their sub by launching a strike at Biddle, the frigate involved in that incident. It was also intended as a clear warning. An ultimatum, if you will.” The President swiveled his chair until he was facing the Rose Garden window. He was silent for a long moment. Magruder waited.

“The Indian ambassador was in here again this morning,” the President said at last. “They’re pushing their version of the IOZP, and they want us to comply. Now.”

The tangle of international politics that laid conflicting claims to the various oceans, straits, and sea lanes of the world was a basic part of every admiral’s formal education. The Indian Ocean Zone of Peace concept had been presented to the UN by Sri Lanka — at India’s urging — in the early seventies. It called for the exclusion of all extra-regional powers from the Indian Ocean, a measure aimed principally at the United States, the Soviet Union, and Great Britain.

Most of the nations around the Indian Ocean basin supported the IOZP, though the usual interpretation called for a reduction of all naval forces in the region, including India’s. But of all of the regional maritime powers, India had by far the most powerful navy and was the country best able to project her military power from Bombay to the Cape of Good Hope, from the Gulf of Oman to the west coast of Australia.

India was determined to become a truly global power by the twenty-first century. Her detonation of a nuclear device in 1974, her launch of communications and military satellites, her race to build up her air force, army, and navy had all been carried out with that single goal in mind.

By comparison, Great Britain had largely dismantled her presence in the Indian Ocean during the seventies, leaving her base at Diego Garcia to the Americans. Australia, once a significant naval power in the region, had largely turned her back on the sea. The Labor Party government elected in 1983 had stricken Australia’s one carrier, the Melbourne, canceled the construction of another, and transferred all fixed-wing naval assets to the RAAF. By the early nineties, Australia’s entire navy consisted of six submarines, three U.S.-built guided-missile destroyers launched in the early sixties, and ten frigates, plus a handful of coastal patrol boats, mine-warfare ships, and survey vessels.

If India succeeded in excluding outside forces from the region, she would be the logical nation to fill the power vacuum.

And that brought New Delhi squarely into conflict with the United States. Freedom of the seas, free access to international waters. Those principles had always been high among the missions tasked to the U.S. Navy. More than that, though, defense of the West’s sea lanes from the Persian Gulf to the rest of the world lay almost entirely with the U.S. The tanker routes from the Gulf were vital to the U.S., to Europe, to Japan, and no Western policymaker was ready to concede their control — or the responsibility for their defense — to New Delhi.

Magruder understood what the President was saying. The missiles exchanged in the Arabian Sea so far had less to do with mistaken perceptions or tit-for-tat retaliation than with a clash of mutually opposed national policies. The excuse for the attack on CBG-14 might well be the sinking of an Indian submarine; the reality was less well defined but far more vast.

“They want us out of the Indian Ocean then,” Magruder said simply.

“That’s it. They’re phrasing it oh-so-politely … but it amounts to an ultimatum. All foreign naval forces are to clear out of their War Exclusion Zone at once. Foreign national military vessels or squadrons still in the Arabian Sea, or not clearly on a course leading out of the WEZ, will be subject to attack after noon tomorrow, our time.”

“God.”

“Other military squadrons, those not within the Exclusion Zone, are, ah, ‘strongly urged’ to honor the IOZP declaration by leaving the Indian Ocean entirely. The question of Diego Garcia is to be settled at a future conference either here or in New Delhi within the next six weeks.

The ambassador informed me that they will be presenting a motion to this effect before the United Nations this afternoon.”

Magruder digested this. “What are you planning to do about it, Mr. President?”

The man behind the desk sighed, his shoulders slumping. “There’s not a hell of a lot of choice, is there? Our whole national foreign policy is wedded to the Persian Gulf and the traffic there. Our entire history has been dedicated to freedom of the seas. I can’t back down on this … and they damn well know it.”

“Then they want a war with us?”

“I doubt it. My guess is they’re hoping to broker some sort of agreement where they become responsible for shipping in and out of the Gulf, maybe with us as junior partners. For the moment, though, they just want foreigners out of the Arabian Sea so they can prosecute their war with Pakistan.”

“The war.” Magruder gave a grim smile. “I’d just about forgotten about that.”

“Hell, the Pakistan war is what this is all about, Tom. India has always distrusted our relationship with Pakistan and probably thinks we’ll back Islamabad against them. If they can get us out of the way, they can blockade Karachi and not have to watch their backs.”

Magruder tugged at his ear. “They’re not giving you many options.”

The President looked up at the map across the room. “Well, there is one option.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I had another visitor in here this morning. Crack of dawn. Anatoly Druzhinin, the Commonwealth representative. He made an interesting … offer.”

“And a highly questionable one, sir,” Hall said, breaking his silence.

The President gave his advisor a wan smile. “I know how you feel about it, George. You’ve told me. There doesn’t seem to be much choice, does there?”

“The Navy staff has been champing at the bit on this one, Mr. President.

Maybe they’re right. We don’t need the Russkies.”

“”Don’t need … ‘” Magruder’s eyes widened. “You mean the Russians are offering to help, sir?”

“They are indeed. Their Indian Ocean flotilla, SOVINDRON, is already enroute for Turban Station. They’ll be there late tomorrow afternoon, though their aircraft will be within range before that. The squadron is built around the Kreml, one of their two new nuclear-powered jobs.”

Kreml … Russian for Kremlin. Magruder blinked. He’d followed the available intelligence on what had been the Soviet nuclear carrier program for years, of course, but so far the Russian flattops had not ventured far from their own waters. He remembered the red line on the map at his back and realized that it must mark SOVINDRON’s position.

“Accompanying Kreml are six other warships of various types. An Oscar-class nuclear attack sub. A Kresta II cruiser. We think it’s the Marshal Timoshenko, but that hasn’t been confirmed yet. Two destroyers.

Two frigates. They’re suggesting we form a combined task force with their squadron and CBG-14 for the express purpose of pressuring India and Pakistan to back off. It would effectively double our force in the area … and demonstrate to India and Pakistan that there is a united world consensus behind this, well before the UN could do anything about it. We hope this might shake the UN into speeding things up. God knows, they don’t have much time.”

“Russians!” Magruder exploded. “Son of a bitch!”

“Do you have a problem with that, Admiral?”

Magruder was embarrassed. “Uh, no, sir. No problem. I’m just … surprised.”

The President grinned. “It surprised the hell out of me, I’ll tell you.” He glanced at Hall, who was frowning. “I’ve been told that the Russians are more interested in reestablishing their global reach than in stopping that war.”

“It’s possible, sir. They’ve lost a lot of prestige worldwide lately.”

“You’re right. And I agree. This is probably the best chance Moscow has had since the Persian Gulf War to let the world know that the Commonwealth can be a world-class superpower.”

“I also happen to believe they’d like to avoid a nuclear war that close to home,” the President continued. He leaned forward, his hands clasping in front of him. “You know, Tom, if this thing spreads, if it turns nuclear, South Asia could just fall apart. Never mind whether the war spreads to other countries or directly threatens our interests in the region. We’ll have vast areas of devastation from Afghanistan to central India. We’ll have people starving to death by the hundreds of millions! And hundreds of millions more will be on the move … looking for food, for clean water, for a place to escape the horror. Can you grasp numbers like that? I sure as hell can’t!

“My feeling is that the Russians have enough trouble inside their own borders right now without having to deal with starving refugees by the millions … or Islamic warlords stepping into the power vacuum and calling for some damned religious crusade … or clouds of fallout drifting north across the border. Did you know Uzbekistan grows most of the Commonwealth’s cotton? That some of their best wheat and livestock-raising lands are in Kazakhstan? My God, a nuclear war just a few hundred miles from their border could be a catastrophe for the whole damned country! They’re having enough economic problems without nuclear devastation to add to it.”

“And if things get worse in the Commonwealth,” Magruder began.

“They’ll get bad for us too. We’re looking at a situation as dangerous as anything in the Cold War days. Maybe worse!”

Admiral Magruder leaned forward in his chair. “I’m still not sure what a carrier task force could do out there, Mr. President. Even with two carriers on station.”

“That’s why I called you in here, Tom. Maybe you can give us some thoughts on the situation. The one hard idea that’s surfaced in the NSC meetings so far calls for air strikes against Indian supply routes. The Indians have got to be gambling on a fast end to their war. If we could delay them, maybe things would bog down and we could get them talking to each other instead of shooting. Certainly, if the Indian advance stalls, the Pakistanis will feel less inclined to start tossing nukes around.”

“Mr. President,” Hall said. “This is an incredibly dangerous move. It could also be a political disaster for-“

“Fuck politics, George!” The President stood suddenly behind his desk.

“We’re talking about trying to disarm two tough street kids before they burn down the block!”

Hall looked stunned. “Yes, sir.”

“Wait outside. I’ll buzz if I need you.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Hall left the room.

“At the risk of getting kicked out on my tail, Mr. President,” Magruder said, “Mr. Hall’s right. If we step in, with or without the Russians, it could touch a match to the powder keg. And if the Indians already think we’re allied with Pakistan, what are they going to think when we send a couple of A-6s in to bomb their troop convoys?”

“I know, Admiral. If you have a better idea, I’m certainly willing to listen.”

“Do you really think the Indians and the Pakistanis will back down if you threaten them with a couple of aircraft carriers, sir?”

“Pakistan will,” the President said. “I’ve been talking with their ambassador too. All they want is for the Indians to return to the borders. They insist they won’t do anything, ah, irrevocable, not until they’re up against the wall. After that …” He shrugged. “We have that long, anyway, to try. Right now, the big question mark is with our own people.” The President paused, then looked Magruder in the eye.

“What do you think they’ll say on the Jefferson if I order them to join forces with the Russkies?”

Magruder thought about it. “Can’t speak for Admiral Vaughn, Mr. President. I don’t really know him. Captain Fitzgerald might have a fit. But he’ll follow orders.”

“Will the battle group be able to work with the Russians?”

“Depends on a lot of things.” He thought about the question for a moment. The real unknown was the Russians. Moscow, he remembered, had openly supported the Indian-Sri Lankan Peace Zone proposal in the Indian Ocean, probably because they assumed that the idea would never work and it made a convenient point of Third-World-pleasing diplomatic opposition against the United States. Of course, a lot had changed in the world since Brezhnev’s day. “I guess it’s really up to the Russians,” he added. “Their willingness to exchange codes with us, stuff like that.

But for our part … Yes, sir. Our people will make it work.”

“Good.” The President nodded. “Good, because I’ve already told Druzhinin to put the plan in the works for his people. And I’ll have the Joint Chiefs draft orders for Admiral Vaughn this afternoon.”

Magruder nodded. He felt suddenly very small, knowing that the decisions being made in this office were those that could save or destroy thousands — or millions — of lives within the next few days. Would India feel differently about the situation if both the United States and Russians made a stand against their ultimatum? Somehow, he doubted it, but perhaps it would make a difference for the men, those from the Commonwealth and America, who were out there south of Karachi.

He studied the lines in the President’s face and knew again the cost of command.