Armageddon Mode

CHAPTER 11

Defense Minister Kuldip Sundai was a small, mustached man with rimless glasses that caught the fluorescent light from overhead and flashed it back at the generals and admirals sitting at the table. Rear Admiral Ramesh watched as he took a sip of water, then smiled at the assembly of high-ranking military officers arrayed about the conference room table.

“Gentlemen,” he said without other preamble. “I thank you for your invitation to meet with you today. I bring the compliments of the Prime Minister, who is proud and pleased with your prosecution of the war thus far. The Political Affairs Committee has asked me to express their complete confidence in you and your good efforts.”

Ramesh stifled a twinge of impatience. He didn’t like Sundarji, though he understood the man’s obsequious manner and politician’s smile.

The political situation within the Indian Federation was, as always, an extremely delicate one, as was the balance between the civilian government and the military. The Indian Constitution vested command of the armed forces with the President, but defacto control lay with the Prime Minister and his cabinet. The cabinet’s Political Affairs Committee, chaired by the Prime Minister, was responsible for all high-level decisions on defense matters. The Minister of Defense was the only true liaison between the Indian government and its military, and there was a tendency for the armed forces to become isolated from government decision making.

By the same token, though, the government tended to leave military decisions to the military in a live-and-let-live arrangement that both sides found politically useful. As the public clamored for an end to Pakistani border aggressions, the government could truthfully say that the matter was in the army’s hands. And the service chiefs could count on a certain amount of noninterference from New Delhi when they sat down to plan their strategies.

Of course, that put a terrific responsibility on Kuldip Sundarji. The Defense Minister had to juggle two agendas — the government’s and the military’s — and make them come out to the common advantage.

He was, therefore, a master politician. Ramesh distrusted such people.

“General Dhanaraj,” the Defense Minister said grandly. “Would you be so kind as to brief us on the First Corps situation?”

General Sanjeev Dhanaraj scraped his chair back, rose, and walked to the wall map at the head of the table. Unit positions, movements, and defense lines were marked onto a transparent overlay that showed the broad scope and thrust of the war’s first three days.

“Overall, we have every reason to be pleased with the accomplishments of the past sixty hours,” he said. “Intelligence estimates that better than seventy percent of the Pakistani air force has been destroyed or grounded. We have reason to be concerned that a number of F-16 strike fighters, which are, of course, nuclear-capable, are still being held in reserve. Efforts are underway to locate and destroy them.”

He indicated a cluster of marks in the south, a few hundred miles from the sea. “Operation Cobra commenced at 0300 hours this morning.

Following massive artillery and air bombardments, a full division is attacking here, at Naya Chor, on the highway from the border to Hyderabad. Two more divisions are in reserve. Our diversionary attacks in the Punjab appear to have successfully pulled Pakistani attention to the Lahore-Islamabad region. Our armor has reported a major breakthrough and is now moving west at a rapid pace. Lead elements have reached the Nara River, and pioneer units are preparing to effect a crossing. Success there will bring us to Hyderabad.”

The general turned from the map. “Coupled with the planned naval blockade and commando landings along Karachi’s waterfront itself, it is the Senior Staff’s belief that we will control the Sindh within another three days. Pakistani resistance can be expected to crumble shortly after that.”

Dhanaraj thanked the group for their attention and returned to his seat.

The Defense Minister took his place. “Thank you, General.” He paused, hands on hips. “Well, I needn’t remind you, gentlemen, of the serious threat posed by Pakistan’s detonation of a nuclear device. It is the government’s opinion that only an extremely swift and decisive victory in the field can end this campaign before Islamabad resolves to use such weapons against us.”

Ramesh nodded. This was certainly the real reason the Defense Minister was here. The government was worried about Pakistan’s bomb.

“Based on our own experience with atomic weapons, Intelligence believes that the Pakistanis have not yet succeeded in assembling nuclear warheads small enough to deliver as bombs, but their technicians are certain to be working on the problem.

“In addition, the government wishes to emphasize that growing pressure in the world community is working against us. Sooner or later, the UN will move to force an end to hostilities in this region. We must achieve our territorial and political goals first. We therefore have two reasons to see this affair through to a swift conclusion.

“Everything, everything depends on a rapid and successful drive to Karachi. With the country’s major port in our hands, the Pakistanis will be cut off from outside aid and forced to capitulate. While we are taking seriously their threats to use nuclear weapons as a last resort, it is our considered opinion that they will refrain from doing so, at least for the time being. Use of such weapons would create a bad image for them in the world at large and could jeopardize their trade relationship with the United States. Nor will they be eager to detonate nuclear weapons on their own soil. We must beat them before they decide that such consequences are less important than their own survival, that, in fact, their very survival is at stake. We cannot afford to have our attacks become stalled or slowed by unexpected resistance.

“And this, my friends, brings us to the principal subject of our meeting today. The Americans.”

Ramesh leaned forward, suddenly intent. What was the government going to do about the American threat?

“I need not remind you, gentlemen,” Sundarji continued, “of American interference in this region during our war with Pakistan in 1971. At that time they stationed another of their nuclear carriers, the Enterprise, in the Bay of Bengal. This was a constant threat we could not ignore throughout our operations in Bangladesh.

“Since that time, they have commissioned their installation at Diego Garcia, stationed carrier battle groups in the Arabian Sea, and organized their rapid-deployment force for intervention in our part of the world. Now they have positioned a nuclear carrier battle group only a hundred miles from our shores. With their in-flight refueling capabilities, they are within easy range of Operation Cobra’s supply lines. They can interdict our activities anywhere from Bombay to Baluchistan.

“The government is concerned that the Americans might interfere with our naval blockade of Pakistan, sever our supply lines with the Persian Gulf, or both. In the event of hostilities, our supply lines across the Thar Desert would be especially vulnerable.

“If we are to have a free hand in our operation in Pakistan, the American threat in our waters must be eliminated.”

Rear Admiral Ramesh stirred in his seat, then raised a hand. The Defense Minister looked down at him with owlish eyes. “Admiral?”

“Your pardon, sir … but does this mean we are declaring war against the Americans?” He felt a fierce, inner surge of emotion. The events of the past days seemed to have gone beyond any one government’s control, an explosion of encounters, blunders, and headlong stumbles toward the abyss of war. Was the Prime Minister actually choosing to ride events toward what seemed to be their predestined end … to take control and anticipate that war?

The minister frowned. “There will be no formal declaration, Admiral, no. But India will take action to guarantee her own sovereignty.”

Ramesh was confused. “Sir?”

“Success in Pakistan, and our own security, demand that we force the United States … and all other extraterritorial powers … to recognize our claims to the Arabian Sea and abandon military control of the Indian Ocean basin to us. Our requests before the UN Security Council have been rebuffed. This, then, leaves us with but a single course of action.

“Yesterday, as you all know, a maritime attack squadron, supported by one of our Mig-29 fighter units, struck elements of the American carrier force off Bombay. Our intelligence indicates that at least three U.S. planes were shot down in the engagement.”

Ramesh pursed his lips. He knew better than to accept such figures at face value. He wondered what the kill figures really were, and how many IAF planes had been lost.

“The action of last night is being hailed as a major triumph. However, our leaders fear that American resolve has only hardened at this point.

Their government stresses the concept of ‘freedom of the seas,” which can be interpreted as their perceived right to continue to operate in our waters.

“Furthermore, the Commonwealth of Independent States has now joined the Americans. A Russian nuclear carrier group is expected to rendezvous with the Americans by mid-afternoon.”

Sundarji raised his hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing. A civilian aide began going around the table, passing out slender folders to each military man present. Ramesh accepted his and opened it, removing the sheaf of papers inside. Written in English, as were all such documents in India, and stamped TOP SECRET across each page, it appeared to be a general directive entitled Operation Python. Cobra, Krait, and Python, Ramesh thought. New Delhi seemed entranced by the ideas of using snakes for code words this week.

“The government has decided that only one response on our part can be direct enough, sharp enough to discourage foreign intentions in the Arabian Sea,” the minister continued as the military men read the orders. “The Political Affairs Committee has asked me to submit these plans to you this afternoon. We believe that enough ships and planes can be diverted from current operations to deliver a single, crushing blow to the joint American-Soviet battle fleet. Ideally, this should be carried out before the Russians and the Americans have a chance to work together, in order to maximize confusion.

“Their aircraft carriers, of course, will be the primary targets.

Destroy them, or simply damage their flight decks enough to prevent air launches or recoveries, and both squadrons will be largely useless. The foreign fleets will be forced to withdraw.

“New Delhi anticipates a strong reaction, of course, but by that time our objectives in Pakistan should be achieved. We can negotiate with Moscow and Washington over reparations or whatever is necessary, but …” He raised a forefinger, stressing the word. “But … our goals will have been achieved. Victory in Pakistan, and an end to foreign intervention in our ocean.”

A rising murmur filled the room as generals and admirals scanned through the orders. “Excellency,” General Bakaya said. “These call for stripping the Pakistan front of many of our best aircraft squadrons!”

Sundarji nodded. “Temporarily, yes. It is the government’s belief that for this operation we can muster between two and three hundred aircraft, approximately a third of our total IAF assets. The strike force will include long-range bombers, cruise missiles, and multi-wave strikes by attack planes armed with Exocets, as well as our maritime aircraft operating off of Viraat and Vikrant. Losses should not be higher than ten percent, which leaves adequate forces to return to the Pakistan front.”

Admiral Karananidhi stood, shaking the papers in his fist. “This is insane! You are saying we must abandon our blockade of Karachi!”

The murmurs grew louder. “I must protest,” another officer in the back shouted. “This could stall the entire offensive!”

Sundarji raised his voice. “I must emphasize … Gentlemen, if you please! I must emphasize that this redeployment is for the short term only! Admiral Karananidhi, you are correct. The fleet assembled for the blockade of Karachi is to be diverted to support the attack on the Soviet-American forces. But the strike is expected to take less than four hours altogether and can be accomplished while your ships are enroute to the Pakistan coast. The aircraft deployed for this exercise are those already in place within range of the targets. The delay will be minimal! And in exchange …” He spread his hands. “One lightning blow to cripple foreign air operations in the Arabian Sea! A strong message to the world that India is the master of her own destiny, her own ocean! A demonstration to Islamabad that we will see this through, regardless of world opinion! It will be, gentlemen, the gateway to our own future as a global power!”

Ramesh returned the orders to the folder unread. He didn’t need to see them to know their content … or to know that, after a few hours of argument, the military staff would give it their stamp of approval. The possible benefits were enormous, the risks relatively small. There was a stronger possibility of Pakistan deciding to employ nuclear weapons, but perhaps Intelligence was correct in assuming that Islamabad was not yet able to deploy such weapons in the field.

Those considerations did not really touch him closely in any case, because he had seen one section of those orders, the paragraphs dealing with Indian navy deployment. The Indian aircraft carrier Viraat had been designated the flagship of the naval operation against the Americans.

And Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh was commander of Viraat’s task force, with the carrier as his flag. It would be he who led the attack against the foreigners, opening the way for the IAF bomber strikes.

It would be a suitable revenge for poor Joshi’s death.

“Yeah, Coyote, it’s true,” Tombstone said. The clatter of dishes and silverware rose around them, mingled with the low conversations of several dozen of the ship’s officers. Tombstone was clad in his khakis, but Coyote was still wearing his flight suit after an afternoon of patrol and practice touch-and-goes off Jefferson’s roof.

“God, man, I don’t believe it! How can they can the goddamned squadron commander?”

Tombstone pushed his dinner tray back on the table. He’d not felt much like eating. “By not making it an official canning. They’ll just take their time getting around to the investigation and hope I go away in the meantime.”

“Kiss of death, man! They can’t pull that shit! An aviator’s got to get out there and strap on that airplane every day, or he loses the edge!”

“Hell, they’re doing it. Can’t fight city hall. You know that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not bad. Gives me a chance to catch up on my paperwork. The Vipers are down two aircraft, and getting IM-2 moving on our work orders is like shoveling mud.” The IM-2 division of Jefferson’s Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance Department (IMD) was responsible for all inspection, testing, calibration, and repair of the aircraft embarked aboard the carrier. He knew his offhand statement was not entirely fair; IM-2 consisted of eight officers, 420 men, and thirty civilian technical reps with an impossible backlog of orders and requests. “Officially, I guess I’m still in charge.”

“So who’s running the squadron, guy? Unofficially, I mean?”

“Army. Fred Garrison. Remember him? He’s squadron XO now. Anyway, he bosses ‘em in the air and I take care of the paperwork. Good trade.”

Coyote leaned back in his chair, a mug of coffee in his hand. “You can’t fool me, Stoney. This has got you pissed off royally.”

“Maybe.” He wondered whether to tell Coyote that he was planning on resigning. It wasn’t the sort of thing you just blurted out. There was an unspoken attitude among Navy aviators. The guys who turned in their wings or resigned were failures, fallen gods no longer possessing the edge, the all-important right stuff.

Tombstone valued Coyote’s friendship and didn’t want to risk it.

Another thought occurred to him. “Listen, Coyote. I haven’t had a chance to ask. How’s Julie?”

“Fine, fine. She told me to send her love.”

Tombstone and Coyote both had dated a good-looking insurance claims rep named Julie Wilson years before, when they’d first been stationed at Coronado. The rivalry had been friendly. In the end, Tombstone had been best man at their wedding.

“So tell me,” Tombstone said uncertainly. “What does Julie think of your coming back out here? I mean, you came pretty close to buying the farm last time around. How’d she take it?”

Coyote studied his coffee mug for a moment. “Hell, I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t worried. But she knows that Navy aviation is what I do.

She knows I miss her like nobody’s business when I’m gone, but that flying is the next best thing to sex there is.” He hesitated. “You want to tell me what’s behind that, Stoney?”

“Oh, nothing important.” He knew the lie was transparent. “Just trying to figure where my own career is going, that’s all. I met a girl.”

“Yeah?”

“TV news-type person. Met her in Bangkok during all the excitement there. I … I’m in love with her.”

“But there’re the old questions about whether love and salt water mix, hey?”

“Something like that.” Tombstone grinned suddenly. “You know the old saying. “If the Navy wanted you to have a wife, they’d have issued you one with your seabag.’” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I gotta go.”

“Hey, wait.”

But Tombstone didn’t want to talk about it, not now. He stood, picking up the tray with his unfinished supper. “Catch you later, Coyote.”

“Yeah. Later.”

Why was he telling Coyote his problems? He shook his head as he returned the tray to the galley window and shoved it through. The Coyote had it made, excited about his career, about flying … and a smart and pretty woman waiting for him back in the World.

He sure as hell wouldn’t understand. Tombstone knew he was going to have to face his problems with Pamela alone.