by Fritz Galt
“But clearly Pakistan is not after Abu Khan. They want Kashmir.”
“Doesn’t that amount to the same thing?”
“Perhaps…”
“Then there you have it,” Gutman said. “Kill two birds with one stone.”
“But Kashmir is not a part of Pakistan. We don’t approve that scenario,” Bronson pointed out.
“Who cares? It’s a mess right now. Everyone’s taking advantage of the situation. It will be unstable for a while, and when the dust finally settles, there will be a new order to the region.”
“Hugh, this is a nuclear hotbed. Do you think India is beyond launching a nuclear strike?”
“Why, they’re all diaper-wearing, Gandhi pacifists. They won’t lob any missiles.”
Bronson saw that it was useless changing Gutman’s naïve conception of India. “Then let’s look at America’s stake in all of this. Can we use this opportunity to get something out of it?”
“The only thing we want to get is these two countries to sign the damned CTBT, for our security if nothing else.”
“We can’t even sign it ourselves.”
“Why should we? We’re holding all the cards.”
“And do you really think a monitoring program will work in India? Get real. We couldn’t even anticipate India’s nuclear tests.”
“The treaty’s hopeless,” Gutman admitted, “but it’s a good instrument to keep others honest. The more spies we get in there, the better.”
Bronson closed his eyes and weighed the amount of self-interest in the analysis. “So how can we force India and Pakistan to sign the nuclear test ban treaty?”
Gutman heaved forward and tottered trying to keep on top of his feet. “We’ve got to offer both countries a political solution, our solution. Get over to State, beat some heads together and have them iron out a plan.”
“What sort of a plan?”
“Any plan. It doesn’t matter to me. All we need is something they can both agree to, given tremendous pressure from the rest of the world, and a plan they can ultimately live with.”
Bronson’s driver didn’t bother to ask which way to go. He headed back into the city.
The last few days had gone exactly the same. It was an inevitable, unstoppable chain of events, much like the chain reaction that was propelling South Asia into nuclear confrontation.
They were heading back to the State Department to retreat and regroup.
However, today’s insight seemed more promising than the others. The key to defusing the situation before it exploded was to use their brains. What a novel concept.
He would gather the best eggheads that State could dig out of its ranks, and they would hammer out a political solution.
The Assistant Secretary for South Asian Affairs was spinning an elaborate analogy of Kashmir before fellow members of the hastily formed committee.
“It takes many good players to make a winning team, not just one. Your running back could average five yards a carry, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get a first down every two plays. If you use him as your only offensive weapon, then the defense will key on him and shut him down. What you need to succeed is a balanced attack.”
Bronson checked his surroundings. Was he in the secretary of state’s conference room, or was he in the Redskins’ locker room?
The working group was comprised of the secretary of state, Adam Trimble, four senior male diplomats and two women from Defense Intelligence. Each sat before a crisp, new report called the Livingston Proposal. It presented concretized options to solving the Kashmir problem by forming one or more autonomous entities either straddling or opposite the Line of Control.
“This is not an offensive situation,” Bronson interrupted, annoyed by the irrelevance of the analogy. “If you need a better football analogy, let’s say the opposing coaches have a personal quarrel partially fueled by their owner’s financial and emotional problems. What we need is a referee who can defuse the situation and keep the game clock running.”
The two women looked at each other.
“Or,” Bronson added. “Perhaps you’d like to make your own analogy.”
“No,” one woman said. “We get it.”
The members looked at each other around the table.
Adam was the first to speak. “If I were the referee, I’d change the rules and let the game continue with a lower level of animosity. Let the two teams work off their steam.”
A former ambassador to India disagreed. “They will fume for years to come. I’d call an immediate halt to the game and threaten to end it right there unless the two teams dropped their personal differences.”
A former ambassador to Pakistan cleared his throat. “Personally, I’d evict the two coaches from the game.”
Bronson looked around the room. “Any other opinions.”
The more senior of the Defense analysts raised her hand. “May I offer a suggestion? No matter what we decide, we’ll still have to deal with the problem of the two coaches accepting the referee’s authority. If the United States is to referee this match, it needs some power to back up its authority.”
“Moral authority,” Adam said.
“The fleet,” suggested the former ambassador to India.
“Nuclear retaliation?” Bronson suggested factiously.
The room laughed.
“I was thinking more along the lines of political authority,” the woman explained.
The members waited for her to continue.
“We have authority within the UN’s Security Council to recognize new countries as members of the United Nations. Neither India nor Pakistan is a member of the Security Council.” She tapped a copy of the Livingston Proposal that suggested possible new geographic entities surrounding the Line of Control. “Why don’t we recognize Kashmir, in some form or other? Heck, we could even appoint an ambassador to Kashmir.”
“So the referee would be two-tracking the problem, in both the UN Security Council and the U.S. State Department,” Bronson said.
Adam cleared his throat, and they all looked at him. “We already have such a scheme in the works.”
He had the room’s full, if skeptical, attention.
“President Damon has already nominated a person to be our ambassador to Kashmir.”
“But can he be vetted by the Senate?” asked the former ambassador to Pakistan, who also had faced a hostile Senate Foreign Relations committee.
“That is tantamount to recognizing Kashmir as a sovereign state,” the other former ambassador said.
Adam held up his hand and turned to his assistant secretary. “You explain.”
“We have been pursuing a new Kashmir solution this past summer,” the assistant secretary, a bright Tufts-trained diplomat, began. “Our code name for it is the New Initiative. As you know, the president is fixated on curbing the spread of global terrorism and the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. This includes the nuclear arms race in South Asia. To that end, we have begun a track of aiding and appeasing India. In our first step, we have given limited nuclear weapons technology to the Indians.”
The committee emitted a collective gasp.
“We gave them the hydrogen bomb?” Bronson asked, flabbergasted.
“Why cozy up to India?” the former ambassador to Pakistan asked.
“We had to choose one side or another to pressure the other into compliance,” Adam said. “Since its military coup, Pakistan has been acting way out of line, so we chose to befriend India.”
“Pakistan’s president is bearing the brunt of siding with us against the Taliban in Afghanistan,” the former ambassador to Pakistan reminded him.
“But at the same time actively maintaining support for global Islamist militant groups. Furthermore, it has continued, even stepped up, aggressive military campaigns in Kashmir.”
“So exactly how can Pakistan show good faith and win back our support?” the junior Defense Intelligence analyst asked.
“We’ve made it clear to Pak
istan diplomatically. They must settle on Kashmir and withdraw their military support for the terrorists they harbor.”
“What about CTBT?” the former ambassador to India asked. “India’s going to sign it.”
“Right. India’s fully complying with our wishes.” Adam said. “Putting further pressure on Pakistan.”
The defense analyst looked confused. “So Kashmir is only a tiny piece to this puzzle.”
The assistant secretary nodded. “But a crucial one. We need to keep up the pressure on Pakistan. To this end, President Damon has named someone to be our ambassador to Kashmir. We will ask for Senate approval in January. This will force the issue in the UN, and Pakistan will have to vote publicly on Kashmir’s sovereignty.”
Bronson felt crushed. He looked at Adam. “You never told me any of this.”
“You were just the counter-terrorism component,” Adam said. “The New Initiative has been, and will remain, Top Secret.”
Now all the president’s actions made sense to Bronson. The president’s decision to let the DEVGRU commandos languish in India and his calling in reinforcements to the Fifth Fleet were designed to appease India and pressure Pakistan.
“So the malaria thing just came up in the meantime,” Bronson said.
“Yes,” Adam said, looking him directly in the eye, trying to rivet him in his seat. “It’s just a minor irritant.”
“It’s more than that,” Bronson said emphatically. “Khan stands to ruin everything you’ve worked toward in the past year. All the good will you say you’ve built up with India, at tremendous risk to us, could be lost. If Khan is successful, biological and nuclear weapons will proliferate in the region. Terrorism will replace diplomacy among nations. Vast populations will be wiped out. The Indian-Pakistani War will become a mere footnote in history if Khan succeeds.”
“Actually, Mr. Khan’s malaria epidemic has solved a few problems for us,” Adam said. “It gave us further reason to help India. To appease it, if you will.”
Bronson sat back, his ears burning. “And who will be our new ambassador to Kashmir?” he asked. “Kaiser Wilhelm?”
Adam pursed his lips and didn’t answer.
“So open your reports,” the assistant secretary said. “Choose an option. Flip a coin if you must. We won’t leave this room without choosing a future identity for Kashmir.”
The meeting took all night and lasted into the morning.
Coffee and doughnuts were called in.
Bathroom breaks of five minutes maximum were allowed.
The area remained sealed to telephone calls and visitors.
In the end, they decided on a single entity straddling the Line of Control. Adam would dispatch envoys to New Delhi and Islamabad the next day to announce America’s blueprint for peace.
The lights turned off and the meeting’s participants left.
Bronson sat back in the darkened conference room. He had lost.
The Pentagon wasn’t serious about capturing Khan. All they wanted was to make Pakistan sign a nuclear test ban treaty that the U.S. wasn’t even going to ratify. Gutman had deemed the mess in South Asia unsolvable and turned his attention to preventing the epidemic from spreading to America. State had been working toward appeasing India and was still on track with their secret plan to force Pakistan into accepting a Kashmir solution.
In the meantime, Abu Khan’s offensive threatened to render all their plans useless. He was everybody’s problem, and nobody’s.
Useless. That’s what all the talk of policy wonks in Washington and long-range missile diplomacy was. Useless. As he had told the president, it would take good old-fashioned detective work, ingenuity, chutzpah and elbow grease to solve the big problems of the day.
God help Mick and Alec Pierce.
Chapter 51
Mick leaned on an elbow as the convoy roared down the middle of the two-lane highway. A line of ponies pulling apple crates waited at a checkpoint while a team of soldiers in dusty green uniforms searched for explosives.
It didn’t take the trained eye of an intelligence officer to notice that Kashmir no longer belonged to India. From the disdainful and often hostile glances the farmers threw at the Indian Army convoy, he could tell that their minds were set.
At every major intersection in Srinagar, Kashmir’s summer capital, Mick saw manned sandbag bunkers. Troops had strung blue tarpaulins over the openings to their bunkers to prevent passers-by from tossing in live grenades. With automatic rifles chained to their belts and wearing helmets and flack jackets, paramilitary police kept a close watch on people’s movements.
In the past decade, Kashmir had undergone a profound change. Muslim militants had effectively displaced all but a handful of the Hindu population and erased all traces of its culture, short of bombing the heavily guarded Hindu pilgrimage sites.
The Indian Army had become an occupying force in Kashmir, while banners supporting the Pakistani cricket team fluttered defiantly from poles and rooftops.
Two-story, split-timber houses still maintained the old charm of Srinagar. Elaborately carved houseboats still waited for guests on the edge of Lake Dal.
But armed insurgency had taken its toll on Kashmir. Houses were run down and houseboats were empty. It also seemed to take a toll on the Kashmiri people, a proud Central Asian race with their own language, dress, customs and form of Islam.
Mick noticed that pretty, fair-skinned women had taken to covering their hair with shawls. Some even wore heavy black burqas from head to toe, with dark screens covering their faces. At times, it felt more like Yemen.
They passed a fetid lakefront choked with gondola-shaped boats where farmers tried to sell their winter vegetables.
Nobody looked ready to buy.
“Are we stopping here?” he asked.
A somber Chatterjee shook his head. “It’s too dangerous in Srinagar. We’re heading up to the battle lines.”
Alec watched his Muslim militant guide wake up. Without a word, Homi removed his shirt and trousers and squatted beside the channel of sewer water draining past their tent. He bathed every inch of his body, tactfully removing and cleaning beneath the towel wrapped around his waist.
Then he squeezed toothpaste from a tube onto a forefinger and began to brush his teeth in the channel.
That accomplished, he shook out his only pair of clothes, flattened them as if his hand were an iron and put them on again.
“Where to today?” Alec asked.
Homi wobbled his head several times. “We are going to a hospital.”
An hour later, in hills high above Jammu City, a taxi dropped the two off at a muddy intersection in the middle of a rural village. Homi walked straight to a large, two-story building on one corner of the intersection. Its tall windows and ornate masonry façade spoke of its former glory as a hospital for British colonialists.
Thick vertical bars blocked the gaping windows. A doorway led them into a semi-lit foyer reeking of urine. There, a wooden staircase led upstairs, presumably to patients’ rooms, and a hallway led to offices on the first floor.
Homi took Alec to an office and stood outside the door.
“I leave you here,” he said.
Alec looked around. Nobody appeared to be there. “What is this place?”
“Mental hospital,” Homi answered, an agitated look in his eyes. Then he turned and hurried out of the building.
Alec stepped inside the office. Several pillows lay on a threadbare carpet. He wandered over to the window and frightened away a crow sitting on the sill.
The sound of the crow’s flapping wings seemed to rouse someone from the next office, and a young man appeared in the doorway.
“Acha. So you are here,” the trim young man said. He sported a long black beard and wore a white tunic and no sandals. As the man hobbled across the carpet, Alec noticed that several toes were missing from his right foot.
“My name is Hasan,” the young man said, extending a hand with a pleasant smile.
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��Juan Rodriguez,” Alec said, and shook Hasan’s hand.
“Please have a seat.”
The two of them squatted on pillows. A moment later, a servant entered carrying a tray of tea.
He thought twice about drinking the tea, but decided that friendship was more important at that point than health. Besides, he hadn’t eaten a crumb or drunk water since he had left his brother in Jaisalmer. He took a sip.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked.
Hasan smiled, showing several gaps between decayed teeth. “No, not at all.”
“Is this a functioning hospital?” It could hardly be.
“It has seen better days,” Hasan said.
It was time to be direct. “Are you with Al-Faran?”
Hasan paused over his teacup and gave a crooked smile.
“I need Al-Faran,” Alec persisted. “I have to reach Abu Khan.”
“Yes,” Hasan said at last. “I am with Al-Faran.”
At that moment, two orderlies rolled a gurney past the open door. On it lay a pale, gaunt Western man. He made a weak attempt to roll off the gurney, but the orderlies kept him in place.
“Come with me,” Hasan said, springing to his feet.
They followed the gurney down the hall.
In a spooky room lit by a single forty-watt light bulb, the team of medics pressed the Westerner against a flimsy mattress that was crawling with bedbugs. One man held down the patient’s feet. Two more held the patent’s hands to his sides. A fourth man held down the chest. A fifth man stuffed a wet rag into the patient’s mouth. And a sixth man grabbed some primitive headphones and clasped them over the patient’s ears.
The Westerner resisted, but only mildly, his blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.
Then another figure entered the room.
What a surprise. It was another foreigner, with a long, unkempt beard, a shock of red hair, horn-rimmed glasses and the wrinkled white tunic of a doctor.
“Is the patient ready?” the doctor asked, his Australian accent sounding curiously mechanical.