by Ben Coes
Ghandra reached over and pressed a button on the console of the car phone.
“Mr. President, General Kashvili.”
“What is it, General?”
“I’m sorry to report, sir, the Pakistanis have dropped a nuclear bomb.”
* * *
At Parliament House, Ghandra’s motorcade entered the underground parking garage, quickly moved in a 180-degree arc, and reexited the building. The motorcade sped up, moving back in the opposite direction. A minute later, the motorcade was joined overhead by a pair of black Mil Mi-35 attack choppers, guarding from the sky. The motorcade barreled down Church Road back toward the Presidential Palace, Rashtrapati Bhavan.
Five minutes later, in an underground parking lot beneath Rashtrapati Bhavan, Ghandra and Singh climbed from the back of the Mercedes limousine. Met by a line of armed soldiers, they walked to a waiting elevator then descended six stories to a secure room designed to withstand a nuclear blast, the “Security Room.”
Gathered in the room was President Ghandra’s war cabinet: Priya Vilokan, the prime minister and head of the country’s Nuclear Command Authority; General Praset Dartalia, the chief of army staff, India’s highest-ranking military officer; Guta Morosla, the secretary of the Research and Analysis Wing; Vijay Ranam, the home secretary; and Rajiv Channar, the national security advisor. An assortment of other aides were also in the room. The large conference table was filled with phones, coffee cups, and computer screens. The walls of the large, windowless room were lined with plasma screens. A series of workstations were staffed by military personnel monitoring Karoo from various altitudes and perspectives.
As Ghandra and Singh entered the room, it went silent. He removed his tie and tossed it to an aide. He stepped to a large plasma screen on the wall displaying a series of grainy black-and-white photographs taken by the pilot of the mushroom cloud over Karoo.
The occupants of the room watched Ghandra as he stared at the photos on the screen. Indra Singh soon joined him.
Finally, Ghandra spoke. “Let’s hear what you have.”
“Yes, sir,” said General Dartalia, the chief of army staff, India’s top military officer. “We believe the bomb was dropped by a Pakistani jet, approximately thirty-seven minutes ago. It was dropped on a remote part of Kashmir, a small mining town called Karoo, population around eight thousand. The town’s inhabitants are presumed dead.”
“Do we have any reports of more bombs?” asked Ghandra.
“No, sir,” said Dartalia. “That doesn’t mean they’re not coming. We’re monitoring by satellite and by radar from every military base in Kashmir and across the LOC. If Pakistan drops another bomb, we’ll know immediately.”
Ghandra finally looked away from the screen, turned to the large conference room table. He walked to his seat at the end, nodded at an aide, indicating that he wanted a cup of coffee.
“Why?” asked Ghandra as he sat down, wiping perspiration from his brow with his shirt sleeve. “What happened? Is it the first part of a larger strike?”
“It’s surgical,” said Morosla, the head of RAW. “A message. If they were truly attempting to harm India, why select this location? They wanted to go all the way and detonate a nuclear weapon, but in a place we wouldn’t care enough about to come back and wipe out their cities.”
“It makes no sense,” said Ghandra.
“El-Khayab is insane, we all suspected it,” said Singh, the minister of defense.
“They’re gauging our response,” said Morosla. “If we don’t respond, this could embolden them. They could launch another, then another.”
President Ghandra sipped his cup. He stood up as he did so, then slammed the cup down on the table, spilling coffee all over the table.
“So what’s your counsel?” asked Ghandra.
“Before I review military options, I recommend we put between ten and fifteen Tupolevs in the air, armed with nuclear-tipped missiles. This will serve as a precaution while we formulate a more appropriate response. We would position these bombers in a high-altitude circuit at the border. This way, should El-Khayab have more nuclear devices on the way, we can decide then if we are to use these weapons and will be in a position to do so immediately. This is solely your decision. Unlike a normal tactical defensive position, the movement of nuclear weapons requires an executive order from the president of India.”
Ghandra polled his war cabinet. There was no dissension.
“Get the Tupolevs in the air, General,” said Ghandra.
Dartalia picked up a phone on the table. “Air Marshal Barbora, this is General Dartalia. I am authorizing protocol four with WAC being the command operative.”
Dartalia repeated the command, then reached forward and typed a series of numbers into the console. He hung up the phone and returned to the table.
“Go on, General,” said President Ghandra.
Dartalia picked up an electronic remote and aimed it at the large plasma screen on the wall. The black-and-white photo of the bomb was replaced by a topographical map of India and Pakistan. He clicked the remote again and the lines that defined the borders of the two countries appeared in bright orange on the screen. The word “China,” at the northern border of Kashmir, appeared ominously in red.
“The following war scenarios have been developed and regularly updated over the past decade,” said Dartalia. “These are hypothetical scenarios, and are intended to predict what will happen under three alternative responses available to India.”
General Dartalia clicked the remote. A large red dot appeared on the screen, where Karoo was located.
“Option one,” said Dartalia. “Under this scenario, India responds proportionally, an eye for an eye, dropping a nuclear bomb on a remote village in Pakistan.”
He clicked the remote. A bright green dot appeared on the map, above a village in southern Pakistan.
“This is the hypothetical bomb footprint of our first nuclear device, dropped on a village in south Pakistan.”
He clicked the remote again.
“At this point, as you can imagine, Pakistan responds,” continued Dartalia. “The cycle is joined. Pakistan strikes a larger area, perhaps two bombs this go-round, higher-density population centers. India counters, again proportionally, as we recognize we cannot let the Pakistanis gain the advantage. Soon, within hours, the two countries are literally emptying their nuclear arsenals.”
The screen showed a progression of green and red dots until the map was consumed in green and red dots representing the nuclear bombs.
“Ironically, the fastest destruction of the two countries comes from this kind of proportional, incremental attack framework,” said Dartalia. “By attempting to control ourselves and limit damage, we end up inflicting the most destruction in the quickest time frame possible.”
“Option two.” He clicked the remote. The screen erased the colored bomb prints, except for the single red dot over Karoo. “Under this scenario, India recognizes the implications of responding. India plays the adult and doesn’t counterattack. We rely upon the United Nations, diplomacy, and conventional military power to respond to the attack on Karoo. The results will surprise I think everyone, as they surprised me.”
He clicked the remote. A radius of red dots burst onto the Indian portion of the map.
“New Delhi’s lack of response is taken as a sign of weakness. Pakistan moves with a decisive second wave intended to wipe us out, and they do so. Under this scenario, as you see, we manage only moderate counterdamage as we were unable or unwilling to move decisively and the Pakistanis remove much of our nuclear arsenal in a brutal second wave.”
General Dartalia clicked the remote. The screen was again wiped clean.
“In addition, under option two, we believe there’s another potentially dangerous outcome if India does not counterattack immediately.”
He clicked the remote. From the top of the screen, red lines with arrows at their tips shot down across the screen from China.
“China m
oves to annex India,” continued Dartalia. “The Chinese would manufacture any variety of reasons; to maintain order, to prevent Pakistan from doing further damage. But the bottom line is, China covets India and would see a lack of response by India to the Pakistani nuclear attack as weakness, as well as a sign that the Americans have chosen to avoid being dragged into the theater. To move into India with large numbers of ground troops would be easy for the Chinese. Already, they have more than half a million troops along the Aksai Chin. Unfortunately, this is another very real scenario.”
Dartalia reached down and picked up a bottle of water, took a large gulp, then walked back to his place at the conference table.
“Option three,” he said, looking at Ghandra.
Dartalia clicked the remote. Pakistan was quickly illuminated by a progression of green dots that soon overtook the plasma screen. Over India, a few red dots appeared.
“Under scenario three, we move to erase the Pakistani threat. We launch a full-scale nuclear counterstrike, targeting large population centers, military-industrial complexes, transportation assets, power grid, water sources. We wipe Pakistan off the map. We bomb them, as they say, ‘back to the Stone Age.’”
Dartalia paused. He sipped from his water bottle.
“As hard as it might be to contemplate the thought of destroying an entire country,” continued Dartalia, “the bottom line is that under option three, India limits its own casualties to under one million citizens. There will be some damage due to fallout that drifts back into the southern and western regions of India as well as casualties from the few nuclear devices Islamabad will get off before we destroy the rest. But even so, the losses are relatively insignificant. Now, as for world opinion and other such matters, I have no comment. That’s not what I’m paid to think about. But there’s no question that, from a military perspective, option three has the greatest likelihood of success. It is the best military option for India.”
Dartalia stood in front of the screen for several moments then walked to his seat at the conference table and sat down.
“Thank you, General,” said President Ghandra. He looked around the table, his eyes settling on Indra Singh, the defense minister. “This isn’t acceptable. There have to be other options. Why would El-Khayab up the stakes like this?”
“We need to strike back immediately,” interrupted Singh, looking at the president. “There’s no use contemplating why he did this. He did it. It’s that simple. And right now, a delayed response by you, Mr. President, will be misinterpreted.”
“I agree with Indra,” said Priya Vilokan, the prime minister. “There are geopolitical issues at play here. If we don’t hit back—hit back immediately, hit back hard—we’re sending a message to El-Khayab and to Beijing. We’re saying, come into our land, kill our people, use your most fearsome weapons, your nuclear weapons, it’s okay. We’ll fume and get angry, but in the end we will do nothing. In turn, this message spreads. It has unintended consequences. It will be seen by the Chinese, hungry at our northern border. We must respond, even if we do not want to. That’s the point. We must respond, President Ghandra.”
The prime minister pounded the table with his fist. His face flushed red with anger.
“Even if we decide that the response is proportional, an eye for an eye, even if we select a random town somewhere in the northern territories, we must do something,” continued Vilokan. “To not fight back is simply too dangerous to our own people. It will harm India for generations to come.”
President Ghandra stared at his prime minister, considering his words. He looked to his left, at the oldest man in the room, Vijay Ranam, the Indian home secretary. “And you, Vijay? What do you think? Next to Indra, you’re the biggest hawk in India.”
“It’s a difficult question,” said Ranam. “There’s no clear-cut answer. Every choice has pitfalls. I’m the only man in this room who fought in the last war with Pakistan, in 1971. We won that war. I met General Arora on the second day of the war. I will never forget him. He was a warrior. I’m a warrior. I fear what happens if we do not hit back, and hit back with overwhelming force.”
“A full retaliatory strike?” asked Ghandra.
“Yes, Mr. President. Option three.”
“What of the diplomatic ramifications?”
“Our obligation is to the people of India,” said Ranam. “Without question, we will be condemned. Just as America was after Hiroshima. But El-Khayab dropped the first bomb. He struck first. Karoo is our Pearl Harbor.”
“We’ll be wiping out tens of millions of people.”
“More than a hundred million, sir,” said Dartalia, “to be accurate. Which is far fewer than if we do nothing.”
Ghandra leaned back in his chair. It was a surreal feeling. The world had yet to learn of the nuclear strike. The calls had yet to start pouring in. It was the proverbial calm before the storm. But they would start soon. Soon the world would know that the Pakistanis had changed the course of human events, and done so in dramatic fashion.
“I want to look at a detailed operational plan for option three,” President Ghandra said, looking at Dartalia. “You have one hour.”
22
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE OPERATIONS COORDINATION CENTER
LEVEL G, ROOM 400
THE PENTAGON
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Four minutes after the detonation of the bomb at Karoo, Defense Intelligence Operations Coordination Center—DIOCC—had picked up the atomic fingerprint of the event.
Occupying a large, windowless suite of offices on the basement level of the Pentagon, it was DIOCC’s responsibility to gather and coordinate all relevant information coming from sources across the globe; relevant intercepts from the National Security Agency, CIA, Homeland Security, NORAD, other units of Defense Intelligence Agency, Interpol, MI6, and other foreign intelligence sources. DIOCC’s job was to synthesize raw information, and then get the national security apparatus, including the Department of Defense, briefed and moving.
DIOCC had been focusing on the war in Kashmir; nine analysts were tracking developments in the theater of battle between India and Pakistan, around the clock. Still, what Lieutenant Myles Heddeke saw coming in from NORAD, a live-feed satellite shot from an AWACS lofting 32,000 feet over India, left him momentarily speechless.
Recovering, he said quietly, “I got something.” Then, noticing that no one heard him, “Hey, I got something. I think someone dropped a fucking nuke!”
“What do you got, Myles?” asked a middle-aged woman with short-cropped blond hair, Major Anne Callaway, who walked quickly from her desk to Heddeke’s desk.
In front of Heddeke sat two large plasma screens, bolted to the cement wall. The central screen collected data from different sources. The right screen showed a topographical map grid, isobars in bright green, a geographic layout of the area around Karoo, in amazing detail. In the middle of the grid pattern, a bright red ball was spread out like cotton candy.
“India-controlled Kashmir,” said Heddeke, pointing his finger at the screen. “East of the Line of Control. Near a village called Karoo.”
“DOE just confirmed,” said a man two desks down from Heddeke. “They’re estimating a thirty-four kiloton blast.”
“Okay,” said Callaway, stepping back, pointing to a young officer across the room. “Let’s get this up the tree. This is top priority, to the President, SECDEF, Langley, NSA, et cetera. Immediately.”
Callaway picked up the phone.
“Control.”
“Get me the president.”
* * *
President Allaire was seated at the cherrywood breakfast table in the White House residence, reading The Wall Street Journal. The phone on the wall rang loudly. He put down the piece of English muffin in his right hand and hit the button for the speakerphone.
“Yes.”
“Mr. President, this is Major Anne Callaway at DIOCC. Pakistan dropped a nuclear bomb on India, sir.”
“When?”
“Approximately five minutes ago, sir.”
“Has India responded?”
“Not yet, Mr. President.”
“Is it isolated? Are there more?”
“So far this is the only bomb we’ve picked up. It was presumably delivered via jet so it will be hard to know whether it’s isolated or not for a few minutes.”
“How big?”
“Thirty-four kiloton.”
“Where?”
“A small town called Karoo in Kashmir.”
“How many people.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“Okay,” said the president. “Major, I want you to stay on the line. Control, get the secretary of defense and the rest of the national security directorate over here. Immediately.”
President Allaire stood up and pushed the last bite of English muffin into his mouth, ran out of the kitchen, past several attendants, to his office within the personal residence. He knew he had precious few moments. Behind the desk, he hit a red button.
“Yes, Mr. President,” the female voice said.
“Get me President Ghandra in New Delhi,” said President Allaire. “And find Jessica. I need her up here.”
The president stood behind the small, elegant desk, looking out the window, the Washington Monument in the distance. He had to think clearly now. He stared at the black phone in his hand.
After less than a minute, the warm voice of Rajiv Ghandra came on the line.
“Mr. President.”
“Rajiv, I’m deeply sorry for what’s happened.”
“Me too,” said Ghandra, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “As you can imagine, I can’t talk for long.”
“How many casualties?”
“Eight to ten thousand. We won’t know for a few hours.”
“I’m urging you to hold off retaliation until we can analyze the strike and discuss with various back channels what has happened and why,” said Allaire.