by Jeff Edwards
“Impressive,” the president said. “I assume there’s a reason that you’re bringing this to my attention?”
The Duty Officer nodded. “Yes, sir. A few hours ago, we received preliminary intelligence that the Indian military may be planning to destroy the Three Gorges Dam.”
“Destroy it? How? That thing is a monster!”
The National Security Advisor, Gregory Brenthoven nodded. “It is a monster, Mr. President. But the Indians are apparently planning to bring it down with a coordinated cruise missile strike: seven Nirbhay missiles armed with advanced hard target penetrator warheads.”
President Wainright raised a hand. “Two questions, Greg… First, what’s our source for this information? Second, will it work?”
He looked back toward the screen. “That thing really is a beast. Unless they’re planning to nuke it, I can’t see cruise missiles bringing it down.”
The National Security Advisor fished a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket. “The source was HUMINT,” he said. “A CIA field operative in New Delhi, with contacts in the Indian Ministry of Defense. He, or she—I don’t know which—managed to lay hands on a copy of the engineering analysis and targeting plan for the strike. The operative’s report was forwarded to the South Asia desk at Langley, and the analyst who received it was smart enough to flag it for immediate high-level attention.”
The president nodded. “So we’re relatively sure that this information is legit?”
Brenthoven flipped open his notebook and scanned a few lines of text. “The confidence level is listed as ‘moderate.’ That basically means that the information is plausible and the source is considered credible, but there isn’t enough external corroboration to support a higher level of confidence.”
“Then I assume that we’re going after corroboration,” the president said.
“Of course, sir,” the National Security Advisor said. “We’ve got CIA, DIA, and ONI all searching for confirmation. But if the plan is locked down tight enough, we may not find a corroborating source. Our current source may be all we have to go on.”
The president paused for a few seconds, and then nodded. “Understood. Let’s move on to my second question. What are the odds that a few cruise missiles can knock out a structure as massive as the Three Gorges Dam?”
“Sir, we’ve got the Office of Naval Research running simulations on that right now,” Brenthoven said, “but our quick-look analysis suggests that it might be feasible, if the missiles carried the correct kinds of warheads.”
“Do the Indians have the right kind?” the president asked.
Secretary of Defense Mary O’Neil-Broerman leaned forward in her chair. “We think they do,” she said. “The Indian military inventory has an indigenously-produced hard target penetrator that might well be powerful enough to crack that dam wide open.”
The president turned to stare at his Secretary of Defense. “You’re telling me that the Indian military developed a highly-specialized missile warhead, on the off chance that they might one day have to bomb a giant Chinese hydroelectric site?”
SECDEF shook her head. “No, sir. Ironically enough, they developed the warhead for the Air Force. Our Air Force.”
President Wainwright rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell me you’re kidding, Mary.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not kidding, Mr. President,” the Secretary of Defense said. “The warhead was developed by India’s Defense Research and Development Organization to capture a U.S. Air Force contract for a Next Generation Penetrator. What the Air Force calls an NGP. The Indian defense industry apparently decided that a major Air Force R&D project would be a great way to get their foot in the door for future U.S. defense programs. Their design didn’t make it through the down-select, but they decided to move ahead with developing their own Next Generation Penetrator. They call it the Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ. From what we understand, it’s incredibly effective.”
The president frowned. “What was that name again? The Rud…”
“Rudrasya khaḍgaḥ,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Apparently that’s Sanskrit for ‘Sword of Shiva.’
The president’s eyebrows went up. “Shiva? The Hindu god?”
“Yes, sir,” SECDEF said. “Shiva is the Hindu god of creation and destruction. But when he manifests in his Rudra aspect, he is specifically the god of storm, wind, destruction, and death.”
President Wainwright raised one corner of his mouth in a humorless half-smile. “Well, that sounds promising, doesn’t it? What other good news have you got for me?”
“We’re still looking at preliminary assessments, sir,” the National Security Advisor said. “But if the Rudra—the Sword of Shiva warhead—turns out to be as effective as the initial simulations suggest, then seven missiles may be overkill. It’s feasible that four would be enough to bring down the dam, with proper placement and timing, of course.”
“Of course,” the president said. “Okay, the intelligence on this plan is reasonably credible, and it’s possible that this kind of missile strike could punch a hole in the dam. It sounds like one hell of a mess for the People’s Republic, but how does that add up to a national security problem for us?”
The Sit Room Duty Officer spoke up. “The Indians aren’t just planning to knock holes in the dam, sir. Their apparent goal is to cause a complete failure of the retaining wall. This will trigger catastrophic flooding of the entire Yangtze River basin, all the way from the site of the Three Gorges Dam to the East China Sea.”
The Duty Officer keyed his remote, and the Sit Room master display changed to a topographic map of eastern central China. The meandering blue line of the Yangtze river cut across the middle of the map, dividing the northern and southern halves of the visible landmass. The black dots of three cities hugged the wandering curves of the river: Wuhan, Nanjing, and Shanghai.
“The Yangtze River runs right through the heart of China’s largest concentration of human population,” said the Situation Room Duty Officer. “Approximately 400 million people live within the boundaries of the Yangtze River basin. That’s nearly a third of the total population of China.”
He gestured toward the screen. “If the Three Gorges Dam should fail, three of the largest and most heavily-populated cities in China will be directly in the path of destruction.”
The National Security Advisor nodded. “The combined populations of Shanghai, Nanjing and Wuhan are closely equivalent to the collective populations of New York, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC. And these three cities form the backbone of China’s industrial and financial base. The loss of any one of these cities would seriously damage the Chinese economy. The loss of all three of them…” Brenthoven allowed his voice to trail off.
“We’re talking a nightmare scenario for China,” the president said. “Millions of short term casualties, and massive damage to their national infrastructure, followed by a crippling economic aftermath.”
“That’s correct, Mr. President,” Brenthoven said. “Not quite a doomsday scenario for the Chinese, but pretty damned close.”
President Wainwright shook his head. “Then why in God’s name did they even build the thing? The Chinese are many things, but they’re not stupid. Why would they put so many of their own people at risk?”
“They probably thought they had factored out the serious risks,” the Secretary of Defense said. “From a structural standpoint, the Three Gorges Dam is significantly over-built. They designed in more than enough safety margin to compensate for earthquakes and other natural disasters, and—short of a nuclear attack—there frankly aren’t very many bombs or missiles in the world that could put a serious dent in that thing. The Chinese politburo probably felt like they had all the important angles covered.”
“But they didn’t count on this new Indian warhead,” the president said.
“Apparently not, sir,” said Brenthoven.
President Wainwright stared at the wall-sized display screen for several seconds. “How will the Chinese
government react, if India manages to carry out this plan?”
“That’s the big question,” the National Security Advisor said. “How would you react in that situation, Mr. President? Suppose the U.S. was engaged in hostilities with some hypothetical enemy, and suddenly—without warning—our adversary wiped out New York, Los Angeles and Washington, DC, killing about a third of our national population in the process. How would you retaliate, sir?”
“I like to think of myself as a man of peace,” the president said. “But if someone hit us with an attack that vicious and that massive, I’d go after them with every weapon at my disposal. I’d do my damnedest to turn their entire country into a parking lot.”
The Secretary of Defense sighed heavily. “I hate to say it, sir, but I would too. Any leader with the power and ability to strike back would retaliate just as strongly. When somebody slams you that hard, you don’t trade punches. You crush them.”
“That, I’m afraid, is our answer,” Brenthoven said. “If India really does this… If they bring down the Three Gorges Dam, China is going to hit them with everything…”
His last word hung in the air, and no one had any doubt at all what ‘everything’ meant in this context.
President Wainwright sat back in his chair. “We’re missing something here,” he said.
“We’re in the early discovery phase on this, sir,” Brenthoven said. “We’re still missing a lot of things. It may take the intelligence agencies a while to develop corroborating sources, and assemble the critical details.”
“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 manife
sts 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?”