that it was time to pack it in.
Usually when an aviator faced that kind of personal crisis, he had the option of turning in his wings. That meant accepting some other Navy flyer’s billet — piloting COD aircraft or transports, for instance — but escaping the deadly day-in, day-out stress of combat flying. Such a move was usually looked upon as a kind of death by the aviator’s former comrades. It excluded him from that special, inner circle that was so much a part of the mystique of carrier aviation. He knew all about that. He’d wrestled with the decision several months earlier, had nearly turned in his wings because he’d been having a rough time with the responsibility of running a fighter squadron … with giving the orders that could get other guys, his friends, killed.
He’d managed to resolve that one. This was something different, a problem that couldn’t be solved by something as simple as asking for a different assignment. What it came down to was the realization that he could have his career … or Pamela.
What kind of money was United paying for experienced pilots? Better than Navy pay, that was for sure, even with flight pay, combat pay, and Navy perks thrown in.
In another month he would sure as hell find out.
If he survived whatever it was that the Indians were about to do with the U.S. battle group trespassing in their ocean.
Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh took his seat at the conference table as other men, admirals and generals, filed into the room. He’d been summoned to Defense Ministry headquarters with unseemly haste. The haste was fully justified, of course. He’d made certain suggestions during his report to the Ministry the day before … and it appeared that those suggestions were to be acted upon.
He glanced at the map dominating one wall of the room, showing the Indian-Pakistan frontier from Kashmir to the Arabian Sea. Arrows and the cryptic symbols identifying various military units had been marked in, showing troop movements and deployments since the beginning of the war almost thirty-six hours earlier. So far, the front had remained more or less static, though the Pakistani towns of Gadra, Nagal Parkar, and Satidara — all in the south — had been taken. Units in the Punjab, opposite Lahore and Sahiwal, were still bogged down at the border.
But slow progress had been expected. Much of India’s armor had been held back in anticipation of Operation Cobra.
The double doors at the other end of the room swung open, and a military aide strode in, calling “Attention!” He was closely followed by Rear Admiral Desai Karananidhi, commander of India’s western naval forces, and by General Sanjeev Dhanaraj, First Corps commander.
Dhanaraj took his place at the head of the table. “First of all,” he said as the other men took their seats once more, “let me say to you, Admiral Ramesh, that I’m sure I speak for all here when I offer my sincere condolences for the death of your son. He was a credit to his uniform, and his nation.”
Ramesh inclined his head gratefully. The news of Joshi’s death still burned.
“To business, then,” Dhanaraj said. “You have all read the recommendations of the Prime Minister and the directive from the Ministry of Defense. Comments?”
General Chandra Bakaya spread his hands. “Comments? Yes, sir. Has our government taken leave of its collective senses? We sit here and serenely contemplate adding the United States of America to our list of enemies? Insanity!”
Admiral Karananidhi glanced at Dhanaraj. “The Americans have allied themselves with Pakistan time and time again. Can this time be any different?”
True enough, Ramesh thought. For years India had walked a diplomatic tightrope between East and West, with an avowed policy of nonalignment with any other world power. The Americans’ inability to grasp this crucial essence of Indian foreign policy was baffling. This time, it seemed, they were openly supporting the Pakistanis, had actually fired upon and sunk an Indian warship. Joshi …!
Several officers were trying to talk at once. General Dhanaraj pounded the table with the flat of his hand, demanding order, and the noise subsided. “Admiral Ramesh has joined us today to elaborate on the plan he submitted to the Ministry yesterday,” he said. “It has been designated Operation Krait.” He paused. “Admiral Ramesh?”
The admiral stood. His knees felt weak, and he leaned forward, bracing himself on the tabletop with his hands.
“Thank you, General. Gentlemen, since Pakistan’s, ah, demonstration yesterday, it is obvious that we must win this war quickly. Cobra, once launched, must succeed within a few days of the initial assault, or we face disaster. American support for our enemy threatens that quick victory, threatens us.”
Drawing a deep breath, he crossed to the front of the room, where he pulled down a second map over the first, one with the Indian Military Exclusion Zone marked in red. Notations pinpointed American ships, and the spot where Kalvari had been sunk.
Fighting the rising lump in his throat, he reached out, his finger touching the main American battle group that had taken up positions at sea south of the India-Pakistan border. “Our target, gentlemen, for Operation Krait.”
CHAPTER 6
An Army lieutenant colonel stood in the doorway, resplendent in his Class-A dress uniform, complete with gold aiguillettes. “Admiral Magruder?”
Rear Admiral Thomas J. Magruder looked up from his desk, wary. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Haworth, sir,” the man said. He advanced three steps and handed Magruder an envelope.
Magruder’s eyebrows raised when he saw the seal on the envelope. His eyebrows crept even higher when he saw the letterhead on which the note was written.
“This says I’m to accompany you right now.”
“Yes, sir. I have a car and driver downstairs.”
Magruder wasn’t entirely sure that this was not some kind of elaborate joke, but he stood and retrieved his uniform jacket and hat from the coat rack by the door. “Very well, Colonel. I’m at your disposal.”
Magruder was glad for the chance to escape. He hated the Pentagon. Men and women who had worked there for years had a variety of names for the place. “Puzzle Palace,” “Fudge Factory,” and “Fort Fumble” were a few common ones. His favorite, though, was “the five-sided squirrel cage.”
He’d been stationed in Washington before during his career, and always he had detested the politics, the back-stabbing scramble for larger cuts of the appropriations, the humbling inefficiency.
He was ushered into a typically black Cadillac limousine waiting in a staff parking area underneath the Pentagon. It came fully equipped: car phone, TV, stereo, CD, air-conditioning, an Army staff sergeant as chauffeur, and an anonymous-looking man in a conservative dark suit and sunglasses riding shotgun in the front seat. Magruder got into the back with Haworth. The driver guided the vehicle out into blazing sunshine, then neatly threaded the cloverleafs that led to the Shirley Memorial Parkway, heading toward the 14th Street Bridge.
“How do you like your new assignment, Admiral?” Haworth asked as they accelerated smoothly into the traffic flow. Perhaps he was simply trying to make conversation, but the question galled Magruder. “it sucks, Colonel. It goddamn sucks. I’d rather be conning a carrier than a desk any day.”
That effectively ended the conversation. Magruder gazed out the window at the ultra-modern glass towers of Pentagon City flashing by to the right. It was late enough in the morning that traffic was mercifully light. In moments, the Potomac River opened beneath them as they sped across the Rochambeau Bridge. The dome of the Jefferson Memorial rose above trees to the left that were not yet showing any green.
His new assignment was a particular and special purgatory for the fifty-seven-year-old admiral. Assigned to the Office of the Secretary of Defense, he’d quickly found himself caught between the lines of the war currently
