“The matter went to the United Nations yesterday afternoon. The UN Security Council voted fifteen to nothing to censure India as an aggressor and called for her immediate withdrawal from Pakistani territory.”
“I imagine India’s feeling rather isolated right now.”
The President’s mouth quirked. “Try surrounded. Anyway, the wrangling on the East River is going to go on for a while. In the meantime, Indian troops are still advancing into Pakistan, Indian planes are still hitting targets from Karachi to Islamabad. The Indians know they’re going to be branded the villains in this, but they’re determined to end the Pakistani threat to their internal stability. CIA believes they intend to install their own government in Islamabad.”
“Pretty drastic.”
“Yes. But from India’s point of view, this is just an extension of what they call the Indira Doctrine. They want a Pakistan that is strong enough to serve as a buffer between them and the Soviets … but that is too weak to challenge them directly. Maybe they think the only solution is to put their own people into power in Pakistan.”
Magruder nodded. India had long presented the Indira Doctrine as an expression of national policy. New Delhi maintained the right to intervene in the internal affairs of any neighboring country if disorder threatened to cross India’s national boundaries. With that sort of thinking, their invasion might seem justified. Both countries had been engaged in a sharp buildup of arms lately.
“But the Pakistanis have the bomb. What does that mean … that India presses too hard, Pakistan incinerates New Delhi?”
“It’s a possibility. If the Pakistanis get pushed hard enough, well, the CIA tells me they’ll use it. Desperate people do desperate things.
As soon as the Pakistanis start nuking Indian troops, of course, we can expect the Indians to retaliate. There’s a very real danger that the Indians might even welcome a nuclear exchange-“
“Good God, Mr. President,” Hall interrupted. “No one wants a nuclear war.”
“Okay. Maybe ‘welcome’ is too strong a word,” the President agreed.
“But look at it this way. If Pakistan launches a nuclear first strike, the world is likely to forget that India was the aggressor, the one who started this war. Pakistan becomes the guy who nuked some Indian city.
If it comes to an arms race, well, India can produce more warheads than the Pakistanis, and they can strike anything in the entire country, while Pakistan’s reach is limited to the range of their F-16s, a few hundred miles or so.”
“Three hundred forty miles,” Magruder said, quoting automatically from memory. “Assuming round-trip, three-thousand-pound ordnance load, and no drop tanks.” He hesitated. He still wasn’t sure why the President had brought him here from the Pentagon to hear all of this … and the President’s earlier words, about needing him, were still tugging at his curiosity. “So where does all of this leave us, Mr. President?”
“We’re beefing up our military presence in the area, of course, for starters. I’m putting the 82nd Airborne and other rapid-deployment forces on immediate alert. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot that ground-based forces can do in a situation like this, not until the UN can set up a multinational peacekeeping force. We’re going to push for a UN resolution to force the two sides to back away. Disarm them if we have to.”
“That could take time, Mr. President.”
“Yes. And that’s time we don’t have. If things go nuclear over there …” The President shook his head. “It’s going to be up to the Navy, at least at first. I’m redeploying fleet elements to the region, effective immediately. Eisenhower is in the Med and has just received orders to join them. So has Nimitz, off the coast of Spain.”
“Too far, sir. They can’t get there in two days.”
The President closed his eyes. “Don’t I know it. A week for the Ike.
Maybe ten days for the Nimitz. In the meantime, well, Jefferson is the only one on the spot.”
Magruder frowned. “Are you asking my advice, Mr. President? One carrier battle group … compared to what India has, that’s not a very large force.”
“It’s damned thin, Tom,” the President said. “But it’s all I have right now.”
“Where do I come into this, sir? I mean, I’m flattered that you called me, but-“
“Flattered, hell, Tom. That’s not my style and you know it! For the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, your old command is going to be the only goddamned thing I’ve got over there that might make the Indians and the Pakistanis back down or at least lose interest in each other!
And you know the people in the CBG, know how they’ll react, know how far I can push them.” He looked at Magruder hard. “Tom, I need to ask something of you. It’s the real reason I called you here today.”
Magruder felt a surge of sudden excitement. He was getting his command back!
The President seemed to sense the question in Magruder’s face and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Admiral,” he said gently. “No. I can’t put you back out there. If I start swapping my admirals around like chess pieces, it’ll make a shambles out of our defense establishment.”
“Bad for morale too,” Magruder said, nodding. He understood, but … “Exactly. No, what I need from you is your help. I’d like to appoint you as a special military advisor over here at the White House. You’ve commanded CBG-14’s ships, their men. You know them. Know how they’ll take the heat. I’ll be dropping a lot of shit on them in the next couple of days, and I’d like your advice when I do it.”
Magruder opened his mouth, but the words refused to come. How could he refuse such a request?
The President didn’t seem to be phrasing it as a request in any case. He was already reaching for a phone. “I’ll give the word to have your things transferred over from the Fudge Factory,” he said. “We’re going to set you up with an office in the White House basement.”
Magruder gave a slow, inward sigh. At least he was getting out of the Pentagon!
But he felt little in the way of joy or relief. His thoughts were already focused on ships and men ten thousand miles from the Oval Office. They’d be facing long, long odds, and they’d be facing them alone.
CHAPTER 7
The message coming in over Tombstone’s helmet radio was routine but carried with it an undertone of urgency.
“Blue Viper, Blue Viper, this is Victor Tango One-niner,” the voice said, identifying itself as the tactical officer aboard an E-2C Hawkeye radar plane circling in the sky above Turban Station far to the west.
“Identify intermittent bogie, bearing your position zero-six-niner, range one-five-zero.”
“Copy, Victor Tango,” Tombstone replied. Outside of his Tomcat’s cockpit, the last traces of sunset had vanished. The only difference between up and down in the inky blackness was the dusting of stars overhead, brilliant at thirty thousand feet. The red, strobing pulse of Batman’s anticollision lights was visible a quarter mile to starboard.
“Coming to zero-six-niner.”
“Got ‘em, Tombstone,” Dixie said over the Tomcat’s intercom system. One of the ship’s medical officers had rated the young RIO fit for flight status that morning. “God, they’re on the deck and headed straight for the bird farm!”
Tombstone pictured the unfolding situation, like a complex and deadly game, the playing pieces scattered across a board hundreds of miles across. The bogies were coming out of Bombay, one hundred fifty miles to the northeast. A hundred miles southwest lay the Jefferson. Much closer, to the southeast, was the Biddle, still on ASW patrol at the northern fringes of the fleet.
And hanging in the night squarely between the approaching threat and the carrier were the two F-14s on BARCAP.
“Batman! You get all that?”
“Sure did, Boss. Lead the way.”
“Okay, let’s goose it,” Tombstone said. “Going to burner.” He pushed the throttle controls forward, letting the engines roar to full military power. His speed indicator climbed, passing five hundred knots … then six hundred. The fuselage shivered as the F-14 approached the speed of sound, the vibrations building and building until the Tomcat
