Damage Control (30 page)

He was switching cameras, trying to find Rao. He had last been seen crossing a factory floor toward a set of double doors.

“They’re in the clean room!” Mary shouted. “I’ve got them—”

Alan cycled, cursing silently, and got it. They had four camera angles in the clean room, only one of them with a broad enough view to get most of the space. He found that one at last and saw that the double doors Rao had been heading for led to the clean room, for he was just coming in now. His outriders had already come through and were darting down the room, covering themselves behind big pieces of equipment.

“Like watching a bank robbery,” Alan muttered.

They swept the room. They apparently found nobody.

It’s over.
He didn’t want to say it aloud to the maharajah.
They were too late and it’s over.

Then Mary said, “Paydirt,” and he looked at the screen again. Rao was standing on a table, directing two men to move something that the table was blocking from the security camera. Alan recognized it as the dolly Mary had pointed out earlier—a dolly holding a matte-black cradle two feet long.

“That thing’s a
warhead
cradle,” she said. “That sucker’s
small.
We’re underestimating these bastards.”

And then things speeded up. Ong shouted, “Bad guys at the back!” and Alan raced to her and saw the grainy black-and-white of the factory exterior, men running forward toward an open door. They wore black body armor and French-style kevlar helmets.

“Khan!” Alan shouted. “Bogeys on the north side of Building One! Entering the building at the northwest corner! Tell Rao—!” He turned to the maharajah. “Sir, tell them—the building’s being entered at the ground floor at the—”

And then there was shouting in Hindi and in English, and the men in the clean room suddenly burst into movement. They were running for the double doors, firing, crouching behind machines, and then they were coming back down the room as the doors exploded, dust and flash and smoke bursting on the screen; and Rao, who had been standing still on the table bent to get down and then straightened and raised a hand toward his head, but his head had already snapped back and to the side and burst toward the camera in a spray of black pixels.

An emissary from the Central Intelligence Agency—usually the director—briefs the President every morning. Brief was what he had learned to be, because the President’s attention span was not of the longest. “Just give me the big picture,” the briefer had become accustomed to hearing the man say. This President believed that his job was thinking big, and details were what he had all those other people for.

Now, it was well before the normal briefing hour, and the President was still in pajamas. “Our officer on the spot has reported that the attempt to recover the three nukes has failed,” the director was saying. “There’s now sound evidence
that they’ve been loaded into clones of our own Tomahawk cruise missile and are somewhere in southern India.”

“Can they hit America with those things?”

A presidential briefer has to have a poker face and a lot of patience. Now, he made his face expressionless and said, “The range of the Tomahawk is twelve hundred miles, sir.” Would he have to say that Washington was farther than that from southern India? No, apparently not.

The President was scowling. “India isn’t an American concern. And I don’t appreciate being waked up in the middle of the night to hear about it.”

“Sir, so far as we know, the nukes were taken by a terrorist group. They could pass them on to any of a number of other groups who
are
our concern.”

“What’d they put them in the Tomahawks for, then? Don’t give me that! When you
know
some raghead terrorist group that’s got it in for
this
country has got a nuke, I want to hear about it! Until then—” He looked at his watch. “India’s a State Department issue, right?”

“State’s trying to find enough of the Indian government to intervene, yes, sir. But the government’s fragmented—the president’s in one hideout, half the parliament may be dead, the—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you told me yesterday or sometime. Our position is that India’s internal affairs are India’s business. Have I made myself clear?”

“If they can move the Tomahawks around, they could hit Karachi. Even Islamabad.” He waited, thought he’d better make sure he was understood. “In Pakistan.”

“And?”

“The Pakistanis have nukes of their own; they’d retaliate at once. The Chinese have forces on the Indian border; they might well invade. The whole of Southeast Asia—”

The President threw himself back, banged a forearm on his desk, and rolled his eyes. “I don’t seem to be making
myself clear! It’s your job to monitor stuff like that; I don’t want to hear it!
We’re not involved!”
He shifted his weight and looked again at his watch, laughed suddenly. “Maybe we should ask the guys who stole the nukes to do us a favor and lob one at Saddam Hussein, how about that!”

The briefer didn’t say that Baghdad was at least a thousand miles beyond the missile’s range.

Pilchard kept tapping his pencil on his desk, harder and harder. As he waited on the line, he began to drum the eraser on his mouse pad. Waiting for the Joint Chiefs of Staff to dance with politicians.

“Admiral?” His top boss, the Chief of Naval Operations, sounded hoarse. A really good officer with a long record as a fighter.

“Yessir.”

“Admiral, that’s a big
no
on deployment of a SEAL team on Indian soil. Don’t even ask me to go back and talk about a B-52 strike.”

Pilchard was still for a few heartbeats, trying to will those words unsaid. “Sir, with all respect, we’re talking nuclear weapons here. Could be my battle group. Could be Pakistan or Iran. We’re talking—”

“Save it, Dick. I
know.
The White House has something called
other concerns.”

“What
other concerns?
What comes above the deployment of nuclear weapons?”

“You want me to spell it out?” The CNO was talking too fast, his own anger too raw. “The White House says your nukes are all smoke and mirrors. They think the threat to the battle group is negligible and that any other action taken is quote not a matter for US intervention. Okay? I don’t want to spin you up further, Dick; I’m in your corner, but I just got my ass reamed and I can tell you that this bunch has
already made up their minds and they are not going to budge one inch.”

“What do you recommend I do, sir?” Pilchard looked down and found that he’d broken the pencil between his fingers.

“Jesus, Dick. What do you want me to say? Obey. Or—” The CNO hesitated. Pilchard could hear him breathing.

“Or walk into disobedience with my eyes open?” Pilchard was mutilating one of the pencil ends.

“I didn’t say that, Dick.” The CNO sounded as if, in fact, he was saying just that. In fact, he sounded as if he was pleading.

There had been no question of continuing the Americans’ confinement after the failure of Rao’s mission. The maharajah had called it off the moment he knew that the trucks were out the facility gate and headed home

Harry O’Neill had been praying when the release came. He finished his prayers, rolled up his rug, and strode out of his bedroom the moment Alan appeared and told him about Rao—along the silent corridor, down the stairs, across the huge lobby. He didn’t head for the billiard room but went straight to the airplane, jumping up the stair, stepping over the cable that carried the internet hookup for the computers. He checked with Moad, asked if the plane was ready to fly, amount of fuel.

“Where we going?”

“I don’t know yet. Gotta get out of here, for sure.”

He went back into the palace and this time to the billiard room. Only Bill Caddis and the Navy enlisted man were there, the soft clicking of keys the only sound.

“Where’s everybody?”

“Taking a break. We were locked in here. You hear about that, sir?”

Harry nodded. “You’re Benvenuto.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry sat down next to Bill, who acknowledged him by leaning in the other direction.

“Bill?”

“Huh?”

“I want you to do a traffic-flow analysis to find the SOE router hub.”

Bill’s head turned toward him. Bill didn’t look good, Harry thought—pasty, pale, his muddy eyes like light bulbs without the power. “Been there, done that,” Bill said. “Mary already asked me.” He slammed a disk into its port and waited while a light flashed and something whirred. He handed the floppy to Harry.

“Thanks.”

“Unh.”

Harry then sat next to Benvenuto and asked him to pull up the data from the disk. He studied it, jumping back and forth, and then put the disk in his pocket and went out. By then, the others were drifting back

Harry found Adeeb, the maharajah’s secretary.

“I’d like to see His Serene Highness.”

“It is not, I am sorry, a good time, sir.” The secretary hesitated. “We have had a blow.”

“Is Major Rao dead?”

“It is not known for sure. His Serene Highness’s physician has gone to meet the party on the road.” The man shook his head. “The hospitals are full. Such a very sad time.”

“I want a Survey map of western Uttar Pradesh.”

“Maps, sir—we have driving maps, tourist maps—”

“You have Indian Survey maps. This is a military facility.”

The secretary looked severe, then frightened. “I would have to ask His Serene Highness”

“The general, yes.”

The secretary made a face as if he was about to blow a large bubble. He nodded his head very fast. “Yes, yes.” He blew the bubble. “Please to come with me. He is at prayers. You are a believer, I think?”

Later, coming back with the maps, Harry saw Mary, who
signaled to him. He had things to do—most of all, he had places to go—but he went to her.

“We’re getting out of here,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“If we find the router hub for the main SOE IP, I think we can maybe zero in on their headquarters.”

“Good thinking.”

“I’m dealing with the fallout from the mess that Rao made. You heard? They got shot up; everything was already gone. Thanks to God I’d already messaged the office it was a bust. Now we gotta
move,
man! Craik thinks he’s going to save the world with a Navy plane. Christ. I’ve got to file a report on this fiasco and try to cover my ass with DC. Find out where Bill places the router hub and find a way to get us there—ASAP.”

She started away. He put his hand on her arm. “You messaged the office
when?”

“As soon as I figured out they were never going to get those nukes.”

“Al Craik gave his word there’d be no messages sent.”

“Oh, get a life! This is the real world, sweetie—I don’t care if Commander Tightass gave his right ball!
I had a job to do and I did it!
And because I don’t believe in
honor
and I don’t believe in some sailor’s
word,
the President of the United States is state-of-the-art on what’s going down with those nukes. Now get off my ass and do your job!”

Harry smiled. He had a good smile; men and women both loved it. “I don’t have a job, Mary. And as for the volunteer work I’m doing for your bosses—that’s history. I’ll finish this one, and then I’m out.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—! Why?”

Harry looked at her, gave a single, breathy chuckle. He hadn’t told her he’d already seen Bill, had already located the router hub, had already found where they had to go. He’d thought of not taking her at all but decided that to do
so would be merely childish. “I don’t like being called ‘Persian Rug,’” he said.

He went out to the plane and handed the maps to Moad. “We’re heading for a place north of Delhi called Patiala. Find us a landing field that’ll have gas. You can file a flight plan through the maharajah’s secretary, and the old man’ll see it’s official.”

“What’d that cost?”

Harry said, “One Muslim prayer. Did you know there’s a little mosque on the far side of the palace? That’s where he is. All by himself.”

Coming out of the aircraft hatch, he met Djalik, who simply shook his head to show his embarrassment at having been detained by a damned swimming pool. Harry laughed. “I was having a nap.” He patted Djalik’s shoulder. “Check the weapons and get ready to roll. Make sure we’ve got food on board for five—twenty-four hours in the galley plus MREs.” He looked at his watch. “Say—twenty-two hundred hours.”

“Home?”

“Eventually.”

From the time he’d hung up with the CNO to the time Al Craik called back for his final orders, Pilchard had gone through the motions of obedience. He’d alerted every ASW asset in his theater, called Sixth Fleet HQ in Naples and asked for the P-3 det in Sigonella to be flown into Bahrain ASAP, sent his own two P-3s to Oman and asked the ambassador to get the Iranians to let his boys fly out over the Indian Ocean without getting harassed.

It was all bullshit. The P-3s from Sig wouldn’t get to him for twenty-four hours; the P-3s in the Indian Ocean wouldn’t find a diesel sub in that vast sheet of water without direct aid from the Almighty.

But he went through the motions, aware that somewhere to the east of his career lay his duty.

And then Al Craik called.

It didn’t take long to get to business. Craik had his answers—where, when, how. While they were talking, Lurgwitz, the flag captain, placed a shiny computer image on his desk. The code at the top said “CIA WMD,” and the black object inside the analyst’s white circle was labeled “Nuclear warhead transport cradle.” Under that image was another, just as chilling; a crisp satellite shot of a surfaced submarine alongside a small pier, with the shadows of two cranes extending like the arms of a mantis over the hull. Pilchard lost Craik’s voice for a second. Then he focused.

“—Quilon. That’s where the sub is; there’s imagery that she’s pierside right now.”

“I’m looking at it, Commander.”

“I want to go after the sub.” That was Craik. Focused on the job. Pilchard almost smiled.

“I sure wish the Indians had pulled it off.” The words came out unbidden; Craik had already told him about the Indian attack and the cost.

“Yessir.”

“Because if they had, I wouldn’t have to be a fucking weasel. You ever known me to be a weasel, Al?”

“Can’t say I have, sir.”

“I have orders to take no action. You understand, no action, Commander?”

“Sir! For God’s sake, we’re talking nukes—”

“Stow it, mister.”

Craik sounded puzzled. He wasn’t political, and Pilchard had seen him do this before. This focus. Only the goals mattered to Craik.

Craik said, “All I need is your permission—”

Pilchard cut him off, angry at himself that he had to do
this, angry at the White House and the CNO. “You know the old saying, Al? Better to beg forgiveness?”

Craik tried again. “This is about nuclear weapons, sir. I think—”

“I think you have wax in your ears, Commander. I think you should consider how your boss has somebody
leaking
intelligence and how politicians often give
direct
orders if sailors ask them hard questions.” Pilchard softened his voice. “Al, I’m not cutting you adrift. I’ve been ordered to avoid
any direct action.
I’ll back anything you do to the hilt; you’re playing for all the marbles. But if you ask me right out—” He paused.

Alan cut in, his voice hard. “I guess I’m slow on the uptake, sir. You’re saying I’m the commander on scene.”

“I’ll back you to the hilt.”
And then I’ll be a civilian.
Pilchard thought he might be able to protect Craik. “I sure wish the Indians had pulled it off, Al.”

“Yes. Sir.” Craik was angry. “I’ll get it done.”

Pilchard nodded silently. “Out here,” he said and cut the connection.

“Here are Captain Lash’s orders. No change there,” the TAO said, handing Hawkins a blue plastic folder. “We’re to take no action and make no provocation, blah-de-blah. Loyalists lost another ship at first light, we think she was the
Betwa.
Bad guys have a picket about sixty miles north and west, and we think they’ve altered course and increased speed. Supplot’s best guess is in the JOTS; I make them heading for the coast. About two hours back, the picket ship locked up one of our CAP Hornets with a SAM radar. Hornet turned away, nobody launched, but they all lit up and so our picture’s more up-to-date than usual.” The off-going TAO got up from the raised chair and indicated it. “Lash ordered the Hornet not to respond. Of course. She’s all yours, Captain.”

Hawkins could see at a glance that the TAO had aged during the period that the picket had locked up one of the CAP planes. The TAO’s voice was a monotone; his skin was gray and dry, as if all the sweat had already run out of it. Hawkins flipped to a new page in the pass-down log. “We still doing this medevac run Lash cooked up?”

“Sorry—yeah. Air Ops thinks we’ll be in helo range of Trin in about fifteen hours, so all the worst cases that can be moved go first.” The TAO shrugged. “Is it just me, or does Lash want Rafehausen off the boat?”

Hawkins grunted, already leafing through a message board. He glanced up. “How’s the deck?”

The TAO picked up a spiral-bound notebook from the stack of TAO notes and flipped it open. “We’re open for helos. The deck is replated and sound all the way to the stern, or good enough to get by. Cat one is operational but has a steam leak they’re trying to locate; right now they can only cycle it every fifteen minutes. Cat two ought to be up tomorrow. They’ve salvaged enough from the arresting gear to re-rig a wire; Air Ops told them to rig the three wire, and they’ll get to it later tonight. No one thinks we can launch or recover with one cat and one wire, so—”

TAO’s pass-down was interrupted by a slim petty officer third class from the comms shack. She slammed the hatch behind her and backed into Hawkins in her haste. “TAO?” she asked, unsure which of them was on duty.

“Shoot,” Hawkins said.

“I’ve got a secure call from a Commander Craik, says he’s in India. He asked for the commanding officer or Admiral Rafehausen.” She waved a yellow sticky.

“Hit your rack,” Hawkins said to his predecessor, already in motion. “I relieve you.”

“I stand relieved,” the man mumbled to an empty chair and headed for his stateroom.

Hawkins was on top of the situation and Alan didn’t have to waste a word in getting to the point; he exuded competence, which Alan needed to hear. Having summarized his own message traffic, Alan got to the point.

“I think Servants of the Earth are loading those missiles into the sub. They could plan an attack on the battle group; they could have another target. I no longer think it’s feasible to go after the warheads in India. The Indians tried and failed, and I don’t have the resources. I want to go after the sub.” Alan expelled a breath, took another one, and held it.

Hawkins’s response sounded whispered. “Captain Lash is in command of the battle group.”

“Roger. I’ve spoken to Fifth Fleet. Admiral Pilchard is willing to see this through.” Alan chose his words carefully. “Captain Lash may be hesitant. All I need is a torpedo and a depth charge sent in to the beach at Trin.”

Hawkins spoke louder. “We’re fifteen hours from having the range to put a helo carrying a heavy load ashore, even refueling. And the last I heard, the Sri Lankans wouldn’t let us land any weapons.”

At the other end of the phone, Alan began to deflate. Fifteen more hours meant that the sub would have had almost a day to put the missiles aboard and sail away. He knew that once that submarine cleared the hundred-fathom line off the port, she’d be gone.

“I’ve got a different proposition for you, Commander.” Hawkins’s voice was quiet again but confident. “What if I could get the deck of the
Jefferson
open for one recovery and one launch?”

Alan rode the roller-coaster up again. “That possible?”

“If you’ve got a pilot who’ll land an S-3 with no net and one wire, I’ve got a deck. Cat one is good for one shot every fifteen minutes. I’ll have a three wire rigged by 2300.”

Adrenaline surged. Alan recalculated it all—an S-3 to get
him from Trin, flight to the boat, get a torp loaded, get back in the air, rendezvous with CAP, press home. It was actually better for fuel and time than flying from Sri Lanka, five hundred extra miles every leg. Way better. Alan looked at his watch, tried to count hours. “If this is going to work, I’ll be coming aboard about 0100 tomorrow. I’ll take a torp and a depth charge and a harpoon and a rocket pod.”

“And Admiral Pilchard’s buying all this?”

Alan tried to keep the hesitation out of his voice. Hawkins was reputed to be a political animal, and he’d know what was happening at Fifth Fleet better than most. “Yes, sir.”
Yes, sir, I have a blanket authorization not to inform him what I’m doing.

“Okay.” Hawkins paused, and when he continued, his voice was soft. “Better come in EMCON. Tell your pilot there’s no needles and no
nothing
else. I’ll do what I can to get an LSO and a ball and some cut lights. Have your pilot do a break and then take his time on a straight-in so we have plenty of warning, but don’t call the boat. You understand me, Commander?”