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- Herausgeber: M-Y Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
A sinister conspiracy is about to change the world forever. One of the world s most powerful nations has secretly joined an unholy alliance with India to tip the balance of world power and create an axis that will never again be dictated to by the US government... The world watches helplessly as nuclear weapons replace diplomacy in the increasingly volatile exchanges between the Indian and Pakistan governments. With a fanatic s finger on the nuclear button, world oil supplies are cut off and chaos reigns throughout the Gulf States and beyond. The US and UK governments stand together to face the world threat head on using détente and political pressure to hold crisis at bay while dispatching two of their best agents with more incisive methods in mind. One half of the team is battle hardened but weary Special Forces veteran Luke Weaver. The other, to his discomfort, is the dynamic and beautiful Kirin an American field officer of Indian descent who s familiar with the language and the terrain. As the oil supplies dwindle, the world learns that this is only the beginning of the master plan. Fronted by the maniacal Prime Minister of India, the axis plans to change the world forever: this is The Paradigm Shift. As the President battles against time and treachery in the highest corridors of White House power, the options are running out as fast as the oil supplies...
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The Paradigm Shift
Richard Hollands
The paradigm is the way we perceive the world.
The paradigm explains the world to us and helps us predict its behavior.
Adam Smith 1775
A new paradigm puts everyone back to zero, so practitioners of the old paradigm, who may have had great advantage, lose much or all of their leverage.
Wednesday, 16th June 2008
Evening - Rub Al Khali, South Yemen
Luke Weaver crouched behind the rock observing the Bedouin camp below him. It was late evening and only the excited crackling of the campfire broke the peaceful tranquillity of the desert. In the darkness, he adjusted the lens on his night vision binoculars and magnified the red silhouettes of the Yemeni royal guards. They were obviously not anticipating any danger; they lay in various states of repose around the campsite. The sight did not surprise Luke; he had become accustomed to the ruler’s bodyguards’ poor state of readiness.
Surrounding the campfire, there were six large Majilis tents with their canvas flaps tied open to let in the breeze. About a hundred yards beyond the camp, there was a makeshift corral for the camels and horses, which were tethered to palm trees on the edge of the small oasis. Little was happening down below so Luke lifted the binoculars slightly to scan the horizon. The light from the moon helped him make out the wind-shaped dunes in the distance but there were no unusual signs of activity.
After he had satisfied himself that everything was as normal, Luke dropped the binoculars to his side and relaxed for a moment. He had picked a spot about fifty feet up a rocky Jebel mountain that offered a perfect vantage point from which to watch the movement in the Ruler’s camp below. Turning around and sitting with his back to the rock, he gazed up at the peak looming above him.
Luke Weaver was used to hiding undercover and working alone. Five years ago he had been hand picked from the SAS to work in special ops for the British Secret Service. Now thirty-seven, he was a veteran of the Gulf War, numerous SAS encounters and several clandestine operations for the British government. This particular mission was distinctive in that it was more solitary and nomadic than usual.
In stature, Luke was a couple of inches over six feet with broad shoulders, a strong jaw line and classic good looks. His light brown hair, which had been blond as a child, was cut short around his ears in an army style. His strongest features were his piercing blue eyes, which could be unnerving for those trying to meet his gaze for the first time. Dressed partially in combat uniform and partially in local Arabic attire, he had adapted to cope with the terrain and the weather extremes. His boots and green khakis were standard issue and functional but above his waist he wore the white, ankle-length Arabic dress of the locals, which he had tucked into his fatigues. The evening humidity was high, particularly so because they were stationed close to an oasis. After taking a drink from his water canteen, he removed the black Arabic headdress that was wrapped around his head. During the day, temperatures soared to over forty degrees and he was grateful to the headdress for providing some protection against the heat and the sandstorms.
It was all a million miles away from England. He let his mind drift, closing his eyes and pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He contemplated the recent events that had brought him to his present position on the rockface in the Yemeni interior, twenty-five kilometres from the Omani border.
Working for the British government on his previous encounter, he had been forced to eject from a light aircraft just before it became a ball of flames and crashed into the side of a mountain in the Andes. Reports remitted to MI6 headquarters indicated no survivors and, without any eye witnesses, operatives in Whitehall could only presume that Luke had died in the crash.
In reality, it took Luke a long time to escape through the Andes and march back to civilization. When, months later, the opportunity finally arose, he contacted Sir Thomas Boswell, the head of MI6, directly.
Sir Thomas saw the opportunity immediately. Luke was informed that to all intents and purposes he was a dead man - and that was how Sir Thomas wanted it to remain. Only a handful of trusted senior MI6 executives were to know of his continued existence and he was asked to remain undercover while they established his new identity.
After two months had passed, the department processed his death certificate and carried out the final formalities, although these were minimal. There wasn’t even any need to inform his next of kin. His parents had passed away before he entered Her Majesty’s service and, since he was without siblings, his only remaining relatives were distant. Although some had briefly entered his life during his youth, he had lost contact with them a long time ago. A memorial service was held in his honour and all dossiers covering his military and government career were moved to archives.
That was over a year ago. Now he turned his thoughts back to his current mission and its objectives. Below him, inhabiting the six Majili tents, was the ruler of Yemen, Sheikh Obaid bin Faisal Al Salah, accompanied by members of his family, his royal guard and an assemblage of very attentive menservants. The ruler and his entourage were spending a few days in the desert, hunting with their falcons and enjoying the simple traditional customs of Bedouin life that was part of their rich heritage.
Historically, Yemen had always been a trouble spot in the Middle East, dating back to the cold war, when, in the seventies, the country had been divided into the Russian-supported North, and the British-American-maintained South. Since the early eighties, the country had become re-united under the wise patronage and leadership of Sheikh Obaid. Acceptance from their wealthy Arab neighbours and the international community was slow in coming but through his perseverance, Yemen’s own sovereignty was gradually re-established. Sheikh Obaid was given a seat on the influential Gulf Cooperation Council and further positive relationships were established with the western world.
Unfortunately, and a major cause for world concern, the rulership and continued succession of Sheikh Obaid and his descendants was in jeopardy. The diplomatic progress made by Yemen over the years was at risk. Rebel forces led by the outspoken Jumal Al Suweidi had denounced Obaid’s right to rule and had shown their teeth in bomb attacks on Foreign embassies and by taking western hostages to publicize their cause.
Their leader, Jumal Al Suweidi, was dubbed the Desert Snake by the international media for his ability to vanish into the rocky terrain that characterized the landscape of Yemen’s mountainous interior. The Desert Snake was ruthless and showed no mercy in his quest for power and recognition. Even the international TV networks could not show footage of his more barbaric acts because they were deemed too shocking for public consumption.
In one incident, he grabbed a ten-year-old Swedish girl he was holding hostage and dragged her in front of the TV camera crew. While her captive parents watched screaming in the background, he jerked her head back violently and slowly slit her throat. As the vital fluid of life seeped down the young girl’s dress, he smiled at the camera with his manic, beady eyes and licked the blood off his curved Arabic dagger.
Luke had seen the gory recording as part of his MI6 preparation and the haunting look of terror on the girl’s face would never leave him. In disgust, he had sworn privately to avenge the killing if the opportunity arose.
His assignment from MI6 was to stay concealed and protect Sheikh Obaid from attack by the rebel forces loyal to the Desert Snake. The British government knew that the death of Obaid would knock the region back twenty years. Old border disputes would re-surface and tensions over access to holy shrines of Islam would make war a real possibility.
In loud shows of public hostility, the rebels had raised border tension by announcing their commitment to redrafting the lines of demarcation with Saudi. They wanted their share of the oil reserves and the wealth that came with it. Unbeknown to Sheikh Obaid, Luke had been watching over him for months - even residing undiscovered in his palace grounds.
Suddenly, Luke opened his eyes. His acute sense of hearing was trying to separate the sounds of the night. He had heard what sounded like a small shower of shale running down the mountainside above him. An animal maybe? he thought to himself, probably one of the mountain goats that were so common hereabouts.
For a few seconds he strained to hear it again but all he picked up was the camels’ groaning and sporadic murmurs from the campsite below. Seizing his binoculars, he began scanning the rocky Jebel above him to his right. Luke saw their glowing red images as the thermal imaging equipment located their heat sources and amplified them: five armed figures making their way cautiously down the steep rock face towards a small shelf.
Focusing, he could make out that two rebels were carrying weapons over their shoulders that looked like computerized mini rocket launchers potentially capable of destroying the camp below with one hit. The hi-tech weapon was actually spawned from the American Dragon anti-armour device popular at the turn of the century. Furtively, he picked up his semi-automatic weapon and started to move quickly and silently across the rock face towards a large jagged boulder that offered some rudimentary cover next to the rock ledge. He reached it at the same time as the rebels arrived at the shelf and he could hear their frantic whispers as they began setting up the two tripods ready for the composite alloy barrel of the missile launcher. Although Luke had taken the precaution earlier, he re-checked his ammunition clip and made a mental note to take out the three rebels standing behind the launchers first. The other two were in the process of squatting down behind the tripods making final preparations to fire the missiles. They would take a lot longer to react once he was in full view than the revolutionaries standing behind them with their rifles at the ready.
Just as he heard the leader give the signal to fire when ready, he took a deep breath and swung around the boulder to face the rock shelf from the side. With five rebels against him, Luke was relying heavily on the element of surprise. His semi-automatic gun was fitted with a laser that cast a thin red beam directly on to the heads of the three agitators. Luke walked towards them, squeezing the trigger as the red dot from the laser jumped to each successive target. The remaining two holding the launchers stared up at him in horror as their comrades fell to the ground behind them. In front of them, on the tripods, were the very latest in modern weaponry yet around their chests hung the old ammunition belts of yesteryear. Looking up in shock, their long symbolic beards emphasized their fanatical way of life. They had no time to manoeuvre and although one clutched at the pistol in his belt, he was too late. They died instantly as Luke’s gun fired twice.
Unfortunately, Luke was powerless to control the next sequence of events. The missile launchers were not actually fired by conventional triggers but by a control button on a miniature computer pad attached by a thin cable to the weapon’s barrel.
As the nearest rebel fell against the tripod, knocking the barrel skywards, he landed on the button, firing the rocket like a flare into the night sky. As it exploded harmlessly in the air, it lit up Sheikh Obaid’s camp and, glancing over the edge of the plateau, Luke registered the hive of activity below him. The ruler’s guards were running in all directions, waving their rifles and screaming in Arabic as they passed each tent. It won’t take them long to get organized, he thought, before turning around to face the rebels he had just killed.
Luke looked down at the dead men as the light began to fade. As he considered his next move he saw something glitter out of the corner of his eye and he reached down into his pocket for a packet of matches. He struck one next to the face of the rebel that had caught his attention. It was the Desert Snake, his mouth ajar and showing his bloodied gold teeth. In that instant, Luke realized that his covert operation was complete. He gritted his teeth. The Desert Snake’s death would go some way towards his exorcism of the ghostly apparition of that tragically butchered young Swedish girl.
A noise behind him brought him back to his senses. He could hear the first wave of the Sheikh Obaid’s royal guard clambering up the mountain behind him. They wouldn’t catch him - but he didn’t want to take any chances. Keeping low, he scuttled back across the rock face to his supply pack. He looked back one last time to check his bearings and then started climbing upwards, over the summit and on towards the Omani border.
Three days later, Luke entered Salalah on the southern coast of Oman. His sand-strewn, Arabian dress convinced the inhabitants that he was a Bedouin from out of town and he moved freely through the backstreets of the local souq.
Several months earlier, he had made escape preparations by hiding a package in the basement of the National Stadium on the highway to Muscat. The stadium was empty, as it was most of the year. Sultan Qaboos, who ruled the country from the capital city in the north, had commissioned its construction in the early 1980s to symbolize his control over the Omani families in the south at a time when there were rumblings of a potential coup. Luke had no difficulty in retracing his steps and breaking into the basement below the stands of the stadium. Once inside, he calmly pulled out a small flat black case from the hole he had made in the foundations before heading back into Salalah.
That evening he accessed the internet and left an encrypted message on the prearranged page of a website he had agreed with Sir Thomas Boswell. An additional package attached to the black case contained currency and passports, which he stored in his belt, hidden beneath his Arab dress.
The following day he re-entered the site and looked at his instructions. The sentence would be meaningless to anyone browsing casually but to Luke it translated into a new set of geographical coordinates. Two days later he was sitting on the tarnished deck of a wooden dhow as it headed out of the Port of Salalah on its trading run to India.
Wednesday, 3rd August 2008
Afternoon - The Andaman Islands
The twin-engined Lear jet circled the islands in the Indian Ocean before commencing its descent. The weather was reliably good at this time of year and through the clear skies, Balan Khrishnumurthy had a picturesque view of the beaches skirting the Andaman Islands below him. The flight from Orissa on the east coast of India had taken just over an hour and he was the only passenger aboard the government-owned executive aircraft. Balan was fifty-five years of age and a long-serving pillar of the Indian government. A man of medium height and build, he rejected his country’s traditional dress in favour of the well-cut suits he had made for him by from his Piccadilly tailor. His half-moon spectacles rested on his nose and with his full head of greying hair, he had a well-educated, scholarly air, which automatically commanded respect among his fellow statesman.
Balan was well known in international circles. Earlier in his career he had been India’s representative to the United Nations and before that he had held the prestigious posting of Indian Ambassador to the United States. However, over the past eighteen months, his career had changed course at the insistence of the Indian Prime Minister. As a consequence he had taken the difficult decision to forego the luxuries of a western posting and resettle on Indian soil. After spending the previous fifteen years abroad serving the government loyally as an eminent diplomat, he returned to Delhi as the second most powerful man in India; he was the Special Envoy and Chief Advisor to Krishna Banerjee, the Prime Minister of India.
Struck by the view outside the window, Balan removed his reading glasses and replaced the papers he had been examining back in the leather wallet on the table in front of him. Across the hillside, he could see the lush green tea plantations from which the Andaman State government derived most of its income. The intercom buzzed and he heard the pilot announce that they would be down in about five minutes. Continuing its steady descent, the plane was not landing at the Islands’ main airport but at an infrequently used landing strip on one of the outer islands. The location had been chosen as a meeting place specifically because of the need for secrecy. Partially due to neglect, and partially due to the rarity of flight traffic to and from the island, the runway had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Despite this, the experienced pilot negotiated a comfortable landing before taxiing down the runway towards a dilapidated two-storey wooden building. They had arrived on one of the Nicobar Islands.
Normally, the area surrounding the runway would be deserted but that was not the case today as the pilot made the last manoeuvres before bringing the plane to a standstill. Sitting down close to the runway’s grass verge, were two enormous black military helicopters circled by uniformed soldiers positioned in a defence formation. The Lear jet’s pilot opened the door and the five-step ladder dropped to the ground. Balan Khrishnumurthy stooped under the door’s frame as he made his exit down the steps and, crossing the tarmac, entered the derelict building, its door being held open by one of the armed guards. Inside, the room showed its decay; window panes were cracked and there were pieces of broken furniture lying on the floor amongst the dirt and the rubble. Out of the shadows in the corner stepped a man wearing the uniform of a high-ranking military officer. The rows of ribbons and the gold braid that lined his jet-black tunic left no doubt about the General’s seniority. As he continued forward his face came into view and he broke into a smile as he stretched out his hand to greet his old friend.
“It’s good to see you again,” said the General, as Balan took his hand and they embraced each other warmly.
“My leader’s asked me to convey his personal regards to you,” continued the General as he stood back.
“Thank you General, please tell him that I look forward to returning his greetings in person one day.”
Still smiling, the General motioned towards the door with his outstretched palm.
“This building’s decayed more than we thought - and the air in this room’s rather unpleasant. Why don’t we walk outside?”
“Why not,” agreed Balan, making his way back to the door.
Balan had convened the meeting in a hurry and the information available about the runway had been scant but, at this stage of his Prime Minister’s plan, security came before comfort. He was glad to escape the darkness and dust of the shack for the afternoon sunshine outside. Passing the armed guard surrounding the helicopters, Balan and the General strolled towards the grassy field lining the runway’s fringe.
“Balan, we’re impressed with the way you’ve escalated tension along the border without incurring interference from the US and the United Nations. It would seem everything’s progressing according to your leader’s plan?”
Balan looked across at the General. Since their countries had cemented their pact, they had met regularly over the previous months carrying out the instructions of their respective leaders.
“So far, yes. The only problems we’ve encountered have been with the underground storage reservoirs, but that’s behind us now,” replied Balan, remembering the wrath of his leader at the minor setback.
The engineers and government officials tasked with the construction of the gigantic reservoirs had met with an array of unforeseen problems. As a consequence, they had been summoned to a meeting with the Indian Premier, Krishna Banerjee, to explain the barriers to the project’s completion. After ten minutes of listening to the self-imposed bureaucratic hurdles, Banerjee’s irritation with proceedings exploded and the senior government official on the project was taken away by the Indian Secret Service for “questioning”.
Ashraf Nawani was the Premier’s trusted lieutenant in charge of the notoriously brutal Secret Service known as RAW because they operated from the government department called the Research and Analysis Wing. Everyone in the meeting understood that “questioning” was a euphemism for torture. This man would probably not see his family again. The remainder cowered as they were told that failure to meet the deadline would mean life imprisonment in Nawani’s custody.
“Everything else has gone according to plan. We’re eight weeks away from starting the final step of our strategy,” Balan confirmed, and watched the General nod his head in acknowledgement.
Balan was pleased. He was meticulous in detail to the point of obsession. It was one of the traits Banerjee saw in him early on when he was singled out for high office and promoted above his envious contemporaries. He glanced sideways at the General.
“It’s imperative that no links can be established or traced between our countries... Later on this won’t be so important but the longer we can maintain secrecy the better.”
This would be the last time they would meet before the plan was put in action. The General looked back at him; the words were unnecessary but he had become accustomed to Balan’s need to make a pronouncement on every aspect of the plan.
“That’s clearly understood - remember, we too have much at stake,” the General responded sharply, revealing his mild irritation.
His tone softened as he realized that Balan was seeking further assurances.
“Be assured, Balan, my country will remain loyal to our pact. Once the plan begins we’ll observe the protocols as agreed.”
As the sun began to fade in the late afternoon, they continued walking along the grassy path discussing the finer details of their modus operandum in the coming months.
After two hundred yards they turned and headed back towards their aircraft in front of the dilapidated building. Balan noticed that the helicopter blades were already rotating in slow motion as they prepared to leave.
“Have you brought the documentation for me?” Balan asked as they approached the steps to the Lear jet.
The General smiled and snapped his fingers at one of his subordinate officers, who immediately rushed forward carrying a leather case.
“Please go ahead and check it,” the General said, pulling out a folder and handing it over to him.
Balan unzipped the side and peered in at the bound document. He flicked quickly through the papers until he saw the General’s Prime Minister’s signature with the country’s seal stamped across the page.
“I’m satisfied,” he breathed, closed the case and, smiling, held out his hand. “This world will be a different place when we next meet, General.”
“I look forward to meeting you in that new world,” replied the General, raising his voice over the last few syllables as the clatter of helicopter’s blades grew louder behind him. Releasing his two-handed grip on Balan’s outstretched hand, the General turned and, ducking slightly, hurried away beneath the helicopter’s blades.
Balan watched as the military helicopter’s door slid open and the General climbed inside. The last two armed soldiers followed him on board. Seconds later, one after the other, the helicopters with the bold red ensign on their sides lifted off the ground and headed out over the mountainous skyline towards the sea to the north.
Ten years ago nobody would have believed our two nations could ever become allies, mused Balan, as the helicopters disappeared over the line of trees on the hillside. Holding the folder, he turned and mounted the steps to the Lear jet. Minutes later he was airborne and reading the contents. His next task was to prepare himself for a meeting with his Prime Minister, Krishna Banerjee.
Thursday, 30th September 2008
The Pentagon, Department of Defense, Washington DC
In the Operations Center at the Pentagon, the red pulse flashing on Officer Davies’ computer screen signalled an incoming message. She typed a response and the encryption was ready for translation. Although deciphering messages was part of her regular daily routine she was feeling the strain. Her colleagues around the room looked on anxiously as she set about breaking the encryption.
The Pentagon building itself was originally built during the early years of World War II and this room was the nerve centre for monitoring all overseas threats to the US government’s national security. Under the supervision of the CIA, it was also responsible for handling the joint covert activities of the US military intelligence services. Apart from the occasional surprise training drill, in real life it was extremely rare that the Operations Centre reached this high state of alert. The panel at the front of the room indicated that they were one step away from putting the United States on full nuclear standby. Officer Davies tried to clear her mind of all extraneous thoughts and focus solely on the task at hand. Behind her stood Colonel Dan Schwartz, Head of Overseas Intelligence.
“Source, Davies?” Schwartz barked, before spinning around to locate his Communications Officer.
“Source Amber confirmed, Sir,” Officer Davies replied, continuing to race through the encryption sequences on the terminal in front of her. “I should have authentication in ninety seconds.”
The tension was palpable as the full complement of intelligence and communications officers sat at their stations and waited in anticipation. They each controlled military defence functions that could be activated on the command of Colonel Schwartz.
At a glance, the Operations Center for Overseas Intelligence resembled the theatre used by NASA in controlling the US Space Program. It was similar in size and had rows of computer terminals descending in banks towards the front of the room. At the back of the auditorium was the bridge where Colonel Schwartz was standing, issuing orders as he tried to anticipate the next development. The outstanding feature of the room was the enormous digital screen at the front exhibiting an outline of the world map. The projection, created using the very latest technology, was connected to an array of satellites circling the globe and could be magnified to pinpoint real images on any given geographical grid reference.
“OK, hook me up to the Director and the National Security Advisor,” Schwartz commanded his Communications Officer, still staring at the chart on the screen below him. “I’ll take this conference in my office,” he finished as the junior officer turned on his heels to establish the connection.
At that moment, the computer screen was not connected to the satellites. Instead the digital display highlighted the troop movements in the disputed Jammu and Kashmir region of north-west India. In different colours, the computer image also identified the key military establishments of the hostile nations along the border with Pakistan. The escalating tension in the region had been widely reported in the media over the previous months. Today’s headlines confirmed that the third attempt by the United Nations to impose a peacekeeping force had again ended in failure.
Done it, thought Officer Davies and she hit the print key, ripped the sheet from the printer and turned to face the bridge.
“Message authenticated, Sir.”
Schwartz took the paper and headed down the corridor towards his office, reading the message on the way. In view of recent events he was not shocked by what he read but the ramifications were menacing. As he closed his office door, a voice came through his intercom.
“Colonel Schwartz, I’m connecting you to Director Conway and Security Advisor Allen. You’re on a secure line”
The line crackled before Michael Conway, Director of the CIA, came through loudly on the speaker.
“Are you confirming what we feared, Dan?”
Both the Director and Jim Allen were together at the White House preparing to meet the President.
“I’m afraid so Mike. I’ve got an authenticated message from Agent Amber confirming that India’s activated its nuclear warheads and is preparing to launch an attack. The agent states the attack’s imminent.”
“OK, Dan, Security Advisor Allen and I get the message. Maintain full surveillance - and I’ll speak to you after I’ve seen the President.”
The White House, Washington DC
President Whiting was in the third year of his first term in office. His strong Republican and family roots were firmly embedded in his home state of Montana, where he was the third generation Whiting to achieve high office. Although state and national politics ran in the family’s blood, he had disappointed his father in his youth by envisaging a career outside the senate. In his college days he had been a promising quarterback and was tipped as a potential star before an injury cut his playing days short. The event made him rethink his future and he elected to continue his studies by reading law at Yale University. The young David Whiting was not a natural achiever in the world of academia but he knew how to apply common sense. After his freshman year, he joined the debating society and his political birthright began to show through. His talent lay in assessing the demands of people quickly and addressing their individual needs in terms they understood.
He was fifty-two now and, looking back, he found it difficult to understand why he had ever questioned the decision to enter politics. On reflection, he put it down to the natural rebellion of a son being compelled to take a path against his will. It was over two years since his election campaign had taken off in the New Hampshire primary when he made his speech extolling the virtues of strong family values. Recognising his gifts as a public speaker, the media intensified their coverage of the Republican candidate from Montana as he swept up the women’s vote. The election’s outcome became inevitable when the exit polls confirmed his commanding lead after the series of televised debates against the Democrat front-runner. The media applauded his statesmanlike performances and, with his wife Pam at his side, the new President of the United States was sworn in.
After building his team, he contrived to maximize the advantage of his honeymoon period in office; the economy required rebuilding and tough decisions were taken to restore ebbing confidence levels. The initial years at the White House were hard but President Whiting drove himself harder. His popularity with the people remained strong as they watched his enterprise and commitment to some of his grander campaign promises.
As he walked from his Oval Office down the corridor to the meeting room, he knew that these domestic issues paled into insignificance compared with the decisions he was about to face now.
“Are we all here?” the President asked as he entered the room. Two security guards held the double doors open for him and swung them shut behind him.
Around the long boardroom table, six men and two women rose to their feet as he waved a hand to tell them to remain seated.
“All present, Mr President,” replied his Chief of Staff, Catherine Dennison.
She had served and supported the President well over the twelve years she had known him. Her integrity and ability to handle the pressure had quickly earned his respect. A slim, athletically built woman of about five feet nine inches, Catherine Dennison cut a striking figure in her trademark killer heels by Jimmy Choo. She looked every bit the media world’s idea of a smart woman executive in a sharp dark blue Calvin Klein trouser suit, which made the lines of her shoulders appear stronger with the jacket’s subtle padding. Still single at the age of forty-two, she looked a lot younger, yet her purposeful and consummately professional air commanded the respect of someone far older.
Catherine had not deliberately avoided marriage. Over the years, several admirers had come close to her but in the end the relationships petered out or turned into friendships as her devotion to the job, and the long hours, took precedence. She looked after herself well and her still-youthful complexion was down to good genes and not a little effort expended in her daily gym work-outs and twice weekly five-kilometre runs. In recent years she had sacrificed regretfully the honey-coloured waist-length shining glory that was hers during her sophomore years in favour of a sharp, shoulder-length bob that epitomised her style and status. She looked a million dollars - and so she should, she often thought as she handed over a hundred-and-ninety bucks for her six-weekly hairdressing sessions. That swanky DC salon was a hell of a long way from her childhood haircuts with a pudding basin in her auntie’s Pittsburgh kitchen!
Apart from Catherine Dennison, around the table were the members of the Executive Committee of the United States of America. The President took his seat at the head of the table and to his left sat Vice President Martins alongside the US Secretary of State, Margaret Henderson. Next to her was Vance Warner, Defense Secretary and then Jim Allen, National Security Advisor and Michael Conway, Director of the CIA. On the President’s immediate right sat Catherine, who was flanked by the three most senior commanders of the US Military Forces: General Graham, Air Marshal Reiger and Admiral Downey.
“Mike, can you repeat our earlier conversation for everyone else’s benefit?” the President looked up inquiringly.
All the faces turned to the other end of the table where Director Conway of the CIA was sitting with his hands clasped on the table in front of him.
“Of course, Mr President,” he replied, nodding his agreement. “As you’re all aware, we’ve been monitoring the increasing hostilities in Jammu and Kashmir. Until yesterday our satellite surveillance indicated that the escalating tensions were of a conventional nature, something we’ve seen before and not an issue that marked the situation down as a possible threat outside the region. Indian ground forces were threatening to cross the heights into North Pakistan and air cover was being provided from military bases in the East Punjab… We’ve monitored similar patterns in the past.”
Director Conway paused to emphasize his next point.
“Since then, though, the situation’s deteriorated substantially with India provoking a nuclear confrontation. We’re now in receipt of intelligence confirming that two mobile nuclear missile launchers have been moved to the mountains of Himachal Pradesh. Our reports indicate that these weapons are being prepared for a direct nuclear attack on the cities of Islamabad and Lahore. If we…”
“We…” the President interrupted him loudly in mid-flow. In the momentary pause that followed the faces switched back towards the head of the table. President Whiting took off his reading glasses and put down the memo he had been reading on the inlaid mahogany surface. “We…” he continued, “have a grave situation that could impact on our own national security. I’d like to take all your assessments before I decide on our government’s response and initial course of action.”
Pausing, he looked pointedly at Director Conway, “Would you like to start by actually sharing your views with us?”
“Mr. President, the hostilities over Jammu and Kashmir have been around for decades. There’ve been many minor skirmishes in the past that have resulted in a regular flow of casualties and losses on each side; both governments have been vocal with their constant rhetoric over the rights to the disputed territory although neither will tolerate third party arbitration or UN intervention.”
Director Conway was aware that the President wanted him to update the others quickly so he made a mental note to summarize matters as succinctly as possible. It was his agency’s views that would form the subject of their debate - not the history lesson.
“However, it’s been generally accepted by my office and I believe that of the Secretary of State’s…” he looked down the table at Margaret Henderson, “…that the war of words has been a political tool used by the Pakistani and the Indian Governments to boost their sagging popularity.”
For many years, India and Pakistan had expended huge sums of money supporting the conflict. Repeatedly, lives were lost as the death toll rose due to the mountainous terrain of the highest battlefields ever seen by a military campaign. Troops were stationed on opposing plateaus of the Siachen Glacier, which soared over twenty-two thousand feet above sea level and where the freezing temperatures reached minus sixty degrees centigrade in the rarefied atmosphere and added considerably to the number of fatalities.
Secretary of State Henderson nodded her concurrence as Conway continued to make his point.
“By focusing on the disputed territory and increasing nationalist tension, the governments are able to rekindle loyalty amongst their people and their supporters by taking a hard line against the alleged transgressor.”
Director Conway hesitated for a second as he collected his thoughts before voicing his own opinion.
“Sir, as I see it, this situation today is different; the current regime is the first non-coalition government since India’s independence in 1947. The Congress Party led by Prime Minister Krishna Banerjee is popular by Indian standards and the area of Jammu and Kashmir has no underlying intrinsic or strategic value.”
The eyes around the table focused on him intently as he reached his preliminary conclusions.
“I would respectfully suggest, Sir, that the objective behind a nuclear attack on Pakistan must be considered to have wider implications than just recapturing worthless land and superfluous electioneering… It has to be an intentional act meant to destabilize world peace… The problem is right now we don’t know what the ulterior motives are or what Banerjee’s future plans could be.”
“The Indian Government must know that a nuclear attack would generate a nuclear counter offensive from Pakistan, so something looks seriously out of place?” interjected General Graham with a degree of irony in his voice. “We need to know why they feel they have the upper hand this time.”
He was not amused at the way this crisis had developed over the past twenty-four hours and he partially blamed Director Conway’s office. He had been in similar situations before and he was still not convinced that the whole situation was any more than filibuster and chest beating on the part of the Indian government.
The President took the General’s views on board. He could be outspoken over sensitive issues but his experience and knowledge of tactical warfare were beyond question. The ribbons on his military dress bore testament to his distinguished career in the field before he was earmarked for high office by the powers that be on Capitol Hill. He was a dogged character, well respected throughout the rank and file. He was considered the army’s leading expert and spokesman in the theories of nuclear engagement. As part of his constant brief to educate the officers below him, he frequently toured the major military establishments giving lectures on the latest debates and the well-catalogued arguments supporting the facts. The driving thrust of modern times was that the bomb’s potential for destruction was the main reason that peace, for the most part, had been maintained since the Second World War. However, it was not a theory he subscribed to and one day he knew it would be extinguished when someone actually pressed the button.
“You’re correct in your assertions, General. You must note that the Indian government’s power base is extremely small,” Director Conway continued, turning to address his remarks to the President.
“Krishna Banerjee’s been in office for just about a year and, despite his public comments that he’s the leader of the largest democracy in the world, he’s not averse to nepotism - he’s promoted all his friends and close family members to key cabinet positions.”
“Are we dealing with someone rational here, Mike?” the President interjected.
“I’m afraid we have an incomplete profile, Sir. We know very little of this man prior to his rise in politics five years ago. His actions in that time suggest a strong autocratic style of leadership, but give no indications of irregular behaviour.”
Defense Secretary Vance Warner leaned forward, placing his palms on the table.
“I think we must assume the following: either they know that Pakistan will retaliate and are prepared for the consequences or they’re calling Pakistan’s bluff.”
“This could be correct, Sir,” opined Director Conway. “Although we’ve been monitoring Pakistan’s nuclear activity, we have reason to believe their detonations might’ve been elaborately staged. Our information’s patchy on this, but if we have our suspicions then so could RAW, the Indian intelligence service.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked the President, incredulous that he was hearing this theory for the first time.
On the table in front of the Chief of Staff, Catherine Dennison, sat the communication server that linked the President to all the major government installations during times of crisis. Before Director Conway had a chance to reply, the computer console started flashing. The accompanying buzzing noise sound signalled an incoming call. Catherine Dennison read the name on the digital display facing her.
“Sir, I have Colonel Schwartz on line from the Pentagon.”
President Whiting nodded at Director Conway to take the call.
“Go ahead, Dan, you’re through to the President.”
“Two nuclear missiles have been launched by India, Sir. Their flight path confirms our information that they’re heading for Islamabad and Lahore. We estimate that they’ll reach their destination in fifteen minutes.”
The comment was met with stunned silence from all in the room. After a few seconds, it was broken by Catherine Dennison acknowledging the message and terminating the communication. The President stood up and looked at the faces around the table before he fixed on the three senior commanders of the US Armed Forces.
“Gentleman, take your status to full alert. I’d like a full brief on our armed capabilities and presence in the region at the earliest possibility.”
Turning to his Secretary of State, he went on, “Margaret, use your diplomatic channels. I need to know all there is to know about this Prime Minister Banerjee immediately.”
The President stood up to leave. As he marched towards the open doors with Dennison and Allen hard on his heels, he stopped and abruptly spun around.
“Mike, d’you mind waiting? There are some additional matters we need to discuss.”
The President’s laconic tone left no one in any doubt about his displeasure. Director Conway nodded his agreement and President Whiting continued in the direction of his office. Down the corridor he could be heard barking instructions to Dennison to connect him to the Prime Minister of Pakistan if it was still possible. Turning to Security Advisor Allen, he asked him to prepare an immediate brief on the stance to be taken by the government. The President had some calls to make. He knew he would have to deal with the media soon, but it was essential that he took the counsel of their main allies before they combined in their united condemnation of India.
Friday, 1st October 2008
The Prime Minister’s Residence – Lahore, Pakistan
The residence of Pakistani Prime Minister, Abdul Wasim Latif, was in reality more akin to a summer palace. The main façade of the house was decorated with inlaid marble and the grounds included man-made lakes that had been added as a new feature during the Bhutto dynasty. In the mid-nineties, under Latif’s instructions, the government had constructed underground facilities within the walls of the residence but away from the main house. In contrast with the decorative opulence of the summer palace, the bunkers were basic and functional. The facility was constructed to withstand a nuclear attack and maintain the survival of a wartime government for several months. Built on five levels, the self-contained site had its own communications centre in addition to its own engine room, controlling the generators and water supplies. New rooms had been bolted on to the original infrastructure over the years. Originally it was designed to support fifty-five lives but with the additions it could cope with an extra ten. As Prime Minister Latif sat three stories below ground in the Communications Room, he was informed that the head count had just reached ninety-six.
“Impact is imminent, Prime Minister,” shouted the anxious voice of one of his leading army officers - also a distant family member.
Those that were lucky enough to have gained access to the bunker started to brace themselves for the force that was about to descend. Outside the door, Latif could hear the screaming children and mothers. In their haste to seek refuge in the bunkers some families had become separated, and in the most awful cases the guards at the entrance had been forced to choose between sons and daughters for the right to gain entry.
The Prime Minister knew the extent of the catastrophe facing his country. He also knew that he had let his people down. Using his authority, he had deliberately orchestrated a plan to misguide his people and the world as to their nation’s real nuclear capabilities. Latif knew in his own mind that his government was finished and he could expect little assistance from his fellow Islamic neighbours. The problem had started for Prime Minister Latif in 1999. The Indian government had carried out nuclear tests that had been widely condemned by the civilized world as a threat to stability in the region. At the same time the Indian army had become more vocal about its successes on the heights of Kashmir. The effect had been to whip up the patriotic fervour of India’s common people to such an extent that many states witnessed mass demonstrations burning the Pakistani flag and celebrating the one-upmanship of owning the bomb.
Against this backdrop of Indian euphoria, Prime Minister Latif had to act quickly to pacify the growing unrest amongst his own people. He needed to demonstrate Pakistan’s counter measures and their commitment to retaliate in the face of a real threat. Latif immediately strengthened the forces along the disputed border and gave orders to the military that no transgression would be tolerated on the ground or in their air space.
The nuclear defence programme had been on going in Pakistan for some time but, like many Government research projects, it suffered from constant funding withdrawals. When Latif had first learned through covert operations that India was considering testing, the Prime Minister had requested an internal status report on their own progress. He found to his alarm that his military commanders and chief scientists could not confirm a date for their own nuclear demonstrations. As well as condemning India’s nuclear tests, the world media began speculating on whether Pakistan had its own nuclear capability and whether it might produce replica trials of its own.
The Prime Minister was cornered, trapped in a Catch-22 situation, under pressure from his own people and the glare of the media spotlight. He had no choice but to go on record and confirm Pakistan’s nuclear capabilities. It was at this juncture that Prime Minister Latif had given his approval to a contingency plan that had been prepared by his military for just such an eventuality. The strategy was known to only a handful of top government officials loyal to the Prime Minister. Indeed, it was his Defence Minister sitting across the table from him in the bunker who had been responsible for the initial approach. He had made contact with the “third party”, who was willing to assist them in their hour of need. In confidence, Prime Minister Latif was offered an expensive solution to his mounting problems. The third party confirmed that they could use their own resources and equipment to activate two nuclear tests within six weeks provided they were granted open access to the existing test sites in the Thar Desert. In return for guaranteed secrecy and anonymity, the price extracted for their expertise was colossal. It was a risk. Even though the Pakistani government’s financial affairs were not known for their transparency, the Prime Minister knew that the size of these payments would be difficult to disguise.
The international media kept the nuclear issues at the top of the world’s agenda by constantly asking, which nations really have the capability? Will the sanctions now imposed on India be a deterrent to Pakistan testing?
The expectations that Pakistan would test triggered a highly publicized call from President Whiting’s predecessor in the White House. He spoke to Prime Minister Latif personally and suggested that the US would wipe out billions of dollars of Pakistani debt if they refrained from going ahead with the tests. For reasons unknown to the former President, the call was misguided. It only served to further magnify the world’s focus on the mounting tension between the two countries and ultimately heap further pressure on Latif in the face of his own people. In the end, the decision was made and the third party carried out the tests on Pakistan’s behalf in five weeks instead of six. The aftermath saw Pakistan succumb to the same ritual as India. Internationally, the counter tests were widely condemned by the United Nations, sanctions were imposed and countries united to admonish Pakistan for their inflammatory and immature response.
At home the scene was very different; Prime Minister Latif was praised for restoring his country’s pride and the status quo with India. The huge population of Pakistan attached little credence to the trade embargos and the international rhetoric as the nation witnessed jubilant celebrations across the country. In the months that followed, Pakistan’s existing nuclear programme received no additional funding. The burden of meeting the instalments to the third party saw to that.
In the bunker, Latif could hear the voice counting down the final seconds to impact. The explosions shook the world. Both missiles landed within seconds of each other while most inhabitants of Lahore and Islamabad were sleeping. It was merciful that most of the population near the epicentre did not really have time to question what was going on. Most felt the thunderous shaking before the waves of destruction, gusting with mass radiation, shot out, turning over buildings and leaving death in their wake. The detonations sent up black clouds in the shape of mushrooms similar to those seen at Hiroshima in the Second World War. The bunker survived the explosion but over ten million Pakistani Muslims did not.
The White House, Washington DC
“Come on in, Mike,” said the President, holding open the door to his office.
As he returned to his desk, he asked his Chief of Staff and National Security Advisor if they could continue their discussions later when their findings were complete. As they stood up to leave, the President flicked the remote controlling the large television screen in the corner. CNN had responded quickly to the calamity by tracking the scenes in a light aircraft. With insufficient regard to their own personal safety, the reporter and his team flew perilously close to the radioactive debris in the pursuit of ground-breaking live footage of the bomb’s devastation and the carnage that was taking place before their eyes on the ground below them. The President stared at the screen as the camera zoomed in on the dead and dying and their desperate pleas help. He clicked the remote again and the coverage disappeared. The images, committed to memory, were atrocious and could never be switched off so easily.
“Mr President, we have intelligence reports that Indian armed forces are massing along the border with Bangladesh in West Bengal and Assam,” said Director Conway.
“I see… No response or retaliation from Pakistan yet?”
“No response at all… We’ve been monitoring all known nuclear sites and previous testing areas and there has been little or no activity. We know that Prime Minister Latif and key government officials are occupying a nuclear bunker just outside Lahore.”
“So it’s not just a question of no leadership then is it, Mike?” the President plainly stated the obvious.
Although outwardly he appeared composed, he was secretly fuming about the earlier revelation that Mike Conway had a notion that Pakistan’s tests had been faked. Events were conspiring to support this theory.
“No Sir. If they had retaliatory means they would have used them by now.”
President Whiting trusted Michael Conway implicitly. They had been friends for many years and their wives had also become close. In fact, he himself had been responsible for Conway’s elevation to Director at the CIA, not long after he took office. However, right now the President was struggling to remain calm.
“Why wasn’t I told those nuclear tests were bogus? Why did I have to wait to hear it in that meeting?” The President gave up trying to disguise his annoyance.
“It was speculation Mr President. We’d only discovered the possibility ourselves in the last forty-eight hours and we didn’t have any evidence to support the theory. In hindsight, Sir, we should’ve made you aware of our suspicions earlier.”
“Damn right you should have!” the President snapped irritably.
Standing up, he moved around his desk and sat leaning up against the front. As a semblance of peace was restored, he decided it was time to make his position crystal clear.
“Mike, I appreciate the information was new and unproven but I need all the facts in front of me, however vague, understand? How else can I make the right decisions?”
“Understood, Mr President. The agency’s doing all we can to uncover who’s been helping Pakistan with her nuclear testing and I’ll keep you regularly updated with the progress. In this day and age it’s not just the major superpowers that carry the technology - even some of the larger corporations have it.”
President Whiting nodded; he had made his point and wanted to move on. “Now what plans do we have to deal with this situation?”
Director Conway opened a plastic wallet in front of him and studied the document on the top before continuing.
“The damage has been done, Sir. We cannot undo what’s happened… Right now we need to prevent future destruction and remove the threat… We know that all commands in India are given by Krishna Banerjee and if we remove the head then the body will collapse.”
“Are you are suggesting that we assassinate the Prime Minister of India?”
“I am, Sir. We have one specialist agent undercover who could do the job.”
The President paused to think through the potential repercussions.
“Where does this leave us with regard to world opinion? How will governments react knowing that we’ve deliberately killed the head of a supposed democracy?”
“At the moment, I think the world will be so appalled at the tragic loss of lives caused by this one man that it will be seen as a positive and necessary act. But, yes, I agree that if and when the situation returns to normal, there could be a significant backlash on the US for our unilateral action.”
The President frowned, “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that we carry out this operation in conjunction with one of our NATO allies. That way any post mortem reveals the decision and subsequent operation was not ours alone.”
“Do you have plans for such a contingency?” he asked curiously.
The President’s reservations about the proposition began to wane as he imagined a joint initiative.
“I’ve been in touch with MI6 and, subject to receiving approval from Whitehall and the PM, they’re willing and in a position to assist us in such a assignment. For your information they have one of their most highly trained special agents in the field now.”
The President folded his arms across his chest as he took a minute to contemplate the governing factors of Conway’s proposal.
“OK, Mike, I’m going to speak to the British PM and give my approval to the mission but I want to be informed of developments this time - is that clear?”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Director Conway stood up, replacing the plastic wallet in his leather case, and made towards the door.
“Oh, one last thing Mike. This man of ours - is he good?”
“It’s a she, Sir. Codename Amber - she’s one of the best. Matter of fact it was she that first alerted us to the missile strike.”
The President nodded and reached for the phone as Director Conway left his office, “Get me the British PM.”
MI6 Building, Whitehall
The Head of MI6 had a large oak-panelled office on the eighth floor with views stretching over Parliament Square and Downing Street in one direction and Admiralty Arch and Trafalgar Square to the north.
