Ramesh was confused. “Sir?”
“Success in Pakistan, and our own security, demand that we force the United States … and all other extraterritorial powers … to recognize our claims to the Arabian Sea and abandon military control of the Indian Ocean basin to us. Our requests before the UN Security Council have been rebuffed. This, then, leaves us with but a single course of action.
“Yesterday, as you all know, a maritime attack squadron, supported by one of our Mig-29 fighter units, struck elements of the American carrier force off Bombay. Our intelligence indicates that at least three U.S. planes were shot down in the engagement.”
Ramesh pursed his lips. He knew better than to accept such figures at face value. He wondered what the kill figures really were, and how many IAF planes had been lost.
“The action of last night is being hailed as a major triumph. However, our leaders fear that American resolve has only hardened at this point.
Their government stresses the concept of ‘freedom of the seas,” which can be interpreted as their perceived right to continue to operate in our waters.
“Furthermore, the Commonwealth of Independent States has now joined the Americans. A Russian nuclear carrier group is expected to rendezvous with the Americans by mid-afternoon.”
Sundarji raised his hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing. A civilian aide began going around the table, passing out slender folders to each military man present. Ramesh accepted his and opened it, removing the sheaf of papers inside. Written in English, as were all such documents in India, and stamped TOP SECRET across each page, it appeared to be a general directive entitled Operation Python. Cobra, Krait, and Python, Ramesh thought. New Delhi seemed entranced by the ideas of using snakes for code words this week.
“The government has decided that only one response on our part can be direct enough, sharp enough to discourage foreign intentions in the Arabian Sea,” the minister continued as the military men read the orders. “The Political Affairs Committee has asked me to submit these plans to you this afternoon. We believe that enough ships and planes can be diverted from current operations to deliver a single, crushing blow to the joint American-Soviet battle fleet. Ideally, this should be carried out before the Russians and the Americans have a chance to work together, in order to maximize confusion.
“Their aircraft carriers, of course, will be the primary targets.
Destroy them, or simply damage their flight decks enough to prevent air launches or recoveries, and both squadrons will be largely useless. The foreign fleets will be forced to withdraw.
“New Delhi anticipates a strong reaction, of course, but by that time our objectives in Pakistan should be achieved. We can negotiate with Moscow and Washington over reparations or whatever is necessary, but …” He raised a forefinger, stressing the word. “But … our goals will have been achieved. Victory in Pakistan, and an end to foreign intervention in our ocean.”
A rising murmur filled the room as generals and admirals scanned through the orders. “Excellency,” General Bakaya said. “These call for stripping the Pakistan front of many of our best aircraft squadrons!”
Sundarji nodded. “Temporarily, yes. It is the government’s belief that for this operation we can muster between two and three hundred aircraft, approximately a third of our total IAF assets. The strike force will include long-range bombers, cruise missiles, and multi-wave strikes by attack planes armed with Exocets, as well as our maritime aircraft operating off of Viraat and Vikrant. Losses should not be higher than ten percent, which leaves adequate forces to return to the Pakistan front.”
Admiral Karananidhi stood, shaking the papers in his fist. “This is insane! You are saying we must abandon our blockade of Karachi!”
The murmurs grew louder. “I must protest,” another officer in the back shouted. “This could stall the entire offensive!”
Sundarji raised his voice. “I must emphasize … Gentlemen, if you please! I must emphasize that this redeployment is for the short term only! Admiral Karananidhi, you are correct. The fleet assembled for the blockade of Karachi is to be diverted to support the attack on the Soviet-American forces. But the strike is expected to take less than four hours altogether and can be accomplished while your ships are enroute to the Pakistan coast. The aircraft deployed for this exercise are those already in place within range of the targets. The delay will be minimal! And in exchange …” He spread his hands. “One lightning blow to cripple foreign air operations in the Arabian Sea! A strong message to the world that India is the master of her own destiny, her own ocean! A demonstration to Islamabad that we will see this through, regardless of world opinion! It will be, gentlemen, the gateway to our own future as a global power!”
Ramesh returned the orders to the folder unread. He didn’t need to see them to know their content … or to know that, after a few hours of argument, the military staff would give it their stamp of approval. The possible benefits were enormous, the risks relatively small. There was a stronger possibility of Pakistan deciding to employ nuclear weapons, but perhaps Intelligence was correct in assuming that Islamabad was not yet able to deploy such weapons in the field.
Those considerations did not really touch him closely in any case, because he had seen one section of those orders, the paragraphs dealing with Indian navy deployment. The Indian aircraft carrier Viraat had been designated the flagship of the naval operation against the Americans.
And Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh was commander of Viraat’s task force, with the carrier as his flag. It would be he who led the attack against the foreigners, opening the way for the IAF bomber strikes.
It would be a suitable revenge for poor Joshi’s death.
“Yeah, Coyote, it’s true,” Tombstone said. The clatter of dishes and silverware rose around them, mingled with the low conversations of several dozen of the ship’s officers. Tombstone was clad in his khakis, but Coyote was still wearing his flight suit after an afternoon of patrol and practice touch-and-goes off Jefferson’s roof.
“God, man, I don’t believe it! How can they can the goddamned squadron commander?”
Tombstone pushed his dinner tray back on the table. He’d not felt much like eating. “By not making it an official canning. They’ll just take their time getting around to the investigation and hope I go away in the meantime.”
“Kiss of death, man! They can’t pull that shit! An aviator’s got to get out there and strap on that airplane every day, or he loses the edge!”
“Hell, they’re doing it. Can’t fight city hall. You know that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not bad. Gives me a chance to catch up on my paperwork. The Vipers are down two aircraft, and getting IM-2 moving on our work orders is like shoveling mud.” The IM-2 division of Jefferson’s Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance Department (IMD) was responsible for all inspection, testing, calibration, and repair of the aircraft embarked aboard the carrier. He knew his offhand statement was not entirely fair; IM-2 consisted of eight officers, 420 men, and thirty civilian technical reps with an impossible backlog of orders and requests. “Officially, I guess I’m still in charge.”
“So who’s running the squadron, guy? Unofficially, I mean?”
“Army. Fred Garrison. Remember him? He’s squadron XO now. Anyway, he bosses ‘em in the air and I take care of the paperwork. Good trade.”
Coyote leaned back in his chair, a mug of coffee in his hand. “You can’t fool me, Stoney. This has got you pissed off royally.”