The screen changed; the feed showed the “tank,” the secure conference room in the basement of the Pentagon. The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff repeated Blitz’s congratulations. Several other military people chimed in, then the defense secretary told him they’d just made history.
Howe ran down the tally. They’d heard the initial reports, but this probably seemed more solemn, more official. He concentrated on the missiles, adding the F-16 and its probable nuke almost as an afterthought.
Someone at the Pentagon mentioned that the CIA analyst thought the plane had been carrying a five- or eight-megaton bomb.
“We believe the Indians have two missiles left,” said Blitz. “That’s our best guess. Both sides have agreed to a cease-fire. The UN Security Council is going to meet in a few hours in emergency session. You’re a hero, Colonel Howe. You and your people.” He seemed almost choked with emotion.
“Hear, hear,” said someone at the Pentagon.
“The President is going to address the nation in a few minutes to let them know what happened,” said Blitz. “He will mention you and your team.”
“There’s one thing we have to talk about,” said Howe. “Two of the hits that were made — we believe they came from another laser. It had to be Cyclops One.”
Chapter 3
Luksha had flown all night and his eyes felt as if they were on fire. He stared through the window as the car sped down Pereulok Sivtsev Vrazhek in the Arbatskaya section of Moscow just outside the Kremlin. Once something of a bohemian quarter and now a tourist favorite, the area included several new government buildings carefully concealed behind old facades. The one Luksha’s military driver was taking him to, in fact, had only been occupied a few months before; this was Luksha’s first visit, and he did not quite know what to expect.
The car stopped in the middle of the street, in front of a four-story yellow building whose exterior dated from the late eighteenth century. A single guard in a black suit stood at the doorway, eyeing Luksha suspiciously as he walked up the steps. The man touched his ear — there was an ear bud for a communications system there — then nodded to Luksha, who nodded back and pulled open the thick door. Two guards, these in paratrooper uniforms, stood inside the long but narrow vestibule. The men had AK-74s equipped with laser-dot sights; their fingers rested on the triggers. They neither moved nor said anything as the general walked past. His boots slid slightly on the polished marble floors; the lighting was so dim that he could not have read a newspaper. A large abstract painting by Kandinsky hung at the far end of the hall, which formed an alcove for a short flight of stairs to the left. Luksha walked down the stairs and there was met by two more paratroopers, who snapped sharply to attention and stood silently while a petite woman in an army uniform strode forward.
“General, please,” she said, waiting for his nod before turning on her heel and leading him to a waiting elevator.
As soon as Luksha was inside, the doors slid shut and it started downward, picking up speed as it went. The young woman stared at the door as it descended; Luksha felt his ears pop.
The door opened on a corridor of polished granite. The rug on the floor was so thick Luksha felt as if he would trip as he walked. They turned right; two men in civilian dress passed, saying nothing, eyes studiously avoiding both Luksha and his attractive guide.
Two short corridors later the young woman deposited the general in the office of his commander, Andrev Orda, who besides being a major general was a member of parliament. As was his habit, Orda played the fussy old maid welcoming a long-lost relative, ushering Luksha in and offering him a vodka, which could not be turned down. Luksha felt himself sinking into the leather chair in front of Orda’s pristine glass desk, his tired bones precariously close to sleep.
Two toasts later Orda’s hospitality evaporated into the more comfortable — for Luksha — abruptness of a former army field general.
“The American weapon was used over India,” said Orda. “You told me it was not operational.”
“On the contrary,” said Luksha. “My last communication not only noted that the remaining plane and its escorts had left the base but spoke of the possibility that the weapon might be used.”
“The Americans are celebrating already. Their president has gone on television and declared war obsolete.”
Luksha said nothing. He could not blame the Americans for celebrating, though in his opinion their claims for the weapon were overblown. It would make war more efficient, not obsolete.
“What happened to the plane that crashed?” asked Orda. “Or was that intended as some manner of ruse?”
“That is why I am here,” said Luksha. As succinctly as he could, the general laid out what his people had found and what they had surmised. He made it clear that he could not explain why the weapon would have been flown under such conditions from its development base; he was not, he admitted, certain that the aircraft had not crashed, since the American actions were consistent with an all-out search. But the hints of activity at the supposedly abandoned island in the Kurils, added now to telemetry that seemed military in nature and records of a fuel delivery some eight months before, seemed “provocative.”
Luksha used the word deliberately; it was one Orda relished.
Two flyovers by his Geofizia, outfitted with a photo reconaissance pod, had proven inconclusive; a ground inspection was necessary.
“I can answer many questions simply by going there,” said Luksha. “Four or five destroyers, a battalion of paratroopers…We quarantine the island, take it over, capture the weapon.”
Orda’s face, reddened by the vodka earlier, turned nearly white.
“This is Japanese territory,” said the general.
“The presence of a military installation would violate the treaty and return the land to us,” said Luksha. He had been prepared for the objections — legitimate, surely — and now played his trump card. “Given that we have detected signals from a Tu-160 device, we could say that we were searching for such an aircraft that was reported missing.”
Orda remained silent, staring at him as if he were an unfamiliar man who’d burst into the room with an incredible plan to go to war against America. Luksha began to feel less sure of himself.
“The Americans have occasionally used private companies as fronts for the CIA,” he said, repeating a theory Chapeav had raised. “It is possible they are planning to do something against the North Koreans, if not ourselves.”
Luksha waited, trying not to wince under the force of Orda’s stare. General Orda had the authority to grant permission for the operation, but if he didn’t, should Luksha go over his head?
He would have to speak to the premier himself. Just getting on his calendar would take days if not weeks.
“The Japanese would view this as an attack,” said Orda finally. “If there are troops there, they would resist.”
“There are no defense forces that are using standard communications equipment on the island,” said Luksha. “The Japanese have not been on the island as far as we can tell for at least six months. We would approach peacefully, with no intent to harm anyone, unless we were fired upon.
“A reconaissance is hardly an attack,” he added quickly. “Looking for our aircraft, we find another. If a weapon happens to be aboard it — in violation of an international agreement — then surely it would be our right to examine in detail.”
Orda stared at him. There was no doubt about the laser’s capabilities; the Americans had just proven all of the scientists’ speculation. If it truly was this close to them, it had to be examined — if not destroyed.
“A large-scale operation would be out of the question,” said Orda finally. “But a reconaissance in force, conducted at a time when the island was not monitored by the Japanese or the Americans, proceeding carefully as you’ve outlined…What is the minimal force you would need, if such a group were under your direct, personal command?”