By Dawn's Early Light (8 page)

“No offense taken,” Hanson said. “And you'd never make it with your leg.”

“My leg isn't the problem and you know that too. But Don is. We have enough fuel left to at least get us over the pass. From there we could conceivably catch thermals all the way back down to the front range hills. Maybe even as far as Panjgur.” He glanced at Hauglar and Amatozio. “But you have to be able to see to fly.”

“I was thinking about that too. Maybe we could rig some kind of a tandem harness to connect two of the paragliders together.”

“It might work.”

“What's your point, Mike?”

“Maybe Don's suggestion wasn't so far off the mark after all. If we can reach the equipment drop, one of us could stay with him while the other two went on to the coast. They'd have twice as much fuel.”

“Okay, so two of us make it to the coast, and even to our rendezvous point. Then what?”

“We come back the same way we did before, only this time we bring help and the proper equipment to get Don and whoever draws the lot to stay with him out of here.”

“How long would it take?”

Harvey shrugged. “Two days to get out, two or three days to get a rescue mission cobbled together, and two or three to get back in.”

“At least a week.”

Harvey nodded. “There are lots of places for them to hide up—”

Amatozio heard the helicopters first. He said something to Hauglar, who looked over his shoulder then urgently motioned for Hanson and Harvey to take immediate cover.

At that moment Hanson finally heard the choppers too. He and Harvey scrambled to a pile of boulders that formed a narrow overhang. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Along with their camos and the sun at such a low angle they had a reasonable chance of escaping detection.

“There's more than one,” Harvey said.

“Three, maybe four,” Hanson replied.

The first camouflaged Alouette III chopper flashed over the ridge about a hundred meters to the east. A second and third topped the hill even farther east, but a fourth thundered directly overhead less than fifty meters up.

2100 LOCAL
CHARDAR AIR FORCE BASE TEST FACILITY NORTHERN PAKISTAN

The British-built Sea King Mk 45 helicopter, its rotors slapping the night air, touched down in front of the blast doors guarding what appeared to be a hardened fighter-interceptor bunker. The military markings on its side had been hastily painted over, replaced by the numbers of a naval air unit at Peshawar.

Ground crewmen hurriedly rushed across the tarmac, and as soon as the chopper's wheels were chocked, the side door was opened. A cadre of elite Pakistan rangers dressed in black night fighter camos and armed with American Colt Commando assault rifles formed a defensive line around the helicopter.

The base was dimly lit in the shutdown mode during which no weapons or systems tests were supposedly being conducted. Only the perimeter was illuminated. The interior of the sprawling base, except for a few barracks and administrative buildings, was mostly in darkness. Nor was there any vehicular traffic or any movement other than around the Sea King.

Nothing to catch the eye of an American satellite, if indeed one of the KH-11s had arrived in the southern sky, as they had been warned might happen.

Still, ISI Maj. Gen. Jamsed Asif thought as he jumped down from the helicopter, it paid to be safe—now of all times. The entire Western world had sharply condemned the test. Even Beijing had temporarily recalled its ambassador. Most ominous, however, was the utter silence from New Delhi. Their spies told them that India's armed forces had been placed on the highest state of alert, and even now troops were massing along the border, especially up around Kashmir. But their analysts at Chaklala predicted that the Indians would not attack immediately, as they rightly should have. Instead they would hesitate because of diplomatic pressures from the West, especially from the United States. And because they were facing thermonuclear weapons.

It was a mistake that would cost them the tactical advantage because of one other vital piece of information that they did not have. That and the fact that the most of the world still believed that Pakistan had allied itself with the U.S.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

General Asif was a slight man, like most Pakistanis, with a soft bronze complexion and black hair. He headed Pakistan's intelligence service and at fifty-four he was as fit as most men half his age. It was a fact of which he was inordinately proud.

He did a quick three-sixty sweep and then nodded to the ranger lieutenant in charge of the security detail.

“Now, now,” Lieutenant Kaqqa spoke softly into his lapel mic. Moments later the bunker's blast door rumbled open a couple of meters and then stopped.

“It is clear, sir,” General Asif said into the dark interior of the helicopter.

Five-star General Pervez Musharraf, Pakistan's military head of state, came to the open hatch and sniffed the night air, as if he was trying to smell an assassin. Like General Asif, he wore black camos with no insignia of rank. His polished boots were bloused, and he wore a black camo fatigue cap.

He was older than Asif, narrow chest, short bandy legs, and the beginnings of a paunch, but he ignored Asif's hand and jumped down from the helicopter unassisted. Even old fools thinking about setting the world on fire had dignity.

“Where is General Phalodi?” he demanded.

“Sir, the general is inside the bunker,” the ranger lieutenant replied. “Shall we move your helicopter under cover?”

“Leave it where it is,” General Musharraf ordered.

“Sir, do you wish a detail to go with you?”

“No,” Musharraf said, and he started across the tarmac toward the partially opened blast doors.

General Asif fell in beside him. “You're taking an unnecessary risk, General,” he said.

General Musharraf hid a smile. “Do you think that one of my rocket scientists will try to shoot me because I am giving him free rein to develop his toys?”

“There could be Indian spies—”

“India would have attacked us by now if they suspected what we were up to,” Musharraf replied. He seemed to be supremely confident. “Don't worry, Jamsed, very soon our work will be finished and Pakistan will be secure for the first time in her history.” He raised his hand in a fist and shook it once as if he had grasped a deadly snake and was breaking its spine. The gesture had become the symbol for tiny Pakistan breaking the will of the mighty Indian military juggernaut poised along her borders.

A ranger detail met them with a pair of electric carts just inside the entrance. They were whisked through two additional sets of blast doors and down a three-kilometer rock tunnel to the cavernous rocket research group's Chardar development and assembly facility. The complex of offices, living quarters, and a huge assembly hall were hollowed out of the living mountain. It could withstand a direct hit by India's most powerful nuclear weapons.

This was the only truly safe spot in all of Pakistan, and yet everyone walked on tiptoes and spoke in whispered tones. They were playing with the ultimate fire here.

Lying prone on their transportation dollies were five TK7 massive three-stage guided missiles. Their nose cones were detached and were being fitted with copies of the thermonuclear weapon that had been tested two days ago at Kharan Depot. The vast cavern hummed with activity. Strong work lights in the rock ceiling and walls illuminated the space like day. At least two hundred scientists, technicians, engineers, machinists, and air force operators worked on the project around the clock.

General Musharraf had never been here before. After Kharan, however, he felt that he had to see for himself what progress they were making. He was impressed.

“Good evening, sir,” General Phalodi said, shambling like a shaggy bear from the glass-enclosed communications center. He brought his heels together and saluted.

Musharraf let him hold the pose for a moment or two, then returned the salute. “I came to see for myself if you are on schedule.”

General Phalodi was an old warrior. He didn't flinch. “There are technical problems with the guidance systems. My engineers estimate that it will take six weeks to complete the modifications.”

Neither man was kidding the other. Musharraf knew about the delay, and Phalodi knew that he knew. Just as both men knew that the real timetable the engineers had given for the repairs was more like three to four weeks.

This time, however, the game that they had played so many times before was no longer possible. “You have two weeks, Karas. All five rockets must be fitted with their payloads, their guidance systems repaired and programmed, and they must be deployed to their launch sites.”

“It is a goal to shoot for, General. Considering the pressure we're under from the U.S. because of the Kharan test. But it is possibly an unrealizable goal.”

General Asif wondered if Phalodi was thinking about the ISI colonel he had shot to death two days ago because of a similar delay.

“Nonetheless it must be met,” Musharraf said. He glanced at the five missiles. They were basically land-launched versions of the French Aérospatiale M4 submarine-launched ballistic missiles. Thirty-six feet long, more than six feet in diameter, the eighty-thousand-pound missiles could deliver a nuclear payload out to distances in excess of four thousand miles. All of India was reachable.

This was just the first step, Musharraf thought. Each of these missiles could carry one three-megaton thermonuclear warhead. Within three years the warheads would be smaller by a factor of six, allowing the TK7s to carry six multiple independently targeted reentry vehicles (MIRVs). Five missiles could deliver payloads to thirty targets.

Even China did not have the means and certainly not the will to accomplish such a feat, though they were Pakistan's allies.

“You are not aware of the latest intelligence from Washington,” Asif told Phalodi. “The Americans will launch a space shuttle to repair the
Jupiter
satellite in less than two weeks. It will be blinded again, of course, but we cannot be sure there will not be a retaliation.”

“That is our timetable,” Musharraf said. “Within twenty-four hours after the event, we must be ready to launch our second and final test so that we can issue our warning to the criminals in New Delhi.”

“The Americans may not give us that much time,” Phalodi said.

“All of our submarines and surface ships are accounted for. We have plausible deniability.”

“That will not last forever.”

“No,” General Musharraf agreed. “In two weeks Pakistan must be ready to go to war—thermonuclear war—or at least convince the world that we mean to fight or die.”

General Phalodi was one man in Pakistan who knew India's will. He nodded. “The rockets will be ready to fly in two weeks, General. And if India believes we are bluffing, or if the United States will do nothing to control them, we
will
launch an all-out attack.”

“It would be suicide,” Musharraf said.

Phalodi's thick lips compressed. “Then so be it. I would rather we all be incinerated than to allow one Indian soldier to set foot on Pakistan's soil.”

Musharraf raised his hand in a fist and shook it once. It was a deadly game they were playing: the stakes were nothing less than Pakistan's survival versus the containment of India once and for all.

1200 LOCAL
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

Air Force Lt. Col. Paul Thoreau parked his gunmetal gray Porsche Boxter in the STS 140 mission commander's parking place. The day was brilliantly hot and brassy. The countryside southeast of Houston was dusty brown. The sun reflected harshly off the silvered windows of the JSC headquarters building. No one moved very fast. It was south Texas high summer.

Thoreau, wearing a NASA blue jumpsuit, had been called over from the neutral buoyancy lab where astronauts in space suits, backed up by rescue divers, worked on simulated extravehicular activities in the huge pool. It was almost the same as working in space, but not quite. Close enough for government work, as most of them thought of it.

Thoreau, who had been pulled from the special action programs at Groom Lake, Nevada—known in the popular press as Area 51—was forty-four, short and slender. As a chief SAPs pilot he had what was considered a super cush job; his work was so secret that even his immediate boss back in Washington couldn't be told what he was doing, or if what he was doing was up to par. It was perfect job security; plus it was something new and exciting every day.

Only one thing could have pulled him away. That was the offer of astronaut training. Four years ago he had made the jump. After three missions, his fourth coming up in less than two weeks, he was never sorry that he had made the switch, even after the
Columbia
disaster.

His only problem, if it could be considered a problem, was that he was every journalist's favorite interview. He held a pair of Ph.Ds in math and physics, he and his wife were competitive ballroom dancers, he was the dashing ace-pilot type, and so far as anyone knew he'd never said a harsh word to anybody at any time for any reason.

He was a little annoyed today, though. The powers that be had changed one of the mission tasks in midstream and now they weren't letting his crew train for it without interruption for what probably would turn out to be nothing more than a heads-up for another photo op.

Upstairs, however, he was conducted to NASA director Robert Bishop's office.

“Thanks for coming over so quickly, Paul,” Bishop said, coming around his desk and extending his hand. He had an odd, almost hesitant look on his square, ex-marine commandant's face, as if he were seeing Thoreau under a new light.

They shook hands. “We were suiting up for the NB pool.”

“Yes, I know. But this shouldn't take too long.” Bishop's secretary was at the door. He motioned for her to close it. “No interruptions, Agnes.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.

“Okay, Paul, the president wants to speak to you.”

Thoreau was momentarily confused. “Who?”

“The president of the United States wants to talk to you. Encrypted video link.” Bishop turned the computer monitor on his desk so that it and the camera were trainined on Thoreau.

“About what?”

“The mission,” Bishop said. He touched
enter
, and the NASA logo was replaced by what appeared to be a live image of the White House.

A few moments later the picture was replaced by a live shot of President Hanson seated at his desk in the Oval Office. It wasn't clear if he was alone or not.

“Colonel Thoreau, I'm sorry to interrupt your training routine. You must be very busy this close to a mission. Especially one that we've changed on you.”

“That's okay, Mr. President. But I have to say that your call has come as a surprise, sir.”

“I want to talk to you about the satellite repair mission.”

“Yes, sir. The NRO's
Jupiter
. We understand the need for secrecy.”

“You're going up to replace its electronics and optics packages. You were told that they failed. But that's not quite the whole truth. They were destroyed by a laser strike from an earth-based weapon.”

Thoreau took just a moment to digest what he was being told. There weren't many nations that had the technical capability to accomplish such a strike. Russia was chief among them. But that didn't make any sense. “Who did it, sir?”

“We're working on that part. But you need to know that whoever is going on the space walk to make the repairs might be in some danger. Whoever blinded our satellite won't want to see it fixed. We're betting that they'll wait until you're finished, and then shoot it again. We don't think that they'd take the risk of injuring one of you. The repercussions would be nothing less than extremely harsh.”

“I understand, sir.”

“But the possibility does exist that they'll make a mistake,” the president warned. “I want you to understand what you're going up against. And I want to give you the chance to back out.”

“How badly do we need that satellite, Mr. President?”

“Very.”

“Then we'll go up and fix it, sir. That's what we're being paid to do.”

“You'll have help,” President Hanson promised. “I can't tell you exactly what kind of help, but you and your crew will not be on your own.”

Thoreau grinned. “It's always good to have a backstop, Mr. President. We'll do our best.”

“I know you will, Colonel.”

1305 EDT
THE WHITE HOUSE

President Hanson broke the connection, then looked over at Brad Stein and Carolyn Tyson, who'd listened off camera.

“He didn't ask the million-dollar question,” Stein said.

“Which is?”

“Pakistan is obviously behind the attacks because of the test. They didn't want anybody looking over their shoulders. There's no question about that part. But what do they hope to gain? Where's the payoff for them?” Stein was the president's chief of staff, and he was supposed to have the answers. But he was floundering now and he knew it.

“Continue,” the president prompted.

“Even if they had a half-dozen H-bombs, they don't have the means to deliver them. At least I've seen nothing from CIA or NSA to tell us otherwise. India's on the verge of rolling across the border in an all-out offensive. China has jumped into the fray, condemning their allies, and even Putin supposedly had a long talk with Musharraf. Pakistan has the H-bomb, but they can't use it or risk total destruction. They've got themselves into a no-win situation.”

“Sorry, Brad, but I can't quite agree,” Carolyn Tyson said.

Stein shot her an angry look. “What are they going to do with the damn things?”

“First we have to ask what are
we
going to do about them?” she replied calmly. Stein didn't like or trust her, because he thought that she was after his job. And he knew that she was a lot smarter than he was, and it rankled. Especially in discussions like these in front of the boss.

“What?” Stein demanded.

“Nothing, for now. The situation in Islamabad is too unstable for us to make any kind of overt move. Musharraf and most of their leadership is scattered all over the country at the moment, and they have to be watching for India to launch a preemptive strike any second. Given the right nudge they'd launch their weapons and say the hell with the consequences. That is something we definitely do not want to happen.”

“What are you suggesting?” the president asked. “Musharraf refuses to talk to me.”

“First we repair the
Jupiter
, which will give us the intelligence we need. And Frank Dillon is the right man to run interference for us. My last mission with the SEALs was aboard the
Flying Fish
. He was aboard. He was pretty young then, but he was a good officer. Knew his stuff.”

“The shuttle goes up in two weeks,” Stein reminded them unnecessarily.

“We haven't heard from our team on the ground yet, but as soon as we do we'll know more.”

“What else is there?” Stein asked. “What else have you come up with that we haven't heard about?”

“Mostly speculation. But what if the bomb wasn't fired from a tower or some other ground installation? What if it was dropped from an airplane? Or delivered by a missile?”

“That would tell us they had the means of delivery,” the president said unhappily.

“They still wouldn't dare launch an attack on India,” Stein asserted.

Carolyn Tyson shook her head. “They wouldn't have to. Just possessing thermonuclear weapons is enough to elevate them to near-superpower status. Once the situation out there stabilizes vendors would be lined around the block all wanting a piece of the action. Exporting H-bomb technology, for instance, could make them a lot of money.” She looked inward for a moment. When she looked up again she seemed to have gathered a new resolve. She liked being the DCI, but she hated the world that she'd inherited to keep an eye on.

“What does the CIA advise?” Hanson asked.

“We need to know if the bomb is portable. We need to know if there are others. We need to know if they have delivery vehicles. We need to know where they're being kept. We're assuming Chardar for now. And then we destroy them. Admiral Puckett agrees.”

“I see,” the president said after a longish silence.

“There's no other option open to us, Mr. President,” she said. “A country like Pakistan simply cannot be allowed to have operational H-bombs.”

President Hanson nodded, a troubled expression on his face. “As soon as you hear something, anything from Scott, let me know, please.”

Tyson's expression softened. “Certainly, Mr. President.”

1330 EDT
THE PENTAGON

The spy known to the FBI and ONI as John Galt backed out of the intercept-decrypt program that linked him with the White House computer system. He closed his laptop's lid and looked out his office window toward the river. The day was warm and hazy.

He did not have complete access to every system within the White House, but he'd been able to dig deep enough to find out at least some of what he wanted to know.

The
Discovery
's repair mission had not come as a surprise to anyone, least of all Galt. But the president's warning, and promise, that the crew would have help was disturbing.

At the very least his customers had to be warned. Then he would have to find out what kind of help the president was talking about. Galt had not heard a thing, which was unusual for a man in his position.

Something had to be done. And he already had a couple of very good ideas.

He grabbed his cap, left his office and headed to the elevators. He kept seeing the look of calm determination on Lieutenant Colonel Thoreau's face. He smiled to himself.

It was so much better to go up against a confident man. The victory was all the more sweet.