before he came on the line.
“Mac. I need you in Asia.”
“Asia?”
“India, to be exact.”
“But—” Hawaii then Montana, then New Delhi. Antarctica would be next.
“I want you to assess the readiness situation at as many frontline bases as you can imagine.”
“That’s a military function,” said McIntyre, though he knew it was hopeless. “Parsons would be—”
“Check the C option and report back.”
C option was shorthand for the possibility that India would launch a preemptive attack on the Pakistani military. While American spy satellites covered the area, their flight paths were well known and there was ample opportunity to work around them. McIntyre was being told to confer with embassy officials—in most cases undercover CIA agents—and work off a checklist of indicators, some subtle, some not, to supplement the satellite snaps and intercepts. While the CIA would prepare its own report, Blitz liked the idea of having a person in country he could rely on.
Such as it was.
“Sniff around,” continued the NSC head. “See if you can get to any of the Kashmir bases.”
“Oh God, Kashmir. All the way up there?”
McIntyre turned around in the seat. He could guess at what Blitz was thinking: Probably the conflict would all blow over, but he’d get a firsthand look at what the Indians’ capability was.
“You have a problem with that?” asked Blitz.
“All right,” he said. His plans regarding the lieutenant changed abruptly: He’d bag the movie and go straight for the motel, maybe even settle for his quarters. “I’ll grab the first flight in the morning.”
“There’s one already en route. I’m told it’s about ten minutes from landing.”
Chapter 8
When he finally reached his quarters, Bonham pulled off his shirt and pants and booted the computer before going to take a quick shower. His suite here was hardly that—two nearly bare rooms and a bathroom with a stand-up shower—and he bumped his elbow hard on the wall as he toweled off. Feeling a little less dusty, he went over to the computer and brought up the Internet interface; two clicks later he had ESPN.com on the screen.
The Red Sox had beaten the Yankees with a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth. Hallelujah.
Spirits buoyed, Bonham clicked over to CNN, making sure, God forbid, that nothing had been reported beyond his early bland release on the accident. It hadn’t; the newspeople were concerned with the augmented-ABM tests, which had just been postponed another day due to technical problems with the monitoring network.
Bonham scrolled around in vain trying to find out what that meant. The reporters hadn’t been told, and it was impossible to divine from the statements they’d been given what was really going on. Delays had a tendency to mushroom, throwing everything off. The tests should have been concluded by now; every sixty minutes’ worth of delay added that many more problems for everyone.
But he had his own things to worry about. Fisher, for one, who had all the symptoms of a class-one trouble-maker. This wasn’t an FBI case—the Bureau had sent only one man, not the dozens or even hundreds it would detail for a blowout job—but Fisher was just the sort of bee buzzing in someone’s bonnet to screw up everything.
Bonham leaned back in his chair. He could find out about the agent easily enough with a few phone calls. But that was a tricky thing: People might interpret it as paranoia, or worse. Better to suffer through the slings and arrows of outrageous behavior. Besides, Fisher was probably more of a problem for Gorman than for him.
Served the stubborn bitch right.
Someone knocked on the door.
“General Bonham?”
“Tom, come on in,” he said, recognizing Colonel Howe’s voice.
“Door’s locked,” said Howe.
“Oh, sorry. Thought I’d be sleeping already,” said Bonham. He killed the computer and got up to open the door. “Checking the Red Sox. Beat the Yankees with a
“Mac. I need you in Asia.”
“Asia?”
“India, to be exact.”
“But—” Hawaii then Montana, then New Delhi. Antarctica would be next.
“I want you to assess the readiness situation at as many frontline bases as you can imagine.”
“That’s a military function,” said McIntyre, though he knew it was hopeless. “Parsons would be—”
“Check the C option and report back.”
C option was shorthand for the possibility that India would launch a preemptive attack on the Pakistani military. While American spy satellites covered the area, their flight paths were well known and there was ample opportunity to work around them. McIntyre was being told to confer with embassy officials—in most cases undercover CIA agents—and work off a checklist of indicators, some subtle, some not, to supplement the satellite snaps and intercepts. While the CIA would prepare its own report, Blitz liked the idea of having a person in country he could rely on.
Such as it was.
“Sniff around,” continued the NSC head. “See if you can get to any of the Kashmir bases.”
“Oh God, Kashmir. All the way up there?”
McIntyre turned around in the seat. He could guess at what Blitz was thinking: Probably the conflict would all blow over, but he’d get a firsthand look at what the Indians’ capability was.
“You have a problem with that?” asked Blitz.
“All right,” he said. His plans regarding the lieutenant changed abruptly: He’d bag the movie and go straight for the motel, maybe even settle for his quarters. “I’ll grab the first flight in the morning.”
“There’s one already en route. I’m told it’s about ten minutes from landing.”
Chapter 8
When he finally reached his quarters, Bonham pulled off his shirt and pants and booted the computer before going to take a quick shower. His suite here was hardly that—two nearly bare rooms and a bathroom with a stand-up shower—and he bumped his elbow hard on the wall as he toweled off. Feeling a little less dusty, he went over to the computer and brought up the Internet interface; two clicks later he had ESPN.com on the screen.
The Red Sox had beaten the Yankees with a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth. Hallelujah.
Spirits buoyed, Bonham clicked over to CNN, making sure, God forbid, that nothing had been reported beyond his early bland release on the accident. It hadn’t; the newspeople were concerned with the augmented-ABM tests, which had just been postponed another day due to technical problems with the monitoring network.
Bonham scrolled around in vain trying to find out what that meant. The reporters hadn’t been told, and it was impossible to divine from the statements they’d been given what was really going on. Delays had a tendency to mushroom, throwing everything off. The tests should have been concluded by now; every sixty minutes’ worth of delay added that many more problems for everyone.
But he had his own things to worry about. Fisher, for one, who had all the symptoms of a class-one trouble-maker. This wasn’t an FBI case—the Bureau had sent only one man, not the dozens or even hundreds it would detail for a blowout job—but Fisher was just the sort of bee buzzing in someone’s bonnet to screw up everything.
Bonham leaned back in his chair. He could find out about the agent easily enough with a few phone calls. But that was a tricky thing: People might interpret it as paranoia, or worse. Better to suffer through the slings and arrows of outrageous behavior. Besides, Fisher was probably more of a problem for Gorman than for him.
Served the stubborn bitch right.
Someone knocked on the door.
“General Bonham?”
“Tom, come on in,” he said, recognizing Colonel Howe’s voice.
“Door’s locked,” said Howe.
“Oh, sorry. Thought I’d be sleeping already,” said Bonham. He killed the computer and got up to open the door. “Checking the Red Sox. Beat the Yankees with a
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