would soon ask for the Indian soldiers to leave. There were also rumbles that there would be some “technical difficulties” in effecting their removal. Concurrent with that had come word of a conversation between the Indian Foreign Minister and the U.S. Ambassador at a reception in Delhi.
“You know,” the Minister had said after a few too many, but probably purposeful drinks, “that body of water to our south is called the Indian Ocean, and we have a navy to guard it. With the demise of the former Soviet threat, we wonder why the U.S. Navy seems so determined to maintain a force there.”
The U.S. Ambassador was a political appointee—for some reason India had turned into a prestige post, despite the climate—but was also a striking exception to Scott Adler’s professional snobbery. The former governor of Pennsylvania had smiled and mumbled something about freedom of the seas, then fired off an encrypted report to Foggy Bottom before going to bed that night. Adler needed to learn that they weren’t all dumb.
“We see no indication of an aggressive act in that direction,” Hanson said after a moment’s reflection.
“The ethnic element is troubling. India can’t go north, with the mountains in the way. West is out. The Pakis have nukes, too. East is Bangladesh—why buy trouble? Sri Lanka has real strategic possibilities for them, maybe as a stepping-stone.”
“To where?” the President asked.
“Australia. Space and resources, not many people in the way, and not much of a military to stop them.”
“I just don’t see that happening,” SecState announced.
“If the Tigers pull something off, I can see India increasing its peace-keeping presence. The next step could be annexation, given the right preconditions, and then all of a sudden we have an imperial nower playing games a long way from here, and making life somewhat nervous for one of our historical allies.” And helping the Tigers to get something going was both easy and a time-honored tactic. Surrogates could be so useful, couldn’t they? “In historical terms such ambitions are most inexpensively stopped early.”
“That’s why the Navy’s in the Indian Ocean,” Hanson observed confidently.
“True,” Ryan conceded.
“Are we strong enough to deter them from stepping over the line?”
“Yes, Mr. President, at the moment, but I don’t like the way our Navy is being stretched. Every carrier we have right now, except for the two in overhaul status, is either deployed or conducting workups preparatory for deployment. We have no strategic reserve worthy of the name.” Ryan paused before going on, knowing that he was about to go too far, but doing so anyway: “We’ve cut back too much, sir. Our people are strung out very thin.”
“They are simply not as capable as we think they are. That is a thing of the past,” Raizo Yamata said. He was dressed in an elegant silk kimono, and sat on the floor at a traditional low table.
The others around the table looked discreetly at their watches. It was approaching three in the morning, and though this was one of the nicest geisha houses in the city, the hour was late. Raizo Yamata was a captivating host, however. A man of great wealth and sagacity, the others thought. Or most of them.
“They’ve protected us for generations,” one man suggested.
“From what? Ourselves?” Yamata demanded coarsely. That was permitted now. Though all around the table were men of the most exquisite good manners, they were all close acquaintances, if not all actually close friends, and all had consumed their personal limit of alcohol. Under these circumstances, the rules of social intercourse altered somewhat. They could all speak bluntly. Words that would ordinarily be deadly insults would now be accepted calmly, then rebutted harshly, and there would be no lingering ran-cor about it. That, too, was a rule, but as with most rules, it was largely theoretical. Though friendships and relationships
“You know,” the Minister had said after a few too many, but probably purposeful drinks, “that body of water to our south is called the Indian Ocean, and we have a navy to guard it. With the demise of the former Soviet threat, we wonder why the U.S. Navy seems so determined to maintain a force there.”
The U.S. Ambassador was a political appointee—for some reason India had turned into a prestige post, despite the climate—but was also a striking exception to Scott Adler’s professional snobbery. The former governor of Pennsylvania had smiled and mumbled something about freedom of the seas, then fired off an encrypted report to Foggy Bottom before going to bed that night. Adler needed to learn that they weren’t all dumb.
“We see no indication of an aggressive act in that direction,” Hanson said after a moment’s reflection.
“The ethnic element is troubling. India can’t go north, with the mountains in the way. West is out. The Pakis have nukes, too. East is Bangladesh—why buy trouble? Sri Lanka has real strategic possibilities for them, maybe as a stepping-stone.”
“To where?” the President asked.
“Australia. Space and resources, not many people in the way, and not much of a military to stop them.”
“I just don’t see that happening,” SecState announced.
“If the Tigers pull something off, I can see India increasing its peace-keeping presence. The next step could be annexation, given the right preconditions, and then all of a sudden we have an imperial nower playing games a long way from here, and making life somewhat nervous for one of our historical allies.” And helping the Tigers to get something going was both easy and a time-honored tactic. Surrogates could be so useful, couldn’t they? “In historical terms such ambitions are most inexpensively stopped early.”
“That’s why the Navy’s in the Indian Ocean,” Hanson observed confidently.
“True,” Ryan conceded.
“Are we strong enough to deter them from stepping over the line?”
“Yes, Mr. President, at the moment, but I don’t like the way our Navy is being stretched. Every carrier we have right now, except for the two in overhaul status, is either deployed or conducting workups preparatory for deployment. We have no strategic reserve worthy of the name.” Ryan paused before going on, knowing that he was about to go too far, but doing so anyway: “We’ve cut back too much, sir. Our people are strung out very thin.”
“They are simply not as capable as we think they are. That is a thing of the past,” Raizo Yamata said. He was dressed in an elegant silk kimono, and sat on the floor at a traditional low table.
The others around the table looked discreetly at their watches. It was approaching three in the morning, and though this was one of the nicest geisha houses in the city, the hour was late. Raizo Yamata was a captivating host, however. A man of great wealth and sagacity, the others thought. Or most of them.
“They’ve protected us for generations,” one man suggested.
“From what? Ourselves?” Yamata demanded coarsely. That was permitted now. Though all around the table were men of the most exquisite good manners, they were all close acquaintances, if not all actually close friends, and all had consumed their personal limit of alcohol. Under these circumstances, the rules of social intercourse altered somewhat. They could all speak bluntly. Words that would ordinarily be deadly insults would now be accepted calmly, then rebutted harshly, and there would be no lingering ran-cor about it. That, too, was a rule, but as with most rules, it was largely theoretical. Though friendships and relationships
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