Sword of Shiva - Страница 12

Secretary of Defense Mary O’Neil-Broerman spoke up. “The situation over there is going to hell in a hand basket, sir.”

“I can see that,” Dalton said. “I want to know why.”

He instantly regretted the sharp tone in his voice. He had a tendency to become brusque when he was unsure of himself, and right now he was very unsure of himself.

Since the day he’d inherited the presidency, he’d begun every day with a simple prayer, or perhaps it was just a plea to the universe, since it wasn’t directed toward any particular deity. Please do not let anything happen today that I can’t handle.

So far, he’d managed to muddle through without disaster — largely because Frank Chandler had left him with a staff of capable people who were skilled at helping him navigate difficult situations. But he’d also been lucky. Fate had not yet thrown him a problem that was beyond the scope of his abilities.

Dalton’s string of good fortune couldn’t last forever. He knew that. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. He would run into some challenge or some catastrophe that was too big for him. Then the people of the United States would find out how horribly things can go wrong when the guy sitting in the big chair is not up to the job.

“Mr. President, we can only partially answer that question,” the Sit Room Duty Officer said. “The trigger seems to have been that train wreck in Tibet on Tuesday, the rocket attack on the Qinghai Railroad. The Chinese began calling it an act of terrorism before the smoke had even cleared. They apparently traced the terrorists to the Village of Geku, on the Indian side of the Himalayas. The People’s Liberation Army retaliated with a massive cruise missile strike that pretty much wiped the village off the map.”

“That can’t be right,” the president said. “The Chinese are not stupid, and that’s too much of an overreaction. You don’t retaliate for a localized act of terrorism by launching a large scale missile attack against another country.”

The Secretary of Defense leaned forward in her chair. “With all due respect, Mr. President, that’s not necessarily true. The U.S. has done it more than once. The first example that comes to mind is August of 1998, when President Clinton ordered the launch of Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles at targets in Afghanistan and the Sudan. It was in retaliation for the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania. We simultaneously launched about 75 cruise missiles against countries on two different continents.”

The National Security Advisor, Gregory Brenthoven, shook his head. “Granted that your basic premise is true, but your example is not exactly parallel to the current mess in Asia.”

He turned his gaze toward the president. “When former President Clinton gave the order to launch, he knew that both Afghanistan and the Republic of Sudan were a nice comfortable distance from the United States. About six or seven thousand miles. President Clinton also knew that neither country had the firepower or the logistics to bring the fight back to American shores. In other words, the risk of escalating to all-out war was just about zero.”

Brenthoven gestured toward the big map of Asia on the master display. “That’s not the case with this China-India thing, sir. China didn’t launch their missiles against some third-world country on the other side of the planet. They provoked a major military competitor, a nuclear power no less, sitting right on their own southern border. And that doesn’t make any sense. As you said, Mr. President, the Chinese are not stupid. If somebody punches India in the nose, you can bet your last dollar that India is going to come out of the corner swinging with both fists. The Chinese know that. But they did it anyway.”

The president looked at the map. “Why would they do that? Why would they take such a stupid risk?”

“We don’t know yet, sir,” the National Security Advisor said. “But right now, we’ve got a bigger question. What are we going to do about it?’

“I’ve spoken to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs about this,” the Secretary of Defense said. “He’s preparing a full tactical briefing now. He can go over the details then, but in broad strokes, he recommends that we get an aircraft carrier on scene up there as quickly as possible. The idea is to establish a presence, and — hopefully — to act as a stabilizing force in the region.”

The president nodded slowly. “Who’s in the best position?”

The Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Robert Casey, cleared his throat. “Mr. President, that would be the USS Midway strike group, based out of Yokosuka, Japan.”

The president turned to look at the CNO. “And the Midway is ready to deploy?”

“Yes, sir,” the CNO said. “The Midway is our ready-carrier at the moment. She’s got a full complement of escorts, and they can be underway in a matter of hours.”

“Alright,” the president said. “Do it. Get those ships moving. We’ll figure out the details while they’re on the way.”

He stared at the wall-sized master display screen with its overwhelming array of strange symbols, and he began to wonder if this would be the day that everything came apart.

CHAPTER 12

BARKHOR SQUARE

LHASA, TIBET

SATURDAY; 23 NOVEMBER

9:24 AM

TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’

No matter what the Chinese government or news services might say later, it was not a riot.

Reverend Bill McDonald watched from the window of his second story hotel room, as people began gathering in the square below. At first it was a small group of purple-robed monks, and he wondered if they had come to pray, or meditate, or simply to meet and talk near the gates of the famous Jokhang temple.

But the monks were soon joined by people dressed in street clothes, and more people were streaming into the square, appearing from alleys and side streets. The small group quickly grew to a large group; and the large group blossomed into a burgeoning crowd. Still, the flow of humanity showed no signs of diminishing. As the throng continued to swell, the red, blue, gold, white, and green colors of the Tibetan snow lion flag began to appear — sometimes held overhead as a banner, sometimes draped around someone’s shoulders like a cloak.

When the flags were revealed, McDonald knew that he was witnessing something unusual. The snow lion flag was a symbol of Tibetan independence and a rallying point for the separatist movements.

Introduced by the 13th Dalia Lama in 1912, the flag had remained the official banner of Tibet until the 14th Dalia Lama had escaped from the Chinese occupation in 1959, and fled to India. Now, more than a half-century later, the flag was an emblem of Tibetan sovereignty — a reminder of the days before the Chinese invasion, and a token of the freedom that might lie in the future.

The Chinese treated the Tibetan flag as an insignia of terrorism and anarchy. They had outlawed possession of the flag by anyone within the borders of Chinese-controlled territory, including all of Tibet. Public display of the flag was punishable by imprisonment, or worse.

But Bill McDonald could see at least fifty of the forbidden flags from his window. The crowd in Barkhor Square was openly defying the longstanding ban. McDonald knew that he was witnessing a major act of protest. There must be nearly a thousand people in the square by now, and still more were coming.

His window was closed, but he could hear the crowd now, hundreds of voices chanting in unison. Not ranting or screaming. Not shouting ultimatums. Chanting together in one voice, like an oddly disharmonic choir, all singing from the same sheet of music. It was eerie — mournful and powerful, but utterly peaceful.

McDonald’s presence in Tibet had nothing to do with politics or journalism. He had not come to document the conditions of the Tibetan people, or even to question the continuing Chinese occupation of the once-independent nation. Beyond expansion of his own consciousness, he had come with no agenda at all. He was here simply to study with the Buddhist monks, to learn how (and if) their path to enlightenment could shed any illumination on his own spiritual journey.

During the Vietnam War, he had served as a door gunner and Crew Chief in the U.S. Army’s 128th Assault Helicopter Company. He’d flown more combat missions than he could count, usually perched in the open door of a Huey gunship with an M-60 machine gun between his knees. He’d been shot down twice, wounded once by enemy fire, and — of greater importance than either — he had been transformed.

Bill McDonald had come out of Vietnam with a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Bronze Star, fourteen Air Medals, and a Purple Heart. But on his flight back to the United States, he had carried something much more important than the medals stowed neatly in his Army duffle bag. He had carried a profound sense of his personal spirituality.

Amid the horror of war, he had discovered his own connections to the mystical forces of the universe. He had become what he liked to call a ‘spiritual warrior.’ He no longer thought in terms of victory over military enemies. Instead, he concentrated on mastering his own mind, and exploring his place within the spiritual realm.

The events unfolding outside his window were at least partly — if not mostly — political in nature. If he knew anything at all about the mindset of the Chinese government, the reaction of the local authorities would be both rapid and brutal.