Las Vegas, Nevada
5 January 1998
1723
THE DAY’S WORTH OF TESTS WERE MOSTLY VARIATIONS ON
ones Zen had already gone through before Christmas. He was injected with a series of dyes and then X-rayed and scanned, prodded and listened to. The technical staff took a stack of X-rays, MRIs, and ultrasounds. Then they hooked him up to a machine that measured nerve impulses. This involved inserting needles into various parts of his body. The doctors had done this several days before.
Now they inserted more, and left them in for nearly two hours.
He didn’t feel the ones in his legs, but he did get a prickly sensation in his neck when they were inserted along his upper back. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but lying there was more difficult than he had imagined.
“Done,” said Dr. Vasin finally. Two aides came over and helped Zen sit up.
“So I can walk now?”
“Jeff.”
“Hey, Doc, loosen up. Just a joke.” Zen pushed his arms back. His muscles had stiffened. “Tomorrow I go under the knife, right?”
“Laser, and then the injections. Bright and early, but listen—”
END GAME
53
“I know. No guarantees.”
“This is a really long process, Jeff. And I have to be hon -
est, brutally honest—”
“Ten percent chance. I know.”
“Ten percent is very optimistic,” said Vasin.
“It’s OK. I understand.”
“Operation one is tomorrow. The procedure itself is relatively simple, but of course it is a procedure. No food after seven P.M., just in case we have to put you out.”
“Beer’s not food, right?”
“Not after seven. And for the duration of the test period, alcohol and coffee are forbidden.”
“Well, there goes the bender I was planning. Don’t worry, Doc,” added Zen, “I’m just joking.”
Needles and sensors removed, Zen got dressed and wheeled himself out into the hallway. He headed toward the lounge area, where he could call for a taxi before taking the elevator down. He was surprised to see Breanna waiting for him.
“Bree?”
“You called for a taxi?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Like I said—need a taxi?”
“I thought you were snowed in.”
“I shoveled the runway myself.”
She leaned over and kissed him. Zen grabbed her around the neck and hugged her, surprising himself at how much he missed her.
“Everything all right?”
“I feel like a pincushion. Other than that, I’m fine.” He thought of telling her about the dream but decided not to. It would fade, eventually.
“Operation still on for tomorrow?”
“Not much of an operation,” he told her. “They just inject me with crap. Don’t even knock me out.”
“Crap,” she said sarcastically.
“Let’s go grab something to eat, OK? I’m fasting from 54
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
seven P.M. After that, no food until tomorrow night. I want to have a beer. I can’t have any during the two weeks of injections. No coffee, either.”
“No beer or coffee? You sure this is worth it?” Breanna laughed.
“Hope so.”
II
Impossible!
Navy Ministry Building,
New Delhi, India
6 January 1998
0900
DEPUTY DEFENSE MINISTER ANIL MEMON STARED AT THE
table, trying to master his rage as India’s Prime Minister continued to speak about the need for a “measured response” to the latest provocation. The minister claimed that there was no obvious link between the attack at Port Somalia and the Pakistanis—an absurd claim in Memon’s opinion. Memon knew that he should hold his tongue, but finally he could not.
“Who else would have launched the attack?” he said.
“Who else has connections to these pirates?”
“We have no proof of connections,” said the Prime Minister.
“They are Muslims. What other proof do you wish?”
Memon ignored the disapproving stare from his boss, Defense Minister Pita Skandar. “They will attack again and again. They will strike our ships. They do not wish to see us prosper. Anyone who does not realize that is a fool.”
“You haven’t proven your case,” said the Prime Minister.
“How many of my sailors must die before you consider it proven?” said Memon.
“They are my sailors too, Deputy Minister,” said the Prime Minister, his anger finally rising. “More mine than yours.”
“Then let us act. Mobilize. Send the new carrier to block-ade the Pakistani ports.”
58
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“My deputy speaks with passion,” said Minister Skandar softly. “Take into account that he is young.”
“I assumed he spoke for you,” said the Prime Minister.
“He goes further than I. I would not block the Pakistani ports quite yet. But the Shiva should set out immediately.
Its trials are complete. We must show that we are resolved.”
The Prime Minister nodded, then turned to the Chief of the Naval Staff for his opinion. The discussion continued for a few minutes more, but Skandar’s recommendations had clearly set the course, and within a half hour the meeting concluded.
Memon, feeling defeated and frustrated, sat in his seat as the others began filing out. When he finally rose, Skandar touched his sleeve, signaling that he should stay. Cheeks flushing, Memon sat back down.
“You win no points by being too fiery in the cabinet room,” said Skandar.
“The Muslims must be behind this,” said Memon. “They are the only ones who benefit. The intelligence services simply are inept in gathering evidence.”
“We must examine everything in context.”
A large man, with a shaved head and an emotionless smile, Skandar appeared almost godlike. But of late Memon had begun to wonder if the man generally referred to as the
“Admiral” was simply old. Not quite thirty years before, he had distinguished himself as a young officer in charge of a raiding party in the 1971 war with Pakistan. Promotions quickly followed. In time, Skandar became the head of the Naval Staff, the highest uniform post in the navy.
In 1994, Skandar retired to run for congress. Winning election easily, he had been asked to join the Prime Minister’s government as the Defense minister. The old admiral at first demurred, but soon was persuaded that he could do much to help the services.
Memon had been among those who helped persuade END GAME
59
him. The admiral’s “price” for agreeing was that Memon would join him as deputy minister. He’d done so, despite the fact that he had hoped for his own minister’s portfolio.
Like many other young Indians, he saw Skandar as the one man in the government with enough stature to bring India’s military into the twenty-first century.
The admiral had done better than any one of them, Memon included, might have hoped, adding aircraft to the air force, tanks to the army, and above all ships to the navy.
It thrilled Memon, who wished India to take her rightful place in the world. But of late Skandar had seemed only an old man, talking of abstractions rather than actions.
“Admiral, the context is before our eyes,” Memon told him. “We are being attacked.”
“In the next century, who will be the superpowers of Asia? Russia is a shadow of herself. We pick over her bones to build our own forces. The United States? They are preoc-cupied with Europe, Taiwan, and Japan, spread so thin that they cannot afford to send more than a token force to the Gulf of Aden.”
“China is our ultimate enemy. I realize that,” said Memon. “But you’re worrying about fifty years from now.
I’m worrying about today.”
“Our actions today will determine what happens in fifty years.” Skandar smiled. “You’re still young. Full of fire.
That is admirable.”
At thirty-eight, Memon did not consider himself particularly young. But since he was half Skandar’s age, the comment was not meant unkindly.