By Dawn's Early Light Read online

  “Very well.” The president got out of bed; his wife turned over in her sleep. Attwood helped him with his robe and went to get coffee as Hanson walked out to see what problem his chief of staff had brought him. He glanced at the clock. It was a couple of minutes after three.

  Hanson was the biggest man to occupy the Oval Office since Clinton. But he wasn’t more than average size compared to Brad Stein, who had been a first-string linebacker at Notre Dame all four years. Stein was dressed casually in jeans, a short-sleeve Izod, and boat shoes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “We have a problem, Mr. President.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s Pakistan, sir. About an hour ago they conducted an above-the-ground test of a nuclear weapon at their Kharan Range.”

  The president was instantly angry. He could feel his face flushing, his blood pressure rising. “Goddammit. We warned them about the consequences of such a test. What the hell do they think is going to happen now? I got General Musharraf’s personal word that there would be no further testing.”

  “Mr. President, it’s worse than that.”

  “What could be worse than Pakistan testing another atomic bomb? This time above ground. India will have to do something. I wonder if we can stop them.”

  “It wasn’t an atomic bomb,” Stein said.

  The president eyed him suspiciously. “What was it then, Brad?”

  “According to the CIA, AFTAC classified it as a thermonuclear device. A hydrogen bomb. In the three-megaton range.” AFTAC, the Air Force Technical Applications Center at Patrick Air Force Base in Florida, monitored the entire world for indications of nuclear weapons blasts.

  President Hanson’s knees felt weak for a moment, and his heart fluttered, bile rising in the back of his throat. “God in heaven,” he said softly. For a second he didn’t know what else to say. But then he focused on his chief of staff. “Who did you get that from?”

  “Dr. Tyson called me with the heads-up late last night. But she asked that you not be disturbed until they had something solid.” Dr. Carolyn Tyson was director of the CIA.

  Now that the second Gulf War was over, China was rattling her sabers again, as were Iran and the PLO. Russia was falling ever more deeply into chaos each day. Sooner or later there would be a revolution and the U.S. would have to stand by to help pick up the pieces and sort out the mess. There were still too many nuclear weapons lying around for us not to interfere. Plus the threat of terrorism was very imminent.

  With nuclear parity the India-Pakistan question had been in some sort of a very tense stasis. Although the situation out there was critical, it had not been an impossible one to deal with politically since Afghanistan and Iraq.

  Until now.

  The blinding of our satellites, especially the Jupiter, had been done for only one reason. To keep us in the dark until Pakistan conducted their test.

  Not only had crucial and expensive American hardware been damaged, a civilian oceanographic research vessel had been lost with all hands.

  Enough was enough.

  All along Pakistan had vowed that when it developed a nuclear weapon, the bomb would be an Islamic bomb. All Pakistan’s brothers in Allah would have it.

  By successfully testing a thermonuclear weapon, the stakes had suddenly been increased by an astronomical factor. There were only a few nations that possessed hydrogen bombs. The club was very exclusive and extremely deadly. With the H-bomb Pakistan had suddenly become a world player. No thing or no person in the region would ever be safe again. That included the oil fields, all shipping in the Persian Gulf, the Arabian and Red Seas, and perhaps one-fourth of the population of the entire world.

  Combined with Pakistan’s government that had been coming apart at the seams ever since it had supported the U.S. over the bin Laden issue, the entire region was on the verge of implosion.

  In fact, the world was once again on the brink of nuclear disaster.

  “Is Dennis up to speed on this?” Hanson asked. Dennis Nettleton was his national security adviser.

  “Yes, sir. He’s on his way from Georgetown now.”

  “As soon as he arrives I want my entire National Security Council convened in the Situation Room.” Hanson glanced again at the clock. He’d been dreaming about snorkeling on the Australian Great Barrier Reef. Flying through the fantastically clear water in the middle of millions of brightly colored fish, alone. Absolutely alone. “At five o’clock. I want the lid kept on this until we can work out some sort of a realistic position.”

  “We’ll shuttle them through the tunnel from the Old Executive Building.”

  “Good. I’m going to get dressed now. Call Dr. Tyson and tell her that I want to see her before the others.”

  “She’s already here, Mr. President,” Stein said. “She’s waiting outside the Oval Office.”

  Dr. Carolyn Tyson, the director of the CIA and special adviser to the president on security affairs, held a Ph.D. in international studies. But besides being an academic, she’d served as the first woman navy SEAL. She was one of the rare Washington breed who’d been there, done that.

  Carolyn Tyson’s appointment had not been among Hanson’s first, but hers had certainly been the most contentious. She had almost everything going against her. At forty-three she was the youngest DCI. She was the first woman to hold the post. She was divorced, and as her ex-husband—a navy captain—once said: “Carolyn has a killer instinct, the attitude to go with it, and the mouth to tell everyone to get out of her way.”

  But she was as brilliant as she was deadly. She had the experience, working first with the Office of Navy Intelligence, then for the National Security Agency as director of special projects, and finally working her way through the ranks within the CIA to become deputy director of operations.

  Not one member of the Senate mentioned that she was black, though it was obvious that half the country had expected it to become an issue.

  “Very well. Tell her that I’ll be down shortly,” Hanson said. Stein left and Attwood came in with the president’s coffee.

  “Are we making an early start of it today, Mr. President?”

  “That we are, William. Better pick me something stern to wear. I’m going to have to make some tough decisions.”

  6

  0320 EDT

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Dr. Carolyn Tyson looked like a special-warfare operator. Her lines were sturdy. Her hair was cut short for a woman, and she wore very little makeup, though her suits were by Gucci, Ferragamo, or Armani and her shoes were handmade in Italy. She wasn’t wealthy, but she’d always been careful with what money she’d earned.

  She rose from her chair in the corner as President Hanson came around the corner with Brad Stein and Pam Plummer, his press secretary.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Carolyn Tyson said. She had a pleasant face that wasn’t quite beautiful and a million-dollar smile when she was in a good mood.

  “Well, the fat’s in the fire this time,” President Hanson said.

  “I’m afraid it’s even worse than that,” Dr. Tyson replied.

  The president glanced at Brad Stein. “I’ll be real glad when people around here stop saying that.”

  Coffee service had already been brought in. Pam served the president. Carolyn Tyson and Stein helped themselves.

  “We have an hour and a half before the others start showing up,” the president said. “I want to know what the hell is going on and why I wasn’t warned about this earlier.”

  “We didn’t know ourselves until it happened,” Carolyn Tyson said. “But we suspected that they were going to try something radical at Kharan. We thought maybe it might be a cruise missile, which is why I sent a team over there to look.”

  “They’re at Kharan?”

  She nodded. “We’ve temporarily lost contact with them because of the post-blast atmospherics, but that should clear soon.”

  “The genie is out of the bottle,” Pam muttered. She looked at the president. The thermonuclear genie. The nuclear-countdown clock to Armageddon had just started ticking again and they all knew it.

  “Mr. President, Scott is over there. He’s the team leader.”

  The president’s eyes narrowed. His lips compressed as if he were biting off a reply. When he spoke it was in carefully measured tones. “My brother is in Pakistan? At Kharan?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carolyn Tyson said. She did not look away; she held his gaze. “We talked when I became the DCI. Scott was either going to be allowed to do the job he was trained for, the job for which he was hired, or I was going to terminate his employment with the Company. You agreed that it was his decision.”

  Presidents did not like to be reminded of things they might have said in the past. “What are we doing to get them out of there?”

  “Nothing for the moment, Mr. President. Not until we reestablish contact. In all likelihood they’re just fine. Surprised, but okay. They’re professionals, and Scott is one of the best. He has a good head on his shoulders, and the right training and background for the job. It’s why the operations officer picked him for the job and that’s why Howard and I both signed off.” Howard Nelson was the Agency’s deputy director of operations.

  The president took a moment to recover his composure. “Very well. Meanwhile New Delhi will want to make a preemptive strike on Islamabad and the Joint Chiefs’ headquarters at Chaklala. I can’t say as I blame them.” Hanson was considered to be the most intensely moral president since Truman. A man’s word was his bond. Pakistan and India had agreed to an uneasy truce under what was known as the Malta Declaration, where it had been hammered out two years ago.

  But eighteen months ago, one of India’s top nuclear scientists had been reported missing when his light plane went
down on a flight between his home in Ahamadabad and New Delhi. Neither his body nor any wreckage had been found. There were rumors, however, that Pakistani rangers working a rogue operation had forced the scientist’s plane down, killed the crew, and whisked him across the border.

  If he was behind the new development, India would be even more rabid to even the score.

  “We’ll have to convince them not to do it,” Carolyn Tyson said. “Pakistan has never tested a new weapon unless they had others already operational. Even though this test was probably not sanctioned by Islamabad, whoever is running the program is following their established protocol.” She looked at the others around the Oval Office. “They’ve tested one hydrogen bomb in the three-megaton range. City busters, they’re called when they’re that big. They probably have others. If India were to attack now she would get her nose bloodied. Very badly. The casualties could easily run into the hundreds of thousands. Perhaps the millions. They could even touch off a regional war that China would almost certainly have to get involved with.” She looked directly at the president. “So would we.”

  “What are our options?” a subdued Hanson asked. “Especially considering the possibility that Islamabad may not be in complete control.”

  “First we need to get our Jupiter satellite systems back up and running. Without decent electronic and photographic intelligence we’d be making policy decisions in the blind.”

  “Is the same group in Pakistan reponsible for the attack on our satellites?”

  “Ultimately, though they don’t have the laser technology to take out our birds. So one of our primary missions is to find out whose submarine fired the laser and stop them from doing it again.”

  Hanson’s jaw visibly tightened. He was an action president. It ran in the family. “God help the bastards when we find out who they are,” he said. “Continue.”

  “Once we make contact with Scott and his people on the ground, we’ll know more, but we’ll have to get them out of there. If they’re spotted, the Pakistani ISI will stop at nothing to destroy them.”

  Hanson nodded. “They’ll use my brother as a hostage if they realize who he is.” Killing foreign hostile submarines and saving American lives, his younger brother’s included, was right up his alley.

  “Then, based on what we’ve come up with, you’ll have to make the final decision, Mr. President,” Carolyn Tyson said. “That will be either convincing Pakistan to take control of its weapons—while at the same time keeping India at bay—or ordering a preemptive strike yourself.”

  “What would our objective be?”

  “Deny them a significant portion of their command structure.”

  “War,” the president said after a long silence.

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. It might come down to that. Including sending ground troops.”

  In Harm’s Way

  1

  0830 LOCAL

  OFF BARBERS POINT

  The SSN21 Seawolf nuclear-powered attack submarine surged away from the west coast of the island of Oahu as if she were impatient to rid herself of the Hawaiian island. An eighteen-foot bow wave curled over her low-slung deck.

  She was covered in black anechoic tiles that made her look like an ominous, dark sea monster, which she was. With a full load of fifty Gould Mark-48 ADCAP torpedoes, and Tomahawk antiship and land-attack missiles, she had the capability under the right circumstances and with the National Nuclear Command release authorization to start and finish a world war all by herself.

  A whole host of people hated the United States and everything she stood for, but there weren’t many who doubted her raw power.

  Standing on the cramped bridge atop the sail, Cmdr. Frank Dillon Jr., scanned the waters directly ahead of his boat through a pair of standard issue Steiners. The usual contingent of pleasure boats and inshore fishing vessels had come out to catch their departure.

  It was a favorite sport amongst a certain contingent of semi-natives, a lot of them ex-navymen. Longer than a football field and capable of diving to depths of more than eighteen hundred feet, the Seawolf was a spectacular thing to see in the wild. Better than whales.

  Dillon figured that this was going to be his last cruise as a submarine commanding officer before he was bumped upstairs to boss an entire squadron. At thirty-eight he was a little young for the responsibility that would come with his promotion to 06, but he had the experience.

  He’d graduated number seven in the Annapolis class of ’84, but he’d come out on top in every other navy school he’d attended. That included the submarine officers basic course (SOBC); submarine officers advanced course (SOAC); prospective executive officers course (PXO); and the top-gun school for submariners: the grueling six-month prospective command officers course (PCO).

  He’d served as an engineering officer in the Sturgeon class Flying Fish; chief weapons officer in the LA class Springfield; exec aboard the Key West, which was another LA class nuclear attack submarine, and finally CO of the Seawolf.

  At just under six feet, he had sandy hair, a thick mustache, a handsome face, and a lean, well-muscled body of a man who worked out a lot.

  He also had an ego. Like just about every other submarine commander. There were less than one hundred nuclear submarines in the U.S. fleet. It was a very elite club. Every CO knew every other CO, and each of them knew that he was the best. Everybody on Dillon’s boat knew it too. They were the dream team: the Miami Heat, Oakland Raiders, Green Bay Packers, and the New York Yankees all rolled into one.

  The boat’s motto was: Hunt it, find it, kill it! There wasn’t a man aboard who doubted that they would be capable of handling whatever was thrown at them, by whoever and wherever.

  Directly after Annapolis, when Dillon applied for submarine school, his first hurdle was the interview with the director of naval reactors (DNR), a four-star admiral who answered only to the joint chiefs and to God. Eighteen years ago the DNR was Adm. Mark Morgan, who after the interview told an aide that what most impressed him about young Ensign Dillon was the man’s no-nonsense attitude and obvious sincerity.

  “Look into that officer’s eyes and you’ll follow him wherever he leads, because you know that he’s telling the rock-bottom truth.”

  Admiral Morgan, now retired in Madison, Wisconsin, was Dillon’s mentor and sometime Dutch uncle.

  “Now,” Ensign Tony “Teflon” Alvarez said at his shoulder. Alvarez was the Seawolf’s navigation officer. He was the only other man in the bridge with the captain and an enlisted lookout, CPO3 Bill Proctor, who was scanning the horizon with binoculars.

  Dillon picked up the growler phone. “Conn, this is the captain. Have we crossed the one thousand fathom line?”

  “Just now, skipper,” his executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. Charles Bateman, responded.

  Dillon took a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to his nav officer, who was grinning ear-to-ear. Alvarez had figured their position by feel. “Not bad, Tony.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dillon made one last three-sixty and then picked up the growler phone again. “Sonar, bridge. How’s it look?”

  “No current subsurface targets, sir. We’re clear.”

  “Very well. Conn, bridge. Prepare to dive.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bateman responded.

  “Clear the bridge,” Dillon ordered. He started his stopwatch.

  The lookout was the first through the hatch down three stories to the control room level, followed by Alvarez.

  Dillon remained on the bridge for a few moments. This was the start of a ninety-day patrol. They’d had their leave, now it was time to earn their pay. It would be a long time before they would see the light of day or taste the fresh salt air. He was a submariner to the depth of his soul, but he was leaving behind his twin teenaged daughters and his wife, Jill, whose uterine cancer was in remission, but she had to face it alone.

  A snatch of something by Yeats came to mind. Something about getting smarter, but sadder with age. The man knew what he was talking about. He too had been there, done that. Jill had taught him that, along with a lot of other things.

  Dillon dropped through the hatch and closed and dogged it, then slid the rest of the way down through the sail. At the bottom he stepped aft into the brightly lit, almost airy control room.