“WE CANNOT DO that,” the Indian Prime Minister protested, with the admission: “We only recently had a lesson from the American navy.”
“It was a harsh one,” Zhang agreed. “But it did no permanent harm. I believe the damage to your ships will be made good in two more weeks.” That statement turned India’s head around. She’d learned that fact herself only a few days earlier. The repairs were using up a sizable portion of the Indian navy’s annual operating budget, which had been her principal concern. It wasn’t every day that a foreign country, particularly one which had once been a shooting enemy, revealed its penetration of another’s government.
“America is a facade, a giant with a sick heart and a damaged brain,” Daryaei said. “You told us yourself, Prime Minister. President Ryan is a small man in a large job. If we make the job larger and harder, then America will lose its ability to interfere with us, for a long enough time that we can achieve our goals. The American government is paralyzed, and will remain so for some weeks to come. All we need do is to increase the degree of paralysis.”
“And how might one do that?” India asked.
“Through the simple means of stretching their commitments while at the same time disturbing their internal stability. On the one hand, mere demonstrations will suffice on your part. On the other, that is my concern. It is better, I think, that you have no knowledge of it.”
Had he been able to do so, Zhang would not evert have
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breathed at the moment, the better to control his feelings. It wasn’t every day that he met someone more ruthless than himself, and, no, he didn’t want to know what Daryaei had in mind. Better for another country to commit an act of war. “Do go on,” he said, reaching inside his jacket for a cigarette.
“Each of us represents a country with great abilities and greater needs. China and India have large populations and need both space and resources. I will soon have resources, and the capital that comes with them, and also the ability to control how both are distributed. The United Islamic Republic will become a great power, as you are already great powers. The West has dominated the East for too long.” Daryaei looked directly at Zhang. “To our north is a rotting corpse. Many millions of the Faithful are there and require liberation. There are also resources and space which your country needs. These I offer to you, if you will in turn offer the lands of the Faithful to me.” Then he looked at the Indian Prime Minister. “To your south lies an empty continent with the space and resources you need. For your cooperation, I think the United Islamic Republic and the People’s Republic are willing to offer their protection. From each of you I ask only quiet cooperation without direct risk.”
India remarked to herself that she’d heard that one before, but her needs had not changed from before, either. China immediately came up with a means of providing a distraction that offered little in the way of danger. It had happened before. Iran–what was this United Islamic Republic . . . oh, of course, Zhang thought. Of course. The UIR would take all the real risks, though it would seem that those were unusually well calculated. He would do his own check of the correlation of forces on his return to Beijing.
“I ask no commitments at this point, obviously. You will need to assure yourselves that I am serious in my abilities and intentions. I do ask that you give full consideration to my proposed–informal–alliance.”
“Pakistan,” the Prime Minister said, foolishly tipping her hand, Zhang thought.
“Islamabad has been an American puppet for too long,
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and cannot be trusted,” Daryaei replied at once, having thought that one through already, though he hadn’t really expected India to jump so readily. This woman hated America as much as he did. Well, the “lesson” as she’d called it must have injured her pride even more deeply than his diplomats had told him. How typical for a woman to value her pride so highly. And how weak. Excellent. He looked over at Zhang.
“Our arrangements with Pakistan are commercial only, and as such are subject to modification,” China observed, equally delighted at India’s weakness. It was no one’s fault but her own. She’d committed forces to the field–well, the sea–in support of Japan’s inefficient attack on America … while China had done nothing and risked nothing, and emerged from the “war” unhurt and uninvolved. Even Zhang’s most cautious superiors had not objected to his play, failed though it was. And now, again, someone else would take the risks, and India would move in pacifist support, and China would have to do nothing but repeat an earlier policy that seemingly had nothing to do with this new UIR, but was rather a test of a new American President, and that sort of thing happened all the time anyway. Besides, Taiwan was still an annoyance. It was so curious. Iran, motivated by religion of all things. India, motivated by greed and anger. China, on the other hand, thought for the long term, dispassionately, seeking what really mattered, but with circumspection, as always. Iran’s goal was self-evident, and if Daryaei was willing to risk war for it, then, why not watch in safety, and hope for his success? But he wouldn’t commit his country now. Why appear too eager? India was eager, enough so to overlook the obvious: If Daryaei was successful, then Pakistan would make its peace with the new UIR, perhaps even join it, and then India would be isolated and vulnerable. Well, it was dangerous to be a vassal, and all the more so if you had aspirations to graduate to the next level–but without the wherewithal to make it happen. One had to be careful choosing allies. Gratitude among nations was a hothouse flower, easily wilted by exposure to the real world.
The Prime Minister nodded in acknowledgment of her victory over Pakistan, and said no more.
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“In that case, my friends, I thank you for graciously agreeing to meet with me, and with your permission, I will take my leave.” The three stood. Handshakes were exchanged, and they headed to the door. Minutes after that, Daryaei’s aircraft rotated off the bumpy fighter strip. The mullah looked at the coffeepot and decided against it. He wanted a few hours of sleep before morning prayers. But first–
“Your predictions were entirely correct.”
“The Russians called these things ‘objective conditions.’ They are and remain unbelievers, but their formulas for analysis of problems have a certain precision to them,” Badrayn explained. “That is why I have learned to assemble information so carefully.”
“So I have seen. Your next task will be to sketch in some operations.” With that, Daryaei pushed back his seat and closed his eyes, wondering if he would dream again of dead lions.
MUCH AS HE wished for a return to clinical medicine, Pierre Alexandre didn’t especially like it, at least this matter of treating people who would not survive. The former Army officer in him figured that defending Bataan had been like this. Doing all you could, firing off your best rounds, but knowing that relief would never come. At the moment, it was three AIDS patients, all homosexual men, all in their thirties, and all with less than a year to live. Alexandre was a fairly religious man, and he didn’t approve of the gay lifestyle, but nobody deserved to die like this. And even if they did, he was a physician, not God sitting in judgment. Damn, he thought, walking off the elevator and speaking his patient notes into a mini-tape recorder.
It’s part of a doctor’s job to compartmentalize his life. The three patients on his unit would still be there tomorrow, and none of them would require emergency attention that night. Putting their problems aside was not cruel. It was just business, and their lives, were they to have any hope at all, would depend on his ability to turn away from their stricken bodies and back to researching the
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microsized organisms that were attacking them. He handed the tape cassette to his secretary, who’d type up the notes.
“Dr. Lorenz down in Atlanta returned your call returning his call returning your original call,” she told him as he passed. As soon as he sat down, he dialed the direct line from memory.
“Yes?”
“Gus? Alex here at Hopkins. Tag,” he chuckled, “you’re it.” He heard a good laugh at the other end of the line. Phone tag could be the biggest pain in the ass.
“How’s the fishing, Colonel?”
“Would you believe I haven’t had a chance yet? Ralph’s working me pretty hard.”
“What did you want from me–you did call first, didn’t you?” Lorenz wasn’t sure anymore, another sign of a man working too hard.