No Return: Part 3

• Part 1
• Part 2

Part 3

The chastised fighter pilots, unaware that their chat had set off alarms in Washington, D. C., followed the flight plan faithfully after the initial lapse. To conserve fuel, they flew at fivehundred miles per hour for now. That would change, though, once they neared their targets. At blinding speed, the Falcons would penetrate the Indian air defense envelope and rain hell on the two Indian cities.

About the author

Nishith Vasvada migrated to the United States in 1985 and attended Texas A&M University. He currently lives in Texas and works with a multinational chemical company as an environmental engineer. When not working, and when not busy raising his two children, and not chasing the hone do errands for his wife, he sits at his Mac Performa 630 and dreams up stories. Contact Nishith Vasavada at vnish@worldnet.att.net with your comments.

Hugging Pakistan's western border, they had flown fourhundred miles south to the Persian Gulf, well out of the reach of the Indian radars. Soon, two of the four Falcons would swing east speed past Pakistan's southern coast, cross the Indian border over the desert of Rajasthan, then turn north, and sneak up on New Delhi. Their target: a top secret nuclear weapons facility fifty miles south of the Indian capital.

The remaining two Falcons would maintain the southern course for three-hundred more miles before turning east. They would aim straight for the nuclear plant near Bombay, the plant that produced weapons-grade plutonium. The pilots would fly back to Pakistan, Insha'llah--God willing.

Grim-faced men and a woman sat around the famous desk in the Oval Office, now turned into a situation room of sorts, equipped with secure communications gear, two large flat-panel television screens and a powerful IBM workstation. The equipment was moved in and assembled in haste. The White House operator had alerted the Chief Usher, the man in charge of all White House staff. Even at this late hour, the Chief Usher had personally pushed in a cart full of sandwiches, soft drinks, and coffee in the Oval Office and disappeared by the time the last attendee rushed in.

"All right, let me summarize the situation," Don Preston said. "We believe four Pakistan Air Force F-16 Falcons, most likely carrying nuclear bombs, are on their way to India. I have spoken with the Pakistani Prime Minister about this, but he has denied knowledge of such attack, although he speculated that the PAF Falcons may split and strike New Delhi to the north and Bombay to the south. I have urged Prime Minister Baksh to order the Falcons back. Next, I --"

"Excuse me Mr. President, but Bombay has been renamed. It's now called Mumbai." The Secretary of State interposed.

"I don't give a damn--and please don't interrupt me--Bombay or Mumbay . . . or whatever. It's about to be bombed back to the Stone Age. I have no time for the political correctness." Don Preston shot back, then carried on. "I have notified our ambassadors in both countries, but I have not called the Indian Prime Minister Hari Lal yet. If the PAF Falcons don't turn back, I will have to inform him."

"Excuse me, Sir." Bernie Woods, the National Security Advisor, spoke. "We may be in position to intervene. On may way here, I asked Commander Gilbert on board Abraham Lincoln to track the four Falcons. Let's find out."

Commander Gilbert was already patched up to the White House and was waiting on one of the TV screens. The camera focused on Commander Gilbert's tense face. Bernie asked him for an update.

"Fortunately, we diverted one Tomcat to intercept--"

"Just one F-14 Tomcat?" The President asked.

"One's enough, Sir," Bernie explained. "We believe, in fact we are sure, the Pak Falcons can't carry air to air missiles because of the weight of the fuel. Without the missiles, they are dead ducks."

"But we need to get 'em before they split in four different directions, Mr. President." Commander Gilbert interjected.

Don Preston thought for a few seconds. Then he pushed his body forward, bringing his face closer to the group seated on the other side of the table. "What 'bout the goddamned nuke bombs, Commander? Can they explode if we shoot the Falcons?"

"I'm afraid an L-O-D is possible, but an H-O-D is unlikely." Commander Gilbert began explaining in the military lingo.

"Spare me the jargon, Commander. Would someone explain to me-in twenty-five words or less--if there is a danger of a nuclear explosion in this situation?" Then he glanced at Bernie Woods.

"Commander Gilbert is correct, Sir. A direct hit will explode the nuclear bombs, but a nuclear reaction is almost impossible." Bernie Woods explained, with five words to spare.

"And why not, Bernie?"

"That'll take more than twenty-five words." "Go ahead, but give me the Reader's Digest version." The President warned.

Bernie Woods straightened the crease in his blue jacket, cleared his throat, and began a quick lesson in the nuclear reaction of a fission bomb. "A nuclear device itself is not very large. The nuclear material, uranium in this case, is contained in a metal sphere."

Bernie Looked around. The President nodded.

"Keep going." "Conventional explosives or detonators are attached on the surface of this metal sphere. The detonators are fired by very sophisticated electronic switches called Krytrons." Bernie continued.

"Pardon the interruption, Mr. President," Sec. Def. raised his hand like an eager schoolboy.

"Yes?"

"The detonators attached to the sphere implode the bomb inward, not explode it outward."

"Good point," Bernie said, "the nuclear core is compressed until its density doubles or quadruples. This is an extremely complex process. It has to be done right, you know, to excite the atoms and generate the critical mass. Once the chain reaction is set in motion, the High Order Detonation begins."

The phone on the President's desk rang. He picked it up and listened. Then he gently dropped the mouth-piece on the cradle. "Hyder Baksh just confirmed our worst fear. The four PAF planes are renegades armed with nuclear weapons. He tried to call them back, but the planes have ignored his orders. India is under nuclear attack."

A hush filled the Oval Office. No one moved.

"Mr. President, we have no time. Please order the Navy to shoot the four Pakistani aircrafts before it's too late." Vice President Kathy Morgan broke the silence.

Don Preston peered at the faces clustered around his desk. Then he turned around, looked out of the armor-plated window, and said, "I agree. I'd much rather shoot down the aircrafts of a friendly nation than be blamed for not stopping an unprovoked nuclear attack."

He raised his glasses on his forehead and rubbed his face vigorously and wished this were really a dream. After a minute of nerve-splitting pause he spoke again, still facing the window. "Ned, please call the Indian Prime minister. He deserves to know." Then he turned and faced the Vice President. "Kathy, you know Hari Lal personally. Assure him that we will stop the attack. The last thing I want is for the Indians to panic and launch a nuclear counterattack."