Damage Control. Gordon Kent

      He reentered his household when he left his meditation chamber. Outside waited the cares of the world as represented by his aide, Vashni, who bowed. He smiled at her. “Give me a lemon drop, Vash.”

      She produced one, her head tilted to one side. She could read that his meditation was not satisfactory. “I have all the reports, sir. Our military situation is good. I have reports from each of our member units with their status and preparedness. Only the Nehru has not reported in, which was to be expected.”

      “Excellent.”

      “Some of the financial information is late from Delhi because the government closed the exchange early.”

      “Really? Whatever for?”

      “There was the threat of a terrorist act. Or so the television claims.”

      “Any effect on us?”

      “None.” She was confident, arrogant.

      He was walking now, leaving meditation for business and chewing his lemon drop. She followed him, reading figures on the output of factories and the price quotes of stocks that he assimilated without need of a pen and paper in much the way he could know the fullness of the lotus. Details of military units loyal to him and prepared to act. As he expected. He was making enormous sums of money, also as expected. He went to his office, nodded gravely to his private secretary in greeting as he passed through the outer office and continued to his desk, his attention on Vash unwavering. She had already prepared his laptop with input from her own files and he clicked idly through PowerPoint slides that illustrated the points she was making.

      “What a pity that we cannot simply buy the world and fix her,” he said with a smile, looking at the vast sums of money they were compiling.

      Vash smiled in return.

      Daro touched a button on his desk and ordered tea. Then he reached under his shirt and withdrew a small golden plastic shell and plugged it into his laptop. The screen cleared and another image took its place, then passed away in a swirl of graphics, to be replaced by a word-processing screen.

      His private secretary, once a devout Muslim, came in with a tray of tea and set it on his desk. He paused expectantly, and Daro motioned him to sit and join them. “Really, Ali, you might as well drink tea with us. A few more people might help create a sense of drama.”

      Both of them laughed. “Drama” was usually a word of opprobrium to the believers. In this case, the absence of drama was clear, and almost comic given the gravity of the moment.

      “I could not sleep last night, sir,” Ali murmured. He was an old man; the admission seemed boyish.

      “Goodness, Ali. You don’t have reservations? If you do, please tell me.”

      “Not reservations, sir.” A certain gleam came into Ali’s eyes, almost rakish. “Eagerness.”

      Vash nodded as well. “So long in the planning,” she murmured. “So quick in the execution.”

      Daro smiled, opened his mouth, and was hit by another spasm. He put his head down and held his abdomen with both hands, and when he raised his head, much of the color had left his face. “It won’t be so quick, my friends, because something will go wrong.”

      They looked startled.

      He nodded and took a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. We will act, and someone will react, and we will react to their reacting, and there will be conflict and uncertainty and death. Something will surprise us, and our true test will not be in the years we prepared but in the moments where we must react to something we have not expected. That is the way.”

      Vash, the consummate businesswoman, shook her head. “After all this preparation, I expect better. I expect victory.” She sounded as if she demanded it.

      “Have I taught you nothing?” The color was back in his face, and his left hand had moved from his abdomen. He sat straighter. He looked at Vash. “There will be no victory, Vash. Or if there is a victory, it will be so impersonal that we will not recognize it, and few of us will see it, or even enjoy it. That is what it means to be a servant rather than a master. We serve the earth. The earth will never thank us except by surviving and thriving when we are gone.”

      She nodded with her eyes cast down. “I spoke rashly.”

      “Excellent! If everyone remembered every lesson and had no thoughts of his own, we would be working for the opposite of entropy, I think. Are we ready?”

      “I would have liked this naval exercise with the Americans to have finished.”

      “Like all elements in strategy, the naval exercise will pose us both problems and solutions. I admit that your part would be easier if there were no exercise, but the greater plan would be harder.” He looked at Ali. “Are we ready?”

      “Your household is ready to move to the secure location.” He nodded sharply, as if, unlike Vash, he had no doubts and that scored him a point.

      Daro turned his attention back to the laptop and typed “Chaos” into the screen.

      He moved the mouse arrow to the send button and caught their eyes with his, deep pools of black that gave away little light.

      “Here we go,” he said, and clicked the mouse.

Day One

       1

      West Fleet HQ, Indian Navy, Mahe, India

      For Commander Alan Craik, Fleet Exercise Lord of Light was the culmination of six months of work, and, with six minutes to startex, he was angry because he, as umpire, could see that one side was already cheating—the US side. He looked around the large room that housed exercise planning and control—banks of computers, a central console that blocked his view of part of the room, ratings and a couple of officers in Indian naval khakis, and his own two US personnel.

      “Sir?” Benvenuto was a skinny kid from the boonies of northern New York, a long way from home in this Indian naval headquarters. “Admiral Rafehausen’s on the net for you, sir.”

      Craik walked around the big console. In front of him was a bank of encrypted radios that kept him linked to the US forces at sea, four hundred miles to the west. He grabbed a head mike with earphones. “Good morning, sir.”

      “You’re late.” He knew Admiral Rafehausen’s voice—an old friend, pilot of the first aircraft he ever flew on. “You sleep in, Al? Leaving Rose for a nautch dancer?”

      “I don’t think they even have nautch dancers anymore.”

      “You should get out more often, Commander. What you got for me?”

      “I have startex minus six, and you have an S-3 way out of exercise start parameters, sir.” He trailed the mike cord so he could lean over the JOTS terminal—the Joint Operational Tactical System, which showed the entire exercise and could, if asked, show US and other forces all over the world—watching a lone S-3 Viking move at low altitude along the eastern edge of the Lakshadweep Islands. Paul Stevens, Alan thought to himself. Hotdogging. “I see him, Al. I guess he didn’t get the message.”

      “I have to hold exercise start until that aircraft is within start parameters, sir.”

      “Hey, Al, lighten up. I got my beach recon teams in the water now. I’ve got my decks full of guys waiting to launch and I can’t exactly call them off. My Combat Air Patrol is up and already needs fuel from the tankers on the deck. You know the drill, Al. Let’s just say I’ll ignore AG 702 for a while, okay? Can we get this thing underway?”

      Alan ran the trackball over