End Game by Dale Brown Page B

knife, right?”
    â€œLaser, and then the injections. Bright and early, but listen—”
    â€œI know. No guarantees.”
    â€œThis is a really long process, Jeff. And I have to be honest, brutally honest—”
    â€œTen percent chance. I know.”
    â€œTen percent is very optimistic,” said Vasin.
    â€œIt’s OK. I understand.”
    â€œOperation 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.”
    â€œBeer’s not food, right?”
    â€œNot after seven. And for the duration of the test period, alcohol and coffee are forbidden.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œBree?”
    â€œYou called for a taxi?”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œLike I said—need a taxi?”
    â€œI thought you were snowed in.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œEverything all right?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œOperation still on for tomorrow?”
    â€œNot much of an operation,” he told her. “They just inject me with crap. Don’t even knock me out.”
    â€œCrap,” she said sarcastically.
    â€œLet’s go grab something to eat, OK? I’m fasting fromseven 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.”
    â€œNo beer or coffee? You sure this is worth it?” Breanna laughed.
    â€œHope so.”

 
    Navy Ministry Building,
New Delhi, India
6 January 1998
0900
    D EPUTY D EFENSE M INISTER A NIL M EMON 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.
    â€œWho else would have launched the attack?” he said. “Who else has connections to these pirates?”
    â€œWe have no proof of connections,” said the Prime Minister.
    â€œThey 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.”
    â€œYou haven’t proven your case,” said the Prime Minister.
    â€œHow many of my sailors must die before you consider it proven?” said Memon.
    â€œThey are my sailors too, Deputy Minister,” said the Prime Minister, his anger finally rising. “More mine than yours.”
    â€œThen let us act. Mobilize. Send the new carrier to blockade the Pakistani ports.”
    â€œMy deputy speaks with passion,” said Minister Skandar softly. “Take into account that he is young.”
    â€œI assumed he spoke for you,” said the Prime Minister.
    â€œHe 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.