By Dawn's Early Light by David Hagberg Page B

spies—”
    â€œIndia would have attacked us by now if they suspected what we were up to,” Musharraf replied. He seemed to be supremely confident. “Don’t worry, Jamsed, very soon our work will be finished and Pakistan will be secure for the first time in her history.” He raised his hand in a fist and shook it once as if he had grasped a deadly snake and was breaking its spine. The gesture had become the symbol for tiny Pakistan breaking the will of the mighty Indian military juggernaut poised along her borders.
    A ranger detail met them with a pair of electric carts just inside the entrance. They were whisked through two additional sets of blast doors and down a three-kilometer rock tunnel to the cavernous rocket research group’s Chardar development and assembly facility. The complex of offices, living quarters, and a huge assembly hall were hollowed out of the living mountain. It could withstand a direct hit by India’s most powerful nuclear weapons.
    This was the only truly safe spot in all of Pakistan, and yet everyone walked on tiptoes and spoke in whispered tones. They were playing with the ultimate fire here.
    Lying prone on their transportation dollies were five TK7 massive three-stage guided missiles. Their nose cones were detached and were being fitted with copies of the thermonuclear weapon that had been tested two days ago at Kharan Depot. The vast cavern hummed with activity. Strong work lights in the rock ceiling and walls illuminated the space like day. At least two hundred scientists, technicians, engineers, machinists, and air force operators worked on the project around the clock.
    General Musharraf had never been here before. After Kharan, however, he felt that he had to see for himself what progress they were making. He was impressed.
    â€œGood evening, sir,” General Phalodi said, shambling like a shaggy bear from the glass-enclosed communications center. He brought his heels together and saluted.
    Musharraf let him hold the pose for a moment or two, then returned the salute. “I came to see for myself if you are on schedule.”
    General Phalodi was an old warrior. He didn’t flinch. “There are technical problems with the guidance systems. My engineers estimate that it will take six weeks to complete the modifications.”
    Neither man was kidding the other. Musharraf knew about the delay, and Phalodi knew that he knew. Just as both men knew that the real timetable the engineers had given for the repairs was more like three to four weeks.
    This time, however, the game that they had played so many times before was no longer possible. “You have two weeks, Karas. All five rockets must be fitted with their payloads, their guidance systems repaired and programmed, and they must be deployed to their launch sites.”
    â€œIt is a goal to shoot for, General. Considering the pressure we’re under from the U.S. because of the Kharan test. But it is possibly an unrealizable goal.”
    General Asif wondered if Phalodi was thinking about the ISI colonel he had shot to death two days ago because of a similar delay.
    â€œNonetheless it must be met,” Musharraf said. He glanced at the five missiles. They were basically land-launched versions of the French Aérospatiale M4 submarine-launched ballistic missiles. Thirty-six feet long, more than six feet in diameter, the eighty-thousand-pound missiles could deliver a nuclear payload out to distances in excess of four thousand miles. All of India was reachable.
    This was just the first step, Musharraf thought. Each of these missiles could carry one three-megaton thermonuclear warhead. Within three years the warheads would be smaller by a factor of six, allowing the TK7s to carry six multiple independently targeted reentry vehicles (MIRVs). Five missiles could deliver payloads to thirty targets.
    Even China did not have the means and certainly not the will to accomplish such a feat, though they