Third World War by Unknown Page A

Pacific Economic Conference meeting in Singapore. They had formed a working relationship. Trade was increasing, but politically they were far from close. India and China saw themselves as natural rivals. One was a democracy, the other an autocracy. Their border was disputed. Each was expanding its blue-water navy to deploy into the other's waters. Each was creating an arsenal of missiles for the day they might have to face each other down.
    All that, however, Mehta put down to the natural progression of nationhood. What he found unpalatable was China's unflinching support for Pakistan. Without China, Pakistan would not have nuclear weapons. Nor would it have the missiles with which to deliver them. Without Chinese weapons, Pakistan could not have supported the insurgency that had raged in Kashmir for twenty years, killing thousands and casting the spectre of war throughout the whole of Asia.
    There was no personal chemistry between the two leaders either. Song came from a world of academia and business. Mehta was a military man who had won office by the accident of his wife's infidelity. He had spent too much time digesting intelligence reports on Chinese weapons sales to Pakistan, its violation of the NPT and the MTCR - the treaties to stop the proliferation of nuclear technology and missiles - and its blatant lying to the international community. Over the years, Mehta's resentment had built up, questioning what sort of successes India and Pakistan would have had in their attempts at peace had China not interfered.
    The line clicked. 'The Chinese wish to know if this is an official or unofficial call, Prime Minister,' said Uddin.
    'What's the difference?' asked Mehta impatiently.
    'If it is unofficial, you can speak in English without interpreters.'
    Mehta's fierce eyes looked straight ahead, angry at the world, but in his empty office finding no place to look that would satisfy them.
    'In English,' he said softly, and he overheard Uddin paraphrase his request to Beijing. 'The Prime Minister wishes to have only a friendly chat with the President.'
    Seconds later, Song was on the line. 'I am so, so sorry, Vasant,' he began. 'I tried to get you, but you must have been overwhelmed. If there is anything, absolutely anything--'
    'There is,' Mehta interrupted. He was both abrupt and accusatory, perhaps more than he meant to be.
    Song took it in good grace. 'Name it.'
    Mehta drew breath. 'I want you to cut all arms supplies to Pakistan. I want your missile and nuclear scientists out of there. I want you to impose a complete arms, aid and trade embargo on that nation, and I want access to your intelligence files--'
    'Prime Minister, Prime Minister,' Song broke in. 'Do you have evidence that this was the work of the Pakistani government?'
    'I haven't finished,' said Mehta. 'What I outlined just now is what you owe this country after supporting those bastards for forty years. We warned you. We kept warning you, and you kept playing with fire. What I just listed, I want you to begin implementing now, as soon as this phone call is finished.'
    'Go on, then,' said Song disbelievingly.
    'If we find a direct link between the attack here and any element of the Pakistani military or intelligence services, you will give unequivocal support for us to go to war and destroy the institutions of that nation.'
    Mehta paused to let his words sink in so there could be no misunderstanding. He had delivered his ultimatum. He had probably been too harsh, too much drawn back to the battlefield, addressing a corporal rather than the president of the most populous country on earth. He would allow Jamie Song a reply, even a defence if he wanted it. But, as he had spoken unprepared, unbriefed by his advisers, Mehta knew he could not negotiate on his conditions. Either China joined the world of civilized nations or he would expose it as a pariah.
    'You are a brave man, Vasant Mehta,' said Song after a decent interval. 'The world has seen your courage. I have