Thanks to Storylist, CajunBear73, OechsnerC, Atomicsub927, and everyone else for their reviews and commentary.

=O=

Chapter 25: Dramatic Military Confrontation

Stoick inhaled sharply as he examined the massive situation map on the wall.

A large, curved, dotted line, bowing south, divided the Joint Government to the north and India to the south, with Bhutan and Nepal squeezed in between. To the west lay West Pakistan, Kashmir, and the disputed Western Sector, to the east, Myanmar, East Pakistan, the disputed Eastern Sector, and Indian Assam, wedged uncomfortably between East Pakistan and Myanmar.

Southward of the line stretched the bulk of India, a blunt dagger thrust deep into the Indian Ocean, with the Bay of Bengal to its east and the Arabian Sea to its west. In the center of the subcontinent rose the highlands of the Deccan, ringed on all sides by plains dotted with bustling cities – coastal plains to the east and west, and the great floodplain of the Ganges to its north, separating the Deccan from the great mountain range of the Himalayas.

Northward of the border stretched the seemingly endless mountains of Tibet Province, interstate highways and railway lines linking its scattered towns and cities, set in valleys amongst towering mountains. Products of the inexorable eons-old movement of the Indian plate northward as it was swallowed under the mass of Asia at five millimetres a year, the vast tectonic crumple zone extended across Qinghai, and sent shockwaves across the landscape of Sichuan, Yunnan, and South-east Asia, creating lands of hilly jungle enterprising apes had subsequently covered in terraced rice paddies.

Stoick shook his head, and turned his attention to the markers indicating the locations of his air forces. Across the length and breadth of this vast frontier, two thousand kilometers from Kashmir to Myanmar, scores of aircraft were continuously aloft. The patrolling jets formed a ballet of airpower, ever-shifting, ever-changing, sometimes feinting towards the audience for brief moments before withdrawing to the stage.

At a moment seemingly no different from any other, the ballet would transiently assume a perfect attack configuration – and pounce across the length and breadth of India, hopefully upon an audience desensitized and unalert from a week of watching continuous air operations.

He smiled as a staff officer placed a flurry of fresh markers on his board. The ballet of airpower had just received a fresh injection of machines, even as a dozen aircraft turned around upon hitting the Indian border, just waiting for orders to turn right back around and head straight for central India.

More markers appeared offshore – Navy strike packages, headed for Indian naval and coastal targets. Multiple Soviet cargo ships had maneuvered evasively when asked to heave to for helicopters to drop off inspectors. They would not evade Navy strike aircraft, or their laser-guided bombs.

Simultaneously, even as ground forces applied pressure across the frontiers, the Airborne would land in the Indian rear, cutting off the disputed territories from reinforcements. Artillery and airpower would do the rest.

The moment of perfection was fast approaching.

Stoick was tense with anticipation. He thought of the latest revisions to the plans, and shrugged. He was as ready as his years of training, experience, and hard work could have made him. His stomach wasn't aching, but the butterflies that came with being responsible for the fate of over a hundred thousand men were as strong as ever.

He thought of his bottle of antacids, in the drawer under his desk next to a dusty picture of Valka and Hiccup.

Nope. His stomach felt fine. He wouldn't need them tonight.

He glanced at the command phone. If the call hadn't come through to cancel by now, it probably wouldn't come at all.

The ultimatum had expired five hours ago. Operation Avalanche was now as unstoppable as its namesake.

Well, politically, at least. The gears of war, already greased by years of high tensions, had been kicked into overdrive by the nationwide panic over the Soviet-Indian nuclear test. The papers decried the complete failure of the Administration's foreign policy while fanning the flames of fear. Voices in Congress were calling for immediate preemptive nuclear strikes, for an inquiry into the Administration's handling of the crisis, even – in hushed whispers – for impeachment. The Administration's nominal supporters were barely holding the line, and by all accounts were asking pointed questions themselves. With Indian intransigence clear, Avalanche was going ahead, and damn the torpedoes.

Militarily, if the Indians stuck to conventional arms, Stoick was confident – certain, even - that he could accomplish his mission with under ten thousand casualties.

Of course, a few dozen well-placed nuclear strikes would stop his forces dead in their tracks and annihilate his airpower.

He was not alone in his assessment.

=O=

Admiral Yeung walked up to the SAC general, his expression grim. It was one thing to be conservative with naval forces, and another to chicken out on the eve of battle. But needing to beg for help from the Strategic Air Command – the service that had held up carrier construction for a decade to pay for its pet bombers… well, that was another thing altogether.

General Bludvist smiled insincerely as the Admiral approached. Did he know?

For a moment, the Admiral pondered withdrawing his request, and sticking to the original plan – the one that called for his carriers to continue to fight in the event of escalation to nuclear hostilities in India.

But then he pictured Saratoga, her flat top swept clean of aircraft, her broken island denuded of antennae, her skin charred black by thermonuclear heat, her sturdy, almost-battleship-like high-strength steel hull battered but afloat, her funnels still belching gently…

…even as thousands of men groaned, vomited, and died within her, radiation casualties all.

A floating tomb of a flattop, never to fight again. Scratched.

He swallowed his pride. "General Bludvist. I am here to communicate a change in our tactical nuclear contingency planning. The Navy has reviewed the tactical situation… and has decided that, if conditions hold, it can no longer commit naval aviation assets to offensive operations in the event of widespread tactical nuclear weapons use."

He awaited the SAC general's inevitable mockery, and his face burned with shame. For all its talk of conventional and sub-crisis utility, the Navy had, on the eve of battle, been forced to face facts.

Its beloved carriers were indeed obsolete in the nuclear age, regardless of how many nuclear freefall bombs they hung on the attack jets.

At least the submarine force would be safe from the budget shifts that were sure to come, if the war went nuclear. The Admiral prayed it wouldn't.

Drago nodded, his grin never leaving his face. "So… you wish for us to exclude the Navy from all tactical nuclear contingency plans?"

The Admiral nodded. "Yes, General Bludvist. I have our target lists and relevant planning documents right here." One of his staff officers stepped forward, a large box in his hands. "The Navy… regrets that it will be unable to participate, but believes that your command has the necessary forces to cover these targets."

While some criticized the relatively inflexible nature of nuclear war plans, the fact of the matter was that nuclear wars – even tactical nuclear wars – would unfold very, very quickly, as vast forces were consumed in nuclear fireballs and supersonic aircraft streaked across the sky. The timeframes in question were completely inadequate for on-the-spot planning. Better to have overly-rigid plans ready to go than have perfect plans that only materialized after the relevant weapons systems were smoking craters.

The SAC general tilted his head, puzzled. "Of course. But… I have a question. Doesn't the Navy train for nuclear war? I… was under the impression your big… expensive… carriers would have a better go of it than our airbases. They can… at least run and hide."

The Admiral grimaced. "Between, tactics, defensive countermeasures, and a little armor, a carrier has a good chance of avoiding being tracked even if it gets spotted, and a good chance of surviving a massed non-nuclear attack even if it gets tracked."

"So don't get spotted. Hide, as you usually do." The SAC officer prompted.

"Spotting a carrier is a helluva lot easier – and happens a lot more often - than tracking a carrier. In nuclear war, if you get spotted, you get nuked. Getting spotted often boils down to pure luck, and I sure as hell ain't gonna bet the lives of thousands of men and an irreplaceable billion-dollar national asset on luck."

Especially when the Air Force can do the job just as well, but I sure as hell ain't gonna say that.

"Nukes ruin all our naval counters. Evading or attacking the enemy while they prepare a strike package? Who cares?! The scout plane had a nuke on it, and you're dead. Decoys? Still dead even if it hits a kilometer away. Armor? You're kidding me. An airbase is at least more spread-out, and has more dirt to protect airplanes. Ships are… flimsy. A ship's a fool to fight a fort, remember?"

Drago smirked. "So… what you're saying… is that the surface Navy can't fight a nuclear war."

"No. I'm saying the surface Navy suffers from many disadvantages when fighting a nuclear war, and that the necessity of preserving the carrier force for subsequent stages of this conflict far outweighs the risk of sending them into an unprofitable situation, especially when Air Force assets are available."

Drago nodded knowingly. "Of course you are, Admiral." His grin stretched from ear to ear.

Admiral Yeung harrumphed. "Thank you for your understanding, General. I'll leave my aide to handle the details." He managed to crack a smile. "Unlike you, General, I have a war to fight."

Drago's grin did not let up. "We'll see, Admiral. We'll see."

=O=

The Soviet Major walked nervously in the dark, the leaves of the mountain forest scrunching under his boots. He arrived at the first of his missile batteries.

Covered in camouflage netting to lessen the effectiveness of Pacifican TV-guided bombs, and surrounded by earthen berms to render a near-miss ineffective, the giant SS-4 long-range missiles looked extremely impressive, even by red torchlight.

Sounds of shouting emerged from the nearest hide, and the Major hurried to break up the altercation.

Everyone had been on high alert since the Pacifican blockade, and nerves were frayed everywhere. The Major sighed as he reminisced about the euphoric first days after they had unveiled their arsenal. The glory of the stunning coup of Operation Anadyr had worn off as the capitalist response escalated, but the Major still took solace in the fact that the Pacificans would not dare widen its war aims while his weapons still defended India.

He stopped his defeatist thoughts in their tracks. Surely there would be more such glorious days to come. By properly planning economies instead of wasting energy in meaningless competition, socialism, was destined to triumph over capitalism. It was scientifically proven, even. Military conflict was just a symptom of the underlying ideological-economic struggle; therefore, as Socialism gained the upper hand in the economic sphere, Socialist military victories would follow suit. By the time of the new millennium, he was sure, Socialism would surely be dominant – and his leaders assured him that true Communism could be expected by that far-off date.

He shook his head, and headed into the hide.

An Indian technician was pointing and jeering at a pair of Soviet technicians, and the Indian translator had apparently taken a side.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Major asked.

The technician spoke. "The Indian here said that we should use the nuclear missiles to force the Pacificans to give up the blockade, and I called him a nincompoop, because nuclear war would kill us all."

The Indian translator spoke. "Your technician does not have socialist spirit! He cares nothing for the well-being of our nation even while the imperialists bully us."

The Major shook his head. "Now, now, everyone. We must all cooperate in the spirit of socialist brotherhood, and show ample respect for our Indian hosts."

He turned to the Indians. "World Socialism cannot flourish if the world is a radioactive charnel house. Our nuclear weapons are very dangerous, and cannot be used lightly. They are purely defensive weapons – not like the terribly offensive capitalist tactical bombs. Our mission is to protect the Indian nation from ultimate defeat – to deter the imperialists from causing unacceptable harm to your nation by giving you the means to strike back. For instance, we would strike if the capitalists tried to separate Assam from your great nation, or if they destroyed New Delhi. However, because the guiding lights of World Socialism are in our capitals, we must discipline ourselves, and only launch upon receiving lawful orders from both Moscow and New Delhi."

"Who are you to decide what constitutes unacceptable damage to India?!" The translator yelled.

"We are fraternal socialist allies. We care about each other. Remember what we have accomplished already!" The Major nodded. "Now, discipline yourselves. No more shouting matches! War is upon us."

A turbojet roared overhead, and everyone looked up.

=O=

Not the most action-packed chapter, I know, but I felt that some sort of transition was necessary before the bullets start flying.