Charles Wheelan - The Rationing

We were getting very close to the answer for one of Professor Huke’s final exams, and we could feel the time slipping away. As we were celebrating our wiki science project, the Chief of Staff requested a moment alone with the President. “The doctors are going to bring Cecelia Dodds out of a coma,” she informed him.

“That’s great—”

“No,” she said gently. “They don’t think she will make it, and this will give her some time with her family.”

“Thank you for letting me know.”

THE MEETING BETWEEN THE SECRETARY OF STATE AND THE Indian Prime Minister kept getting pushed back, first to eleven-fifteen a.m. Delhi time and then eleven-thirty. Just as the Secretary of State and her entourage were preparing to leave the American Embassy for the Parliament building, the Secretary of State was summoned to a secure conference room to take a call. It was the Secretary of Defense, who had been consumed with the Saudi hostage situation, but was now insistent on speaking to the Secretary of State before her meeting with the Indian Prime Minister. The two cabinet members had a prickly relationship in the best of circumstances. The Secretary of State was still angry at having been left out of the China Dormigen discussions, something for which she blamed the Secretary of Defense (unfairly, I would argue). In any event, she did not welcome his reappearance in what was clearly a diplomatic process. “We think the Indians are going to ask for the F-80,” the Secretary of Defense said without any prefatory small talk.

“And why do we think that?” the Secretary of State asked coldly.

“That’s what sources are telling us,” he replied vaguely. The F-80 was America’s most strategically advanced fighter jet. The U.S. government had not offered to sell the jet to any other countries save for the Israelis, and even then some of the most important technology had been removed. “It can’t happen,” the Secretary of Defense said emphatically.

“The Indians are an important ally,” the Secretary of State answered. “Maybe we offer to share some of the technology down the road.”

“No,” the Secretary of Defense said. “It will destabilize the entire region. The Pakistanis will go nuts.” His voice was rising. “There can be no mention of the F-80—none.”

The Secretary of State knew he was right but resented the lecture anyway. “How good is your intelligence?” she asked.

“The intelligence is good,” the Secretary of Defense answered. “We know the Indian generals want the F-80. What we don’t know is how the PM feels about it. We don’t know if he cares enough to make it a negotiating point.”

“He’s ex–Air Force,” the Secretary of State offered.

“I think that works in our favor,” the Secretary of Defense said. The Indian Prime Minister had been a decorated fighter pilot and later a general in the Air Force. Conventional wisdom, at both State and Defense, was that politicians with a military background were less enamored of fancy, expensive hardware than politicians with no military experience. They also had more credibility when facing down the generals who were clamoring for such toys.

“I suspect he’ll probe a bit,” the Secretary of State said.

“You have to be very clear that it’s not even a possibility,” the Secretary of Defense declared.

“Obviously.”

“You’ll have to be prepared to walk away—”

“Yes, I understand that. I know how negotiations work. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Sorry to have to drop this on you,” the Secretary of Defense said earnestly.

“This is going to be China all over again, isn’t it?” the Secretary of State said. “The price will be too high.”

“I don’t think so,” the Secretary of Defense said. “The PM may be a self-interested bastard, but he still gets up every morning and reads the newspapers to see how he’s doing. If rushing Dormigen to America plays well in the villages, that’s what he’ll want to do.”

“That’s what would happen in a Hindi film,” the Secretary of State mused.

“With all the singing and dancing? I don’t watch Hindi films,” the Secretary of Defense replied. “But I am idealistic enough, or maybe just naïve enough, to think that democracy might work to our advantage here.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” the Secretary of State said.

“Good luck.”

THE SECRETARY OF STATE, THE U.S. AMBASSADOR, AND assorted aides were finally ushered in to see the Indian Prime Minister at around noon Delhi time. They met in the Prime Minister’s capacious personal office, decorated with tapestries depicting various historical scenes, from the Moghul era to Independence. The Prime Minister showed the American entourage to a small sitting area with two stuffed chairs, one for him and one for the Secretary of State. Their aides, including Sumer Patel on the Indian side, arrayed themselves awkwardly behind the two principals. There were not enough seats at first; an Indian functionary rushed to bring more. “Mr. Prime Minister, we have brought you a small gift,” the Secretary of State offered, at which point an aide behind her produced an elegant wooden box about the size of a brick. The Prime Minister carefully opened a latch on the side of the box, revealing a small bottle of rare bourbon. “Ah,” the Prime Minister exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm, “the British have their scotch, but the Americans do bourbon! Shall we try it?”

“How about if we celebrate with a drink after we consummate a deal?” the Secretary of State suggested.

“Yes,” the Prime Minister agreed. “We are prepared to offer you the assistance you need. At first, we did not appreciate the seriousness of your situation. This is why…” He gave a wave of his hand to dismiss the Indian government’s charades when they were first approached about offering up Dormigen. On this point, he was almost certainly telling the truth. U.S. intelligence reports—and plain common sense—suggested that many governments, including the Indian government, did not believe the American Dormigen shortfall was as serious as it had been made out to be.

“I appreciate your willingness to help,” the Secretary of State said. “I think it could be an important step toward cementing our bilateral relationship. The President feels the same.”

“As do I,” the Prime Minister said.

“I have to be honest here,” the Secretary of State said. “We have few other options and we are running out of time.” In terms of playing possum, the Secretary of State was now lying on her back, legs in the air.

The Prime Minister looked skeptical. He proceeded to sniff: “There is an impressive scientific effort happening,” he said, making it sound more like a question than a statement. “A new Manhattan Project.”

“What we’ve learned about the virus is very impressive,” the Secretary of State replied. “But it’s hard for me to conceive of a situation in which the scientists can produce actionable results in the time that we have. Even if they were to come up with a treatment right now—this very minute—it would take days, if not weeks, to produce and distribute a new drug.” Rarely had she felt so manipulative while speaking the absolute truth.

“Dormigen is a more elegant solution,” the Prime Minister said.

“Of course. Absolutely,” the Secretary of State agreed.

“This could bring our two nations closer together,” the Prime Minister said.

The Secretary of State finished the thought: “This can be an opportunity to revitalize some of the bilateral initiatives that have been languishing for too long: our civil nuclear cooperation, the intelligence-sharing, the H-1B visas.”