Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  The sky was rapidly growing light as sunrise approached. Dewey could clearly see now, for the first time, the Ladakh Range across the valley. For as far as he could see in either direction, the dusty plain was interrupted by a sporadic line of vehicles, tents, and men, thousands of small clusters spread out for miles. Orange and red bursts lit up the line every few seconds. For the first time, Dewey could also clearly make out the front of the Indian line, its presence indicated by the dotted red of mortar rounds, fired toward Pakistan.

  “Here we go,” said Dewey, speaking into his COMM bud.

  “Ready here,” said Millar.

  Dewey took a grenade from a pocket on his vest. He pulled the pin then hurled the grenade at a wood and stone hut down the hill below the terrace. The blast ripped the hut. The sound was thunderous as the cloud of smoke and debris plumed. The building was incinerated; fire and flames engulfed the small structure.

  Shouting came from the terrace as soldiers ran to see what had happened.

  Dewey kicked in the door that led to the terrace.

  In front of him stood five soldiers. Dewey registered the faces, recognized no one. Then he triggered his MP7, cutting down a man who was clutching an UZI.

  Iverheart entered behind Dewey, shooting a second soldier.

  Dewey pumped a cartridge into the chest of a tall, overweight soldier, while in the same moment Iverheart killed the remaining pair of soldiers.

  Another soldier burst through the terrace entrance, his hands gripping a Kalashnikov. He aimed it at Dewey, who was sideways to him, oblivious to his entrance.

  * * *

  Millar heard the explosion in the same moment he felt the ground tremor beneath his feet. He moved around the front of the building. A soldier at the door turned, but Millar fired his MP7, hitting him in the chest, dropping him.

  He opened the front door. The room was filled with mattresses pushed to the side and stacked. He burst through the room to another door. Shouting came from the room, then gunfire from the deck. He stopped at the door, flipped his goggles off his head, then booted the door in.

  He entered a large brightly lit room. The haze of cigarette smoke hovered like a cloud. A wooden table was surrounded by more than a dozen men in military uniforms. The soldiers were staring at the door to the deck, their eyes following one of their soldiers, charging toward the deck, Kalashnikov in hand.

  At the sight of Millar, confusion swept over the men at the table. They swiveled between the terrace door, and him, now standing at the opposite end of the room. Eyes moved between Millar and the black steel of the submachine gun in his hands, now aimed at their heads, and the Pakistani gunman running toward the terrace.

  * * *

  On the terrace, Iverheart was momentarily stunned by the approaching soldier, whose Kalashnikov was now trained on Dewey. Recovering, Iverheart fired his MP7, swinging it around, trying to intercept the soldier. His bullets blew a line of dusty holes in the stucco next to the doorway just as the gunman began firing at Dewey. A slug struck the gunman in his chest, sending him crashing to the floor against the doorjamb.

  * * *

  Inside, the commanders watched as their soldier was blown backward in a hail of bullets.

  At the far side of the table, one of the generals grabbed a pistol from his belt holster, but Millar cut him down with a quick burst from the MP7 before he could fire, throwing him back against the wall to the shock of his colleagues.

  Millar trained his silenced submachine gun at the table of military commanders. Wearing a blank expression on his blackened face, he covered the table slowly with the end of the suppressor; every man in the room knew what the price would be if they tried to move.

  Iverheart moved in through the terrace door, stepping over the dead gunman now lying in a contorted pile on the ground. He took up position to Millar’s left, weapon trained on the generals.

  The war hierarchy stood in silence, unable to move.

  Only one man remained seated. He was a large man, his hair slightly long, with a bushy mustache. He wore a khaki green military uniform, the chest and shoulders a medley of green, red, blue, and gold tabs. He held a cigarette in his hand. He had a big, bushy mustache. The man stared at Iverheart, then at Millar, impassive and calm, despite the intrusion. His eyes shot to the terrace door.

  Dewey stepped over the blood-soaked corpse of the dead soldier.

  Dewey’s face, what was visible of it beneath the dark beard and long, sweat-soaked brown hair, was black with war paint. Only his blue eyes stood out in the light of the room.

  Dewey stepped slowly into the room, his demeanor calm, his confidence clear to every man in the room. At the center of the room, Dewey stopped. His silenced MP7 was aimed menacingly in front of him. His face was expressionless.

  Dewey’s eyes focused, along with the tip of the silencer, solely on the man seated directly in front of him, the man with the mustache, Field Marshal Xavier Bolin.

  After several moments, Dewey spoke.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Field Marshal Bolin,” he said.

  Bolin took a drag on his cigarette, then moved it away from his lips. His hands tremored as he ashed on the table.

  “What do you mean?” Bolin asked, his voice calm but trembling slightly.

  “India will launch a retaliatory nuclear strike on Pakistan,” said Dewey. “This strike has but one purpose: wipe Pakistan off the map. Three quarters of India’s nuclear stockpile is either in the air or launch ready at the border as we speak. Karachi, Islamabad, Peshawar, Lahore, Rawalpindi; every other city and town in this country: gone.”

  Bolin moved his cigarette to his mouth, his hand shaking slightly. He took a long puff, then exhaled.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” asked Bolin.

  “With America’s help, you become the next president of Pakistan,” said Dewey. “Today. Right now. India stands down. You make peace.”

  “What about General Karreff?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “El-Khayab?”

  Dewey said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  Bolin finished his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the wooden table. He cleared his throat. He looked around the table at the other generals and military men. To a man, their faces remained blank, part fear, part shock.

  “And if I say no?” asked Bolin.

  Dewey paused. He waited several seconds, motionless. He kept the MP7 trained on Bolin. Finally, he spoke.

  “You say no, I empty this SMG into your head. Then we disappear into India and get the hell out of here before it’s all incinerated.”

  “In other words I don’t have a choice.”

  “That’s right.”

  Bolin breathed in, a sharp gasp, but said nothing. He leaned forward, staring down at his hands, now clenched together on the table.

  Finally, he looked up at Dewey.

  “So it’s happening right now?”

  Dewey stared at Bolin. He raised the silencer and aimed it at the ceiling.

  “Yes, Field Marshal,” said Dewey. “Coup d’état.”

  52

  ASWAN-E-SADR

  ISLAMABAD

  Omar El-Khayab walked into the cabinet room. The conference table that dominated the room was surrounded by his war cabinet. A dozen different conversations were going on, the voices creating a din inside the large room. Led by his brother, who gripped the blind cleric’s right forearm, El-Khayab sat in a chair at the end of the table.

  It was 7:30 A.M.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said El-Khayab in a hushed tone as he entered the room.

  The talking around the table ceased.

  Outside, the chanting continued, despite the early hour.

  “Death to India! Death to India! Death to India!…”

  “So what now is the report from the war front?” asked El-Khayab. “General Karreff?”

  “General Karreff isn’t here yet,” interrupted Darius Mohan, Pakistan’s foreign minister, a hint of anger in h
is voice. “More important than the war front, I think, are the implications of the nuclear bomb that was dropped at Karoo.”

  “All in good time, Darius,” said El-Khayab. “Where is General Karreff?”

  “President El-Khayab,” interrupted Mohan, refusing to yield. “Your decision to drop a nuclear bomb on India, for which you consulted exactly no one, is creating great pressure for me and my entire ministry.”

  “And I take it you don’t like this pressure, Minister?”

  “Answers are being demanded of me, sir,” said Mohan. “We cannot simply stonewall the world. It has been a day and a half and we have said nothing.”

  “And there has been no response,” interrupted a tall, thin man with a grayish goatee, Afro, dark glasses, Pakistan’s minister of defense, Osama Khan.

  “No response?” asked Mohan, incredulous. “The world has condemned us! Even our allies have condemned us. The United Nations is expected to slap sanctions on us today; wide-ranging, highly punitive sanctions that will effectively isolate Pakistan.”

  “The surgical utilization of the nuclear device has done precisely what we wanted it to do,” said Khan. “It has flushed out the fundamental weakness of our Hindu enemy. They don’t respond because America will not let them.”

  “America has no control over New Delhi,” barked Mohan. “New Delhi has put their bombs into the sky. Have they not, Minister Khan?”

  “Yes, Darius,” answered Khan, calmly glancing about the table. “They cruise along the borders of our country at twenty thousand feet, like birds, but nothing drops. Have you noticed that? Rajiv Ghandra is paralyzed by fear.”

  “We need to reach out to Washington and to New Delhi,” demanded Mohan, his voice rising. “Moscow, Paris, Beijing; our allies are demanding answers. We are allowing a small incident in Kashmir to explode in our faces.”

  “This small incident has created a historic opportunity,” answered Khan.

  “It has endangered every man, woman, and child in Pakistan,” said Mohan. “We must seek a peace. We must do it now, before it’s too late!”

  “It’s precisely now when we must press on to destroy our enemy,” said Khan. “They have demonstrated their weakness and indecision to the world. This is Islam’s time. We have been chosen—”

  “Stop this empty rhetoric!” screamed Mohan. “Do you realize what is occurring right now, as we speak, in New Delhi? At the Pentagon? We’ve thrown a rock at a bee’s nest and the hornets are now swarming around us. We are all going to die if we don’t act to stop it!”

  El-Khayab stood up from his seat.

  “Traitor!” he screamed, his voice inflecting to a high pitch, lashing the air like a viper fang. He swung his cane down onto the table, violently smacking the wood, snapping the cane in half from the force of his swing. “Impertinence! Get out!”

  “You’ve placed Pakistan in the crosshairs of America and China!” shouted Mohan, standing, refusing to yield. “We’re enemies to neither but we will soon be destroyed by both!”

  “Arrest him!” shouted El-Khayab.

  Two soldiers moved toward Mohan.

  “Arrest me,” said Mohan contemptuously as the two guards grabbed his arms. “But let the heavens witness it was I who fought to prevent—”

  “Be quiet!” shouted El-Khayab.

  “—the annihilation of Pakistan!”

  Mohan was pulled from the table and dragged out the door.

  El-Khayab stood in silence for more than a minute. The chanting from Revolution Square seemed to grow in its intensity.

  “Death to India! Death to India!”

  Finally, El-Khayab cleared his throat and leaned forward.

  “General Karreff?” El-Khayab whispered, anger threading his words. “Is he here yet? When will we have our report from the war front?”

  “I’ve called the general three times now,” said el-Jaqonda. “I still have no answer. I will try again.”

  The black cell phone in front of Khan rang. He reached forward and picked it up.

  “Excuse me,” Khan announced to the table. Khan flipped the phone open, placed it against his ear. “What?” he said into the phone.

  * * *

  “Minister Khan, this is Field Marshal Bolin.”

  Bolin held the phone against his ear with his right hand. In his left hand, a cigarette burned. Through the thick sheaf of smoke that filled the cabin of the helicopter, Bolin stared into Dewey’s eyes.

  Dewey held another phone against his own ear, patched into the same call.

  “Where’s Karreff?” asked Khan, urgency in his voice.

  “General Karreff is delayed at the front,” said Bolin, exhaling. “He’s ordered me to return to the capital to give the report.”

  “When will you arrive?”

  Dewey held up two fingers.

  “Two hours,” said Bolin.

  “President El-Khayab awaits.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I’m able, Minister Khan.”

  He flipped the phone shut.

  Dewey looked at Bolin. “Perfect,” he said.

  Dewey glanced at the two other Pakistani generals in the chopper, then looked out the window. He counted two more choppers, moving across the sky, bearing west, toward Rawalpindi. Millar and Iverheart were each inside one of them, keeping an eye on the commanders from the war front traveling with them.

  Dewey’s submachine gun lay across his lap, his hand casually across the weapon.

  Dewey nodded at Bolin’s cigarette.

  “Would you like me to put this out?” asked Bolin.

  “No,” said Dewey. “If you don’t mind, I’d like one.”

  Bolin smiled, then handed a pack of Gitanos to Dewey. Dewey removed a cigarette, then Bolin extended a lighter.

  “Thank you,” said Dewey. He took a long puff, then exhaled. “Are you ready?”

  * * *

  Three black Alouette III SA-319B choppers swept over the eastern edge of Rawalpindi, landing on the tarmac outside PAF Chaklala Air base.

  The base occupied more than ten square miles of territory, spread out in an ordered pattern of plain-looking tan and green buildings, barracks, landing strips, lines of fighter jets, helicopters, and assorted other structures.

  The choppers landed in the middle of an asphalt landing strip adjacent to a cavernous corrugated steel hangar.

  The two generals seated next to Dewey and Bolin descended from the chopper. Bolin started to follow, but Dewey stopped him, placing his hand on his knee.

  “Hold up,” said Dewey.

  Bolin sat back. He lit another cigarette.

  After the other commanders had departed the chopper, Bolin shut the door behind them.

  “What is it?” asked Bolin.

  “Let them wait. You’re the next president of Pakistan. You need to start acting like it.”

  “You know what you’re doing,” said Bolin, puffing on the cigarette.

  “Yes,” said Dewey. “The only danger right now comes from your own commanders. Ambition. ‘Why Bolin? Why not me?’ You need to keep your eyes open. You need to take power. Right here, right now. If anyone opposes you, they need to be removed. Either they’re with you, or they’re dead. Failed coups are caused by weakness at the top, guys like you thinking it’s your charm and personality carrying you to power. Successful coups are accomplished through strength and fear, the barrel of a gun and loyal men at your side. In a year or two, you can turn Pakistan back to democracy. But right now, it’s all about strength and fear.”

  “Your men can’t carry their weapons,” said Bolin. “Some will see it as a threat. Or worse, they’ll think I’m a puppet.”

  “Not an option. Let me explain something to you. The reason you’re here right now, and not lying on the ground with a hole in your head, is because of America. When your commanders see us standing behind you inside that hangar, the thought in every head in that room will be Persom Karreff. Right now, me, my team, the United States of America, we’re an extension of you. Like
it or not, we are your greatest asset.”

  “Then what? You stay and babysit? Get me to buy American war jets and tanks? Tell me when I can blow my nose?”

  “Is that why you think we’re here? Do you really think we care what kind of jets you fly?”

  “Of course.”

  Dewey laughed and shook his head.

  “Field Marshal Bolin, if we don’t remove Omar El-Khayab by noon, India will destroy this country. India will turn Pakistan into a radioactive sandbox. And when they do, it’s highly likely China will move on India. America will be forced to respond. I’m here because America doesn’t feel like fighting a war with China. Get it? You, Pakistan, even India for that matter, you’re all a sideshow. I don’t care what kind of jets you fly. President Allaire doesn’t care what kind of jets you fly. To be honest, I don’t even care who steps up and helps us take out El-Khayab. But the fact is, you were chosen. You have the loyalty of the troops and the midrank commanders. You aren’t religious and we know of your dislike of El-Khayab. You owe America peace with India, that’s it. Peace and stability. You can buy jets from the Devil as far as I’m concerned. But the war stops. And El-Khayab is a dead man. Got it? We’ll be gone by sunset.”

  53

  ASWAN-E-SADR

  ISLAMABAD

  President El-Khayab stood next to a window that looked out on Constitution Avenue. The chants came in steady bursts now.

  “Death to India! Death to India! Death to India!”

  “They’ve gathered earlier than usual,” said Atta. “I heard the chant until the middle of the night.”

  El-Khayab remained silent.

  “They support you,” said Atta. “You’ve struck a great blow.”

  “I’ve begun something whose ending I cannot foresee, brother,” said El-Khayab. “I don’t like that feeling.”

  “Then foresee it,” said Atta. “What do you want it to be?”

  “Ummah,” said El-Khayab, “united under a caliphate. But is it Pakistan that is meant to start it all? Is it me who is meant to be the caliph?”