by Ben Coes
“It is you, brother. It is your time. It is our time.”
The door to the president’s office opened at the far side of the room. Khan, the Pakistani defense minister, and his deputy el-Jaqonda, walked in the room.
“Hello, Mr. President,” said Khan.
“Has Bolin arrived?” asked El-Khayab.
“He’s at Chaklala. He will be here momentarily.”
El-Khayab turned back to the window.
“Mr. President, we’re at a crossroads.”
“Speak.”
“It is irrational for New Delhi to not react,” said Khan. “I’m told that last night, in New Delhi, more than a million people gathered. They burned effigies of you. They chanted, ‘Death to Pakistan.’ More than eighty people were crushed to death in the protest. The Indians are enraged.”
“What is your point?”
“They will react, Mr. President,” said Khan. “Today, tomorrow, who knows. What I mean to say is if we don’t continue to make the choices we desire for Pakistan, we will be the ones forced to react. New Delhi will assert itself. Frankly, it shocks me that they’ve done nothing so far.”
“What are the choices you speak of?”
“The lack of Indian counterattack, especially in light of the pressure from Ghandra’s own citizenry, this can only be seen for what it is: America. America is somehow preventing New Delhi from counterattack.”
“Yes, I agree with you, Osama,” said El-Khayab. “Have we won?”
“No,” said Khan. “But we have it in our power to win. I believe we must now up the ante. Now. Today. This minute. We must follow our first strike with a larger wave of bombing.”
“You mean…” said El-Khayab.
“Yes. More nuclear bombs, inside the Indian homeland. We have prepared a briefing sheet.”
Khan nodded to el-Jaqonda.
“We assessed two separate options,” said el-Jaqonda. “Option one would be a series of surgical nuclear strikes, spread out in a variety of geographies, west, south, and north. We contrasted that with a concentrated use of the same weapon set. Under this option, we selected New Delhi as the target. The design here would be to harm the focus of government, create more widespread political chaos, but leave most of the country unharmed. Potentially open to a new form of government in the near future.”
“Under the second option, we create an opportunity for political change,” added Khan. “We open the door to a different kind of government, perhaps Islamic. At the very least, we create unbelievable, durable chaos.”
El-Khayab rubbed his bearded chin with his left hand as he contemplated what he had just heard.
“And tell me, Khalid, how many people would die?”
“In both scenarios, we recommend the use of twelve additional devices,” said el-Jaqonda. “Under option one, between four and five million people would die. Under option two, a strike on New Delhi alone, with the same weapon set, we estimate a death toll of just north of ten million people.”
54
SECURITY ROOM
RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN
NEW DELHI
Six stories below ground, President Ghandra exited the elevator and turned toward the Security Room. Immediately, he heard shouting coming from the conference room down the corridor. He walked slowly down the brightly lit corridor toward the room where he knew his war cabinet awaited, listening to the angry voice of Indra Singh excoriating someone.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” shouted Singh. “It’s not your decision. You were not elected president!”
“Control yourself, Indra!” The voice of Priya Vilokan, India’s prime minister and head of the Nuclear Command Defense.
“This is treason!” screamed Singh. “Have you been meeting in secret?”
“It’s not treason, you crazy bastard!” came another voice, Guta Morosla, the director of RAW, the Research and Analysis Wing, India’s CIA.
Ghandra stepped into the frame of the door.
On one side of the table was Singh, standing, his face beet red. Across from him sat General Praset Dartalia, the head of Armed Forces. Morosla and Vilokan were seated at the far end of the conference table.
Singh’s anger was directed at Dartalia. His sleeves were rolled up and he was leaning over the table.
Dartalia sat calmly, reclined in the chair. His eyes shot from Singh to Ghandra, standing in the doorway.
“President Ghandra,” said Dartalia.
“May I ask what this is all about?” asked Ghandra.
There was silence in the room.
“Indra?”
“Tell him what you told me,” said Singh, looking at Dartalia. “Go on.”
“There is movement afoot,” said Dartalia. “Near mutiny. Generals in Strategic Forces Command. A large contingent of commanders in Punjab. Everywhere there is discontent.”
“‘Movement’?” asked Ghandra.
“The upper ranks of the Indian Armed Forces believe you’re weak,” said Dartalia. “That the coup is a subterfuge.”
Ghandra walked to the table and took a seat next to Dartalia.
“Subterfuge?” Ghandra asked. “What do you mean, Praset?”
“They’re worried that when noon comes, and the coup hasn’t happened, that America will have yet another excuse for delaying the counterattack on Pakistan,” said Dartalia. “And you will do what they say.”
“So what would be your plan?” asked Ghandra. He looked at the clock on the wall, then pointed. “It’s nine in the morning, General. Thus far, as we’re all aware, the team of American special forces have killed Persom Karreff and have succeeded in infiltrating the war command of Field Marshal Bolin. Haven’t we been attempting to find Bolin’s war command?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Well, the Americans found him,” said Ghandra. “They convinced Bolin to step into the Pakistani presidency. With three hours left, they have only to remove Omar El-Khayab.”
Dartalia rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“What is it?” asked Ghandra.
“May I speak frankly, sir, without being yelled at?” Dartalia asked, looking at Singh.
“Yes, of course.”
“My loyalty is to India, Mr. President, and therefore it is to you, as the elected leader of our country. I will not go along with any attempts to remove you. I am on your side, Mr. President. But I must warn you, if noon comes and Omar El-Khayab is still in power, if India does not then strike Pakistan with the full weight of its nuclear arsenal, I fear your administration will be over. There will be a coup, but instead of Islamabad, it will be in New Delhi.”
55
CHAKLALA AIR BASE
RAWALPINDI
The hangar at Chaklala Air Base sweltered in the morning sunlight.
Inside, more than forty men were gathered. All wore military uniforms. The group included most of the commanding hierarchy of the Pakistani Army, Air Force, and Internal Security. The group stood inside the cavernous enclosure, in front of a Chengdu JF-17 “Thunder” attack jet. Inside the hangar, the temperature had already reached one hundred degrees.
Suddenly, the steady purr of the approaching choppers buzzed the air. Through the open-air side of the large building, the group watched as three black Alouette III SA-319B choppers swept across the blue sky from the east and came in for a landing in front of the hangar.
From each chopper stepped a group of military commanders who were part of Field Marshal Bolin’s Kashmir theater war command. A pair of men also emerged, unrecognized by the group, high-powered automatic weapons at their sides. Each of the strangers wore jeans and a T-shirt and had black war paint on his face. One was tall, an American. The other looked Pakistani.
The generals and other military leaders in the hangar exchanged glances nervously.
Bolin’s men entered the hangar and moved into the gathered crowd.
“What’s going on?” more than one commander asked.
As instructed by Dewey, none of Bolin’s war command
answered.
The two strangers moved to the side of the hangar. Each man stood in silence, weapons aimed toward the ground, faces expressionless.
Several minutes later, the side door to the farthest chopper from the hangar opened. Out stepped Field Marshal Bolin, followed by another man carrying a submachine gun. This third outsider had long brown hair and a beard and mustache. He was tall. His chest was broad, barreled, his arm muscles tanned and ripped. Though Bolin was the ranking officer, the most decorated soldier in the entire Pakistani military, it was the stranger who commanded the gaze of every officer in the hangar. At his side, he carried the same weapon as the others: MP7A1. As with the others, a long, black silencer was screwed into the nozzle of the weapon.
Bolin walked inside the hangar. The plainclothed stranger walked beside him, then joined the other strangers at the side of the hangar.
Bolin stepped into the group of generals, which formed a loose semicircle in front of him.
Bolin looked about the semicircle in silence, meeting the eyes of every man in the group, saying nothing. After completing the arc, he removed his pack of cigarettes, took one, lit it, then took several puffs.
Finally, he spoke.
“It’s time, my friends,” said Bolin quietly. He took a puff and exhaled. “You’re here because you’ve given your life to Pakistan.”
Bolin’s voice grew louder.
“Each of you has risked your life, untold times, to preserve and protect our country. You’ve done this for your families and for Pakistan.”
Bolin’s voice showed, in turns, confidence and a hint of anger. Above all else, it showed the resolve of a man not used to losing nor to wavering; the resolve of a strong man, battle-tested, a warrior.
“Many of you, like myself, have fathers and brothers who fought for our country and died. My own father died in the last war with India. I know that most of us have similar stories of pride and pain that come with being the defenders. We all have children and grandchildren who someday will stand here, on this very ground, acting to do what they believe is best to preserve and protect Pakistan.”
Bolin paused. The commanders were silent.
“Today,” he said, steel in his voice, “we take back our country.”
Bolin took a large puff on his Gitano, then blew into the air.
“More than half a century ago, the Indians took Kashmir. They stole it. We all know that. But in the name of that mistake, that terrible legacy, will we see our entire country annihilated? Will we watch as an interloper comes into Pakistan and turns the theft of Kashmir into the destruction of our children, our land, and our future?”
He paused. He again glanced around the group.
“Field Marshal Bolin,” said one of the generals, a tall man in the back of the gathered group. “Where is General Karreff?”
“General Karreff is dead,” said Bolin. “Today, I ask for your allegiance and your loyalty. I want your support. If you cannot give that to me, I ask that you leave. You will not be hurt, but you cannot stay in this country. You’ll receive safe passage out of Pakistan, along with your family. But you cannot enjoy the freedom and security that will once again be ours if you’re not willing to help win it back from the evil forces that have threatened us with eternal darkness.”
Bolin stared at the general who had asked the question.
“You have my loyalty,” said the general.
“Mine too,” said another to the right. Soon, the group had all expressed their support.
“Thank you,” said Bolin. “Now we have work to do.”
* * *
Dewey watched Bolin’s speech, standing next to Millar and Iverheart.
“How’s the cut?” he asked quietly.
“It’s fine,” said Millar.
Dewey felt a small vibration in his pocket. He removed a small silver device slightly larger than a credit card. He read the words as they scrolled across the top of the card. He placed it back in his pocket.
Dewey stepped in front of Millar and Iverheart.
“Do you recognize Isa Garali?” Dewey asked, looking at Iverheart.
Iverheart searched the crowd.
“Yes,” said Iverheart. “Back left. Third from the left. Short guy with a red beret.”
“Got it. Who is he?”
“He runs ISI. Inter Services Intelligence, the CIA here.”
When Bolin finished speaking, he signaled to Dewey.
“Watch my back,” whispered Dewey.
Dewey walked to the group of generals. Millar and Iverheart followed him, but stood back, at a short distance. Dewey stepped into the middle of the group.
“Who is this?” asked one of the generals, looking at Bolin.
“This is someone from the United States. He’s here to help us.”
“We don’t need the help of the Americans. We know whose side they’re on.”
“He’s right,” said another general, shaking his head. “Are we to be a ‘puppet regime’ of the United States, Xavier?”
Several men nodded agreement, shaking their heads in disgust.
Dewey glanced across the group of generals, gathered in a loose semicircle around him and Bolin.
“I’m not here to choose sides,” said Dewey. “I don’t work for India. Frankly, I could care less who wins your war. But when nuclear bombs start dropping on American allies, we start paying attention. You, in this hangar, you all constitute Pakistan’s military leadership. And what you need to understand is that your boss, the president of Pakistan, dropped a nuclear bomb on an American ally. When you do that, there are repercussions.”
“This has nothing to do with America!” yelled one of the generals.
“Field Marshal Bolin, is this the man who killed Persom Karreff?” asked a different general.
Dewey paused, he glanced back at Millar and Iverheart. He turned back to the circle of Pakistani generals.
“Who sent you here?” another general asked.
“Let the man speak,” said Bolin.
“I’ll keep this brief, because we don’t have a lot of time,” said Dewey. “You can listen to me or not, that’s your choice. But I know you’re all men who care deeply about your country. And your country is facing its gravest hour, whether you care to admit it or not. If Omar El-Khayab isn’t removed and replaced by noon, the country of Pakistan—your cities and towns, your families, your way of life—all of it will cease to exist. India will destroy Pakistan. New Delhi will not ignore the destruction of Karoo, nor will they respond proportionally.”
“How do you know this?” yelled one of the generals.
“IAF has seventy-four planes in the air as we speak,” said Dewey. “Each of those planes is carrying two nuclear bombs. That’s almost a hundred and fifty nuclear bombs. In addition, there are at least two dozen mobile units at the border. In about two hours, those bombs are going to fall from the sky like rain. Pakistan will be wiped off the map. After India destroys you, we believe China will attack India. The U.S. won’t allow that.” Dewey paused. “You asked why I’m here? I’m here because America would rather put a bullet in Omar El-Khayab’s head than fight a war with China. It’s that simple.”
The gathered commanders stared at Dewey, in shock. He glanced at Bolin.
“If this is true, we must attack first!” shouted a commander in the back. “Before India strikes!”
“It’s too late for that,” said Dewey. “Before you could get even one nuclear bomb in the air, India would act. The die is cast.”
Dewey watched the hushed crowd of generals.
“But even if you could surprise New Delhi, why would you?” Dewey continued. “So you can inflict the damage first? So that both countries are destroyed instead of just Pakistan? You’re all patriots. You all care about your homeland. The solution is not to destroy India, General. The solution is to make peace.”
Finally, a short, bearded general in the front raised his hand.
“Who sent you here?” the general asked.
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“The president of the United States sent me.”
He looked into the eyes of the gathered generals, scanning the semicircle of men, as if defying the gathered group to do something, to leave, get mad, anything to show their disapproval at his words, but no one moved so much as an inch.
“Now there’s not a lot of time,” Dewey continued. “I’ll get you out of this mess, but you all need to shut the fuck up and listen. You want to live? Do exactly as I say.”
The gathered commanders stood in silence, shocked by Dewey’s candor, mesmerized by his words, awed by his physical presence, his big arms and chest, his height, the way the weapons on him—a handgun in his shoulder holster, the MP7 at his side—looked as if he’d been born with them.
“The most important thing right now is loyalty,” said Dewey calmly. “Not only is it important that you’re loyal to Field Marshal Bolin, you must demand loyalty from your line officers. Loyalty equals stability. Disloyalty equals chaos.”
Dewey looked at the group of generals, who stared at him, some contemptuously, others nodding, coming around. He reached to his shoulder holster and abruptly removed his silenced Colt M1911, raised it and aimed it at one of the generals, a short man in a red beret, Isa Garali.
“What the hell are you doing?” barked Bolin.
Garali, in the red beret, stood motionless.
“This man is in charge of ISI,” said Bolin.
“I know who he is,” said Dewey, the weapon extended in front of him. “Isa Garali.” Dewey stared into Garali’s eyes. “Five minutes ago, this man sent a text to Osama Khan.”
With his left hand, without moving the aim of the weapon, Dewey removed the small silver device from his pocket. He handed it to Bolin. Bolin studied the small device. His eyes shot from the device to Garali, whose eyes now darted about nervously.
“‘Bolin. Coup,’” read Bolin aloud.
A slight tremble shuddered across Garali’s body. His eyes blinked nervously.
“By the way, General, he never got the message,” said Dewey.