Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  Dewey pulled the trigger, just once. A bullet hit him in the chest. Garali lurched backward and fell to the ground.

  Dewey glanced across the gathered commanders. He holstered his weapon, then waited.

  “This isn’t a game,” said Dewey finally. “You need to put your country in front of your own personal interests. Garali didn’t do that, and now he’s dead. If you step out of line, you should expect what just happened to him to happen to you.”

  The generals listened as Dewey continued.

  “Some of you were involved in the Musharraf coup,” continued Dewey. “This is different. Nawaz Sharif was not popular. El-Khayab is. We need to anticipate widespread civil unrest. That’s manageable. What’s not manageable is fracture within Pakistan’s military hierarchy. If you aren’t united—the men in this room—you’ll trigger a civil war.

  “One of you, maybe more than one of you, is looking around right now and wondering, ‘Why isn’t it me?’” said Dewey. “You’re thinking, ‘Why Bolin?’ Bury the thought. Because you won’t win. You’ll end up with a bullet in your head, just like Garali. You need to be united. Being a soldier means you care about something bigger than yourself. It means you care about your country. I know you all care about Pakistan. Right now, your country is at risk. You men gathered here, Pakistan’s military leadership, you’re the only hope your country has right now. For your country, I’m asking you to be soldiers. To unite behind Field Marshal Bolin.”

  “How can we trust the United States?” barked one of the generals.

  “I’m not a diplomat,” said Dewey. “I don’t care if you trust me. I’m telling you the way it is. You have one shot at saving Pakistan. And it’s right here, right now.”

  “He’s right,” said another general. “Listen to the man.”

  “What’s next?” asked Bolin. “What do we need to do?”

  “The first phase of the coup is command and control,” said Dewey. “That’s now through El-Khayab’s removal. It should be relatively straight-forward, like removing a lightbulb. We go in, remove El-Khayab, then replace him with Field Marshal Bolin. Easy. This should be a light battalion. No more than a couple hundred soldiers. The group that accompanies Field Marshal Bolin should be SSG. We need to move right now. Get the soldiers outside the hangar immediately. We’ll need to coordinate tightly with whoever is in charge of the president’s security. We want to do this with as little bloodshed as possible.”

  “What do we do with El-Khayab?”

  “El-Khayab is removed from the premises,” said Dewey. “We’re not going to treat him roughly at the palace. He’ll disappear once he’s outside the compound, but while there are still people loyal to him lingering around, we treat him like a little kitten. We want the story to be about saving Pakistan, not about killing an old blind man we disagreed with. Once he’s off premises, India will demand proof that he’s dead. Also, we need to remove Osama Khan. He gets a bullet. Today.”

  “Colonel Martu has oversight of SSG and El-Khayab’s security detail,” said Bolin. “Reach him immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lerik, one of his generals.

  “Phase two is control and transition,” said Dewey. “It begins when El-Khayab is removed and Field Marshal Bolin takes jurisdiction over the military and the other branches of government. A few hours. Legal formality of the regime change will occur, proper authorizations, that sort of thing. This is the most vulnerable stage of the coup. Any jihadists, El-Khayab loyalists, or disloyal line commanders within your ranks could try and do something irrational. You need to kill off these threats immediately. No mercy. Access to Field Marshal Bolin should be severely restricted.

  “The Field Marshal’s main job during this phase is meeting with parliamentary leaders and negotiating a truce with India. America is doing what it can to prevent India from attacking, but you will still need to descale tensions. That’s just a fact. The war in Kashmir has to end; you can’t have a smoldering side fire while the change of government is taking place.

  “During the transition, it’s imperative that the media be kept completely in the dark. That means corralling reporters and, more important, photographers. We need to limit information coming out of Islamabad, at least until this afternoon, following parliament’s acceptance of Field Marshal Bolin’s presidency. That means cutting off electricity and communication links to Al Jazeera, AP, CNN, Fox, BBC, and any other network. Just do it. We can apologize later. Also, if possible, we need to cut off access to Facebook and Twitter. We can help with that.

  “Finally, we need to get people inside their houses and we need to shut off visitors, at least for a few days. I assume Pakistan has some sort of martial law protocol.”

  “Yes,” said Bolin.

  “That’s what we’ll use,” said Dewey. “Shut down all border crossings for at least forty-eight hours. The point is, we want to send a signal that you are in charge, you’re organized, and you will do whatever it takes to consolidate and control power. Fear and strength will lead to stability. That’s what people want: stability. You give it to them with strict command and control.”

  Bolin put his arm out, interrupting Dewey.

  “General Ravi, General Pervez, Colonel Ayala; you three divide up this responsibility,” said Bolin. He glanced at the corpse of Garali. Bolin pointed at one of the generals. “General Lerik, you’ll oversee ISI.”

  “Yes, Field Marshal.”

  Bolin nodded at Dewey.

  “Finally, phase three is called transition and peace,” said Dewey. “This comes after the general population becomes aware of the change in leadership, and lasts until there’s stability without the need for martial law. It could be a week, a month, or a year. This is the most dangerous phase of the coup. This is about internal security across Pakistan. Bringing calm and security to the streets. This is not going to be easy. El-Khayab is popular. And he’s popular with people who are crazy.”

  Several of the generals laughed at this remark.

  “You’ll need to be ruthless with Taliban and Al-Qaeda coming in from the Hindu Qu’ush. They will seek to exploit instability created by the removal of El-Khayab. Phase three requires the tight cooperation of all Pakistani military working closely with local law enforcement. It also requires a realistic assessment of internal security risks within the presidential palace and governmental agencies. Be thorough but not ruthless. Don’t make the mistake of killing low-level political opponents. It’s a slippery slope. A lot of people will resent you; get over it. Unless they’re willing to use violence against you, control them, lock them up, whatever, but don’t start killing them. Under any circumstance, there will be international outcry. My strong suggestion, when the UN calls, tell them to fuck off.”

  “Will we not want international support?” asked Bolin.

  “They’ll come around,” said Dewey. “After all, you’re removing a guy who just dropped a nuclear bomb on eight thousand innocent civilians. You’ll be a hero. Now we have to get moving. By my count we have less than an hour and a half to remove Omar El-Khayab and get India to bring their nukes home.”

  “Will the U.S. help us in this phase?” asked a general in back. “Will you stay to manage things?”

  “We’ve already helped you,” answered Dewey, watching the line of generals. “We’re out of Islamabad when the sun goes down.”

  “Tonight?” asked one of the generals, incredulous.

  Dewey ignored the question. He glanced behind him, at Millar and Iverheart.

  “One more thing,” said Dewey, looking over the generals. “We were never here.”

  56

  AIWAN-E-SADR

  “It’s been over an hour, Mr. President,” said Osama Khan. “You have to decide now if we are to advance the attack on India. You have my recommendation. The clock is ticking, sir. The planes stand ready to take off. The nuclear bombs are ready. The twelve targets are identified and locked in.”

  El-Khayab smiled, but said nothing.

  T
he muted, steady din of the chant continued from beyond the window.

  El-Khayab reached forward, pressed his hand on a button beneath his desk. In a matter of seconds, a servant entered the room.

  “A cup of tea, please,” said El-Khayab. “Osama, Khalid?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” said Khan.

  “Tea would be fine, Mr. President,” said el-Jaqonda. “May I also use the restroom, sir?”

  “There,” said Atta El-Khayab, pointing toward the corner of the room, a small wooden door that was hard to see.

  El-Jaqonda stood and crossed the room.

  El-Khayab sat in blank silence. His thoughts were a thousand miles away, from the room, from Khan. The dream had come again, in the night. The horrible fire at his home when he was a child. This time, El-Khayab saw his father as he carried him and Atta to the safety of the sidewalk, then ran screaming up the stairs to try and save his mother and sisters. How he’d run after him, only to be pulled back by Atta. It was the last time he would ever see his father. His last memory of his father was also his last sight before blindness came, the sight of his father’s back as he ran into the flames to try and save his mother and sisters.

  El-Khayab felt no pain as he thought of the vision. Rather, he felt an altogether different sensation; warmth, ecstasy, for in that moment, a moment that seemed to replay again and again in his mind, he saw the love that his father had for his mother, for his brother and sisters, and for him. It would be El-Khayab’s last and final sight as a human being. If Allah was the power that had cast the flames around his family that awful morning, it was for a reason. The flames, the painful loss, the destruction; they had created El-Khayab. El-Khayab felt a tear on his cheek, for he knew what was next, what he had to do. He felt the stirring, awesome tension throughout his body of a higher force, guiding his thoughts now and his steps.

  “You are deep in thought, Mr. President,” said Khan.

  El-Khayab removed his glasses. His eyes were wet. The red scar tissue surrounded the greenish, aged remains of eyeballs. Involuntarily, Khan flinched at the grotesque sight.

  “It’s time,” said El-Khayab. “We must go ahead with your design, Osama.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. President. The planes stand ready.”

  El-Khayab stood. He walked across the room to the window. The ominous chant seemed to grow louder as he reached his left hand out from his bisht and placed it against the large window.

  “But there is to be one change,” said El-Khayab.

  “And what is that, Mr. President?” asked Khan. “If you are going to reduce the number of bombs, I must warn you—”

  “Twelve bombs are not enough. Everything Pakistan has. Everything that Allah has given us.”

  Khan shot a look at Atta El-Khayab, taken aback by his words. He struggled to speak.

  “But … but, Mr. President, that is one hundred and sixty nuclear bombs.” Khan coughed. “We will be committing—”

  “It is only through complete destruction, Osama,” interrupted El-Khayab, looking with his blind eyes to the crowd, “that true light will come.”

  57

  AIWAN-E-SADR

  The black Mercedes sedan holding Bolin pushed slowly, foot by foot, through the thick crowds of Pakistanis gathered concentrically around the iron gates of Aiwan-e-Sadr.

  Trailed by half a dozen black and green Humvees, the sedan rolled up to the main entrance gates, where no less than twenty soldiers stood in a line, submachine guns aimed in front of them.

  The left rear window of the sedan lowered. The guard looked inside.

  “It’s an honor, sir,” said the soldier, recognizing Field Marshal Bolin.

  Bolin returned his salute.

  “Thank you, soldier. Now open the gates.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The soldier glanced for a brief instant past Bolin, meeting Dewey’s stare, then looking away.

  The large iron gates moved sideways. The soldiers, standing inside the compound, trained their weapons at the teeming crowd, lest anyone try to enter the compound. The Mercedes moved forward. It was followed by the Humvees, which rumbled by the armed soldiers. The gates to the Aiwan-e-Sadr slid shut. The vehicles moved down a brick drive for several hundred yards, then went right, through a stone archway that led to an interior courtyard.

  The Mercedes parked in front of a set of long granite steps that led into the presidential palace. The Humvees lined up next to the black sedan.

  At the top of the steps, Colonel Martu emerged. Neat khaki uniform, medals across the chest, orange epaulets on top of the shoulders, a red beret. He descended to meet Bolin’s car.

  Bolin climbed out of the sedan, stepped toward the steps that led gracefully up to the presidential palace. Martu met him at the bottom step, saluting.

  “Field Marshal,” said Martu. “Thank God. If these walls could talk. I speak for the entire SSG leadership when I say we have been waiting for this day.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. What is the report?”

  “El-Khayab is in his office with Osama Khan. I’ll escort you.”

  Dewey climbed out the other side of the Mercedes. He wrapped his submachine gun across his back and kept his Colt M1911 holstered beneath his left armpit.

  “Who is this?” asked Martu, looking across the front of the Mercedes.

  “A friend from America,” said Bolin. “His name is Andreas. Now let’s move.”

  Dewey walked to the first Humvee, around to the rear. Rob Iverheart sat with General Lerik at the ends of the backseats, soldiers packed in behind them.

  Dewey tapped his ear, looking at Iverheart, indicating to keep his COMM on.

  “I’ll assemble men at the top of the steps,” said Lerik.

  “No,” said Dewey. “This looks like it’s going to be painless.”

  Dewey turned, walked to the next vehicle, where Millar sat. Dewey glanced at his neck, where a trickle of blood was moving in a fresh path south toward a shirt that was increasingly red and wet. Millar’s face looked pale and ashen.

  “How you feeling?” asked Dewey.

  “Fine,” said Millar.

  “Come on,” said Dewey. “I might need you to translate.”

  Millar climbed out of the Humvee. Dewey and he walked up the steps, twenty feet behind Bolin and Martu.

  “So this is a coup,” said Millar quietly. “Do they always go this smoothly?”

  “No,” said Dewey.

  At the top of the steps was a set of bright red doors, two stories tall, with ornate gold ornament along the frame. Two more soldiers, UZIs out, stood outside the door. They stared at Dewey and Millar as they followed Bolin and Martu inside.

  Bolin glanced back at Dewey; Dewey saw a trace of nervousness in Bolin’s eyes.

  They walked down a long, high-ceilinged corridor with a floor of gleaming black-and-white marble. They passed door after door, all of which were shut. Ahead, to the right, was an open door. Dewey glanced inside as they moved past the door.

  “Cabinet room,” said Millar.

  Inside, the room was half filled, government officials in suits, seated around the table, talking. At the end of the table, one of the officials turned, spied Dewey, turned away, then did a double take as Dewey passed.

  “Colonel,” Dewey said after walking a few more feet.

  “Yes?” asked Martu.

  “You need to lock down the cabinet room.”

  “Most of them will be supportive.”

  “Get some men in there and shut the door,” said Dewey. “Tell them Field Marshal Bolin will be in to speak with them within the hour. Confiscate cell phones.”

  Bolin nodded to Martu, who took out his cell phone and spoke rapidly before hanging up.

  At the end of the corridor, a stairwell led right. On the walls, large oil portraits of past Pakistani leaders. They moved past windows that overlooked Constitution Avenue, swarming with hundreds of thousands of people.

  Dewey registered the huge crowd from above. It was overwhelming.
The large square was packed, along with the roads leading to the square. People waved signs and flags. The crowds spread out as far as you could see, in every direction. The chant wouldn’t stop.

  “Death to India! Death to India!”

  He glanced at Millar.

  “That’s not good,” said Dewey quietly as they ascended.

  “Why?”

  “There are certain things that can’t be controlled,” whispered Dewey. “Large angry crowds are at the top of the list.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we need to remove this guy then get the hell out of Dodge before things spiral out of control.”

  They reached the top of the stairs. Bolin and Martu were ahead, out of earshot.

  “What about India?” asked Millar.

  Dewey looked at his watch.

  “We have fifteen minutes. Once El-Khayab is gone, India will bring home its nukes. But I wouldn’t want to be a pasty-skinned American when those crazy fuckheads”—he nodded to the window—“find out their messiah is gone.”

  Millar stared at Dewey, a hint of concern on his face. Dewey looked away and kept walking up the stairs.

  At the top step, Bolin and Martu awaited. The group moved down the corridor toward a set of doors, outside of which stood two more soldiers. They saluted Bolin and Martu as they approached.

  Bolin, Martu, Millar, and Dewey stood outside the door for a brief moment.

  One of the soldiers placed his hand on the large brass doorknob, then pulled the door open.

  * * *

  El-Khayab’s office was enormous, cavernous and ornate, light-filled. Closer to the door was a large sitting space with two long bright red couches facing each other and a table between them. Along the far walls, windows ten feet high looked out on the capital district.

  At the far end of the office was a long green marble table. In front of the table was a tall, middle-aged man in a tan suit, with neatly combed black hair whom Dewey recognized immediately: the father of Pakistan’s nuclear program, Osama Khan.