by Fred Burton
Zia was our closest ally in south Asia. He spearheaded our covert war against the Soviets in Afghanistan. It is through Pakistan that all our weapons, money, and ammunition flow to the mujahideen. Now, just as the Soviets have cried “uncle” and started pulling out of Afghanistan, the key architect of our victory has been burned to ashes.
I wish Steve Gleason was here; he always handled these crises with a cool hand. Unfortunately, he left the office a few months back to take an RSO slot overseas.
I huddle with our new chief, who is a good man, to gameboard how we’ll handle the news. We decide to send an immediate intelligence tasker (IT) to every embassy and RSO across the globe. An IT is an urgent message designed to marshal all our assets, sources, and contacts to focus on one series of specific questions. It is our way of broadcasting a need for detailed information, and fast.
We don’t know if PAK-1’s destruction was a result of an accident or assassination. We’ve got to find out if there were any threats leveled at Zia or the ambassador prior to the flight. That’s question number one for our tasker. Question number two assumes the worst. If it was a hit, is anyone taking credit for it? Is anyone boasting about it? Are there any clues out there?
The taskers are sent out with flash precedence. All over the world, our intelligence operatives scramble. They work their own sources and meet with security and intel agencies from Germany to Canada, Saudia Arabia to the Philippines.
The Dark World is totally silent today. No threats are reported. No bragging or credit taking is heard. This has never happened before, at least not since I joined the DSS. After huge geopolitical events, the Dark World’s communication sinews always sing with rumor and innuendo. Then the walk-ins start trickling into our embassies and office here at Foggy Bottom. And of course, we get the crazies, too.
With this crisis, there’s nothing. Not even the whack jobs come out of the woodwork this time. What’s it mean?
In Washington, the CIA, FBI, NSA, DIA, NSC, and the State Department all frantically review their files, looking for anything that we collectively might have missed. Was there some warning that got overlooked? Other than the typical saber rattling between Pakistan and India, and the Soviet Union’s hostility toward Pakistan over their defeat in Afghanistan, there’s nothing specific to indicate a plot against President Zia.
Maybe the crash was an accident—an accident that happened to wipe out the better part of an ally’s leadership.
There are no coincidences in the Dark World. This smells like a hit. If it was, it’ll rank as one of the most successful in history. The assassins essentially decapitated Pakistan’s command-and-control leadership with one event.
Within a couple of hours of the crash, the situation in south Asia has deteriorated even further. The Pakistani army and air force are at each other’s throats, tossing accusations and recriminations back and forth. The surviving members of the government are paranoid that a coup is under way. Simultaneously, India has increased its military’s alert status. Some Pakistanis suspect the Indians have assassinated their president. The tension between the two nuclear-armed nations is growing by the hour. Troops are massing along both sides of the border, and their nuclear readiness has been increased. In the middle of it all, we still have the CIA running a covert war out of Pakistan against the Soviets in Afghanistan.
My phone rings. Mr. Dittmer and our new CT chief want to see me ASAP. Apparently, I’m going to Islamabad.
twenty
NIGHT FLIGHT
The air force executive jet speeds us over the Atlantic. This time, I cross the pond in comfort. The seats are plush, the heater works so I don’t need the extra-thick coat I brought along, and the coffee is first-rate. I sit in shirtsleeves next to Brad Bryson, both of us sipping our java as we talk about the mission ahead. Brad’s working for me on this mission, though we were in the same training class back in 1985. He joined the CT office only a few months ago, and now he’s getting the same hard-core introduction to the Dark World that I did. He’s not much older than twenty-four.
Time to brief Brad.
“Okay, here’s the situation. Pakistan is coming unglued. They had a weak central government to begin with. But now with Zia and most of the rest of the leadership dead, the country could very well fall into civil war. At the same time, we’ve picked up some intelligence suggesting that India is considering a preemptive strike against Pakistan. They’re afraid the Pakistanis will blame them for Zia’s death and launch their nukes. A first strike takes care of that fear.”
The color drains out of Brad’s face. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.
“Yeah. It’s bad.”
Brad says, “And we’re flying into the middle of it?”
“Yes. To defuse it.”
“By finding out who really killed Zia?”
“Not exactly,” I reply. “Look, the National Security Council and the boys on the seventh floor at Foggy Bottom talked this over. What the world needs right now is a cooling-off period. A crash investigation will buy time for everyone. It forces the Pakistanis to wait for our conclusions before they respond to anything. Plus, if we discover it was an accident, the international implications evaporate. The Pakistanis will still have internal issues to deal with, but at least they won’t be tossing nukes at the Indians.”
Brad asks, “But what if we conclude the Indians assassinated Zia?”
“Well, let’s hope they’re not that stupid.”
Brad doesn’t respond. He looks as tense as I feel. I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to Sharon. If I end up as collateral damage in a Pakistan-Indian nuclear war, she’ll never even know how I died.
“Okay, the NSC decided to send me as the lead investigator for the State Department. You and I will be working with an air force crash investigation team that we’ll link up with in Germany. We’ll fly out to Islamabad together.”
Brad starts taking notes. As he writes, he asks, “Why isn’t the NTSB doing this?”
The National Transportation Safety Board has the best crash analysis and investigation unit in the world. Brad’s question is a logical one. I’m not surprised he thought of this. He’s an exceptionally sharp agent and possesses not just a keen intellect, but common sense as well. He had no prior law-enforcement experience before coming to the DSS. This is a rare thing for our service, but the powers that be saw a young college grad with tremendous potential.
“NSC decision. The NTSB team includes an FBI agent. Mr. Dittmer told me that the NSC concluded that his presence would actually ratchet up the tension, not relieve it. It would send a signal to the Pakistanis—and everyone else—that the United States believes the crash site is actually a crime scene.”
“It could be.”
“Yes, but we don’t want to telegraph that. The world’s in a precarious position right now. Perception is everything. An air force crash team sends a better message. Zia’s plane was an old C-130 Hercules built during the Vietnam era. The air force team wants to find out what went wrong mechanically. See the difference in perception? Besides, right now if we sent the FBI in, the Pakistanis would take it as an insult. Like they can’t investigate their own president’s death. Their pride is at stake.”
“Okay, but the FBI must be pretty pissed to be shut out.”
“That’s their problem. We’ve got plenty of others. Besides, the NSC will run interference for us. Colin Powell, Dick Armitage, and Robert Oakley made a point of taking care of us and have already paved the way for our arrival with the Pakistani authorities. They’ve been assured we’ll get complete cooperation once we get there.”
Brad thinks this over for a minute, then asks, “Why won’t our presence get the same reaction the FBI’s would?”
“Good question. We’re there because of Ambassador Raphel’s death. Don’t forget that it is the DSS’s job to investigate any diplomat’s death overseas. We’d be there no matter what the situation, so our presence is just standard operating procedure.”
“Ri
ght. Okay. What do you need from me?”
I’ve never been the lead investigator on a case like this. With all the international entanglements and tension, it could get ugly, and the truth could get lost. I’m going to need his eyes, ears, and analytical skills on this mission. Brad worked in the DSS’s Washington Field Office fresh out of agent training. I wanted his mind in the CT office, and the first chance I got, I convinced Gleason to snag him away from the WFO.
“Observe everything. The little details, the subtle vocal inflections of a witness, the body language of our hosts—watch for these things. Figure everywhere we go, we’ll be under surveillance, so be careful what you say to me, okay? Our rooms are bound to be bugged. So be discreet.”
Brad’s face pales. Beneath the color drain, though, I see resolve. The kid’s okay. He’s got mettle. He just needs experience.
I finish off my coffee and stare into the bottom of the cup for a couple of heartbeats. “The most important thing is the truth, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There’s going to be a lot of pressure on us. No doubt there will be conclusions that the Pakistanis want, conclusions that our government will want, conclusions that others want—the CIA, Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence. Who knows. Ignore all that. Keep your mind open and don’t let any of the politics influence you.”
As the senior man, I can’t show the stark terror that’s boiling beneath my professional façade. The truth is, I’m not sure I’m ready for what’s ahead.
“One more thing,” I add. “We may be targets ourselves. If this is an inside job, whoever did it will not want to get caught. Right now, everyone’s a suspect.”
“I’ve got your back, Fred. Don’t worry about that.”
Brad’s a straight arrow whose character is rooted in his middle-American upbringing in South Dakota. He’s a good man to have at my side on this mission. We’re going to have to walk a tightrope. If we screw up, we could very well precipitate a war. That was made clear to me before we left Foggy Bottom.
“Pakistan has always been a dicey post. Don’t forget what happened in ’79. They came over the embassy walls in Islamabad and a marine got killed. It looked like it was going to be a repeat of Tehran. Not much has changed. If anything, there are more radicals on the street, and there could be some in the ISI and their air force. Keep your head on a swivel.”
We both fall silent. The executive jet speeds us to our rendezvous with the air force crash team. I spend the rest of the flight staring out my window, lost in thought. Outside, all I see is impenetrable darkness. I wonder if I will ever see my wife again.
twenty-one
IN COUNTRY
In Germany, we bid adieu to our executive jet and climb aboard a cavernous monster of an aircraft. The air force calls it a C-5A Galaxy, but I think that name is an understatement. The thing can hold a battalion of troops, or a pair of tanks, or even a couple of helicopters. Looking around in the cargo bay is like standing in the hold of a supertanker. It makes the C-141 look like an anorexic teenager.
Along with the crash team, we’re this beast’s only cargo. We’ll leave from Rhein-Main and fly nonstop straight to Islamabad. Besides being the largest plane in America’s inventory, it also has a true global reach. Galaxy pilots think nothing of flying to destinations half a world away. They do it all the time. It’s going to be a very long flight.
We stow our gear aboard and find seats.
We’ve still got about an hour before departure. The crew is busy with all their preflight duties, and we’re pretty much on our own until it is time to go. Brad and I decide to take this time to go meet the air force guys.
I find the crash team’s commanding officer, Colonel Dan Sowada, standing near the C-5’s back ramp. Brad and I go over and introduce ourselves.
“What do you make of the reports so far?” I ask Colonel Sowada.
“Well, we’re gathering as much information as we can right now on prior C-130 crashes. But I will say this: C-130s are used all over the world. They fly hundreds of thousands of hours a year. They don’t just fall out of the sky.”
“That’s for sure,” his team’s engineer confirms as he walks up to introduce himself. “The Herk is one of the most reliable planes we’ve got. That’s why so many countries use them.”
“Most of the ones produced are still flying, even the ones built in the fifties.”
I ask, “When was Zia’s plane built?”
The engineer responds, “In 1962. Came off the line in Marietta, Georgia. It was a C-130B-LM. The B models had better engines than the earlier variant, the A.”
“Still, the plane was twenty-five years old,” Brad says.
“True, but most of the C-130 fleet is that old anyway.”
Sowada says, “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve got to do this one right and be thorough.”
“Agreed,” I say.
One of the C-5 crew members walks over to our little group. “Gentlemen, we’re ready to go. Time to load up.”
We turn and walk inside the Galaxy. As we find our seats, Brad’s earlier comment hits me right between the eyes.
What if we find out the Indians did it?
God, I hope this was just a tragic accident. But that would just be too tidy, too coincidental, especially give the fact that there were thirty-one high-value targets on board. Deep down, I know this one’s bound to get ugly.
The C-5 lifts off and wings eastward. The flight is long and cold, and I’m glad I have my Barbour Beaufort handy. I hunker down in it and try to get some sleep. When we get in country, sleep will be a luxury.
Almost half a day later, we make our final approach into Islamabad’s Chaklala Air Base. We arrive in the middle of the night and the C-5 rolls to a stop in a remote corner of the airport. The Galaxy is quickly surrounded by a mixed group of Pakistani special forces soldiers and U.S. Air Force security troops. When we deplane, we find the CIA waiting for us with blacked-out vans.
The vans race us into the city, where Pakistani soldiers armed with assault rifles stand guard on every street corner. The capital is basically in lockdown mode.
The vans take us to the Holiday Inn. Here we are in a city on the brink of war, and we’ll be staying at a vacation destination. I can’t help but laugh at the irony.
Fifteen minutes later, the embassy RSO shows up in an armored vehicle and picks us up. I’ve met Mel Harrison before in Washington, D.C. He’s a good man, a straight shooter who has had a very unusual career. He served as an economics officer in London during one tour. On another, he spent six months at the NATO war college studying military history and tactics. He’s tall and lanky with a studious persona and a broad mind, thanks in part to his atypical career path.
Tonight, he’s extremely quiet. He says little until we get to his house, where dinner is waiting for us. While we eat, he drops a bombshell.
“Fred, I was supposed to be on that plane.” He can’t even look at us as he says those words. Instead, he stares out a window. Arnold Raphel was his friend. Right then, the human cost finally becomes real to me. Up until now, I’ve been approaching this from the geopolitical perspective, with all its implications. Seeing Mel’s grief drives home the painful truth of this tragedy. Thirty-one families are without loved ones tonight. Two of our own men are dead. On top of his case of survivor’s guilt, Mel is grieving for his lost friend.
“I was supposed to be on that flight,” Mel says again, almost under his breath.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Ambassador Raphel decided at the last minute that he wanted to go. He figured it would give him an opportunity to talk to President Zia about an attack on an American nun. He wanted some assurances that those responsible would be punished.”
This is news to both Brad and me. “Wait, you’re saying Ambassador Raphel was not scheduled to be on that plane?”
“Right. He bumped me at the last minute.”
Brad says, “Well we can discount the chance that this was a
hit on the ambassador then.” Mel agrees.
I breathe a sigh of relief. That was one of the first things we were told to investigate. We can put that one to rest.
“Mel, tell us what you know about the crash,” I say.
The RSO launches into the complete story. President Zia, the joint chiefs of staff, the head of the ISI, and other VIPs took the trip from Islamabad to Bahawalpur to attend an M1 Abrams tank demonstration. The U.S. government had just sealed a deal with Zia to sell Pakistan a bunch of these formidable machines, and the VIPs wanted to get a firsthand look at them.
The demonstration had been planned weeks in advance.
President Zia’s C-130 lifted off from Chaklala on the morning of August 17. It flew down to Bahawalpur without incident. The VIPs watched the tank demonstration and returned to the airport that afternoon. The C-130 taxied out to the runway and took off after the crew went through the normal preflight checklist. Five minutes after takeoff, the plane went down. Nobody survived. It was a catastrophic impact. Only pieces remain of the aircraft.
“Tomorrow morning, you’ll get an introduction and full briefing by the Pakistani Air Force. After that, they will fly you down to the crash site,” Mel says.
I have many questions, but Mel looks weary. He probably hasn’t slept since the crash.
“Were there any prior threats against President Zia?” I ask.
“None that we picked up.”
“Any warning indicators at all that an operation was under way?”
“No. We never saw this coming. If it was sabotage, it was done very quietly.”
“What about the ISI?” Brad asks.
Mel shakes his head. “They had no threats on the board either.” He hesitates for a second, then changes his statement. “Let’s put it this way. If they had any information on an imminent threat, the ISI did not share it with us.”