“Rabia, I’ll get them. I’ll go, and I’ll bring them back. We managed to slip across the mountains when the Russians were there. I can do it by mule again if I can get in touch with Ejaz and Abdul Rahman. Let me try to get them back now.”
“No!” Rabia was clear about Sikander’s culpability in failing to do anything about the vehicle. However, she was also the mother of his two children and lady of the household. Losing him would put everything at risk and that did not seem like a good idea. Besides, she loved Sikander.
“We’ve no information. You heard Musharraf say that Pakistan’s now in America’s camp. Afghanistan is… it’s enemy territory now. It’s too risky!”
Sikander gazed at his wife’s strained but beautiful face. He was relieved to see her regained composure and more than a little pleased she was concerned for his wellbeing. “Rabia, I don’t want to do anything crazy either. Listen; let me talk to Arif and Junaid. I won’t do anything unless I can reach out to them and get their help. How’s that?”
Rabia paused. She weighed the possibility of getting through with ISI help, which even she knew would probably add considerably to the likelihood of success. “Do you think you can do that?” she asked, sniffling and wiping her tears with her wrist.
“I can try,” promised Sikander. “I can certainly try.”
The following morning, after a brief stop at his office Sikander got back into his car for the short drive to Arif’s place. He turned on the radio. Being without the news for even a moment was intolerable. The news was bad.
In Peshawar, as in other cities in Pakistan, widespread rioting was reported as people protested the American offensive.
As he entered Jamrud and turned onto Warsak Dam Road, Sikander called Arif’s cellphone.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum, Arif?” he began. “Are you home?”
“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam, Sikander. I am indeed. Troubled times, eh? How goes it with you, old friend?”
“I’m fine, Arif, but I’m really worried about the family in Laghar Juy. Listen; I left them a vehicle, oh…about a year ago? And it’s broken down. They can’t get out and join us here in Peshawar, which is really what we’d like with all that’s happening.”
“Hmm…yes…yes, I see but…well, you know what Musharraf’s saying. I don’t—”
“Oh, screw what he’s saying, Arif!” retorted Sikander. “We need to help them get out. They’re my friends and relatives! They’re your friends! We have to do something.”
“All right! All right, look uh, let me call a few people and see what can be done. Where are you?”
“About to park in your backyard.”
Arif came out to meet Sikander. The two hugged briefly. “Hm. Good taste in automobiles,” muttered Arif, looking over Sikander’s shiny black Pajero, before they both stepped indoors.
“Let’s make the calls,” Sikander prodded.
As they entered the living room, the phone rang.
“Hello?” inquired Arif.
“Arif? Arif, is that you?” came the voice over the line.
“Yes, this is Arif. Who’s this?”
“Aaaarif!” exclaimed the voice. “It’s me! Junaid! I have to see you.” Junaid sounded agitated.
“Junaid! Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa-rahmatullahi wa-barakaatuhu! It’s funny you should say that because guess who’s here with me?” He looked at Sikander.
“Arif, I’ve no time for guessing games. We need to talk. We’re getting all kinds of conflicting messages about us and the Taliban and I have a mission to plan with you.”
“Oddly enough, I have Sikander sitting across the room from me and he believes he has a mission to plan, too. You’d better get over here.”
“On my way.”
Twenty minutes later Junaid was at Arif’s door and the three of them proceeded into his basement. The old map of Nangarhar, now riddled with pencil marks, names, and other tidbits of information scribbled over it, along with no small number of stains, was spread out over the table. Junaid described his mission.
“We have hundreds of our people on the ground over there, ISI, military advisers and the like. Until the attacks in New York, these people were arming, equipping, and instructing the Taliban how to defeat the Northern Alliance. Since Musharraf switched sides a little over two weeks ago, we’ve had to play it very carefully. Now we’re helping the Northern Alliance kill the same people who were our friends last month and those of our men still attached to the Taliban have to be withdrawn to safety. Things are still uncertain but the Taliban aren’t turning on them in case they can still preserve some sort of relationship with our government.”
Arif thought for a moment, somberly taking in Junaid’s mission. His eyes turned to meet Sikander’s and seeing the young man’s anxious mood, he launched into his old friend. “Junaid, Sikander needs to bring back Abdul Latif and his family. Whatever it is you’re planning we can’t ignore Abdul Latif. This time it’s about rescuing our friends. We have to get them out of Afghanistan.”
“Arif bhai, I…yes, we do have to do that, but…” Junaid paused, deep in thought for a moment before resuming. “Hmm… You know, I think we may be able to work something out.”
“What?” asked Sikander.
“Well, we’re trying to get out as many of our officers and their Taliban contact people as we can. Musharraf is negotiating with the Americans. He’s in direct contact with Cheney’s office, and I’m sure he’s made it clear if he let’s his people get killed in Afghanistan or abandons them there, the Pakistan Army will give him a hard time. Pakistan will descend into an unholy mess, which even Cheney can see is not what anyone wants right now.”
“How are you getting them out?” asked Sikander.
“With the Americans behind the Northern Alliance, the game will be over in—six?—ten weeks at most? Before the dust settles, we’re looking to secure a spot where we can assemble our people and airlift them in Six Squadron’s C130s. That’ll require the Americans and the Northern Alliance to refrain from firing on people coming to the assembly point. They’ll also have to create a safe air corridor for a few days or nights until our airlift is done. Since he’s allowing our soldiers’ Taliban handlers to come along, Musharraf is willing to let others slip on board too, if they can make it there in time. Sikander, I can get you at least part way into Afghanistan when my team goes in and if you can get Abdul Latif and his family to the assembly point in time, we should be able to get you all out.”
“The Americans and Northern Alliance will just hold back from firing on their Taliban enemies? Doesn’t seem likely,” responded Sikander. “And what about the airlift itself? Won’t the PAF planes risk getting shot down?”
“Look, it might annoy the troops on the ground, but the American leadership can see it makes sense to the overall strategy. I’m confident they’ll be able to secure a safe air corridor once an in-country air base can be established.
“A location’s already been selected?” queried Arif.
Junaid nodded. “Qunduz. The Americans think they’ll have control of Mazar-e-Sharif pretty soon. The locals there are anti-Taliban anyway so an attack will have lots of ground support. That’ll give them an airfield and from there, they’ll be able to secure the airspace from Qunduz airport all the way to the Pak border.”
“When does all this happen?” Sikander asked anxiously. “It’ll take days to get everyone to Qunduz, especially with air attacks going on all around.”
“Sometime in mid to late November. We’re working logistics right now.”
“Junaid bhai, that means you must have some idea when you’re getting your people into Afghanistan and how. You said I could join the mission team. When? How do we get across?”
“My friend, that’s why I needed to speak to Arif.”
Arif was deep in thought, already contemplating what would have to be arranged and who would have to be contacted. “We can probably get trucks straight up the pass to the border,” he said. “I can arrange them together with
the mules that you’ll need to go further into the country but that’s about it.”
“We’ll have to split into small teams to reach the pickup locations from which to take them up to Qunduz,” added Junaid.
“Junaid, you make it sound like you’re joining us. You’ve never gone across before, why now?” Sikander asked.
Junaid looked down before responding with a sigh. “Iqbal, my son. He’s um, he’s with the Taliban.” Returning his gaze to Sikander, Junaid shrugged resignedly. “Oh, I was all in favor of him going at first. Learning about Islam from them, you know? Huh! He’d been really into the American thing—jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps—and it warmed my heart that he finally got interested in his religion. But then he started to write things to me about beards and hijabs and jihad. It seemed the man writing me wasn’t Iqbal anymore.” Junaid’s voice quivered. “He’s been there for four years and, well, now he’s in trouble. I can’t leave his rescue to others.”
Sikander was tempted to ask if Iqbal wanted to be rescued, but he let the matter go. He had to focus on his own preparations. “When do we need to regroup?” he asked.
“October 26. That’s two-and-a-half weeks from now and a few days before the full moon, so we should have plenty of nighttime light,” replied Junaid.
“Let’s meet here at 1900 hours then,” Arif affirmed as the other two nodded, and the three of them parted, each lost in his own brewing anxiety.
Sikander returned to his office. It was on his way home anyway and he needed to let Jamil know of his expecting to be away for maybe a month or more from the end of October. In the time available, they would work together to prepare for Sikander’s absence. He revealed only that he had to travel to Afghanistan, with the ISI, to bring his in-laws safely into Pakistan, saying nothing of the airlift mission or any other operational detail. Although apprehensive about Sikander’s absence, Jamil knew it wouldn’t be worth trying to dissuade his brother, given Rabia’s family situation.
When Sikander finally reached home in the late afternoon, Atiya was there with Qayyum.
“Where’s Rabia?” he asked.
“Khan sahib, she went to pick up Ayub from school and should be back very soon.” Atiya returned her attention to Qayyum. She had laid out some children’s English elementary reading books with which Qayyum could entertain himself. Sikander slumped into the sofa and watched his young son playfully turning over the thick glossy cardboard pages and making simple sounds while looking at the pictures.
Crazy! Sikander thought. The world’s gone crazy! His gaze fixed on Qayyum, oblivious of all the madness into which the world had plunged itself. Qayyum’s world was simple. It was beautiful. The people who’d created the book he was thumbing through were happy people. They were Americans, too. How could things have unraveled to the point of their becoming indiscriminate targets for nineteen Saudi fanatics who believed that heaven lay on the other side of their acts? How could such Americans have decided that an entire population, already hard-pressed to eke out even a meager existence, should bear the consequences of the acts of a few criminals, simply because their government refused to turn them over without presentation of evidence? He had always loved America but hated what she was now doing to him, his family, and his adopted country. With that thought and not enough sleep over the last few nights, he dozed off.
“Sikander? Sikander, wake up,” came Sofie’s voice. Sikander stirred.
“Hm? Oh…” he murmured. “What…time is it?”
“It’s six in the evening, Sikander. You fell asleep. It’s time to eat.”
Sikander positioned himself upright as the fog cleared. “Ammee-jan, I can’t eat right now. Tell Sarwat to heat up the food later. Where’s Rabia?”
“She came home with Ayub. She’s asleep too, in the bedroom. I asked Atiya to take Ayub and Qayyum away so you wouldn’t be disturbed, bettha.” Sofie’s soothing motherly tones retreated with her into the kitchen.
Sikander yawned, massaging his head vigorously before going to his bedroom to waken Rabia. She had to be told about his plans without delay.
“Rabia? Wake up.” He prodded her. Slowly she stirred before asking about the time, and finally sat upright on the edge of the bed.
“We’re going to do it, Rabia.” Sikander declared. “We can get your family out.”
“You can? When? How?” asked Rabia, her depression and lack of sleep were apparent.
“It involves me going to Afghanistan soon,” he explained. “But I’ll probably need to be away for a few weeks.”
Rabia became immediately alert. “That long? Why?”
“I can’t explain it all, Rabia, but like I promised, I’ll not be going in alone and the operation is being planned carefully.”
Rabia frowned anxiously and with a hint of suspicion.
Sikander projected the most convincing smile he could. She returned a forbearing look. Deep down, Rabia wanted desperately to believe that a plan based on the assistance that Sikander had previously discussed might work. But she knew her husband well enough to know that he wouldn’t try to deceive her. If he was going, it meant he’d obtained the help he needed.
“I suppose I’ll just have to trust you, won’t I?”
Optimism began to regain its familiar grip on her and with it came the urge to give Sikander a warm, loving embrace. They had dinner and retired to bed, deliberately avoiding TV that night. Lying in the darkness with just a nightstand light to illuminate them, Sikander felt a tenderness from Rabia that he’d been missing for several days, as the tension leading up to this war had taken its toll.
His wife had reclaimed herself. Gazing upon her face in the low light, Sikander was once again smitten by her. Each of them had slept for a couple of hours already, and with a profusion of pheromones accumulating in the room, they were in no mood to sleep.
On October 20, Sikander and Junaid met in the Jumma Bazaar. Junaid handed him a specially prepared map with an accurate representation not only of roads and waterways, but more importantly, of the topography. It would be valuable for any mule-bound journey from Torkhum to Laghar Juy but indispensable for traveling from there to Qunduz. He studied it intently, figuring out options until he felt he had a thorough grasp of it.
The agreed date finally arrived. Sikander gathered up some cash, put a few simple belongings together, including the map, and hugged his family passionately, especially Rabia, before driving himself to Arif’s place. He parked alongside two large troop trucks.
Junaid was already there with others Sikander had never met. On this particular mission, one of several taking place over the next few days, twelve men were to start out, then split up into six teams of two with specific coordinates from which to draw escapee candidates. Those going out that evening were to go to Nangarhar, Lowgar, Wardak, Paktia, Ghazni, and Bamian provinces. Sikander would join the Nangarhar group to pursue his own objective in Laghar Juy.
The two trucks left that evening, reaching the border at eleven o’clock. Border security on the Afghan side was nonexistent, with communications down and nobody expecting any ground force invasion through the Khyber Pass.
At a small place outside Torkhum, a fellow ISI officer was waiting for them along with a couple of Taliban helpers. With them were forty-eight mules. Once the travelers disembarked, the truck drivers turned around and sped back to Landi Kotal. From this point the teams split up to proceed by mule to their designated locations. For Sikander, at least, it was not difficult, since they were already in Nangarhar. With him was an officer named Iftekhar, who had been introduced to him in Jamrud as a lieutenant in the ISI. Meanwhile, Junaid headed to Wardak, where he believed his son was located, and with him went another of the officers.
Iftekhar bore a stiff demeanor, speaking curtly and to the point. “We need to get off the road tonight,” he said. “We’ll remain about ten kilometers to the south of the main road. My mission is to pick up our people at Shahi Kot and move them to Qunduz. Sikander, you will separate at Nadir Shah Kot,
and take two mules with you to Laghar Juy. Try to gauge the situation, and if you feel you can come back this way or over the pass near Showlghar with your people, then do it. Otherwise, we’ll meet in Qunduz. Bear in mind,” he warned, “the Americans and Northern Alliance presence is going to increase sharply when they get a major air base. Once that happens, you can expect a lot of attention on the border regions with Pakistan. Any questions?”
Sikander was tired but he got the picture. This Iftekhar’s a buttoned-down fellow, he thought. I wonder if he’s had much experience on this side of the fence.
The two needed to avoid making any more noise than necessary and planned to travel at least a hundred meters apart so as not to attract attention or be mistaken for Taliban. The moon was bright, as predicted, so it wasn’t hard to track Iftekhar.
Occasionally, they heard jets flying overhead. Sometimes, Tomahawk cruise missiles raced across the countryside at barely a hundred meters off the ground, each relying on a triad of GPS, terrain contour-, and visual scene-matching to deliver destruction unerringly to its programmed destination. Error in selecting the destination was quite a different matter. American bombing campaigns were still focused on specific targets that would disable any Taliban ability to wage war or even mount a coordinated defense. Early warning radar installations, command and control facilities, airfields, and aircraft on the ground, were all targets.
At three in the morning they arrived in Ghani Khel and after connecting with Iftekhar’s contact there, they slept. Immediately after daybreak, the three of them left for Nadir Shah Kot, taking a local Taliban guide with them. Once there, they met up with two more Taliban and an ISI officer who together were to join Iftekhar and lead him to his destination at Shahi Kot. It was time for Sikander to split from the group. Once again, Iftekhar reminded him to be at Qunduz no later than November 17. Sikander took his two mules and bid the team salaams as he turned southwest, toward his old adopted haunt, a little more than thirty kilometers away.
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