Third World War

by Unknown

  As Qureshi moved down the line, shaking hands, squeezing elbows, patting shoulders, he understood how, at the precise moment of a military takeover, power was reversed. Momentarily it was being held by the men who greeted him. But when he reached the end of the line, Hussain ushered him through a door into a briefing room. Inside was a group of officers from all services, who, if he got it wrong, would be the ones to overthrow and possibly execute him.

  Hussain moved slightly ahead of Qureshi and lightly held the back of a chair. 'We are military men, so I will not spend time on flowery words,' he said. 'As you may have heard, Vice-President Zafar has been taken ill with heart problems. This morning he left for medical treatment in Dubai.' Hussain paused as a barely detectable ripple of mirth spread through the audience.

  'The new President of Pakistan is Air Vice-Marshal Qureshi. All of you know him, either personally or through his formidable reputation as a leader. We have chosen him because of his military record, his dedication to our missile and nuclear programmes and his determination to see our vision come to fruition. President Qureshi has, within the past hour, arrived back in Pakistan from China. He has also been in North Korea, which, as you know, has undergone a similar change of government as here.' Hussain let go the chair, clapped his hands together and stepped to one side. 'So without further ado, gentlemen, I present to you the President of Pakistan.'

  Qureshi walked to the centre of a small dais in front of a blank, grubby white screen pulled down from the low ceiling. The room served both as a briefing area and a mess room. The central area was taken up with classroom-style desks and chairs. Around the sides were old sofas, armchairs and coffee tables, marked with cigarette burns. The badly circulated air smelt of stale tobacco. On the walls were a mix of posters and maps, some with Islamic slogans, some with military slogans. There were several montages of regiments on the front line in Kashmir and ships' crews out on exercise in the Indian Ocean.

  He cast his eyes over his audience. These were the officers who still ran ships, submarines, aircraft, artillery and tanks. They knew where the fuel, the ammunition and the missiles were stored. They had the keys to warehouses. They commanded men in battle. They were colonels, squadron leaders and warship captains. Without their support the generals could not have acted as they did. What Qureshi once was, they were now, and as they sat, some with notebooks like students in a classroom, their expressions were not of the sycophancy and congratulations that had greeted Qureshi outside the lift but of judgement.

  But how much did they know? Were they aware of the new missile arsenals under separate command and control structures assembled at five different sites in the country? Did they know that North Korea was now assembling a Pakistani tactical nuclear weapon to use, if necessary, against the United States on the Pacific front? Did they know that it was he, Qureshi, who had devised the assassination of President Khan and called in a favour from al-Qaida to carry it out?

  'This room's a dump,' said Qureshi bluntly, putting his cap on the desk in front of him. 'As soon as I'm done, it will be cleared up, repainted and the air conditioning will be fixed.' He offered no charm, no courtesy. He stared down his audience, his eyes blazing with the irritation, until suddenly, a mask of change rippled across his face.

  'My parents come from Delhi,' he continued, more softly. 'It was touch and go as to whether they would abandon their home at Partition and move to Pakistan. Or whether they would stay as part of the Muslim elite in a secular India. If they had, I might have become an Air Vice-Marshal in the Indian air force, priming the airborne Agni missile for launches against Pakistan. Such is the knife-edge of this damned situation we find ourselves in.'

  He noticed the glances across the room, his analogy bringing flashes of doubt to the younger men's faces. 'I lost my family home in India and we endured the trauma of Partition in order to pursue a vision. It has been a long and troubled journey. But I have never--' he paused, using silence to underline his point. When he took up again he dropped his voice: 'I have never forgotten why my parents made that sacrifice. I am here with you today to ensure we finish it.'

  He watched faces, challenging them to challenge him. But there was quiet. 'I trust that each of you knows why you are here today. I trust that when you tell your children and your grandchildren about the path we are about to pursue you can do so with your heads held high and that you can speak without shame or excuses.' He walked to one side of the room, turned on his heel and walked back, preparing his next line. 'Let me share with you what I hope to tell the next generation. That Pakistan was created as an Islamic state. For sixty years, it has dithered. Democracy creates tribalism and corruption because voters are loyal to their clan and money is needed to oil the machine of electioneering. But military rule destroys the imagination of the people. Science, arts, the ingredients of a great civilization cannot flourish from the barrel of a gun. This has been our dilemma, and this is what you and I are now going to solve. When you return to your commands bear in mind the great responsibility you have taken on by being with me today in this room.'

  ****

  24*

  ****

  Washington, DC, USA*

  The Chinese ambassador to the United Nations in New York had lingered outside the Security Council meeting room. He had a message to deliver, informally, verbally and swiftly. The other ambassadors filed past him. North Korea had been at the top of the agenda, but nothing of substance had been discussed or decided. It rarely was in the UN. The ambassador stepped forward just as his American counterpart left the room. With a light hand on the elbow he drew him to one side. Back in his office, the American diplomat telephoned Mary Newman who arranged a meeting with the President and drove straight to the White House.

  'Jamie Song's broken his word,' she told Jim West. 'China will oppose any missile strikes or air attacks by US, Japanese or South Korean forces on North Korean military facilities on a line between Anju and Hungnam. It's just below the fortieth parallel.'

  'What does it leave us?' said the President, turning to Chris Pierce, who was unfolding a map of the Korean peninsula with missile launch sites marked on it, together with facilities for storing nuclear, chemical and biological weapons.

  'There are six sites we know of above the fortieth parallel,' he said. 'Five if we exclude the test site at Nodong. Two of those have been designed for medium-range missiles targeting our military bases in Japan. They might have been modified for a launch on our west coast. In short, Mr President, if we can't hit them, there is little point in making any strike at all. Either we knock out all their launch facilities in one shot, or we risk them firing on us with whatever they've got left.'

  'And we've got Japan threatening to send in an armada of warships,' mumbled West, looking around the hurriedly put together meeting of his Principals Committee. Only Pierce, Newman and Brock had managed to make it in time. He eyed each one individually. 'Can any of you tell me that your President hasn't been got by the balls?'

  Brock smiled and Newman rolled her eyes, but before anyone could answer, the intercom lit up and Jenny Rinaldi's voice came over. 'Sorry to interrupt, Mr President. The National Security Advisor's office needs to speak to Mr Brock urgently.'

  Peter Brock was on his feet. 'I'll take it outside,' he said, leaving the room.

  A brief uncomfortable silence followed, with the President left between the two opposing views of his administration. It was Pierce who put forward a suggestion: 'Why don't we call Park's bluff, Mr President? We get South Korea to apologize for the killing at Panmunjom. We accept their explanation for the missile. The status quo resumes. Japan will have no reason to invoke article six. We turn the issue into one of development aid. They get no more until they abandon their missile programme and let in inspectors. After a decent interval we bring up the smallpox programme, and ask for access. If they comply, we build up a free North Korea, just like we have done with the whole of East Asia.'

  'That's what we've been doing for years,' said Newman.
'And all it does is buy them time.'

  'We might be buying lives,' snapped Pierce.

  'Chris,' said West, wanting to avoid further confrontation. 'I need to be able to go with air strikes, bombing and missiles, on North Korea within twenty-four hours. Mary, can you work out a formula along the lines that Chris suggested and call in the Chinese ambassador? Tell him if Jamie Song doesn't want us to bomb those goddamn missile sites, we want China to do it.'

  'China?' repeated Newman, about to object, but then thinking better of it.

  'That's right,' said West. 'From where I come from, if one son of a bitch objects to your doing something, you tell him to either shut up or do it himself. Let's see what Jamie's answer is to that.'

  The door clicked open and Brock stepped back into the room. 'Mr President. We have confirmation that there has indeed been a coup in Pakistan. The country is now in the hands of Islamist military commanders.'

  ****

  25*

  ****

  Islamabad, Pakistan*

  After dining with his family in his sprawling house just outside Islamabad, Qureshi walked through the garden, past the unfamiliar sight of armed guards deployed everywhere around him, and climbed into the back seat of the waiting car. Below him were the glittering lights of the city. From their density, he could distinguish between the slums and the wide boulevards of the government buildings and Parliament. Only the slums existed as a real, functioning environment. The other half of Pakistan was a facade.

  Qureshi had told nobody of the deadline set him by Jamie Song. Within the next six days, he had to arrest anyone involved in the attack on the Indian Parliament and deliver them to Chinese troops waiting on board a 747 at Islamabad airport, to be flown to a jail in China, where they would be held without trial. He respected Jamie Song for his imagination, but that was all it was.

  Qureshi had showered, eaten supper with his wife, Tasneem, smoked, paced his garden and thought. He had not mentioned a word to Tasneem. Like most Pakistanis, she knew that their vice-president was in exile, but remained ignorant about the military takeover. And Tasneem would never intrude into her husband's work or his thoughts on such matters.

  Their children were away from home. Akbar, Zeenat and Bashir were at boarding school. Javed was on a gap year in France, and Farrah, the oldest, had just moved out and set up in an apartment in Lahore.

  It was this and not the unfolding political crisis that concentrated Tasneem's mind. Farrah, a beautiful and vulnerable nineteen-year-old, had defied her mother's wishes and had moved out of the house and out of the city in which they lived. Qureshi, with only a fraction of his mind on his daughter's wilfulness, had backed his wife by banning Farrah from leaving. To which she had said in English: 'No wonder this country's such a dump with people like you running it.'

  With his wife in tears, Farrah had left. Mother and daughter had flung their arms around each other, reconciled to the inevitable, neither willing to sacrifice more than each already had. Qureshi had hung back in the hall, his pipe full but unlit. Uncoiling herself from Tasneem, Farrah had waved, like a showdancer in an American movie. 'Bye, Dad. Don't be a stranger. I love you. Remember that.'

  And all Qureshi could manage was a quick smile and a wave, before retreating into the safety of a flaring match and the smell of freshly lit tobacco. In that moment he wondered whether he should ever have educated his daughter; whether he should have allowed her to grow up in a world of denim jeans and uncovered faces; whether he should have confined her forcibly; whether he had failed his wife; whether Farrah was an example of what his nation should never become.*

  *****

  He whispered the address into the ear of his driver. They retained their elevation, leaving the built-up residential area and the glow of street lights. The driver turned to the right, heading further north towards the Margala Hills. The road deteriorated. The car bumped over potholes hewn out by rain. The headlights lit up a shepherd, who froze for a moment, then bustled his flock to the side of the road, while the car passed.

  Only Qureshi's driver of twenty years' service was with him. A sensible military leader, freshly appointed, would be unwise to trust his bodyguards with a meeting so sensitive.

  The driver changed down to a lower gear to negotiate a rut. They turned a corner around the edge of a mountain. Qureshi pressed down his window. The air was colder and fresher. He could make out the shape of another car, parked just off the road, and a single, narrow flashlight beam, pointing down to the brown, grassless ground.

  'Stop,' said Qureshi softly. 'And cut the engine.' He took his pistol out of the holster, put a round in the breech, but kept the safety catch on. Holding it in his right hand, hanging loosely by his side, he stepped out of the car and moved to the centre of the road. The flashlight ahead went off. On both sides there were static shapes of cattle grazing.

  Qureshi walked forward until he saw the shape of a man leaning against the vehicle. He slipped off the safety catch of his weapon. The man opened the door and the interior lamp came on. The man leant inside, putting his face into the light, so Qureshi could see it.

  He recognized him as General Wei Guo, the military attache at the Chinese embassy to Islamabad. As far as Qureshi could make out, there was no driver. Guo had driven the four-wheel-drive Cherokee jeep to the spot himself. Guo slipped back out of the car and stood up again. He flared a match, lighting a cigarette, reaffirming his identity to Qureshi.

  'General, thank you for coming,' said Qureshi, when he reached the vehicle. He shook his head, as Guo offered him a cigarette, and glanced inside the car to ensure that what he had come for was installed inside. Guo noticed. 'It's there,' he said, in Urdu with a smile. 'I will connect the line for you, then step away, so you have privacy.'

  'Complete privacy?' asked Qureshi. He had worked with Guo for too many years for either of them to use diplomatic jargon.

  Guo drew on his cigarette. 'From me, yes. I cannot guarantee what General Yan has arranged at the other end. My instinct, however, is that he would not wish anyone to know about this conversation.'

  Qureshi put his weapon back in the holster and rested his hand on the bonnet. Guo opened the cover of the glove compartment to reveal a black box with a small screen, a keyboard and a dialling pad. He brought out a wire, with a rubber sucker on the end, pulled it to its full length and attached it to a precise spot on the roof, from which he extracted a metal antenna which looped around on itself. Then from inside the glove compartment, he took a box no bigger than a cigarette packet. Inside it were layers of folded aluminium, which Guo let drop down into a flat circular shape. He attached that to the antenna on the roof, making a small satellite dish.

  'The NSA may pick up the actual transmission,' explained Guo. 'But they will not be able to penetrate the scrambler. Voice recognition will be impossible and they will have difficulty in pinpointing the location. Since their analysts are not looking for it, they will probably not even notice it.' A gust of wind struck up, blowing dust across their faces. Guo eyed the dish, satisfied that it swayed well but did not move. He opened the back door, where a telephone receiver was clipped into the back of the seat. Qureshi climbed in, just as the red light flashed silently on the handset. He looked up at Guo, who nodded. 'It's General Yan Xiaodong for you, sir,' he said. Guo slid off the seat, closed the door of the car and walked some way away, until his figure blended with the darkness.

  Qureshi waited for static and white noise to clear from the line, indicating that the two scramblers had linked up. 'Thank you for speaking to me in these unusual circumstances,' said Qureshi. The last time he had seen Yan was on the steps of the Central Committee building in Zhongnanhai. He had said nothing beyond the formalities one dignitary would say to another. As Qureshi had watched him through the tinted dark glass of his Audi, Yan wore a crooked frown, and a look of genuine puzzlement. But he had given nothing away.

  'It's always a pleasure to speak to an old friend,' said Yan. 'And while you may be in an unusual place,
I am in my office where one telephone looks no different from any other.'

  Qureshi paused, allowing for a delay on the satellite linking. If he read Yan correctly, the 'old friend' reference meant Pakistan still commanded the support of the Chinese military. The office location warned that others were listening in. The fact that Yan agreed to the call indicated that he knew the only topic of conversation was to be Jamie Song's ultimatum.

  'You, too, are an old friend,' replied Qureshi, matching the veiled language. 'It has been a difficult half-century. We have fought wars against the same, common enemy. You and I have much shared ground.' He saw the glow of Guo's cigarette end far away from the car. Behind him were the sidelights of his own vehicle. His driver would be watching Guo through a hunting rifle with telescopic infra-red sights. 'I have a problem and am calling to ask for your help,' continued Qureshi.