by Ben Coes
From behind Bolin’s hulking frame, Dewey’s eyes flashed to the window where a tall man in an immaculate white bisht stood. He recognized him from the photographs. Omar El-Khayab.
El-Khayab’s long gray beard spread down across his chest. His glasses were off and even from across the room, the hideous scars were visible.
Behind Khan another man stood, this one in a dark blue bisht. This was El-Khayab’s brother, Atta.
When the door opened, Khan turned and stood.
“Field Marshal Bolin,” said Khan from across the room. “Come in, join us.”
Bolin crossed the room. The chants from the square seemed to grow louder as he crossed the soft, ornate carpet underfoot.
Martu stayed at his side, a foot behind him.
“Field Marshal Bolin,” said El-Khayab. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
Khan’s eyes drifted past the approaching Bolin, past Martu, then found Dewey and Millar.
Khan moved a step to his left, as if in disbelief. His arm lifted. Khan pointed a finger at Dewey.
“Americans,” said Khan. “What’s going on?”
“It’s over, my friend,” said Bolin.
“What is this?” shouted Khan. “President El-Khayab, Bolin is a traitor! He is accompanied by Americans. CIA!”
Dewey said nothing.
“Pakistan is taking back its government today,” said Bolin forcefully. He glanced at Khan, then addressed El-Khayab. “Omar El-Khayab, you have brought Pakistan to the brink of self-destruction.”
“America is stealing our government!” yelled Khan, stepping toward Bolin.
“America is our friend. Mr. Andreas helped to save our country.”
“You’ll pay for this, Bolin!”
“You’ve endangered the lives of every man, woman, and child in Pakistan,” barked Bolin, outshouting Khan.
Khan reached to a holster at his waist.
Dewey pulled his Colt from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion, then pulled the trigger. A slug tore into Khan’s forehead and he was knocked backward as if kicked by a horse.
Dewey stepped forward, took aim again, and fired. The bullet cut a gumdrop-sized hole through Khan’s chest.
Bolin and Martu looked at Dewey, momentarily taken aback by what he had just done.
“I do have one question for you, Field Marshal Bolin,” said Omar El-Khayab calmly.
“What is it?”
The chanting outside continued.
“Death to India! Death to India!”
“When they find out I am gone,” he said, his voice trembling but smooth, barely above a whisper, nodding his head toward the window, the noise of the chants pounding menacingly at the air. “When they move toward the gates. When the people at the back push and crush the ones at the front, and the ground is spilled in crimson. When the gates come crashing down. When they climb the stairs, and they find you. Tell me, what will you say to the people?”
Bolin paused.
“Well, Field Marshal, have you no answer?” asked El-Khayab, his voice trembling as he slowly moved away from the window. “It seems a simple question.”
“I’ll tell them the truth,” said Bolin. “I will tell them their children will live to breathe another day.”
58
AIWAN-E-SADR
Four members of SSG, along with Millar, escorted Omar and Atta El-Khayab to the basement of Aswan-e-Sadr. In the basement, a green Humvee awaited. A pair of soldiers helped move El-Khayab into the back of the vehicle. Iverheart and General Lerik climbed into the vehicle across from them. Atta El-Khayab sat next to his brother.
Millar sat directly across from the blind cleric, their knees almost touching, Iverheart across from Atta. El-Khayab’s eyes were now hidden by dark sunglasses. He seemed to focus in on Millar.
Iverheart looked at Lerik.
“Where will we take them?”
“North,” said Lerik. “To the hills.”
* * *
Bolin commandeered an office down the hall from El-Khayab’s office, a smaller room with several phones. Dewey followed Bolin to the office. He shut the door behind him.
As Dewey picked up one of the phone receivers, he looked at his watch: 11:49 A.M. Eleven minutes to spare.
“It’s Andreas,” said Dewey to an operator once he’d been patched through to the Pentagon. “Let’s make the call.”
Dewey listened as the phone clicked several times, then started a short beeping noise. He hit a button on the console and put the call on speaker.
“Yes,” said the voice.
Dewey nodded at Bolin.
“President Ghandra. This is Field Marshal Xavier Bolin.”
“Field Marshal Bolin. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“I’m pleased to tell you that Omar El-Khayab is no longer in power,” said Bolin. “He’s gone. The government of Pakistan is now in the hands of the Pakistani military. I must now get through the next few hours and a smooth change of regime. After that, my immediate goal is to work with you on a rapid and peaceful resolution to the conflict in Kashmir. If you will allow me, I would also like to discuss the creation of a long-term peace between us.”
“I’m happy to hear this news,” said Ghandra.
“As of noontime, in about ten minutes, Pakistani Armed Forces will cease offensive war operations at the Kashmir front,” said Bolin. “My field commanders have been ordered to stop all activities offensive in nature directed toward India. We will not abandon our defensive positions or any sort of right to self-protection, but we are no longer at war.”
“Thank you, Field Marshal Bolin.”
“Later today,” said Bolin, “I suggest that you and I reconvene by phone. Obviously, I ask that you join me in this general stand-down of battle. It would be my suggestion that we declare an immediate cease-fire and begin to discuss in earnest the terms of a lasting peace for our two countries.”
There was a long pause.
“India will stand down,” said Ghandra. “It could take me a few minutes, but I will order an immediate stand-down.”
“Thank you, President Ghandra.”
“As for the larger question of peace between our countries,” said Ghandra, “I will tell you that it is Pakistan who has dropped the nuclear bomb on India. How we come to terms with this I frankly do not know.”
“Nor do I, Mr. President,” said Bolin. “But I must tell you, I was as shocked and appalled by the dropping of this bomb as you were. I can only express my condolences, President Ghandra. I think the foundation of any future peace between our countries must be built on the recognition that there is a new and profound enemy among us. Today, he wore the clothing of a Pakistani. Tomorrow, he might speak Hindi. But make no mistake, the religious fanatic is enemy to us all.”
“I agree with you, Field Marshall Bolin,” said Ghandra.
* * *
At Indian Army Headquarters in New Delhi, General Vinod Promoth climbed out of the back of a black Range Rover, followed by two aides. He cast his eyes suspiciously to his left and right, then walked quickly toward the front door of the Main Administration Building.
Inside his spacious office, Promoth had gathered seven generals, including the top commander of Strategic Defense Command, the military branch charged with oversight of India’s nuclear weapons. In addition, Promoth had with him several high-ranking commanders from within the Indian Army. Promoth himself was the second-highest ranking officer in the Indian Army.
“It’s noon,” said Promoth. “Have there been orders from the president?”
“No,” said one of the generals. “All’s quiet from Rashtrapati Bhavan.”
“And are we all in agreement?” asked Promoth, looking into the eyes of his cadre.
“Yes,” said one of the commanders. “It’s time for India to fight back. The president has failed to protect the motherland.”
“Should we at least ascertain the status of the coup and the progress of the American team?” asked one of the generals.
“It’s too late for that,” said Promoth. “Noon was the deadline. The president had his chance. It’s time for the men in this room to reclaim our country and fight back against the Pakistani enemy. Ghandra is obviously not going to do that.”
“I’ve laid out a digest of the steps necessary to ensure smooth regime change,” said one of the commanders, looking at Promoth. “The first step is a general meeting of the Army and Air Force hierarchy here in New Delhi. With your permission, I will order a general session to take place this afternoon.”
“So be it,” said Promoth. “In the meantime, let’s go through the logistics of Ghandra’s removal and the process of parliamentary approval.”
* * *
In a deserted field fifteen minutes’ drive north of Islamabad, the black and green Humvee left the dirt road and began crossing an uninhabited landscape of stub brush, rocks, and sand.
The Humvee drove for more than a mile across the untouched, empty terrain. Finally, the Humvee came to a stop.
Omar El-Khayab grasped his brother’s forearm, then cast his blind eyes in Millar’s direction.
“Please spare my brother,” said Omar El-Khayab in Urdu. “He’s done nothing wrong.”
“‘The sins of the brother,’” said Millar, also in Urdu. “So tell me, did he try to stop you, Imam?”
“He did nothing,” said El-Khayab, “except take care of me. He is innocent.”
“Like the people of Karoo,” said Millar.
El-Khayab nodded, then placed his hand on his brother’s.
The soldiers removed Omar El-Khayab and his brother from the back of the Humvee. They were led away from the vehicle, a dozen feet or so. El-Khayab tripped, causing his glasses to fall from his head to the ground, where they remained. Lerik led them a few feet farther. Finally, they stopped near a low, flat boulder.
Standing behind the Humvee, Iverheart aimed the small video camera at General Lerik as Lerik removed a pistol from his waist holster. Lerik lifted the weapon and aimed it at Omar El-Khayab. El-Khayab stood, motionless. His murky eyes stared blankly into the distance. Lerik fired. The thunderclap of the shot was shocking in the quiet air. El-Khayab dropped to the ground, rolled awkwardly to the side, his face smashing against the earth. Lerik turned his weapon and aimed it at Atta, then fired.
Iverheart watched the film clip once, then uploaded it to CENCOM. He looked at the time stamp on the upload: 12:07 P.M.
59
INDIAN ARMY HEADQUARTERS
NEW DELHI
At 12:18 P.M., President Ghandra’s motorcade pulled in through the gates of Indian Army Headquarters in New Delhi. He was accompanied by a force of two dozen of the President’s Bodyguard, uniformed members of the household cavalry regiment of the Indian Army.
Ghandra climbed out of the limousine and walked to the front doors of the Main Administration Building.
“Wait here,” said Ghandra to one of the officers accompanying him.
“General Dartalia ordered me to accompany you,” said the officer.
“No need,” said Ghandra. “Please wait for me here. I will do this alone.”
Ghandra walked down the hall and stood outside a large oak door, now closed, that led to the office of General Vinod Promoth.
Ghandra knocked on the door, then turned the doorknob and stepped in to Promoth’s spacious office. A group of military commanders, all of whom Ghandra knew, was gathered around the conference table in the middle of the office.
Ghandra stepped inside the office, but said nothing. He looked at General Promoth, who sat in a large, black leather chair behind his desk. Promoth appeared to be stunned, his mouth agape, speechless. The generals seated at the table were also in shock at Ghandra’s surprise appearance.
“Since when do the officers of the Indian military not salute their commander in chief?” asked Ghandra, a hint of anger in his voice. He stared at Promoth, who stood up and quickly moved his right hand to his brow. One by one, the occupants of the conference table followed suit.
“May I ask the purpose of your visit, Mr. President?” said Promoth.
“No, you may not,” said President Ghandra. “Where’s your phone?”
Promoth glanced nervously at the conference table.
“Yes, Mr. President,” stammered Promoth. “Please.”
Promoth pointed to the black phone on the desk.
Ghandra picked up the phone, dialed a number, then waited several moments in silence.
“It’s the president,” Ghandra said. “Let’s make the call.”
Ghandra pressed the speakerphone. After a short time, the phone beeped.
“President Ghandra,” said a voice over the speakerphone. “Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”
“It is my pleasure, Field Marshal Bolin,” said Ghandra, glancing around the office at the faces of the gathered military commanders. “I must tell you that you are on speakerphone, Field Marshal Bolin. I am joined by several of my top military commanders, including Field Marshal Ramaal Domki, the senior commander of Strategic Defense Command.”
“Gentlemen,” said Bolin over the speaker. “As I explained to President Ghandra, Omar El-Khayab has been removed from power. He is dead. The Pakistani military is in control of Pakistan and I’ve ordered an immediate cease-fire in Kashmir and a withdrawal of our troops back to the Line of Control. In addition, all nuclear devices have been brought back from their offensive strategic positions.
“What you should also know,” continued Bolin, “is that the bombing of Karoo was a surprise to me and to most, if not all, of my fellow officers, as well as the citizens of Pakistan. In my opinion, it was a grave mistake, a crime committed by war criminals. I did not know about the attack until after it occurred, and I am deeply saddened by it. But I cannot take back what happened at Karoo. What I can do is tell you that the reason we effected a change of regime was so that we could prevent further unnecessary loss of life in both of our countries.”
The room was silent.
“Thank you for your sentiments,” said Ghandra, who stared icily at Promoth.
“I know that you have designs on retaliation for what occurred at Karoo,” continued Bolin on speaker. “Let me be frank. I ask for your commitment—for India’s commitment—that you will stand down your nuclear arsenal.”
Ghandra looked into Promoth’s eyes, then turned to Field Marshal Domki.
“Would you like to answer him, Field Marshal?” Ghandra asked.
Domki, the senior commander of India’s Strategic Defense Command, was momentarily stunned, then gathered himself. He stepped from the conference table to the desk, next to President Ghandra. He looked briefly at Promoth, then leaned over the phone.
“You have India’s commitment, Field Marshal Bolin,” said Domki. “We will order the stand-down of our bombers immediately.”
“Thank you,” said Bolin. “I suggest we reconvene in a few hours.”
“I look forward to it,” said Ghandra.
Ghandra pressed the speaker button on the phone, hanging it up. He walked toward the door. At the door, he turned.
“General Promoth,” said Ghandra. “I will expect your letter of resignation by one o’clock. If I do not have it by one o’clock, you will be arrested and charged with high treason.”
60
AIWAN-E-SADR
Bolin stepped into the cabinet room. The room sweltered in the heat, despite the air-conditioning. El-Khayab’s cabinet sat at the table. At the door, four soldiers stood, machine guns out, guarding the door.
Bolin was immediately besieged.
“What have you done with the president?” shouted one of El-Khayab’s ministers.
“Who’s is in charge here?” demanded another.
Shouting overtook the room.
Bolin raised his hand, but to no avail. The shouting continued.
“Where is Omar El-Khayab?” yelled another minister.
Bolin stood listening for more than a minute, waiting for the group to
calm down. Finally, one of the ministers at the far end of the table succeeded in quelling the angry group.
“Let the man speak, for God’s sake!” he screamed.
Bolin waited for silence to finally come to the crowded room.
“One hour ago, Omar El-Khayab was removed from office,” said Bolin. “The Pakistani military, under my direction, effected this change in order to prevent what we believe would have been a full-scale nuclear attack on Pakistan by India and the destruction of our country and our people. We acted today with a heavy heart. We acted to save Pakistan. I am proud that we did so.”
Bolin paused. He glanced around the room. The cabinet ministers remained quiet.
“Some of you will be asked to continue your service to Pakistan,” said Bolin. “Others will not. Under no circumstance will anyone be harmed, unless, of course, you attempt to disrupt the smooth transition of power. Today’s actions are about ending further unnecessary bloodshed. Right now, until we have managed down the crisis caused by Omar El-Khayab’s nuclear bomb, it is imperative that we control the news coming out of Islamabad. Therefore, you will remain here. Food and drink will be brought in, and these men will accompany you to the bathroom, when necessary. Good day.”
Bolin turned and left the room as the shouting started up again.
* * *
As of two hours following El-Khayab’s removal from office, nobody in Islamabad, press or otherwise, knew of the takeover of government.
To the massive crowds surrounding Aiwan-e-Sadr, nothing had changed.
ISI, now under Bolin’s control, succeeded in shutting off power and communications to all media outlets with bureaus in Islamabad or Rawalpindi.
But it was only a matter of time before reporters, unable to broadcast, became suspicious, then found alternative means of communication to the outside world.
One reporter, a BBC News correspondent, called BBC headquarters in London and described the power outage on a live broadcast. Soon, the office of Pakistan’s foreign minister, Darius Mohan, was being pelted with calls. But Mohan was gone, and even members of his own department were clueless as to his whereabouts. This led to even further questions and confusion.
