SALIM MUST DIE

by Deva, Mukul

  For a long moment North leader checked the face in the light of the small torch as the two others in the room kept guard at the door.

  There was no doubt about it.

  ‘It's him,’ he said tersely, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. ‘Doc, he is all yours now.’ He nodded at the medic as he turned and got on to his radio set. ‘Eagle, we have him. Get your ass here pronto. LZ One.’

  ‘Great job, North.’ Eagle's voice crackled with excitement. ‘We're already on the way. LZ One. ETA in three.’

  The team leader watched as the medic rapidly checked out the man on the bed. He began with the mouth, checking for suicide pills. Then he moved on to the rest of the body. The captive watched with hatred and helpless anger glowing in his eyes.

  ‘Hurry up, damn it, we don't have all day.’

  ‘I'm done.’ Hurriedly finishing his examination, the medic motioned to the team leader. ‘Help me get him onto the stretcher.’

  ‘What's this fucking contraption?’ North grabbed at the infusion pump connected to the captive.

  ‘Hey, careful! Gimme a moment. Let me check….’

  ‘Fuck it! There's no time. We need to get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Just give me a….’

  ‘Move it, doc!’ the commando grated harshly, chucking the still connected infusion pump onto the bedsheet. ‘You can do all that shit on the chopper. Grab the sheet from that end and let's move him. Now!’

  They used the sheet to pick him up and move him onto the stretcher. Grabbing opposite ends of the stretcher, they began to shuffle out with their catch, moving as rapidly as they could.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ North hustled as they went down the steps and out into the front garden.

  In the heat of the moment the medic did not notice that the nitroglycerine drip in the infusion pump was running dry. The doctor attending to the sick man had been getting up to replenish the drip when the assault began. Now he lay just a few feet away, three bullets embedded in his chest.

  By now the gunfire had almost petered out. Barring a sporadic shot here and there, an uneasy silence had fallen upon the house.

  They were bringing the barely conscious captive out into the lawns when the SH-60 Sea Hawk helicopter swept out of the now lightening sky and settled noisily onto the lawn. The North team leader and the medic got into the chopper with the captive. There was a very brief delay as the body of the fallen commando was taken on board. The chopper took off immediately. The remaining commandos of North Team raced back towards their waiting vehicles.

  ‘Eagle to Dominos. Get your butts out of here. Code Red. I say again, Code Red.’

  A series of taps acknowledged the transmission as South, East and West abandoned the positions they had taken up around the house as a precaution to ensure that no one got away. Then the wagons pulled back and raced away into the gathering light. Moving out of the area rapidly, they split up and moved along predetermined routes, though all of them had the same destination to reach.

  Precisely eleven minutes had elapsed since the vehicles had drawn to a halt outside the house. In a mere eleven minutes a handful of men had achieved what thousands of soldiers had been trying to do for the past few years. The man with a twenty-seven million dollar reward on his head had been taken.

  ‘We will hunt them down and smoke ’em out,’ the US President had vowed in front of the smouldering remains of the twin towers in New York. For once, he had delivered. Of course, neither he nor his advisors had any idea of the horrendous price that his countrymen would pay for it.

  Meanwhile, the helicopter carrying the most wanted man on earth raced away from the house, heading straight for the US aircraft carrier hovering just off the coast of Pakistan.

  ‘Eagle to Nest. We have him!’

  ‘Good job, Eagle!’ The man at the other end could not keep the delight out of his voice. ‘Bring him in.’

  ‘Roger that, Control. We're on our way.’

  The man at Control was having trouble keeping the grin off his face as he reached for the phone and dialled Langley. He could visualize the huge press conference at which they would announce the news. His chest swelled with pride as the phone at the other end was picked up.

  THE CHOPPER HAD BARELY CLEARED THE CITY LIMITS WHEN the nitrogylcerine being pumped into the captive by the fusion pump ran out. The man on the stretcher began to gasp for breath.

  ‘Goddamn!’ the medic exclaimed. ‘His blood pressure is shooting up.’ He slapped the oxygen mask on, but it did little to alleviate the situation. Soon the captive began to struggle on the stretcher.

  ‘Hold him down!’ the team leader yelled. ‘What the hell is he doing?’

  ‘He must be having problems breathing while lying down, that's why he's trying to sit up,’ the medic explained breathlessly as he fought to keep the mask on his wildly thrashing patient.

  Almost on cue, the captive began to cough. Blobs of sputum sprayed out of his mouth. Not much later, the frothy sputum began to bubble pink.

  ‘Fuck! We're losing him.’ The medic was frantic.

  ‘Do something, damn you!’ the commando yelled in helpless anger. ‘We need the sonofabitch alive.’

  ‘There's nothing I can do.’ The medic was panting almost as hard as the patient. His forte was gunshots, knife wounds and broken bones. Nothing in his life so far had prepared him for the renal failure he was confronted with. ‘He needs a doctor and a bloody hospital.’

  Just then the chopper touched down and moments later, the barely alive prisoner was in the ship's hospital with a coterie of doctors and medics hovering anxiously around.

  THE CHOPPER WAS ALMOST AT THE PAKISTANI COASTLINE BY the time the police, summoned by a frantic neighbourhood, reached the house. A posse of policemen stumbled through the horrifyingly large number of bodies scattered all around. It was only when they reported the matter to the local police chief that the shit hit the ceiling. The police chief knew that this was an ISI safe house, though he had no clue exactly who occupied it. He immediately called the ISI area commander.

  ‘What?’ The stunned ISI man who took the call couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’ he kept asking as he raced towards his car, throwing on whatever clothes he could lay his hands on. En route to the now totally unsafe safe house, he was on the phone almost constantly. By the time he pulled up outside the house, almost everybody who was anybody in the ISI had been informed of the catastrophe.

  Reaching there, he raced from one body to the other like a madman.

  Finally, having exhausted all possibilities, he called his boss. ‘He's not here, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ his boss snapped. ‘Check again.’

  ‘I have, sir. He is definitely not here… not among the dead and definitely not among the living. Three of those who are still alive confirm that he's been taken captive.’

  ‘But who?’ his flabbergasted commander asked him. ‘Who could it be and how the fuck did they know where we were keeping him?’

  ‘I have no clue, sir,’ he repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘I have no clue at all, but this is disastrous.’

  On this count at least, the beleaguered ISI agent was right.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE INDIAN OCEAN, ON BOARD USS DWIGHT D EISENHOWER

  THERE WAS A STRAINED LOOK ON HIS FACE WHEN THE SHIP'S doctor noted the contents of the now empty infusion pump. The blue tongue and the pink frothy sputum spewing out completed the picture.

  ‘Lasix!’ he yelled urgently. ‘100 mg! Fast!’

  It was in his hand almost instantly and he thumped it into the captive without finesse, but the Lasix didn't help much. Despite the frantic burst of activity around, they all knew they were losing the man. They could only watch him struggle, each gasping breath a litany of pain.

  It surprised no one when a harsh beeping sound was heard from the monitor beside the bed. In front of their helpless eyes, the sharp green line undulating across the screen in irregular but
distinct peaks and troughs flattened into a straight expressionless line. The regular beep of the monitor settled into a dreadful monotonous whine.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘No!’

  The most wanted man in the world was no more.

  ‘THERE WAS NOTHING WE COULD HAVE DONE!’ THE DOCTOR told the Captain hovering outside, then, seeing the befuddled look on his face, he added, ‘Accelerated hypertension as a result of chronic renal failure. The man needed that nitroglycerine drip to keep him going. Without that they might as well have left him where he was.’

  ‘Shit!’ The Captain looked at him despairingly. The USS Eisenhower had finished a tour of duty as part of the John C. Stennis Strike Group and had been on her way home after being relieved by the USS Nimitz when they got orders to divert for this assignment. ‘Shit! Let me get on the horn and check with the brass. Let them decide what has to be done… that's what they are paid for. Right?’ He gave the doctor a weak, almost scared grin. ‘I just hope they believe he died of natural causes.’

  The Captain could hope as much as he wanted to, but no one was going to believe it. As far as the dead man's followers were concerned, the Americans had murdered him.

  A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, IN WASHINGTON, THE LARGE hall designated for press conferences was packed to overflowing with an astonishing assortment of journalists of all shapes, sizes and hues, from all corners of the globe.

  The volume of sound shot up to a crescendo when the US Secretary of State entered, and a ragged volley of questions were fired at her. It took a lot of hand waving and gesticulating before some semblance of quiet settled upon the room. The Secretary of State waited till the silence deepened. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully controlled.

  ‘The administration has lived up to the promise that the President made to the people of America. The terrorist wanted for the horrendous 9/11 attacks has finally been captured. An American Special Forces team seized him in a pre-dawn raid and successfully extricated him to a US warship. The US government had every intention of bringing the man to trial for his horrible crimes. Unfortunately, he was suffering from severe medical problems at the time of capture and, despite the best medical facilities being made available to him, he succumbed to his condition a couple of hours ago. The body is….’

  That was about as far as she managed to get before a fresh storm of questions erupted. This time there was no controlling the hysterical mob in its quest for information. The noise levels rose to unbelievable proportions until the Secretary of State realized it was futile to go on. She beat a hasty retreat, leaving the journalists at the mercy of the bland press handouts that her staff would soon start passing around.

  A SHOCKWAVE OF CONFLICTING EMOTIONS SWEPT ACROSS THE globe, evoking reactions of all kinds. Coupled with the news of the Israeli strike on Iran, the emotional upsurge it caused, especially in the Middle East, was huge. Security agencies all over the world went into overdrive. Everyone knew that all stops would be pulled out this time.

  Almost on cue and as though orchestrated, public outrage assumed alarming proportions. Thousands of armed people stormed the streets of cities in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Indonesia and a host of other nations. The sheer deluge of irate humanity swamped the security forces. Entire cities and countries were shocked to a standstill.

  THERE WAS FURY AT THE MEDIA BRIEFING THAT WAS CARRIED out by Adam Gadahn, the English language spokesman of the Al Qaida. There could not have been any since it was carried out through a video recording delivered to the office of the Al Jazeera news channel. At about the same time, a copy of the message appeared in the Arabian Peninsula's e-magazine, Sawt al-Jihad (Voice of the Holy War), which was posted on a website frequently used by the Al Qaida.

  Full of vehement rhetoric, the message was simple and chilling.

  The world, especially the Americans and those who support them, will pay for the murder of our beloved leader. And the retribution is about to begin.

  THE RETRIBUTION CAME IN WAVES. IN BRUTAL EXPLOSIVE waves that swept the globe. Most of the attacks were knee-jerk reactions by isolated terror cells that had been activated by furious leaders without due planning, or enough thought for logistics and preparation. The majority of them either failed or failed to inflict the desired damage. But those that did succeed dealt out death and destruction to innocents across the globe. In every case the reactions they evoked were unequivocal. The state of fear was beginning to take hold.

  THREE ANTI-TANK RPG-7V ROCKETS HIT THE US EMBASSY AT Islamabad precisely five hours after the US press conference. The rockets were a legacy of the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. But they were lethal enough to cause substantial damage to the building. They also decimated the two Marines who had been standing sentinel at the Embassy gates.

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF KABUL, DUSK HAD JUST BEGUN TO settle when an old lady shuffled up to the roadblock manned by an American platoon. She had just crossed the checkpoint when she turned and threw herself at the handful of GIs on duty. They were still bringing their weapons into play when she detonated the belt bomb strapped to her waist.

  IN BAGHDAD, TOO, NIGHT HAD BEGUN TO THROW DOWN its shroud of darkness when waves of armed fighters attacked seven of the smaller police stations while several others set up roadblocks at strategic junctions leading up to these stations. Simultaneously, a rash of gun battles erupted in different places, literally paralysing the already decimated town. For a change, the attacks were well coordinated and timed to precision.

  Though they suffered heavy casualties, five of the police stations managed to beat back the attackers. The other two were overrun despite stiff resistance. By the time security forces managed to break through the roadblocks and push reinforcements through, both stations had been destroyed. Every security man who had the misfortune to be captured alive had been brutally hacked into pieces.

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME, A HUNDRED ARMED FIGHTERS emerged out of the darkness and attacked the Abqaiq facility in Saudi Arabia, the world's largest oil-processing plant. Though boldly executed, the attack was badly planned and failed to do any substantial damage. But it did succeed in sending tremors of fear all over the region.

  HARD IN THE WAKE OF THESE ATTACKS A NEW MESSAGE FROM the Al Qaida spokesman was broadcast on Al Jazeera.

  In order to strangle the US economy we are going to hit oil interests that serve the US in all regions, not just in the Middle East. The goal is to cut off oil supplies to the White Satan by all means.

  The threat increased the pressure on America and her allies. Almost reflexively, security in Canada – the largest exporter of oil to America, followed by Mexico, Saudi Arabia and Venezuela – was raised to wartime levels.

  NEWS CHANNELS THE WORLD OVER WERE TEEMING WITH reports of horrifying violence, which seemed to escalate and spread with every passing moment. But the worst was still to come.

  The Plan

  MURREE, PAKISTAN

  NONE OF THE EXPLOSIONS THAT KILLED AND MAIMED PEOPLE were heard in the quiet little bungalow in the remote upper reaches of Murree, the lovely hill town located a mere thirty kilometres from Islamabad and sixty-four kilometres from Rawalpindi.

  Situated on the edge of a steep cliff and surrounded by tall pines that partially concealed it from the narrow, winding road below, the bungalow was equipped with a dazzling array of modern devices and conveniences that seemed totally out of place in the tiny hill resort. Its only occupants were two men and their three domestic helpers who had been living there for the better part of sixteen months.

  The older of the two residents was sitting in the well-stocked library, busily browsing various news sites on the internet when the Thuraya satellite phone lying on the table began to ring. The phone was uncannily similar to the one that had been recovered from the intruder named Iqbal when he had been captured at the LOC.

  The phone's ring was sharp and insistent.

  The old man looked up in surprise. Not many people had this number and those who did were not the kind to
waste their time and energy on social calls. He reached for the phone with a growing sense of anticipation. His excitement sharpened as he saw the calling number displayed on the screen.

  No sir! General Ehsan Haque, the Director of the ISI, is definitely not the type to make social calls.

  He answered the phone eagerly. ‘Good morning, sir.’ General Haque was one of the few people he respected and was ready to listen to. They had served together for a very long time.

  ‘Have you been following what's happening?’ the General asked without any preamble.

  ‘Of course!’ the portly old man in Murree replied indignantly. ‘How the hell did things come to this?’ His voice tightened. ‘More importantly, how the hell did the fucking goras get to know where Sheikh sahib was….’

  ‘We're trying to figure that out,’ the General answered sharply. ‘I have some ideas, but right now nothing is certain. However, we do know for sure that just two days before it happened, the big man had inquired about Sheikh sahib's health.’

  ‘He had? Then….’

  ‘Then nothing! That in itself proves nothing. He has done that several times in the past also.’

  ‘I don't know when you will see the writing on the wall, sir,’ the man in Murree retorted. Even at the best of times he was not the kind to mince his words. Right now he was angry. ‘That bloody traitor is selling our country down the road. He has given free rein to the Americans in the Northern Frontier and even allowed those corrupt political bastards to return to Pakistan… though he knows how ruthlessly they have raped our country all these years. That harami!’ His anger made him breathless. ‘Has he forgotten how hard it was to kick them out?’

  ‘Strangely enough, that worked out rather well for us.’ There was nothing pleasant about the General's laugh. ‘It didn't take much to push those perpetually conniving politicians over the edge and have them gunning for each other. One has already been blown away and the other is well on his way to hell – the PPP diehards will ensure that. The best part is that the world is busy blaming our honourable president for it.’ He laughed again. ‘They have become so used to blaming him for everything that they don't even stop to think that he had already cut a deal with her and had nothing to gain from her death.’