Coup D'Etat (42 page)
Iverheart watched the film clip once, then uploaded it to CENCOM. He looked at the time stamp on the upload: 12:07
P.M.
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.”
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.
A new and broader news cycle commenced just a few minutes after the BBC report. This wave of reports was sparked by a report from Kashmir. From Srinagar, near the war front, Al Jazeera reported that the battle between India and Pakistan had moved to a state of cease-fire.
More calls flooded into the Pakistani Foreign Ministry as well as El-Khayab’s office.
CNN, BBC, and Fox all picked up Al Jazeera’s story from Srinagar.
Sometime in the early afternoon, Fox’s New Delhi correspondent, Caitlin Montgomery, went live with a report that quickly and dramatically altered the dynamics back in Islamabad.
* * *
“According to anonymous sources inside the Indian Foreign Ministry,” said Montgomery, “a temporary cease-fire has been negotiated between India and Pakistan. As reported earlier, there has been no battle activity at the Kashmir war front for several hours now. Perhaps more important, according to one source—repeat, this has not been corroborated—but according to my source within the Indian government, Omar El-Khayab, the president of Pakistan, has been removed from office in what he termed a ‘coup d’état’…”
AIWAN-E-SADR
“We sent a military jet to pick you up,” said Jessica. “It’ll be there by six. They’ll take you three to Qatar. Rob stays in Qatar. The jet will bring you and Alex back to Washington. Alex is joining Special Operations Group out of Langley. Then there’s you, Mr. Andreas. There are a lot of grateful people running around here. I was hoping maybe I could have five or ten minutes of your time in between all the accolades you’re going to be receiving.”
Dewey stood in a large conference room down the hall from Bolin’s office, staring out at Constitution Avenue. Iverheart stood next to him. Millar sat in a chair at a large conference table.
“Alex is wounded,” said Dewey into the phone, glancing at Millar, whose bandage had been recently changed. “He needs a doctor.”
“There’s a military hospital in Qatar,” said Jessica. “They can patch him up and Bethesda can handle the rest after you guys arrive. By the way, Islamabad police figured out he killed the customs agents. Hector is working with ISI to kill the warrant, but exfiltrating him to Qatar is probably a good idea.”
In the distance, at the far side of the square in front of Aiwan-e-Sadr, Dewey heard a crash, then the tinkling of breaking glass. He reached to the table and picked up a set of binoculars. Across the square, perhaps a quarter mile away, he could see a group of young men hurling rocks at a storefront, whose plate glass was now broken.
“How is Bolin?” asked Jessica. “Can he do the job?”
Dewey watched through the binoculars as one of the men in the square lit something on fire. Smoke suddenly wafted up from the sidewalk. People spread away from the small fire. From the corner, a pair of soldiers ran, weapons out. Dewey heard the faint crack of automatic weapons fire. One of the men fell to the ground. The others dispersed.
“Yes, he can do the job,” said Dewey, still watching the scene through the binoculars. “Without question. It was good intelligence work. He was the right choice. But you need to get us out of here. It’s heating up.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jessica.
“The crowds are learning about El-Khayab’s removal. It’s going to heat up here and Bolin’s going to need to clamp down. I’ve never seen more bishts in my life. I don’t want to be around when they find out El-Khayab’s dead.”
“Is Bolin aware of this?”
“I don’t know,” said Dewey. “I haven’t seen him in a few hours. They’ve restricted access to him.”
“Even to you?”
“Yes.”
Dewey watched as another pack of men came at the pair of soldiers at the far side of the square from behind. As a soldier was attempting to stomp out a small fire, one thug came from behind, a piece of wood raised over his head, and struck the soldier in the back of the head. He fell to the street. As two more men charged, the other soldier turned and raised a machine gun. The two men fell, shot to death, the sound of the machine gun fire coming half a second later. From the corner, four more Pakistani soldiers ran over, weapons out, and the remaining youth ran into the crowd.
Pulling the binoculars away from his eyes, Dewey could barely make out the section of the crowd, much less the specific people. How many more small conflicts like this were taking place, here, in Islamabad? Rawalpindi? Peshawar, Karachi, Lahore? How many more fires and riots were just beginning in large towns and small, across the country?
He glanced at Millar and Iverheart. Iverheart was calm. He had moved to the conference table. In front of him, he’d disassembled his SIG P226 and was absentmindedly cleaning it. Millar looked tense. Every few minutes, he wiped sweat from his brow nervously. He kept staring blankly out the large window at the crowd.
A loud crash came from the square, the sound of glass breaking. Then, a big plume of smoke burst into the air. Dewey moved to the window, joined by Iverheart and Millar. To the right of the palace, on a block just east of Constitution Avenue, a four-story office building was engulfed in flames, which mushroomed out from a first-story window. People ran from the flames, dispersing chaotically.
Dewey’s eyes met Iverheart’s.
“You need to get that jet here earlier, Jess.”
AIWAN-E-SADR
The first nervous minutes had turned into anxious hours for Khalid el-Jaqonda. He sat in the dark on the quarry tile floor of the small private bathroom off of what had been President El-Khayab’s office, glancing every few minutes at the glow-in-the-dark dial on his Rolex Submariner watch. It had been more than four hours since Bolin had interrupted their meeting with SSG in tow and a large, dangerous-looking American by his side. Whoever he was, he was running the show. Whoever the mean-looking American with the quick trigger finger was, he’d changed el-Jaqonda’s world forever.
He breathed deeply, as his cardiologist had instructed him to do, to try and control his anxiety, but it was of little use. He’d sat inside the dark, windowless bathroom for hours, trying to figure out how the hell he was ever going to get out of the bathroom, out of Aiwan-e-Sadr, out of Islamabad, and out of Pakistan—alive.
His roughly sketched-out escape plan was simple: wait until well after midnight, then try and slip out of Aiwan-e-Sadr. Once outside the presidential compound, he would attempt to go to his house to retrieve some belongings, then head north, above Peshawar, where he had allies inside the Taliban.