The Main Enemy Milton Bearden (read full novel .txt) 📖

with the Pakistanis and the mujahideen by carrying the war across the Amu Dar’ya into the Soviet Union. Clair never sent the cable, and I never heard from him on the matter again. But I decided to find out what ISI knew about the incident.

Islamabad, Late April 1987

Major General Hamid Gul would have been a tough armor officer in anybody’s army. His reputation for boldness and unconventional action had been established during the tense days of the India-Pakistan confrontation five months earlier, when the Indian Army carried out its training exercise on Pakistan’s border. Gul, then an armor commander in Multan in southern Punjab, had caused a flurry of concern in the Indian general staff when his division had “gone missing.” He had, in fact, quickly and secretly moved his armor out of garrison and kept it away from India’s prying eyes for much of the exercise, raising expectations that he might strike into India’s Punjab Province from almost any direction.

After the tensions on the Indian border subsided, President Zia made one of his periodic shuffles at the top of his general staff and promoted Akhtar, who was then head of ISI, to lieutenant general and assigned him as chairman of the joint staffs committee. Hamid Gul was transferred from Multan to take over at ISI. In my first meeting with him, Gul told me that he was a “moderate Islamist,” a tough disciplinarian, and open-minded. I told him I thought we’d get along fine, if for no other reason than because the job demanded it. After a few meetings, I thought I spotted a side of Hamid Gul that could make the slide from “daring and bold” to plucky or even harebrained, and much later I would find that I was right.

I called on Gul at ISI headquarters shortly after Clair’s tense telephone call and found him primed to talk about the incursion across Amu Dar’ya. With him was Brigadier Mohammed Yousaf, his chief of military operations, whom I had come to consider my single greatest adversary in ISI. Yousaf resented the American involvement in his program and made few bones about it. If he could have his way, the United States would simply deliver sixty thousand tons of ordnance each year to Karachi, throw in a few hundred million in cash, and leave the rest to him. He didn’t welcome our suggestions and generally ignored anything that looked like a demand. I had decided that one way or another, it would be better for Yousaf to move on, but it would take a while to make that happen.

I took one look at the scene with Yousaf and the note taker and decided I wanted to clear the room. “General, let’s dispense with the formalities and go straight into an executive session,” I said. I was referring to a protocol for a meeting between just me and the ISI director general. There would be no aides, no note takers, no written record. Gul nodded and dismissed his two officers with a wave of his hand. I glanced at Yousaf as he left the room and got a look in return that convinced me I had at least one enemy in ISI.

“This is about events in the USSR?” Gul said as soon as we were alone.

“It is indeed, General.”

“There was an . . . occurrence in the last days, but I have been assured that the order has been sent that put an end to such things.”

“How’s that possible, General? How can you call back these operations? I’ve always been told by Yousaf that such things were spontaneous.”

Gul fidgeted. I guessed he’d come under pressure from his own government and was improvising his story about the strike across the Amu Dar’ya.

“I have assured the prime minister that I have issued orders that there will be no further incursions into the USSR for the time being.”

General Gul still hadn’t answered my question on how he could stop the attacks. The prime minister, Mohammed Khan Junejo, a politician from Sindh Province, was now running the parliament in a hybrid democracy that left Zia in power as both president and chief of Army staff. It was my bet that Zia was letting Junejo handle this hot potato and that Gul was feeling the pressure without Zia there to cover his back. Zia might even have been amused to watch the drama from a distance.

“General, there have been representations in Washington, and I have been bluntly asked for assurances that there was no American involvement in the incident. I’ve given those assurances.”

Gul smiled. “I’m sure the representations in Washington and your conversations about them would not have achieved the level of bluntness of the conversation Sahabzada had with the Soviet ambassador two days ago.”

A former Army general and wartime hero, Sahabzada Yaqub Khan was Pakistan’s flamboyant and able foreign minister. I could only imagine how a conversation between Hamid Gul and the headstrong old warrior Sahabzada Yaqub Khan might have gone. At least it explained the uncertainty I’d seen in Gul since our session began.

“I’m not so sure, General. The Soviet ambassador in Washington had a very frank discussion with George Shultz. I’m sure the messages were about the same.”

“The Soviets left the impression that the response to any future attacks would be at their source, meaning here in Pakistan. I doubt the Soviets hinted at attacking the United States.” For the first time in our conversation, Hamid Gul smiled, but his smile was full of irony and a little pain.

“I have no idea what was said, General. I can only guarantee you that there was a certain level of excitement.”

“Yes, a certain level of excitement.” Gul smiled again. “I’ve ordered it stopped immediately,” he repeated, and I thought I detected in his words a hint of an admission that he might not be fully in control.

“Will it stop?” I pressed.

“Yes,” he said resolutely. “The effort will be stopped. How quickly is another matter.”

Gul was finally opening up. He would, no doubt, follow