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

Union that the United States retains the right, consistent with its obligations as guarantor, to provide military assistance to parties in Afghanistan. Should the Soviet Union exercise restraint in providing military assistance to parties in Afghanistan, the United States similarly will exercise restraint.

That was enough for the multitudes already suspicious of our intentions in a post–Geneva Accords world, particularly those who interpreted the statement about symmetry as an American bailout. It was a short trip to the conclusion that the Americans had agreed to blow Ojhri.

Like most storms, the Ojhri story finally died with a heave and a sigh. The heave came after six weeks of attack and counterattack between the Army and the prime minister and culminated with Prime Minister Junejo taking the bold steps of blocking Zia’s senior Army promotions and demanding a public airing of the results of an Army inquiry into the Ojhri disaster. On May 29, Zia would respond in the way he knew best for dealing with meddlesome prime ministers.

Islamabad, May 30, 1988

“Can you believe it?” Arnie Raphel said with a tone that matched the dispirited look on his face.

Raphel was referring to the sudden overnight move by Zia, who had fired Prime Minister Junejo for corruption and incompetence and dissolved the national and provincial parliaments. The men in khaki were back in charge in Pakistan.

“Sure I can believe it. At least he didn’t throw him in jail.”

“Were you picking up anything that would have tipped us off?” Raphel asked a little guardedly.

“Absolutely nothing. My guess is that Zia made up his mind last night and decided to move then. I’m not going to kick myself for missing it. How ’bout you?”

“I was with the president last night,” Raphel said softly. “I met with him and then rode around Islamabad with him for an hour. And all we talked about was the endgame in Afghanistan. How things were going pretty well and how we all had to be sure to get a new interim government in place before the Soviets left. He was concerned that we were only interested in kicking the Soviets out and a little cavalier about what happened after that. We could always pack up and go home, but Pakistan would still be next door to Afghanistan. Not the slightest hint that he was about to shut down Junejo.”

Listening to the ambassador, I saw the reason for his dark mood. “And you’re feeling responsible, because you know Zia so well and he didn’t even tell his buddy Arnie Raphel what he was going to do. Right?”

“You know Washington, the whispering will start tomorrow. What the hell kind of a relationship does he have with Zia, for chrissakes! He rides around with him and Zia says nothing much but then goes home and fires his prime minister!” Raphel said.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. But I don’t see what you can do about it.”

“Take a look.” Raphel motioned toward his computer terminal.

I sat at his desk and read the telegram he’d drafted describing his meeting with Zia the previous evening and commenting on the president’s actions a few hours later. When I finished I said, “It’s too defensive. Don’t send it. I’d just get back to work and let the political section deal with the reporting telegram. And think of the positive side. Now you won’t have to spend all that time with that jerk Junejo. You can do all your business at Army House.”

Raphel smiled, this time without irony. “You didn’t report in your channel that you thought something was brewing?” he asked.

“And not run it by you first? Not a chance. I missed it just like you. But I didn’t have dinner with the guy the night before. I think I’ll rush back and tell my people that if they think I look bad, take a look at Arnie Raphel. He was tooling around Islamabad with the man while he was planning his move and missed it! That’ll take the heat off me.”

Arnie Raphel never looked back, at least as far as I could tell, though he did continue to take heat from Foggy Bottom for missing the signs that Zia was making his move.

Islamabad, 1600 Hours, May 15, 1988

I climbed up on the couch in my office and placed the first green magnetic disk on the map of Afghanistan mounted on my wall. It covered Barikot at the north end of the Konar Valley in eastern Afghanistan and represented the first withdrawal of a Soviet 40th Army unit from a combat garrison. I then slapped a green disk over the Soviet garrison at Jalalabad, and over the next few days, the green disks would begin to cover hot spots all over Afghanistan, as the Soviets faithfully executed their pledge to pull out half of their troops in the first six months under the terms of the Geneva Accords.

They were finally on their way out.

Kabul, 0430 Hours, May 16, 1988

Leonid Shebarshin was startled awake by a clap of thunder, then another that seemed just above his head. He looked up through the window to see the first faint light of a summer dawn. The downpour should follow soon, he thought as he closed his eyes again and listened to the next deafening clap, followed by four more at regular intervals. Now that his mind was cleared of sleep, his thoughts of summer rain evaporated, replaced by the understanding that Kabul was under heavy bombardment from the bandits who occupied the high ground surrounding much of the capital. During a short break in the shelling, he caught the sound of the muezzin’s plaintiff call to morning prayers.

Two mornings earlier, the first columns of Soviet troops had crossed the Amu Dar’ya, heading for Termez, never again to return to Afghanistan. The ten-year war was finally winding down. The troops were on their way out.

Islamabad, August 4, 1988

I had quit for the evening when the telephone rang. It was an ISI officer from the Afghan cell.

“Mr. Milton,” he