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

Most of the Soviet soldiers who fell into mujahideen hands were a pretty troubled lot. Hazing in the Soviet Army made for a miserable life in the best of times, but add to that the crushing insanity of the war in Afghanistan, and it was no surprise that a significant number of Soviet troops were sliding into the Afghan drug scene. Many of them were actually captured by the rebels after having been lured away from the safety of their garrisons on drug deals. Once captured, some very quickly found an enthusiasm for Islam and for the Afghan resistance. They had heard enough stories of their comrades being buried alive or becoming the objects of entertainment for primitive men with knives. Even then, their lives with the mujahideen were often a terrorized combination of concubine and beast of burden. By the time they ended up with us on their way to a resettlement in the West, they were in need of more help than we were often able to give.

After being pulled out of Paktia, the Soviet colonel remained the guest of the Pakistanis while arrangements were worked out with the Soviet embassy in Islamabad for his repatriation. Hamid Gul told me that the Soviet airman was a congenial man who had no interests beyond going home to Moscow to fight another day. He gave up no information and didn’t take the usual defection bait—the big-chested homecoming queen blonde, the bass boat, and the pickup truck with Arizona plates that I had told Hamid Gul to offer him. Instead, the pilot was handed over to the Soviet embassy in Islamabad, and two weeks later he was in Moscow, where he was regaled and decorated for his heroism and his steadfast commitment to his “internationalist duty.”

His rescue was characterized as the result of the gallant efforts of the “competent organs.” No mention was ever made of how his release had been arranged; certainly nothing was said of the Toyotas or the BM-12s the CIA had kicked in. Altogether a nice final chapter, I thought. But it wasn’t yet the end of the game for the colonel. Years later, the kindly, white-haired colonel would be at center stage in Moscow politics.

   13   

Rawalpindi, August 13, 1988

Akhtar couldn’t let go of Afghan affairs since he had handed over ISI to Hamid Gul six months earlier. Though his move to take over as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had included a promotion to lieutenant general, he felt left out of the action in the last days of the war. He continued to call me for a quiet dinner talk every month or so; in return, he would update me on what was going on in the Army. A pretty good trade, I thought, and so it was that I joined him for dinner on the evening of August 13.

Akhtar was in good spirits, having survived the scandal of the Ojhri camp disaster, but just barely, and only because Zia had kicked out Prime Minister Junejo’s civilian government. I had kept up these quiet sessions with Akhtar for the last eighteen months partly as a means of keeping tabs on the current thinking among the corps commanders and senior staff chiefs and partly because I had become close to the general. He would invariably probe for information on what Hamid Gul was up to in Afghanistan, sometimes critically, but since the Soviets were well into their withdrawal, and since most of the news was reasonably good, I never felt I was being caught between a suspicious predecessor and an ambitious successor. Toward the end of our dinner, I mentioned the big event of the week.

“I suppose you’ll be joining everybody else in Bahawalpur on the seventeenth,” I said, referring to the field demonstration in Bahawalpur of the American M1 Abrams tank we were trying to sell the Pakistan Army.

“Bahawalpur? Who’s going?” Akhtar was perplexed; he clearly hadn’t heard about the demonstration.

Catching his tone, I tried to downplay its importance. “They’re showing off the Abrams tank, but you know all about it. It’s a technical affair. I understand the president will be going.”

“Bahawalpur?” Akhtar said again, clearly irritated at having heard from me about a military gathering that involved President Zia. “Will you be going along?”

“No, I’ve got nothing to do with the Abrams. I’ll leave that to the representational crowd, the ambassador and some of our military brass.”

The rest of the dinner was awkward, and I tried to change the subject by briefing the general on the progress CIA technicians were making in salvaging the Su-25, which, it turned out, was as promised in excellent condition. But Akhtar had little interest in this or any other subject, and I ended up leaving for Islamabad a little earlier than usual.

Islamabad, 0830 Hours, August 14, 1988

The next morning, I had barely gotten through my cable traffic before Akhtar was on the line from Rawalpindi:

“Funny thing about the Bahawalpur affair. I found my invitation on my desk when I arrived at the office this morning. It was held up in the mailroom. I’m sending over an invitation for you, as well. You can come with me. It ought to be an interesting day.”

“Thanks, General, but I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

I didn’t believe for a minute that Akhtar’s invitation had been on his desk. I was sure that he’d made life unpleasant for anyone around him below three-star rank and that the hastily prepared invitation had been the only way to end the unpleasantness. When my invitation arrived by courier later that day, I tossed it in a burn bag, pausing for only a second or two to contemplate whether I ought to give it to my deputy Jim Morris and have him cover for me. Not worth it, I decided.

Islamabad, 1800 Hours, August 17, 1988

I had just walked into my residence in Islamabad’s quiet and shady Shalimar residential quarter when my phone rang. It was my secretary,