Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (37 page)

“
Sheraz!” Kamal yelled as moved to support Bilal. “Bilal, get him out of fire line! Move!” he yelled, squeezing off rounds into the room to provide cover for Sheraz from the doorway. Bilal swung his weapon around and grabbed Sheraz’s arm, pulling him aside.

“Sir… how bad… is it?” Sheraz asked blood flowing from his mouth and nose. Bilal looked down to see the bullet hole in the Kevlar, dead center of his chest. He doesn
’t have long, Bilal thought to himself.

“You
’re fine, Sheraz,” Bilal encouragingly said to him. “Just a graze for you and me. Now, don’t pansy out on us and die,” he said but just as the words came out, Sheraz coughed, laboring to breathe as the life slipped out of him. Kamal had moved to them, arriving just as Sheraz lost consciousness. He reached down and checked his pulse. “He’s gone,” he said finding nothing, pausing to take Sheraz’s hand and close his eyes.

Watching Sheraz die hardened something within the strike team members. For Kamal and Bilal, who had been stationed in Kashmir with him for eighteen months, they felt like they lost a brother in arms. He had a wife and two minor children, Kamal thought.
We need to be able to tell them he died a hero.

“Sir, make it two KIA,” Kamal called across the wireless to Haroon. “Sheraz is dead.”

There was intermittent firing from the room, both out the door and through the walls. Those inside were doing their best to eliminate anyone, but they had prepared for this scenario. The strike teams settled behind the facing walls so that any stray bullets would pierce the concrete, not their Kevlar. Kamal raised a fist in the air waiting for everyone to ready themselves. The fist changed to five outstretched fingers, counting down slowly.

The gunfire erupted again, just as furious as on the ground floor. The strike team
’s bullets found human flesh slowing the return fire from inside the room. They aren’t going to let us take them alive, Kamal thought to himself.
First class tickets to hell coming up.
Bilal pulled the flash bang from his pack and rolled it into the room. The counter measure blinded and deafened the guards, allowing the men to enter and fire headshots into the remaining guards surrounding the Sheikh. Three men were mortally wounded, an additional five were killed inside the room. The security forces had lost another two men in the breach.

The Sheikh stood in the corner, Kalashnikov in hand. The single guard left protecting him was wounded and unable to move. Mullah Fazal lay alone on the floor, bleeding from three wounds in his torso. Bilal pulled his sidearm and fired three shots into the guard
’s head. “Always put the dog out of his misery,” he said with a smirk, turning his weapon to the Sheikh. When the guard fell away from the Sheikh, both men noticed that he was already bleeding from a bullet that had hit his hip.

“Bilal!” Kamal yelled. “We need him alive.” Bilal smiled mischievously and fired two shots into each of his shoulders, causing him to drop the weapon in his hand. Kamal went straight to the Sheikh, smacking him in the face with the butt of his rifle. He tried to search him, but the Sheikh was uncooperative causing Kamal to press his Glock to his balls. “Keep fighting, you son of a bitch,” Kamal growled in his ear. “It would be a pleasure.”

One of the men called, “Bomb,” before planting a bullet into a man’s head that had emerged from another corner of the room unnoticed. He saw the dead man’s switch in his hand and raced towards him, draping his body over top as the suicide vest detonated covering the room in pink mist. The men quickly searched the corners again for any hidden doors or compartments that could be hiding more combatants.

Two strike teams moved the Sheikh and Mullah to a waiting Cobra, while the others rampaged the offices on the top floor. They filled black bags with files, photographs, journals and hard drives. The cabinets were full of files, some with names, photographs and locations, others contained names of Imams and madrassahs that were part of the network. The intelligence find was enormous. It would take weeks to work through all of it and taking the leaders alive was an added advantage. As Kamal opened and cleared the cabinets, he stumbled on drawers full of files emblazoned with the logos of intelligence agencies.
What are these doing here? How did they get them? There is something more sinister than a jihad here.

Kamal pulled out all the files, handing over all but the last few to a colleague to carry out of the compound. He made a last check around the room for anything he might have missed. Other teams were doing the same, combing all the rooms in mountainside for weapons, documents and stray members of the camp. It took them less than an hour to sweep the camp.

Climbing back into the helicopter with Haroon and the two HVTs, the two men exchanged smiles and a handshake for the successful completion of the mission. The two Hueys, loaded with their payloads, reached a hover along side the Cobras and the Brigadier ordered everyone out of the area. Waiting for the space to clear, Haroon looked around to make sure that all military personnel were clear. He looked over to see that the al-Qaeda flag that had been flying above the observation post when they had arrived three hours ago had been replaced with a Pakistani flag.

“Gentlemen, I thought you would all want to see this,” Haroon called over the comms unit. “Pilots move us to a safe distance.” Each Cobra passed the Pakistani flag, freshly hung above the once terrorist camp, filling each member of the strike force with pride at the enormity of the task that had been completed.

As the helicopters turned over the ridge, Haroon addressed his team. “Tariq, the venue is clear. It’s showtime,” Haroon was laughing. A few seconds later, explosions rocked the entire valley as the compound, tunnels and any contents remaining illuminated the early morning sky in a blaze of glory. “Let’s go home, boys!” the Brigadier said.

The Cobras turned and disappeared over the ridge. They could hear the azaan filling the morning sky over the villages they passed.

Chapter 18

“In the early hours of 17th November, 1996, the Pakistan Army conducted an assault on a terrorist training facility in Khyber Agency,” Prime Minister Ahsan Chaudhry began. “The camp was the operational base of the group who planned and executed the assassination of Prime Minister Azam Shah. This was the successful culmination of six months of intensive investigations involving law enforcement agencies, civilian intelligence agencies and the Inter-Service Intelligence division of the Pakistan Army,” he paused. He seemed to be struggling with a surge of emotions, apparent to almost everyone in the room.

“To the family of Azam Shah and the citizens of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, I am honored to be able to announce that the people responsible for Azam Shah
’s death have been brought to justice, and the terrorist camp has been destroyed,” Chaudhry said. “The Army will be arranging a full briefing later this afternoon to explain the operation, share the evidence gathered and answer any media questions. The entire briefing will be telecast live on PTV so that the nation may share in the pride that we have today for our Army. Pakistan Zindabad,” he concluded and the screen changed to a shot of the waving Pakistani flag, as every televised address from the Prime Minister did. He sat for a few minutes at his desk while journalists took photographs for the morning editions of their newspapers.

“You did well, Prime Minister,” Major General Shaukat Paracha said, collecting the pages of the speech from his desk. The Prime Minister usually preferred to have his team of speechwriters prepare public statements from his office, but in this case the ISPR had provided the words they wanted conveyed to the public.

“They were your words, General,” Chaudhry said. “I didn’t do anything but read them into the camera,” he continued, a hint of sarcasm underpinning his words.

“And you did that well, sir,” Paracha said calmly, slipping the pages into his portfolio. Avoiding the Prime Minister
’s eyes, he walked out.

Chaudhry
’s job was done. The one thing that had plagued his Premiership was resolved. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders, but it was replaced with a deep sadness for his friend and family. Now, he had to return to the business of government and solving the many other issues in the purview of his office.

This was a showcase, redemption for the security services that had been demonized in the print media since Azam Shah
’s assassination. Today was the Army’s opportunity to demonstrate their value to the nation. Major General Shaukat Paracha, Director General of the Inter Services Public Relations division of the Army, oversaw the arrangements of briefing journalists, preparing information packets and managing the release of the ‘treasure trove’ of information that had been gathered after The Sanctuary was overtaken and secured. He had wanted to hold the press conference immediately after the raid, but the high command delayed it to carry out additional raids on camps that were associated with The Sanctuary. The Army had launched attacks on every madrassah and masjid that was listed in the documents collected, as well as sweeping up every individual suspected of involvement with the terrorists. It had been one of the largest cleanup operations in Pakistan’s history, stretching across the country in urban and rural areas.

“Waqas! Waqas!” Paracha called out, slowing raising the tenor of his voice. “What are these doing here?”

“Sir, they were in the boxes of material sent over from GHQ.”

“Just because they sent it over,”
Paracha began, “doesn’t mean that we need to show it to the media. It is included in the list of materials collected, that is enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Waqas said pulling the stacks of files from the table.

The Major General was known for his meticulous attention to detail, always keeping military protocol in mind when speaking to media personnel. He was the public face for the Pakistan Army, relaying information and answering questions for the domestic and international journalists. He was constantly in the public eye, smiling and laughing as he delivered the army’s pressers. This, however, would be a much more charged affair. Even more so because it would be broadcast live on PTV.

Paracha was busy reviewing the information packets and other items that had been recovered when his aide came in and handed him a folded piece of paper. His attention was on his task, so he slipped the note into his pocket to read when he was free. His aide cleared his throat drawing Paracha
’s attention.

“What is it, havildar?” Paracha asked.

“Sir, the note,” the aide said hesitantly. “I am supposed to report back to GHQ once you have read it and added your comments.”

Glaring at the aide, Paracha pulled the note from this pocket, annoyed that he hadn
’t been told that in the first place. Reading the contents, he pulled his pen from his chest pocket and scribbled his comments, folding it back up when he finished. “Next time tell me when you give me the note,” he snapped at the havildar as he returned the folded paper to him.

“Yes, sir,” the aide replied abruptly. “Will not happen again,” he said turning and rushing out of the briefing room.

The media had already started to file in, filling their designated seats based on the chart provided by the ISPR. The room was a classroom converted into a briefing room for this occasion, with theatre-style seating. To one side hung all the flags of the regiments of the army, neatly pressed and just far enough from the wall to not touch. Along the back wall, hung the framed photographs of Chiefs of Army Staff, from Ayub Khan to Amjad Ali. The front of the room, which was normally a podium with the Pakistan and army flags to either side, had been transformed. In its place was a table for three men with a large screen to the right. A buzzer sounded inside the hall to let everyone know the briefing would start within the next fifteen minutes and the room began to fill up quickly.

Major General Shaukat Paracha, Brigadier Haroon Ahmed and an aide entered the room from a backstage area to the left. Paracha took the center seat with Haroon and the aide seated to either side. As the seats filled up, the three men noticed the abundance of cameras and personnel from international media outlets. Paracha was media savvy but for Haroon, this was an environment that he had never faced. Paracha leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Cover the basics of the op. Don’t give them too much detail.”

Haroon nodded, but his focus was on finding the foreign media in the audience.
Maybe if I can spot them, it will put me more at ease.

“Good afternoon and welcome to the ISPR. I am Major General Shaukat Paracha and I
’ll be providing the briefing in both Urdu and English so that everyone is able to clearly understand the information that we are presenting today. Please hold all questions until we have completed the presentation,” Paracha said, smiling at the audience, his timbering voice filling the auditorium. “The Prime Minister has already outlined the basics of what happened, but I, along with Brigadier Haroon, will be covering that and more information in detail.” He stopped to take a sip of water.

“Based on intelligence from an informant, the Pakistan Army began surveillance and intelligence-gathering of a large training camp located in the hills of Khyber Agency,”
Paracha began. “Over the course of the past six months, various law enforcement agencies, civilian intelligence and our ISI operatives in the region were able to provide a clear picture of the activities of the camp and a direct connection to the assassination of former Prime Minister Azam Shah. Brigadier Haroon Ahmed will take you through the details of the operation, keeping in mind security concerns about potential retaliatory strikes.”