Third World War (41 page)

'Park Ho is ready,' said Memed. 'Our alliance with him is an experiment which worked, thanks to your guidance, Tassudaq.'

Hussain's face relaxed with a noticeable expression of relief. Musa eyed him suspiciously, making no secret of the fact that he believed Qureshi's statement to be hollow, or, more realistically, that Qureshi had to be removed in order for Musa to take the mantle of leader. Qureshi's mind was filled with different strands of thought, bursting through. Images of his love for Tasneem and for his tempestuous daughter Farah, the blood on Mohmand's uniform, the Fantan tactical 5-kiloton toss-bomb attachment, the news broadcasts of Khan's assassination, the simplistic threats of Jim West - Qureshi was amazed how he could process them all to create the balance and single-mindedness that emerged.

He had trodden an intricate and tarnished road, but as he watched Muda lift the flap of his linen jacket and return the pistol into the back of his trousers, Qureshi allowed himself the luxury of relief when a man knows he will never have to make another major decision in his life again.*

*****

Qureshi was offered an F-16B with a navigator, but he refused. The F-16 might have been the aircraft of choice, but it was too sophisticated for the job, he had argued. Yes, it was versatile enough for ground attack, but its primary role was air defence, and he had confounded them with details, challenging them to let him do it his way, with the system he had devised and with the aircraft he wanted.

When disobeying orders, it is best to act alone. The aircraft he chose was a single-seater and he knew it well.

Winter coal smoke drifted across the corner of the tarmac where the old Chinese-built A-5C Fantan was parked, red stoppers in its two WP6 turbojet engines, with four technicians working on sockets under the centre line of the fuselage. The Fantan was the first Pakistani aircraft to be successfully modified for the delivery of a battlefield nuclear weapon. It was the aircraft which Qureshi felt the most at ease in handling. He had stood firm, and even Zaid Musa had acknowledged that he should have his way.

Nor had he let them dictate the type of bomb he would deliver. Qureshi, an airman of a bygone age, preferred the lowest technology available so he had ordered the 'gun bomb' with 20 kilograms of highly enriched uranium-235 from the Kahuta nuclear weapons complex just thirty miles away. In the low night temperature of Islamabad, the metal casing felt chilled as Qureshi brushed his hand along the cylinder jacket - such a small weapon compared to the missiles and conventional bombs the aircraft was designed to carry. It was barely ten feet long from its flat snub nose to its stabilizing base fins - less than a fifth of the aircraft's overall length.

Qureshi had been a young pilot in the late 1970s when the Pakistan air force had learned of the project to build Kahuta and provide the nuclear deterrent that would enable Pakistan to survive as a nation. His commanders had been furious that they had not been consulted, pointing out that the site was only four minutes' flying time from India and impossible to defend.

But they had been overruled. Nuclear scientists, working on the weapons programme, commuted from Islamabad where their families were well housed and their children educated at the best schools. They were close to the seat of government where decisions could easily be sought, yet they worked in such a desolate and mountainous area that it was never included on the tourist route, and soon all foreigners were banned from the area. At the time, he was flying training sorties right up against the Indian border, including practice runs for defending Kahuta from enemy attack.

Qureshi searched for some kind of symbolism - resolution even - in what he was about to do, and tonight, on the tarmac, in his flying kit and with just the specialist technicians to load the weapon, he chose to think of the success of Kahuta and the ingenuity with which Pakistan's bomb had been created.

Inside the bomb itself was a bullet of U-235 which would plunge down against the U-235 target rings on detonation. As with his aircraft, Qureshi had chosen technology that in essence had not moved much further on since the Hiroshima bombing in 1945.

The bomb was hoisted below the fuselage and slid gently into place. The technicians' fingers spread across the outer casing to make sure it remained protected. Four adjustable rubber braces were brought in to secure it and the bracket clipped in under it. Apart from the 23mm cannon, Qureshi had ordered all other armaments to be taken off the aircraft. Without its air-to-air missiles and 500 kilograms of conventional bombs, the A-5 would be lighter, faster and easier to handle.

He climbed into the cockpit and checked the radar and fusing system which would determine exactly when detonation took place. He set the barometric-pressure fuse at 2,000 feet and made ready four radar fuses which were designed to bounce signals off the ground to set off the detonator once there was an agreed reading between two of the signals. Such safeguards ensured that the weapon would not explode prematurely. As an extra precaution the radar signals would not begin to be emitted until the bomb had been released, so that the signals did not confuse the fuselage of the aircraft with the ground.

Qureshi flipped the bomb-release switch, which was mechanical and not electronic. The bomb slumped down on to the braces, and the technicians lowered it on to the cradle of the trolley. Qureshi climbed out of the aircraft and walked alone across the tarmac, carrying his helmet under his arm and using the lights of an officers' mess hut to guide him to his destination.

In any other circumstances the room would have been welcoming and might even have induced a warm feeling of nostalgia. He could never remember it even having a fresh coat of paint. The wall carried yellowed photographs from action sorties going back to 1971, when East Pakistan had been lost and had become Bangladesh.

Only Najeeb Hussain was waiting for him, standing by the window, away from the stark light, and watching Qureshi approach. The others were in the command and control bunker under the base. Hussain was a friend, as much as any friendship could survive the pressures of leadership. As Qureshi came in, Hussain put his hand on his shoulder and indicated a pot of steaming coffee. Qureshi glanced up at the wall map.

'I've sent Tasneem to London,' he said softly.

Hussain nodded. 'I understand. What reason did you give?'

'She's looking for a job for Farrah.' Qureshi let out a small laugh. 'A couple of nights back, we talked about Farrah's future. I have to tell you, Najeeb, she is the most reckless girl, but she is my favourite. A father shouldn't say that, I know, but this is a night when such things can be said.' He walked over to the map and ran his finger down the border with India.

'Farrah's still in Lahore,' he said. 'She won't leave. What pressing reason can I give her?'

'Lahore will be fine. It is too close to the border. They won't touch it,' said Hussain confidently.

'Javed is in France,' said Qureshi, almost as if he was reassuring himself. 'Akbar, Zeenat and Bashir are at boarding school in Karachi. They won't touch Karachi, surely?'

'Just remember that in all our wars, we have never targeted each other's cities,' said Hussain. 'The fighting has been kept to the battlefield.' Hussain joined Qureshi at the map. 'After you have done this, they won't touch anything,' he said. 'How can they?' He stabbed his finger. 'You take off. You fly down the border within Pakistani airspace, you nip across and drop here, right on the Pir Panjal Pass. Not a person around for miles. You have minimum yield. There'll be an avalanche and not much else.'

Qureshi shook his head. 'But are we underestimating Mehta's will?'

'If he bombs us back, it will be in a similarly remote part of Pakistan. Then we will have had our nuclear exchange and we can get down to business.'

'You think that is what Musa and Memed want?' Qureshi said sharply.

'This is not the time to argue,' insisted Hussain, forcing a smile. 'We have made our decisions.'

Qureshi couldn't work out where Hussain stood. In twenty years together discussing the future of Pakistan, he now realized he might never have known the man's beliefs at all.

'Would you have shot me?' he asked softly.

Hussain looked out of the window, where the moonlight was outshone by the artificial illumination outside and half hidden by clouds through which Qureshi would soon be flying. The reflection in the glass showed Hussain's face, desolate and turned away as he mustered an answer. What arrangements had they each made to get to this place and this situation?

'I told Memed you would see it through. Musa wanted you dead,' Hussain said in barely a whisper. 'From the day we overthrew Nawaz Sharif in favour of Musharraf we have all trodden the same path.'

For some time, Qureshi looked at Hussain. It wasn't a stare: more an attempt at understanding. Perhaps it was a realization that he had never accepted how it would have to end; even that he had never imagined it would get this far.

Hussain pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. 'This is today's propaganda picture for the Indian press,' he said, handing it to Qureshi. Vasant Mehta was shown with various military commanders at the strategic command centre in Bhopal. In the background was a battlefield map, pointing out the positions of artillery and tanks along the Rajasthan border.

'Believe me,' said Hussain. 'What you are going to do tonight will usher in peace. We can turn on the tap and turn it off. It was you, Tassudaq, who organized the assassination of Khan. Such a short time ago, but you seem to have forgotten. It was I who commissioned the attack on the Indian Parliament. Musa called in Muda's mortars to destroy Vasant Mehta's home. The major attacks have been commissioned by us, not by any fly-by-night separatist group. And it was you, Tassudaq, who transported the weapons across to Pyongyang, so that Park Ho would also have the same option of carrying out a limited tactical strike.'

'Is he ready to go?' asked Qureshi. He picked up his helmet from the table and filled a cup quarter full with coffee.

'Memed has spoken to him.'

'Good,' said Qureshi, draining his coffee. He turned, held out his arms and let Hussain embrace him. 'I will not let our country down,' he whispered, patting Hussain on the back. Without another word he walked out of the door and back to his aircraft.

He stood by the cradle as a technician removed the rear plate of the bomb, took out the tiny green plugs blocking the firing signal, inserted cordite which would spark the primary detonation and screwed the plate back on to the outer cylinder. The bomb was lifted back under the fuselage.

Qureshi climbed into the cockpit. This time he brought the cover down, raised the head-up cockpit display and started the engines. As he taxied round, he looked for Hussain in the mess hut. But the lights were off and the building had become a shape across the darkness of the tarmac.

The control tower had been briefed. There was no radio contact. Qureshi pulled down his goggles, carried out a cockpit check and then moved the engines to full thrust.

The light on the head-up cockpit display showed that the wheels were up and locked away and he eased the aircraft into a gentle climbing turn to the north, making sure he kept well within the Pakistani fly zone so close to the border.

At 5,000 feet he ran into choppy, moist cloud, then at 7,000 he hit turbulence in a mass of towering cumuli, more dense than he had judged by watching them swirl around the moon from the ground. Once through, he flew under a brilliant dome of stars, with a sense of suspension between land and sky, a smell of aircraft electronics in his mask, feeling that the bomb was already separated from him, checking that the wind was blowing from east to west, his thoughts back with Tasneem, wishing it was over, and understanding, perhaps finally, perhaps too late, that it would never be over because of the path he had chosen and there would never be a final resolution.

In the middle world in which he found himself, such contradictory thoughts did not seem out of place.

At the point where he was to cross the border, Qureshi took the aircraft in a tight turn and descended steeply. It was now that, if he was detected, the fighters would be scrambled to shoot him down.

The target was rushing towards him, nestled in the mountains. He went lower and lower until the mountains seemed to brush at the plane's belly. He took the plane down until the threshold lights flashed, and then powered it, feeling the engines take the aircraft back up again, the mountains rearing around and releasing him back into the sky.

After he had passed through the cloud, Qureshi began to feel more relaxed. This was when the pilot of another aircraft would appear to kill him. But none did. Perhaps they thought he was performing a victory roll before crossing into India. They had no idea.

He reached the top of his shallow climb and checked his position. He put the plane into a leftward banking turn to gain another 5,000 feet. Then he gathered himself for the dive.