Ghost (19 page)

twenty-one

IN COUNTRY

In Germany, we bid adieu to our executive jet and climb aboard a cavernous monster of an aircraft. The air force calls it a C-5A Galaxy, but I think that name is an understatement. The thing can hold a battalion of troops, or a pair of tanks, or even a couple of helicopters. Looking around in the cargo bay is like standing in the hold of a supertanker. It makes the C-141 look like an anorexic teenager.

Along with the crash team, we’re this beast’s only cargo. We’ll leave from Rhein-Main and fly nonstop straight to Islamabad. Besides being the largest plane in America’s inventory, it also has a true global reach. Galaxy pilots think nothing of flying to destinations half a world away. They do it all the time. It’s going to be a very long flight.

We stow our gear aboard and find seats.

We’ve still got about an hour before departure. The crew is busy with all their preflight duties, and we’re pretty much on our own until it is time to go. Brad and I decide to take this time to go meet the air force guys.

I find the crash team’s commanding officer, Colonel Dan Sowada, standing near the C-5’s back ramp. Brad and I go over and introduce ourselves.

“What do you make of the reports so far?” I ask Colonel Sowada.

“Well, we’re gathering as much information as we can right now on prior C-130 crashes. But I will say this: C-130s are used all over the world. They fly hundreds of thousands of hours a year. They don’t just fall out of the sky.”

“That’s for sure,” his team’s engineer confirms as he walks up to introduce himself. “The Herk is one of the most reliable planes we’ve got. That’s why so many countries use them.”

“Most of the ones produced are still flying, even the ones built in the fifties.”

I ask, “When was Zia’s plane built?”

The engineer responds, “In 1962. Came off the line in Marietta, Georgia. It was a C-130B-LM. The B models had better engines than the earlier variant, the A.”

“Still, the plane was twenty-five years old,” Brad says.

“True, but most of the C-130 fleet is that old anyway.”

Sowada says, “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve got to do this one right and be thorough.”

“Agreed,” I say.

One of the C-5 crew members walks over to our little group. “Gentlemen, we’re ready to go. Time to load up.”

We turn and walk inside the Galaxy. As we find our seats, Brad’s earlier comment hits me right between the eyes.

What if we find out the Indians did it?

God, I hope this was just a tragic accident. But that would just be too tidy, too coincidental, especially give the fact that there were thirty-one high-value targets on board. Deep down, I know this one’s bound to get ugly.

The C-5 lifts off and wings eastward. The flight is long and cold, and I’m glad I have my Barbour Beaufort handy. I hunker down in it and try to get some sleep. When we get in country, sleep will be a luxury.

Almost half a day later, we make our final approach into Islamabad’s Chaklala Air Base. We arrive in the middle of the night and the C-5 rolls to a stop in a remote corner of the airport. The Galaxy is quickly surrounded by a mixed group of Pakistani special forces soldiers and U.S. Air Force security troops. When we deplane, we find the CIA waiting for us with blacked-out vans.

The vans race us into the city, where Pakistani soldiers armed with assault rifles stand guard on every street corner. The capital is basically in lockdown mode.

The vans take us to the Holiday Inn. Here we are in a city on the brink of war, and we’ll be staying at a vacation destination. I can’t help but laugh at the irony.

Fifteen minutes later, the embassy RSO shows up in an armored vehicle and picks us up. I’ve met Mel Harrison before in Washington, D.C. He’s a good man, a straight shooter who has had a very unusual career. He served as an economics officer in London during one tour. On another, he spent six months at the NATO war college studying military history and tactics. He’s tall and lanky with a studious persona and a broad mind, thanks in part to his atypical career path.

Tonight, he’s extremely quiet. He says little until we get to his house, where dinner is waiting for us. While we eat, he drops a bombshell.

“Fred, I was supposed to be on that plane.” He can’t even look at us as he says those words. Instead, he stares out a window. Arnold Raphel was his friend. Right then, the human cost finally becomes real to me. Up until now, I’ve been approaching this from the geopolitical perspective, with all its implications. Seeing Mel’s grief drives home the painful truth of this tragedy. Thirty-one families are without loved ones tonight. Two of our own men are dead. On top of his case of survivor’s guilt, Mel is grieving for his lost friend.

“I was supposed to be on that flight,” Mel says again, almost under his breath.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Ambassador Raphel decided at the last minute that he wanted to go. He figured it would give him an opportunity to talk to President Zia about an attack on an American nun. He wanted some assurances that those responsible would be punished.”

This is news to both Brad and me. “Wait, you’re saying Ambassador Raphel was not scheduled to be on that plane?”

“Right. He bumped me at the last minute.”

Brad says, “Well we can discount the chance that this was a hit on the ambassador then.” Mel agrees.

I breathe a sigh of relief. That was one of the first things we were told to investigate. We can put that one to rest.

“Mel, tell us what you know about the crash,” I say.

The RSO launches into the complete story. President Zia, the joint chiefs of staff, the head of the ISI, and other VIPs took the trip from Islamabad to Bahawalpur to attend an M1 Abrams tank demonstration. The U.S. government had just sealed a deal with Zia to sell Pakistan a bunch of these formidable machines, and the VIPs wanted to get a firsthand look at them.

The demonstration had been planned weeks in advance.

President Zia’s C-130 lifted off from Chaklala on the morning of August 17. It flew down to Bahawalpur without incident. The VIPs watched the tank demonstration and returned to the airport that afternoon. The C-130 taxied out to the runway and took off after the crew went through the normal preflight checklist. Five minutes after takeoff, the plane went down. Nobody survived. It was a catastrophic impact. Only pieces remain of the aircraft.

“Tomorrow morning, you’ll get an introduction and full briefing by the Pakistani Air Force. After that, they will fly you down to the crash site,” Mel says.

I have many questions, but Mel looks weary. He probably hasn’t slept since the crash.

“Were there any prior threats against President Zia?” I ask.

“None that we picked up.”

“Any warning indicators at all that an operation was under way?”

“No. We never saw this coming. If it was sabotage, it was done very quietly.”

“What about the ISI?” Brad asks.

Mel shakes his head. “They had no threats on the board either.” He hesitates for a second, then changes his statement. “Let’s put it this way. If they had any information on an imminent threat, the ISI did not share it with us.”

“Would that be unusual?” I ask.

“No. I wouldn’t put it past the ISI to hide something from us. But if they had a warning, they’ve shredded all evidence of it by now. And Zia did have a long enemies list.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll never learn the truth,” Brad says.

“Maybe. But look, given all the things we know so far, I’m inclined to believe the plane crashed because of mechanical failure. The weather was clear, so that couldn’t have caused the crash. If somebody was planning to hit Zia, we probably would have had something come in, some sort of a threat. There’s been nothing. It is hard to keep an operation of this magnitude totally blacked out.”

That’s true. “Well,” he says while staring out the window again, “I hope it was mechanical failure. The implications are too grim if it wasn’t. If it was a foreign-backed plot or a coup attempt, this could get out of control very quickly.”

Brad and I finish our meals. The table is cleared. We’re exhausted from the flight, and I suppose we look as weary as Mel does. He decides to take us back to the Holiday Inn, but before we leave, he gives us a word of caution. “Look, tread lightly on this one, Fred. I know your reputation. Be careful, okay?”

When it comes to the truth, I’m not really sure how to tread lightly. But I try to reassure him. “That’s why we’re here, Mel. The NSC didn’t want to send the wrong signal with an NTSB team or the FBI.”

“Good. One other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Your hotel…” Mel falters for a minute. He seems to be trying to phrase something in his head and is having a hard time finding the right words. “Look, there’s a lot of anti-American sentiment on the street here. Plenty of people hate us. Your hotel is where most Americans stay when they come to the city.”

“We’ll be careful, Mel,” I assure him.

“Good, because the hotel’s been bombed several times already.”

Brad and I exchange looks. I doubt either of us will sleep tonight.

twenty-two

PAKISTANI TWO-STEP

Back at the Holiday Inn, I lie awake in a strange bed in a stranger city awash in tension. I sense that the days ahead will be some of the defining ones of my life. If we help to avert a war and save lives, it will more than validate my decision to turn fed and leave my old neighborhood and precinct behind. If we blow it and fall off the tightrope…well, I don’t want to think about that.

We left the United States in darkness, departed from Germany at night, and got to Pakistan after sunset. I’ve lost all concept of time, and my body doesn’t know if it should rest or be up and moving.

In the darkness of the night, the Muslim call to prayer blares from speakers all over the city. I get up and peer out the window, listening to this half song, half chant that is such an embedded part of Islamic culture. For the life of me, I can’t help but think it sounds sinister.

When the baying of the muezzin ends, I slide back under the covers and return to the mystery at hand. What do we know? Not much so far, though two things stand out in my mind. First, the weather was good on the day of the flight. That rules out a lightning strike or turbulence as an accident cause. Second, and much more worrisome from a security and counterterrorism perspective, is the event President Zia and his entourage attended. The tank trials had been scheduled far in advance. If the time and date had been leaked to the wrong people, an orchestrated assassination could have been arranged.

In the Dark World, assassinations are driven by opportunity. You must have the killer or killing device in the right place at the right time. To do it right, the assassin needs foreknowledge. Where is the target going to be on a particular day?

With JFK, it was Dallas. Since the route was public knowledge, Oswald knew where he needed to be to get the best shot on the motorcade. With Archduke Ferdinand, it was Sarajevo in June 1914. His arrival in the city was known long in advance, giving his enemies a chance to station assassins all along his motorcade’s route.

Take away that foreknowledge, and the assassin is left without a way to get to his target. This is why the schedules of heads of state are usually closely guarded secrets. Was Zia’s compromised? Did the tank trials make him vulnerable?

Yes, they did. Now we need to find out if somebody or some organization took advantage of it.

The next morning, we’re stuffed into the blacked-out Agency vans again and rushed through the city toward the airport. Again, soldiers stand on every street corner, assault rifles at the ready. At one point, we stop at an intersection, and I look out my window to see one particularly crusty-looking Pakistani noncommissioned officer. I’m just a few feet away from him, separated only by a tinted window and a few inches of aluminum. He fingers his assault rifle’s trigger and stares at our van. How easy would it be for him to kill us all right now? Our security is zero. We’re in the middle of a city full of hostility toward Americans. If something went down, we would not stand a chance.

My pucker meter is pegged. But all I can do is hang on to my seat rest and keep my head on a swivel. If they come after us, at the very least they’ll have a fight on their hands. I have fifteen rounds, and I will make every one count.

Very few people are out and about, which I take as a good sign. If there were mass protests and riots going on, the surviving members of the government might overreact. They’re already paranoid that somebody’s orchestrating a coup. Put crowds on the street and soldiers with guns on every corner and nothing good can come of that. Just ask the British after the Boston Massacre.

We reach Chaklala Air Base and go through security again. We’re taken to Pakistani Air Force headquarters and ushered into a conference room full of officers and Pakistani ISI-types. One intel officer wearing a general’s uniform glowers at us from a back corner of the room. Spooks can almost always pick up other spooks in this sort of situation. This guy’s eyes say to me, “We see everything and we are watching you.”

Point taken. We may have some trust issues here.

Brad and I are introduced to everyone in the room. Most of the leftover senior military leadership has come to greet us and listen in on this first briefing. The air force colonels and generals standing nearby appear nervous and downcast. I’m not surprised. PAK-1 was their most important bird. Now that it has crashed, their necks are on the chopping block—literally. Pakistanis do not suffer failure well.

A round-faced, slightly bug-eyed Pakistani colonel introduces himself and shakes my hand. With his big, bushy mustache, he reminds me of Cheech Marin from the early eighties Cheech and Chong movies.

“Welcome to Pakistan, and thank you for coming,” he says. From his eyes and body language, I don’t think he’s happy we’re here. He turns to Colonel Sowada and continues, “Anything you need, please tell me. I am here to make sure your team has full cooperation.”

“Thank you, Colonel, we appreciate that,” Sowada replies diplomatically.

“Gentlemen, please find a seat. We will give you a full briefing.”

Cheech steps to a podium at the front of the room and surprises us with his first words. “We have already solved the mystery. We know how PAK-1 went down.”

He has a flare for drama, I’ll give him that. A brief caesura follows his opening statement. It gives me time to think. It took us twenty-four hours to get from the United States to Pakistan. Did something break in the interim? If so, why didn’t Mel know about it last night?

Cheech reaches down behind the podium and produces a ragged chunk of metal. He holds it up and announces, “This is a piece of PAK-1’s fuselage. Notice the hole in it?” He points to it and pauses again. “This proves a missile struck the C-130. This is the entry hole.”

Silence. Is anyone buying this? I steal a glance around the room. The Pakistanis look grim and serious. The ISI spook in the back spears me with his eyes. That is one hostile dude. I wonder what his beef is with Americans.

Cheech continues to hold up the fuselage piece for everyone to see. The exterior side still has some of PAK-1’s paint on it. “It was a surface-to-air missile, probably shoulder-fired. This happened once before, seven years ago, and almost brought down PAK-1 then. Fortunately, that missile missed.”

Colonel Sowada doesn’t look impressed. He and Brad watch me, expecting me to respond. I need to be a leader here, and I need to remember all the warnings we’ve had. Tread lightly. This is a precarious situation. Diplomacy is paramount.

“So, we’ve solved the mystery,” Cheech repeats. Between the lines I read
Which is why you Americans don’t need to be here. Thanks for coming. Byebye, then.

I can’t help myself. This is nonsense. I stand up and say, “There’s no way that hole was made by a missile.”

Cheech coldly responds, “Oh? What makes you think so?”

It is so obvious that I’m not sure how to be polite about it. “Well,” I begin, “if you look at the way the hole is torn in that piece from the fuselage, you’ll see whatever went through it went from inside to outside. That hole was made by something exiting the aircraft, not penetrating it.”

“How do you know this?” Cheech’s face reddens. Is he angry or embarrassed? I’m not sure, and at this point it doesn’t matter.

I pick up my pencil and tear a sheet of paper out of my notebook. I hold them both up and push the pencil through the paper. “See how the paper’s torn edges push outward from the hole I’ve just made? They follow the path of the pencil. Take a look at that piece of metal. See all the jagged pieces flowering out of the hole? They are bent the wrong way for a missile hit. Something came
out
of the C-130 through that hole.”

There’s no way to dispute that. With a roomful of generals and colonels staring at him, Cheech looks utterly humiliated. Obviously, he’d staked his credibility on his theory, and I’ve just yanked his pants down in front of his superiors.

Off in the corner, the ISI spook starts taking notes. That can’t be good for Cheech. Or me, for that matter. This was my first diplomatic test, and I blew it. Still, there’s something to be said for the tone I just set. We’ll let the facts speak for themselves, and the Pakistanis now know that. Hopefully, they’ll respect our approach. We won’t be bullied into any conclusions.

Cheech stands in silence. The room waits expectantly, and as the awkward moment continues, I realize I may have really done some damage here. Time to get things moving again.

“Colonel, could you give us some background on the flight?”

Cheech recovers. “Certainly, Agent Burton.” His tone is frosty. He flashes me a look like he wants to skin me alive.

“At 3:46 in the afternoon of August 17, PAK-1 took off with thirty-one men aboard. Before takeoff, a Cessna security plane swept the area and saw nothing. Five minutes after takeoff, the C-130 crashed in the desert several kilometers from the airport at Bahawalpur. Everyone was killed on impact.”

Colonel Sowada asks, “Did you recover the cockpit voice recorder?”

“The plane was not equipped with one.” The news surprises all of us in the American team. No voice recorder? That could have been a major help to our investigation.

Colonel Sowada probes that issue. “If there is no voice recorder, did the tower at Bahawalpur hear the pilots say anything out of the ordinary? Did the tower hear a distress call?”

“All communication with the tower was routine. The pilots did not issue a Mayday.”

This is an important piece of the puzzle. No Mayday. We’ll need to figure out how long the aircraft was in trouble before it crashed. If it exploded in midair, the absence of a distress signal would be understandable. But what if they had time to call for help and didn’t? What does that mean?

Cheech continues, “The Cessna security plane did hear a brief transmission shortly before PAK-1 crashed.”

“What?” Colonel Sowada asks. This is a revelation to all of us.

“They heard somebody inside the aircraft shouting ‘Mash’hood! Mash’hood!’ The command pilot’s name was Wing Commander Mash’hood Hussan.”

I ask, “Any idea who was shouting?”

Cheech shakes his head. “No. We do not know. We do know that it was not the copilot. The voice probably came from the VIP capsule located inside the cargo bay.”

“What about the pilots? Were they reliable?” I ask.

“They were handpicked by President Zia himself based on their experience and loyalty. They were absolutely reliable. They were our best.”

That’s good to know.

Colonel Sowada changes the subject. “Colonel, can you tell me about PAK-1’s maintenance cycle?”

“It went through a major overhaul less than a month ago. The C-130 had been flown less than fifty hours since.”

“Was the hydraulic fluid changed during that overhaul?”

Where’s Colonel Sowada going with that question?

Cheech looks as puzzled as I am. “I do not know, but I will find out the answer for you.”

“Thank you. How about the fuel used in PAK-1? Could it have been tainted or tampered with?”

He is ready for that one. “PAK-1 was fueled here at Chaklala before the flight down to Bahawalpur. It was not refueled before takeoff for its return flight. We have tested the fuel used here and found no contaminants whatsoever. We have ruled that out as a cause of the crash.”

What about a bomb on the aircraft? I probe that carefully. “Colonel, what sort of screening procedures do you use on packages and items coming aboard PAK-1? And was there anything brought aboard in Bahawalpur?”

Cheech grabs the sides of the podium with both hands. He locks his elbows and looks angry and embarrassed. “I do not know the answer to either question, but I will find out for you.”

The meeting breaks up a few minutes later. Cheech makes a point of avoiding me. Dealing with him from now on will be like waltzing with a porcupine. As we leave the room to convoy back into the city, I notice the ISI spook’s eyes never leave us. He’s setting the tone, too. Big Brother, Islamabad-style, is watching.

We stop at the embassy, where we meet with Mel Harrison and the deputy chief of mission, Beth Jones. Beth underscores the need for us to be diplomatic. I don’t have the heart to tell her I already blew my chance to learn the Pakistani two-step. The truth doesn’t dance.

We brief them both about what we’ve learned. In return, they tell us that things are reaching a boiling point with India. Publicly, the Indians have declared three days of mourning for President Zia, which is clearly a gesture designed to defuse the growing tension. Behind the scenes, though, both the Pakistanis and Indians have escalated their readiness. Their fingers are on hair triggers. One twitch and a lot of people are going to die. It makes me think of that scene on Lexington Green two hundred years ago when the British Army confronted Captain Parker and his Minutemen. Both sides were cocked, locked, and ready. Who fired “the shot heard round the world”? Nobody will ever know. If it happens here, will it matter who launched first?

As we leave, Mel walks us to our spook convoy. He tells us, “You’ll be flying to the crash scene in the morning. Do what you can, and do it quick. This thing is getting out of hand. The last time the world was this close to a nuclear exchange was 1962. Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Well, the sooner we get to Bahawalpur, the better.”

Brad nods in agreement.

“Before we leave, can we have a sit-down with the station chief?” I ask.

Mel stops walking with us. We come up short, turn, and watch him. “Funny thing about that, Fred. The station chief left for Washington a few hours after the crash. While you were flying here, he was flying back to D.C.”

“Really?” In the middle of a crisis like this one, the CIA’s top officer in country has gone home? That is very odd.

“Yeah. Strange, isn’t it? You can talk with his deputy after you examine the crash site.”

“Okay, that sounds good. We’ll do everything we can to get answers in Bahawalpur.”

“Good. I just hope we’re still here when you get back.”