Retribution

Bannu Road, Sarai Naurang, Pakistan

Samullah handed Yousef a roll of paper longer than his arm.

“This is possible.” Yousef spoke to the third man in the room on the second floor of the mud-brick house in the small western Pakistani village of Sarai Naurang.

Yousef was even more exhausted than before, if that was possible. The trip from Danish Abad had taken hours, but it was necessary if he were to stay alive. The most basic rule was always to keep on the move. Now the Pakistan Army was pushing across much of western Pakistan looking for the man he had come to meet.

Samullah Ullah had traveled with Yousef in the small Toyota pickup truck. It had an extended cab, but Yousef was lanky and long-legged. Samullah was, like Yousef, a tall man. So both were cramped up in the back of the truck for hours with the driver, the guard, and several AK-47s in both the front and back. But Yousef needed Samullah with him for this meeting for a very important reason.

“You are suggesting what?” The other man had also come a long way. Zulfiqar Mehsud had walked for most of a day, hiking down from the mountains above Sarai Naurang and then riding on the back of a dirt bike for well over a hundred miles.

“Something that will be remembered.” Yousef knew his reputation with the Pakistani Tehrik-i-Taliban would carry much weight; however, Zulfiqar Mehsud didn’t commit his men to missions lightly. The jihad soldier was not an unlimited resource. And failure directly affected recruiting.

Zulfiqar Mehsud had survived several wars only by his cunning and skill. He was like a wolf. When possible, he would attack in a pack. If necessary, though, he would strike as the lone animal. A retreat was not dishonorable; rather, it was a strategy. Prisoners had their throats slit only because logistics required it. A retreating patrol could not spend time dragging a prisoner along.

The man had a well-wrinkled face, with skin that had been weathered by a life in the Hindu Kush. A twist of gray cut through the center of his black, curly beard. He had a large mole between his eye and the ridge of his nose. His hands were tough and leathery, small and stubby, with years of dirt under the nails. Like a pit bull, his tolerance for pain was high, his interest in comfort nonexistent.

Repeatedly, the United States reported Mehsud had been killed in an air strike. And repeatedly, a few weeks later, a video would surface with him laughing at the world. No one had collected the multimillion-dollar bounty on his head.

Yousef stood an even chance of not being recognized by the Pakistanis. He had bluffed his way through more than one checkpoint, but Mehsud had orchestrated too many bombings of important Pakistani officers. One recent bombing tore through a central mosque. It was well within the security ring of a military’s base. The suicide bomber wore a vest full of explosives, climbed through a drainage ditch, under a fence, and walked into the mosque when it was full of officers, their wives, and little children. His pants, dripping wet, were noticed only at the last second.

Every officer knew who sent the bomber. The leader of Tehrik-i-Taliban, or TTP as it was called, was wanted, badly wanted, by the Pakistan Army.

Zulfiqar risked being recognized whenever he came down out of the mountains of western Pakistan. It had to be important for him to make the trip.

“There!” Yousef pointed to a paved road in the center of the satellite map. The detail was amazing. The road didn’t look like a typical road, however, as it was much wider than any highway. It had several markings down the center and sides. Large dashes ran down the middle of the cement pavement.

While they were talking, an old woman brought a basin of water into the room.

Yousef dipped both hands into the cold water and rubbed his face. As in most of western Pakistan, a thin, powderlike dust seemed to hang in the air here. Traveling in the back of the truck with the windows open for hours had covered Yousef from head to toe.

Yousef passed the basin to Zulfiqar, who then passed it on to Samullah.

“What do you think of this plan?” Zulfiqar asked Samullah.

Samullah paused before he spoke. Despite his fame, these men had spent most of their lives killing others who wanted to kill them. Tribal wars were vicious. The Russians were known for gut shots aiming to kill with pain.

The Americans killed in another way entirely. They used Hellfire missiles from well above the clouds.

“It is a good plan,” Samullah said at last. He was not known for overstating his thoughts. “Allah Akbar.”

“We need a squad of warriors.” As Yousef spoke, he pointed to the center of the satellite photograph. It had markings on it of a military base with a central runway.

Zulfiqar, never one to shy away from even the most impossible missions, took one look at the photograph and comprehended the full extent of the mission.

“You are a brave one.”

“The reward is great,” Yousef said softly. “Allah would be pleased.”

The airstrip had the numbers on it of 12 and 30, signifying both the ends of the runways and the compass heading of the runway, 120 degrees to 300 degrees. But this runway was different. At the far end beyond the 30 were taxiways that led through gates, down a long pathway, to several bunkers.

“Indeed,” said Zulfiqar.

For the Air Weapon Complex at Kamra was where the Pakistani military kept their nuclear weapons.

“It will be difficult. Very difficult.” Zulfiqar would know. “It will require money.”

Yousef nodded. “That is all true, but we have the money we need. What we lack is your warriors, men true to the jihad who can help us. We will make two attacks. A diversion will come directly through the lead gate. But the heart of the attack will come from across here, the Ghazi Brotha.” Yousef pointed to what appeared to be a river on the south end of the base. “I will pay each warrior a hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

Zulfiqar’s face showed astonishment.

Yousef held his gaze steadily. The truth was, the price of Zulfiqar’s men was a small part of the overall expense.

“But even if you get the warheads, they say the components are separated.”

“I do not need all of the components. All I want is the HEU.”

Zulfiqar’s face showed confusion.

“The enriched uranium. The core. They call it the pit. They will look like small shiny metallic balls no bigger than your fist.”

Actually, Yousef wanted two cores. One would be used abroad, the other kept close.

Zulfiqar shrugged, apparently satisfied. “If that’s what you need, brother, then you shall have it.”

Yousef smiled. “Thank you, brother. Soon, you will have all of the information you need.”

Though Zulfiqar didn’t let it show, Yousef knew that the old man was already deeply committed to this mission. An attack on one of the main air bases of the Pakistani Air Force was enough of an achievement to last Zulfiqar for years. A successful direct attack alone against the Pakistani Air Force’s Air Weapons Complex would shake the very government to its foundation. But the capturing of two cores . . . that would shift the dynamics of the world—Zulfiqar’s and everyone else’s.