“We will control the Islamic bombs!” Abbas Kahn announced as he sat cross-legged on a worn rug and stroked his neatly clipped beard. “That missile strike today was only the beginning of our grand plan.”
“And it worked, Kahn Sahib,” a young man called out from the back of the dusty room. A roar of approval rose from the dozen other members of the cell, their shouts echoing off the cement walls of the small bunker.
Their leader held up his hand commanding silence. “The missile worked just as it was programmed. Our new brother, Rashid,” he turned and nodded to the man on his right, “has joined us and he deserves our praise.”
“The praise is to Allah,” Rashid said with a slight nod. “And we must not forget that our other recruits from ISI, Pakistan’s military hierarchy, helped steal those missiles along with their launch vehicles from that Pakistani Depot.”
“Yes, it was brilliant. A brilliant plan,” the leader agreed. “But as I said, this strike was only the start. We have much work to do. Plans to devise. Assignments to give out.”
The air in their concrete headquarters suddenly was heavy and tinged with apprehension for the men crowded into the small space. They waited and followed their leader’s gaze out a small window where a fine mist enveloped snow-capped mountains. Their view was marred by piles of rubble and a twelve-foot high fence off in the distance.
“This place, this homeland, this should all be ours. But no. Look at that fence with its wire and metal and electricity. Here we are, still recovering from the Ramadan quake, still trying to rebuild our villages, and the Indians are spending their time building fences. They think their stupid fence will keep us out. They think it will prevent us from staging any more attacks on the other side.”
A few of the cell members laughed at his description and one remarked, “They now know they were wrong.”
“Just as wrong as the Israelis were when they built their fence to keep the Palestinians out of their rightful land,” Kahn continued. “At least the Jews were condemned for their fence. But who is condemning Delhi? Who, I ask you?”
He looked around the room and scrutinized the faces of the young men leaning against the dark walls, offering him rapt attention.
Abbas Kahn took a sip of his sweetened tea and continued ominously. “We are smarter than our Palestinian brothers. We will not try to fight the big countries alone. That would be foolish, and we are not foolish men. No. We will continue to stage our attacks in India, but we will see to it that Pakistan gets the blame. Then India will have to retaliate.”
The men nodded and mumbled their agreement. They had heard this before. Many times. They had fought together for years, trying to drive the Indians out of Kashmir. India and Pakistan had fought wars over this land. Nothing was ever settled. They knew they’d only take control if they had a new strategy, a daring new plan. And Abbas Kahn was about to lay it all out.
“We will see to it that India and Pakistan go to war . . . again . . . but this time, with both sides having nuclear weapons, the feckless bureaucrats at the UN will scream for a cease-fire. They will demand elections. Fine. Our people are Moslem. All of Kashmir is Moslem. We will have their election . . . once . . . because we will win.
Again, the men nodded.
“And when we win in Kashmir, we’ll pick up the pieces in Islamabad and take control of the government and,” he paused for effect, “we’ll also control . . .”
“The bombs!” the young men cried in unison.
“Yes, Inshallah! And you, Jambaz . . .” he turned to the young man on his left. “While we work here, you will work in America on a most important assignment . . . one that will allow us to defend ourselves when missiles start flying.”
He leaned forward and pointed to a stack of papers on the low table in front of him. “This is your passport. These are your new identity papers. Everything you need has been arranged.”
Jambaz reached for the documents. Of all the members pledged to free their homeland from the clutches of India, of all the militants from the old ISI network, old al Qaeda cells and Taliban sympathizers who were going to work together to take control of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal, he was the one chosen to go to America. He didn’t know what his mission would be. But he knew it must be important. He wouldn’t ask questions now.
He had traveled there before. He had studied their ways. He had learned their language. So, of course, he should be the chosen one. For it was the saying of Mohammed, Peace Be Unto Him, “It is your own conduct which will lead you to reward or punishment as if you had been destined therefore.”