Rules of Betrayal

67

“You’re late,” said the pilot as he shoved the forward door closed. “Find a place to sit and buckle up. We’re leaving.”

Sultan Haq started down the cavernous fuselage, squinting in the dim light as he made his way past jeeps and armored personnel carriers and various crates of military equipment. The jeeps belonged to the United States Army, as did the personnel carriers and every last piece of equipment loaded and secured aboard the Starlifter.

It was the greatest exodus of military materiel in history.

For seven years the United States military had sent its sons and daughters to the country of Iraq to free Iraq’s people of a tyrannical dictator and sow the seeds of democracy. Along with the soldiers, a constant stream of materiel poured into the country. Day in, day out, planes landed at airbases across the country. C-141 Starlifters carrying tanks, artillery pieces, and up-armored Humvees. Boeing C-19s filled with heavy trucks, mobile kitchens, and Kevlar vests. Great cargo ships docked at ports in the Arabian Sea delivering jeeps, ammunition, and pallet upon pallet of MREs.

Now the war was winding down. The American military was moving on. And it was taking its war-making apparatus with it. A total of 3.3 million pieces of military equipment was to be repatriated or sent onward to Afghanistan, where American troops were engaged in a fierce conflict. M1 Abrams tanks, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, Stryker armored personnel carriers, howitzer cannons-the list went on ad infinitum. The task was too great to accomplish solely with its own equipment, so the masters of logistics looked outside the military for ships and planes available to assist them. One of the firms contracted to help was East Pakistan Airways, owned and operated by Ashok Balfour Armitraj.

Collapsing into a makeshift seat halfway down the interior, Haq leaned his head against the bulkhead and drew a deep breath. He was sweating profusely, the fear and adrenaline and terror of survival and escape still gripping him, leaving his hands trembling. He yanked at the sleeve of his jacket to get at his watch, hating the Western clothing. It was almost seven o’clock. Reflexively, he touched the crate placed on the webbed seating next to him for reassurance. Takeoff was scheduled for 1900 local time. Military transports did not wait for unlisted passengers and cargo.

One after another, the Starlifter’s Pratt and Whitney turbine engines powered up. The plane gave a mighty shiver, then began to move. It taxied for several minutes, and Haq felt his anxiety lessen. Only then did he acknowledge the pain in his leg. He pulled up his pants leg and gazed at the chunk of shrapnel embedded in his calf. He saw that his shoe was filled with blood. He thought of his beloved brother Massoud lying dead on the hangar floor, his face shot away. And, less respectfully, of Ashok Balfour Armitraj, killed by his own ammunition.

The plane came to a halt. Time passed. Still they did not move. A full five minutes elapsed. Haq looked around for a window, but the plane was not configured for passengers. Worried, he rose and hurried to the cockpit. “What’s going on?”

The pilot shot him a nervous glance. “All departures have been halted. The army is demanding to search every plane.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.” The pilot climbed out of his seat. “Get in the back and hide in one of the trucks.”

Haq selected a truck near the rear of the aircraft and climbed inside. The wait was excruciating. Minutes stretched on, until an hour had passed. Finally he felt the plane shudder slightly and heard voices echo in the cabin. Crouching behind the backseat, he waited for the door to open, a flashlight to shine on his face. But the voices were gone almost immediately. He rose, looked out the windshield, and saw the pilot walking toward him alone.

Haq jumped down from the truck. “And?”

“We’re an American military aircraft. They took one look at my cargo and left.”

Haq breathed easier. “Will we be leaving soon?”

“As soon as the airport is reopened, we are number seven in line for takeoff.”

“How long to our first stop?”

“Seven hours.”

Haq winced, looking at his wounded leg. “Get me a first-aid kit and some pliers.”

“I’ll be back after takeoff,” said the pilot before heading back to the cockpit.

A few minutes later the plane began to move. It made a series of turns, paused, and the massive engines revved loudly. The plane gathered speed. The jeeps and personnel carriers and crates began to shake violently, dust rising from them as the plane thundered down the runway. And then the nose lifted and the wheels rose off the ground and the shaking ceased.

Closing his eyes, Sultan Haq prayed. He prayed for his father’s wisdom and his brother’s cunning. He prayed for his son’s respect and his family’s courage. And when he was finished, he swore to make his clan proud.

A melody came into his mind. It was a bouncy, carefree melody, too smug by half, full of ridiculous promise, sung by men who wore their country’s uniform too proudly, who instinctively mocked cultures different from their own. Men with small, ignoble noses who considered foreigners to be inferior by definition and were happy to kill them on general principle. Men who believed it was their birthright to rule the world. Americans.

Against his will, Sultan Haq hummed a few bars. If possible, his hatred grew. Suddenly he knew that he had been headed this way his entire life.

West.

Toward the setting sun.