Episode 2: Ahmed Sultan
The exile returns
Previously on Not the Enemy’s Land — Terrorists infiltrate Jinnah International Airport in Karachi Pakistan. Finding no way into the Air Traffic Control Tower, they forcefully enlist the help of a baggage supervisor, Janbaz. After they use him to lure out the Airport Security Force officer, they execute both the officer and Janbaz.
The brave are only brave because they’re good at masquerading their fears. A little swagger here, a little exaggeration there and suddenly you’re the hero. Meanwhile the real heroes, men of substance and guts and nerves of steel are fighting in front of you, over you, for you. They fight for their lives, for their wives, for their girlfriends. They fight for their mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. And the rest, the rest fight for God. The one who foisted this terrifying mess on them in the first place.
Major Ahmed Sultan was drowning in one of his morbid stupors again. A glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other, he lamented the horrors he had committed and tilted his head in shame as the sound of his laughter mixed with the screams of Jabbar Mustaqim started echoing around in his head… But he better not go down that road and open those doors. He wasn’t that drunk just yet.
They used to call him the Black Mamba, he mused. So poisonous and so ruthless, they used to say, even the black mambas would scurry away in fear if they saw Ahmed Sultan coming their way.
He was sitting in his dark living room. Night had fallen outside but he didn’t have the strength, nor the inclination, to stand up and turn on the lights in his home. Doing so would expose the reminders of her presence and he didn’t have the mettle to handle her abandonment yet. No, he definitely wasn’t that drunk yet…
A steady knocking on his front door brought him out of his stupor. How long had he been sleeping? Or was he awake and not sleeping? His eyelids fell heavy and there was a pounding in his head. He looked at the bottle of whiskey which was empty and had fallen to the floor. Great, he thought, another one bites the dust. But the incessant knocking was starting to annoy him and hurt his head, so he got to his feet. He was steady on his feet, something he had become quite adept at through the years of excessive drinking. He grabbed his Glock from the side table and holding it front of him approached his front door. Years had passed since the last time he had faced Jabbar Mustaqim but his ghost haunted Sultan’s nights and made his spine tingle when he was awake. Jabbar’s network was gone but the specter of his existence was all too real. He could never be too careful, thought Sultan.
The knocking seized for a moment and Sultan called out, “who is it?”
“Major Sultan?” came back a relieved voice. “Sir this is Captain Tanvier Raza from the Directorate of Intelligence Support. Would you please open the door so we can speak freely?”
Oh for heaven’s sake thought Sultan as the pounding in his head intensified. Not again.
“What do you want? I haven’t done anything!” called out Sultan, though he knew that wasn’t true. Ever since the inquiry, the DIS hadn’t gotten off his tail, and as he was put through the wringer and under a microscope, one by one all of his secrets had come pouring out. The excessive drinking, the violence, the women. No doubt this was one of those “courtesy” calls the DIS liked to throw him every so often to remind him they were quite aware of what he was up to.
“No sir, this is not related to your person. Sir please, open the door. The matter is extremely urgent!” came back the tense reply of Captain Raza.
“No. Just leave me alone,” said Sultan, his gun still drawn, still pointing at the door. “If I haven’t done anything wrong then you can just piss off!”
There was a short silence and then, “Major Sultan this is a matter of national security. I have direct orders from the Director General of the Pakistan Special Operations Command himself, to arrest you and bring you in if you do not comply with my request. Do not force my hand Major, because I will not disappoint!”
Sultan’s eye twitched. This guy was bluffing. Sultan was not a part of the PSOC. He had been discharged and been relegated to a desk job at the ISI headquarters ever since the inquiry had been conducted. He was not welcome at the PSOC. He was a pariah, a ghost, a blemish best left forgotten.
“Major Sultan? I will count to three and then we will break down the door. This is your final warning,” came the sound of Captain Raza’s terse voice. And then Sultan heard him issuing orders to someone else outside the door, asking him to get ready.
“Hold your official identification up to the peep hole,” commanded Sultan to the Captain through the door, as he himself moved sideways to the curtained window besides the front door.
He peeked a glance through the gap between the curtain and the window and saw a youngish male of about twenty five dressed in camoflague uniform and wearing a bullet proof vest holding his official ID up to the peep hole. Besides him stood a soldier in full battle gear with his gun pointed at Sultan’s front door. Just beyond the patio, in Sultan’s tiny unkempt front garden stood about seven or eight men, the pounding in Sultan’s head combined with the lack of light made it difficult for him to count. This was serious. Usually the DIS officers showed up alone or in a pair.
Sultan stepped back and opened the door. His gun was still drawn and it was pointing right at Captain Raza’s face. The soldier standing next to him immediately pointed the gun at Sultan, and just beyond the patio Sultan noticed a flurry as the men in the garden rushed toward Captain Raza.
“You, come in. Everybody else, get off of my property,” said Sultan wiggling his gun at the Captain.
Captain Raza, who was still holding his identification badge in his hand looked around and nodded at the men.
“Stand down. That’s an order soldier!” he barked as the man pointing his gun at Sultan made a hesitant movement.
Sultan slammed the front door shut as Captain Raza stepped over the threshold and into Sultan’s house. It was quite dark so Sultan flipped the switch and turned on the lights. The light revealed a dust covered foyer, and a messy living room with dirty glasses and empty alcohol bottles strewn around everywhere.
“Now Captain, to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Sultan, as he returned to his seat on the sofa.
Captain Raza stood standing, taking in the sight of the utter mess that Sultan’s home was in. How could anyone live like this he thought. And then his roaming eyes fell on a framed picture in the corner of the living room. A much younger Sultan with a very pretty woman stood in front of a mountainous backdrop. Sultan and the woman were both holding hands and smiling. That must be the wife, he thought.
Sultan, who had already noticed Captain Raza’s eyes resting on the picture, had gotten up from his seat and walked over to the corner where the picture was hung. He took it down.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, why are you here Captain?” asked Sultan, returning to his seat.
“Sir there’s a situation developing in Karachi. The airport’s under attack.”
“I’m sorry, what?” said Sultan, sounding surprised.
“It’s been attacked sir. Terrorists have attacked the airport. And the DG PSOC has requested your immediate presence at HQ,” replied Captain Raza.
Stunned silence followed this proclamation.
“Why does the DG want me there?” asked Sultan quietly. “I’m not a part of the PSOC.”
“Yes sir, but we believe given the nature of the elements involved in the attack and the brazen style of the attack itself, that you might be able to help the control team at HQ. The tale of your exploits are well known in the halls of the PSOC,” said Captain Raza calmly.
Sultan shot him a loathsome look. So the tales of his exploits were well known now, were they? Anger was bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He was drunk and couldn’t think straight, but he was lucid enough to realize the injustice of it all. First, he was discarded like a used tissue and now these cockroaches had the audacity to tell him they needed him?
“Get out of my home, and tell your precious general he can go fuck himself. I am not coming back. I will not come back. And if you ever show your face around here again, I will disfigure it so bad, even your mother will disown you,” said Sultan, in an angry voice, slurring his words.
Captain Raza kept standing in his spot.
“Major, are you drunk?” he said with a hint of disgust in his voice.
“Oh, so you’re going to judge me now? You’re going to stand in my home, and judge me? Fuck you Captain. And yes. Yes I’m drunk. So why don’t you run back to those clowns at the DIS, and tell them to come and arrest me. Go tell them to launch another inquiry against me. I’m sitting right here. Do what you want to do. I’ve got nothing to lose,” Sultan said grabbing a hold of his glass of whiskey only to realize it was empty. “Fuck!”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. A terrorist attack is taking place against a national landmark; this is a matter of serious national importance. It is bigger than you and me. You need to come with me. If you do not comply with my request, I will have no other option but to use force,” said Captain Raza. His tone was neutral but Sultan felt he was straining to scream and rage at this stubborn, disheveled person sitting on a sofa with a gun in his hand.
“And I don’t think you understand the predicament you are in, son. I will blow your head off if you don’t get out of home. Out of courtesy, I will count to three,” said Sultan in a voice full of condescension.
Captain Raza shook his head, raised both his hands in surrender and backed away. “Yes, sir,” he said as he closed the front door behind him.
Well that was easy thought Sultan as he put his gun on the side table and got to his feet to see if he had any more whiskey left in the cupboards. For a moment he thought the young captain might have taken some drastic action.
He had barely taken two steps when the door banged open and in stormed eight men in full tactical gear. Two men wearing masks grabbed the surprised Sultan under each arm and pinned him to the ground face down. After all the men had come in, came in Captain Raza.
“I did warn you not to force my hand sir,” said Captain Raza in a strained voice. Sultan could tell Captain Raza was not enjoying this any more than he was.
“You…” said Sultan with bated breath. “You will regret this.”
“Handcuff him and escort him to vehicle,” ordered Captain Raza to the men pinning him down. They obliged. Sultan was dragged from his home and into the moonless night. He saw three black SUVs parked outside him home, and he immediately knew something terrible had happened. Something so bad that even the arrival of Captain Raza and his men had failed to convey the gravity of the situation. You see when they sent a sedan to pick you up, someone a pay grade or perhaps a couple of pay grades above you, simply wanted to meet with you. When they sent an SUV to pick you, someone from the upper echelons of the military wanted to meet you. When they sent an SUV and a pickup truck in tandem, you should run the other way because you’re about to be kidnapped in the most brazen and drastic way possible. Blood spilling is a very real possibility. But when it was three black SUVs, you knew shit had hit the fan and flown everywhere.
“Looks like the DIS has got bigger problems than me tonight,” said Sultan said sneering at Captain Raza.
“We all have our good and bad days,” said Captain Raza. “Unlucky for you sir, your good and bad days are about to be tied to mine.”
They forced Sultan onto the backseat of the second SUV.
“Delta Charlie fifty-two to control, package is secure. Red team en route to the nest. ETA ten minutes. Please acknowledge,” said Captain Raza into his hand held radio as the small motorcade started moving. There was silence for a few seconds and then, “Loud and clear Delta Charlie fifty-two. The king’s already in the nest.”
“Copy that control,” said Captain Raza as he clipped the radio on his belt.
They were silent as the motorcade moved through the suburb of Westridge in Rawalpindi, towards the PSOC HQ located at the Pakistan Air Force Nur Khan Base, in an old nondescript building. The Nur Khan Base itself was located right next to the Benazir Bhutto Islamabad International Airport. The base and the airport shared a runway. Sultan wondered why a terrorist attack, a routine terrorist attack at that, had warranted his presence at the PSOC. The last time he had been at PSOC HQ, he had been dishonorably discharged and relocated to an analyst position at the ISI HQ. He was too precious to be simply cut loose. But Sultan did not regret the actions that had brought about his downfall. No, he would never regret them.
After a fifteen minute uneventful journey, the motorcade approached the heavily fortified Gate 4 of the PAF Nur Khan Base. The vehicles were let in without much fuss and they all made their way towards a big greyish block of concrete which housed the PSOC HQ, located right next to a couple of hangars. A PAF C-130 Hercules aircraft was standing on the tarmac in front of one of the hangars.
“Sir, if you will,” said Captain Raza as he disembarked from the SUV and opened the door for Sultan. Sultan got out without making a fuss. Captain Raza grabbed Sultan’s handcuffed arm and led him towards a glass door that would get them access into the PSOC HQ. Captain Raza’s security detail hung back and did not follow him or Sultan towards the building. A small swipe pad was built into the wall next to the glass doors on which Captain Raza swiped his official ID. The door whirred open after a short beep and Captain Raza led Sultan into the PSOC HQ.
They were standing at the beginning of a long corridor and right at the end of the corridor were two metallic doors that housed the elevators. The PSOC HQ was housed underground and the only way to access it was through the elevators. Along the walls of the corridors, artists had painted epic war scenes which were lit up using spotlights mounted in the ceiling. On the left side was a war scene depicting a battle between the Indians and the British in the War of 1857. The Muslim flag represented on a field of green with the crescent and the star featured prominently. On the right wall, a scene from the war of 1965 between India and Pakistan had been painted, with Pakistan fighter jets firing missiles at Indian jets two of which were exploding, a soldier bleeding but still keeping the Pakistan flag upstanding and tall, and a Pakistani soldier crushing the skull of an Indian soldier. The brutal illustration had always made the hair on the back of Sultan’s neck stand up.
“Sir, you’ll be meeting with the CO of the 19th Special Force Operations and the DG PSOC separately. The CO is waiting for you in conference room B. I can take off your handcuffs now,” said Captain Raza. Sultan turned around slowly from the painting to face Captain Raza. He noticed a hint of fear in his face. Good, he thought. I am about to break your fucking neck. Captain Raza took out the handcuff key from his pocket and uncuffed Sultan.
“If you’ll follow — ” he began to say but before he could complete the sentence, Sultan’s hand had wrapped around Captain Raza’s neck lifting him into the air and slamming him against the painted wall. Poisonous anger was slipping out of Sultan. His breathing was shallow, and all his inhibitions were gone. He was a madman.
“I warned you Captain. I warned you. You should’ve left me alone. You should’ve listened to me. WHY WON’T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME?!” screamed Sultan as Captain Raza flailed around in midair, gasping for breath.
“I told you you’ll regret this the moment you handcuffed me. You should’ve believed me. I am the Black Mamba. I kill, I maim, I am the ghost in the night,” he whispered. And then he let go of his grip around Captain Raza’s neck who slid to the floor still gasping and sputtering for breath. Sultan gave the captain a contemptuous look and strode over to the elevators. There was a beep and the doors opened.
As Sultan stepped into the elevator, he turned around to face the entrance. Captain Raza was still lying in a heap on the ground gasping and sputtering. Sultan had crushed his larynx. The doors slid shut.
The Black Mamba had returned.
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