By Dawn's Early Light by David Hagberg Page A

slapping the night air, touched down in front of the blast doors guarding what appeared to be a hardened fighter-interceptor bunker. The military markings on its side had been hastily painted over, replaced by the numbers of a naval air unit at Peshawar.
    Ground crewmen hurriedly rushed across the tarmac, and as soon as the chopper’s wheels were chocked, the side door was opened. A cadre of elite Pakistan rangers dressed in black night fighter camos and armed with American Colt Commando assault rifles formed a defensive line around the helicopter.
    The base was dimly lit in the shutdown mode during which no weapons or systems tests were supposedly being conducted. Only the perimeter was illuminated. The interior of the sprawling base, except for a few barracks and administrative buildings, was mostly in darkness. Nor was there any vehicular traffic or any movement other than around the Sea King.
    Nothing to catch the eye of an American satellite, if indeed one of the KH-11s had arrived in the southern sky, as they had been warned might happen.
    Still, ISI Maj. Gen. Jamsed Asif thought as he jumped down from the helicopter, it paid to be safe—now of all times. The entire Western world had sharply condemned the test. Even Beijing had temporarily recalled its ambassador. Most ominous, however, was the utter silence from New Delhi. Their spies told them that India’s armed forces had been placed on the highest state of alert, and even now troops were massing along the border, especially up around Kashmir. But their analysts at Chaklala predicted that the Indians would not attack immediately, as they rightly should have. Instead they would hesitate because of diplomatic pressures from the West, especially from the United States. And because they were facing thermonuclear weapons.
    It was a mistake that would cost them the tactical advantage because of one other vital piece of information that they did not have. That and the fact that the most of the world still believed that Pakistan had allied itself with the U.S.
    But nothing could be further from the truth.
    General Asif was a slight man, like most Pakistanis, with a soft bronze complexion and black hair. He headed Pakistan’s intelligence service and at fifty-four he was as fit as most men half his age. It was a fact of which he was inordinately proud.
    He did a quick three-sixty sweep and then nodded to the ranger lieutenant in charge of the security detail.
    â€œNow, now,” Lieutenant Kaqqa spoke softly into his lapel mic. Moments later the bunker’s blast door rumbled open a couple of meters and then stopped.
    â€œIt is clear, sir,” General Asif said into the dark interior of the helicopter.
    Five-star General Pervez Musharraf, Pakistan’s military head of state, came to the open hatch and sniffed the night air, as if he was trying to smell an assassin. Like General Asif, he wore black camos with no insignia of rank. His polished boots were bloused, and he wore a black camo fatigue cap.
    He was older than Asif, narrow chest, short bandy legs, and the beginnings of a paunch, but he ignored Asif’s hand and jumped down from the helicopter unassisted. Even old fools thinking about setting the world on fire had dignity.
    â€œWhere is General Phalodi?” he demanded.
    â€œSir, the general is inside the bunker,” the ranger lieutenant replied. “Shall we move your helicopter under cover?”
    â€œLeave it where it is,” General Musharraf ordered.
    â€œSir, do you wish a detail to go with you?”
    â€œNo,” Musharraf said, and he started across the tarmac toward the partially opened blast doors.
    General Asif fell in beside him. “You’re taking an unnecessary risk, General,” he said.
    General Musharraf hid a smile. “Do you think that one of my rocket scientists will try to shoot me because I am giving him free rein to develop his toys?”
    â€œThere could be Indian