In The Line Of Fire-By Musharraf

[Dark Saint Alaick]

In The Line Of Fire

A Memoir

Pervez Musharraf

[Dark Saint Alaick]

According to Time magazine, Pakistan's President Pervez Musharraf holds 'the world's most dangerous job'. He has twice come within inches of assassination. His forces have caught over 670 members of Al Qaeda, yet many others remain at large and active, including Osama bin Laden
and Ayman Al Zawahiri. Long locked in a deadly embrace with its nuclear neighbour India, Pakistan has twice come close to full-scale war since it first exploded a nuclear bomb in 1998. As President Musharraf struggles for the security and political future of his nation, the stakes could not be higher for the world at large.

It is unprecedented for a sitting head of state to write a memoir as revelatory, detailed and gripping as In the Line of Fire. Here, for the first time, readers can get a first• hand view of the war on terror in its central theatre. President Musharraf details the manhunts for Bin Laden and Zawahiri, and their top lieutenants, complete
with harrowing cat-and-mouse games, informants, interceptions, and bloody firefights. He tells the stories of the near-miss assassination attempts not only against himself, but against Shaukut Aziz (later elected Prime Minister) and one of his top army officers, and the fatal abduction and beheading of the US journalist Daniel Pearl - as well as the investigations that uncovered the perpetrators. He details the army's mountain operations that have swept several valleys clean, and he talks about the areas of North Waziristan where Al Qaeda is still operating.

Yet the war on terror is just one of the many headline- making subjects in In the Line of Fire. The full story of the events that brought Musharraf to power in 1999; new details of the confrontation with India in Kashmir, and
a proposal for resolving that dispute; telling portraits of Mullah Omar and A. Q. Khan, among many other key figures; and fascinating insights into the Muslim world in the twenty-first century, including Musharraf's views on Israel and the emancipation of women.

Pervez Musharraf's life has mirrored that of his country, ever since Pakistan's creation, when he was a four-year-old boy. His and Pakistan's stories are dramatic, fateful, and crucial to the entire world.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

I dedicate this book to the people of Pakistan— those who toil, sacrifice, and pray for their country and who wait patiently for a better future.
They deserve a committed, selfless leadership, which can help them realize their boundless potential.


AN D


To my mother,
whose unwavering faith in me
has been the driving force in my life— her unconditional love and prayers remain my unremitting source
of strength.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

PREFACE


This book is a window into contemporary Pakistan and my role in shaping it. I have lived a passionate life, perhaps an impetuous one
in my early years, but always I have focused on self-improvement and the betterment of my country. Often I have been chastised for being too forthright and candid, and I trust you will find these qualities reflected here. I do not shy away from sensitive issues, circumscribed only by certain dictates of national security.
I decided to write my autobiography after Pakistan took center stage in the world's conflicts, including the war on terror. There has been intense curiosity about me and the country I lead. I want the world to learn the truth.
Pakistan is a nation of many parts, rural and urban, rich and poor, highly educated and illiterate. Our 160 million people speak several different languages. Moderation collides with fanatical extremism, and westernization squares off against a conservative traditional culture. Governing Pakistan has been labeled by some as one of the most difficult jobs in the world. September 11, 2001, multiplied Pakistan's challenges many times over, amplifying domestic issues, and reshaping our international relations.
Our nation plays a key role in the developing story of the twenty-first century. What happens in Pakistan—socially, politically, and economically—in the coming years not only will help decide the outcome of the global war on terror, it will also shape what the future will look like for both Islam and the West. I am determined that that future be peaceful and prosperous—not just for Pakistan but for the entire international community. That vision is possible only if the Muslim world and the West, led by the United States, strive together toward resolving the issues before us.
My wife Sehba and other close family members, Hidayat Khaishgi, Huma , Aftab, and Shabnam have encouraged me throughout the process of writing this book. They gave me the confidence to persevere in spite of my otherwise busy schedule. My personal thanks are also due to Humayun Gauhar and Bruce Nichols for their editing contributions. Humayun has burned much midnight oil to help with the checking of my scripts. Most of all I would be remiss if I did not express special gratitude to my staff officer, Brigadier Asim Bajwa, for his painstaking and laborious efforts of both recording my thoughts and then tran scribing them. Without his efficiency and devotion to me, the arduous task of completing the book would have been difficult to achieve.
My autobiography is my contribution to the history of our era. It is also of course my own story, expressed in my own way, about an eventful, turbulent life in which both luck and destiny played leading roles.

Pervez Musharraf
August 1,2006
Islambad, Pakistan

[Dark Saint Alaick]

PROLOGUE

FACE-TO-FACE WITH TERROR


face-to-face with terror. It was December 14, 2003, and I was on my way home to Army House after having landed in Islamabad a few minutes earlier. Religious extremists had struck right in my midst, and it was only by the grace of God that I was saved and no precious lives were lost.
I have confronted death and defied it several times in the past because destiny and fate have always smiled on me. I only pray that I have more than the proverbial nine lives of a cat.
I first avoided death as a teenager in 1961, when I was hanging upside down from the branch of a mango tree and it broke. When I hit the ground, my friends thought I was dead.
In 1972, when I was leading a company of commandos as a major in the mountainous Northern Areas, I should have been on a plane of Pakistan International Airlines that crashed into a glacier up in the Himalayas on a flight from Gilgit to Islamabad. At the last minute, I hadn't boarded it, because the bodies of two of my men who had been killed by an avalanche had been found, and my commanding officer and I opted to give up our seats to make the weight available for the conveyance of the bodies. The plane has still not been found.
I should have been on President Zia ul-Haq's C-130 airplane that crashed on August 17,1988. I had been selected to become military secretary to the president, but as luck would have it, another brigadier was appointed to the post at the last minute. That poor man went to a fiery death instead of me. The United States ambassador, Arnold Lewis Raphael, was also among the unfortunate passengers. The crash was never fully explained and remains a mystery in the modern history of Pakistan.

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My closest call was in 1998, when, as a lieutenant general commanding the Mangla Corps, I was called to army headquarters in Rawalpindi for a conference. After finishing my official commitments, I went off with a friend, Lieutenant Colonel Aslam Cheema, to play bridge in his office, which was at a remote location. My commander of aviation, who was flying a helicopter back to Mangla started looking for me. He wanted to take me back to Mangla by the chopper to avoid the two-hour road journey. I would have readily flown with him. But he didn't know where I was, gave up looking, and left. The helicopter crashed and he died. A simple game of bridge with a friend saved me.
On October 12, 1999, I was chief of the army staff, the highest military position in Pakistan. My plane was about to land at Karachi from Colombo, when the prime minister effectively hijacked it from the ground, blocking the runway and closing all airports in Pakistan. He ordered my plane to leave Pakistan air space. Ou r fuel was so low that we would have crashed had the army not taken control of Karachi Airport before it was too late. We landed with only seven minutes of fuel to spare. Th e nearly fatal confrontation with the prime minister brought me to power—a story that I will relate fully in this book.
I also had two brushes with death in the India-Pakistan war of 1965. As if these real risks were not enough, in 2001, when I took off from Ne w York to Pakistan after the United Nations Summit, the pilot alarmed me by relaying a message that air traffic control claimed there might be a bomb on the plane. We returned to Ne w York to find, after hours of search, that the warning was a hoax.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

But the events of December 2003 put me in the front line of the war on terror and are part of my reason for writing this book now, while I am still fighting. On December 14, 2003, I landed from Karachi at Chaklala Air Force Base, about 2.5 miles (four kilometers) from Army House in Rawalpindi, and six miles (ten kilometers) from Islamabad. My aide-de-camp met me with two pieces of news: Pakistan had beaten India in a polo match, and Saddam Hussein had been caught. I made my way home to Army House. I was talking to my military secretary, Major General Nadeem Taj, seated to my right, when I heard a loud, though muffled, thud behind us. As my car became airborne I immediately realized what was happening—I was staring terrorism in the face. I thought ruefully that while leaders of other countries only visit scenes of carnage later or see it on a television screen, I was personally in the midst of it. Not only that—I was the target. But unlike most leaders, I am also a soldier, chief of the army staff, and supreme commander of my country's armed forces. I am cut out to be in the midst of battle—trained, prepared, and equipped. Fate and the confluence of events have seen to it that Pakistan and I are in the thick of the fight against terrorism. My training has made me constantly ready for the assignment.
I had just crossed a bridge very near Army House when it happened. All four wheels of my car left the road and we shot quite some distance up in the air. Though the sound of the explosion was muffled by the armor plating of the car, I knew instinctively that it was a bomb. So did my military secretary. I knew too that it was a huge bomb, because it had lifted the three-ton Mercedes clean off the road. I looked back and saw a pall of smoke, dust, and debris on the bridge that we had just sped over. When we reached Army House, about 500 yards (400 meters) away, my deputy military secretary, Lieutenant Colonel Asim Bajwa, who had been traveling in another vehicle in my motorcade, confirmed that the explosion was an assassination attempt.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

I entered the house to find my wife, Sehba, and my mother sitting in the family lounge. Sehba has been with me through thick and thin— avalanches, hijacked flights, risky road journeys. She had heard the explosion because Army House is so close to the bridge. She saw me enter and started to ask what the explosion had been about. My mother's back was to the door, and she didn't realize that I had arrived. I put my finger to my lips and motioned to Sehba to come out of the room, lest my mother hear and become terribly upset, as any mother would. In the corridor, I told Sehba that it had been a bomb meant to kill me, but that everything was all right now. After comforting her I drove back to the bridge to get a firsthand look at the situation. The bridge had literally been ripped apart—so if the explosion had occurred a second before my car reached the spot, we would have crashed twenty-five feet (7.5 meters) to the ground through the gap. There was still chaos at the bridge, and the people there were utterly surprised to see me.
Keeping the news from my mother was impossible, of course. She soon discovered what had happened as concerned colleagues, relatives, and friends started calling or dropping in. The story was all over television and on the front pages of newspapers the next day. I had overshadowed both Saddam and polo, at least in Pakistan.
That evening Sehba and I were to attend a wedding at the Serena Hotel in Islamabad. We did not hesitate. Both of us went. Our decision caused no little consternation among the guests, as they thought that I had good reason to remain in the safety of my house only a few hours after terrorists had tried to assassinate me. I am sure that my escape, and my not breaking my schedule, must have caused disappointment and dismay among the terrorists. Sticking to the schedule may have caused some concern among my security personnel, but they are trained to take such things in stride. It certainly did cause some inconvenience to motorists, as the traffic along the route was blocked.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

Before the assassination attempt, I would flow with the normal traffic, stopping at every red light. No w things started changing. The police started blocking all traffic in either direction along the route that I was to take. There were new escort vehicles on either side of my car. And, of course, my exact schedule would not be known to anyone except those closest to me.
People had barely stopped chattering about this assassination attempt when—on December 25, 2003, a holiday—there was yet another one. After addressing a conference at Islamabad's Convention Center, I left for Army House at about one fifteen PM. My chief security officer, Colonel Uyas, and my aide-de-camp, Major Tanveer, were in the lead car of my newly expanded motorcade. Next came the escort car. I was in the third car with my military secretary.
We crossed the fateful bridge, which was still under repair after the bomb blast, and reached a gasoline pump on the right. In front of the pump there was an opening in the median of the two-way road for U-turns. The oncoming traffic had been blocked. There was a policeman standing at the opening. I noticed that though all the oncoming traffic was facing straight toward us, a Suzuki van was standing obliquely, as if to drive into the opening to get to my side of the road. Reflexively, I turned and looked over my right shoulder at the van, as one does when one sees something odd. Then I looked straight ahead. It all took a split second. Hardly had I turned my head back when there was a deafening bang and my car was up in the air again.
All hell broke loose. There was smoke; there was debris; there were body parts and pieces of cars. Vehicles had been blown to smithereens, human beings ripped to pieces. It turned dark, and we couldn't see anything. It was the middle of the afternoon, but it seemed like dusk.

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Jan Mohammad, my admirable driver, reflexively put his foot on the brake. I took out my Glock pistol, which is always with me, and shouted to Jan Mohammad in Urdu, "Dabaa, dabaa"—"drive, drive." He floored the accelerator but had gone only about 100 yards (90 meters) when we came to another gasoline pump. Again there was a horrendous bang. Again all hell broke loose. Th e first explosion had come from our right rear; this one came straight on from the immediate right front. Something big and very heavy hit the windshield. I don't know what it was, but it made a big dent in the bulletproof glass— which, however, did not break. It came from such an angle that any broken glass would have gotten either my driver or me.
Once again my car took off. Again there were human parts, car parts, debris, smoke, and dust—and a lot of noise. Again it went dark— very dark. It seemed as if midnight had come at noon.
My car's tires had blown. We were on the rims now, but such cars are designed to go on their rims for thirty-five miles or so (fifty or sixty kilometers). Again Jan Mohammad hit the brakes, and again I shouted, "Dabaa, dabaa. Hit the accelerator. Let's get out of here." Th e car lurched forward on its rims, making a lot of noise, like a rattletrap, and got us to Army House.
Sehba, of course, had heard the horrific explosions and had run out to the porch. When she saw the first car roll in on its rims—spewing smoke, filled with holes, and plastered with human flesh—she started screaming. She screamed and screamed. I had never seen her do that before. She is always calm in the face of danger and during horrific events, then she has a delayed reaction the next day, when tears come. But now she was screaming uncontrollably, hysterically. She wouldn't look at me. She started running toward the gate. I asked her, "What are you doing? Where are you going?" But she just went on screaming. I couldn't understand what she was saying, except, "What is going on? What is happening?" It was understandable hysteria, and it helped her to get the shock out of her system. It also diverted my mind and the minds of others with me from our own shock. I got hold of her and took her inside the house. I sat with her and told her, "Look at me, I am all right, everything is all right." When she finally calmed down I went out again.