The Fourth War Read Online Free PDF Page B

lead to civil war.
    The Pakistani president swore to himself.
    He had to extricate himself from the Americans before they bled him to death.
    The president was returning from a meeting with the American secretary of defense, a meeting in which the American spent most of his time making more demands of him. Impossible demands. More pieces of broken glass added to the box.
    After the fall of the Taliban the enemies of the West had taken refuge in Pakistan, where they concentrated on rebuilding their forces and strengthening their numbers, seeking to reestablish themselves while hiding in the enemy’s backyard. Forging ties with Lashkar-e Tayyiba and the Harkat-ul-Mujahideen, two of the most violent and militant groups in all of Pakistan, the Taliban militants had reestablished themselves. Different people, same caves. Not much had changed. In response, the Americans had been pushing for more access to the Pakistani bases. Worse, they demanded that the Pakistani president provide more patrols in the mountains, more control over his people and less trouble from them. Most difficult, they wanted more intelligence on emerging fundamentalist factions.
    But with each new demand, the Pakistani president was weakened at home. His generals weren’t happy, and he was losing his troops. Officers were being assassinated along the front lines. And the Taliban, having come home to roost in the house in which they were born, were now gaining strength along his western front, putting him in the same position as the Afghanis before. There were ceaseless rumors that a coup was but a few days away.
    If there was one thing he had learned, it was this: His friends weren’t always real, but his enemies were.
    It was time to sort them out.
    He cursed again to himself. He hated the Americans. He hated the Taliban. He hated his ministers, who had proven disloyal to him, and his army for being slow to defend. He hated his brother, his army chief of staff, who was sleeping with his mistress to extract information from her. He hated the mullas because they hated him. He hated the Saudi sheiks for their money and power, rich and arrogant men who were waiting for him to fall. Like vultures they circled, smelling his blood.
    â€œQwidla e’ hashne,” he muttered in frustration and fear. “I’m losing control. And those fools in the West, they think this is over! Those idiots actually think they have won! Fools. If they only knew . This is just beginning. It is just getting underway.”
    Yes, it was just beginning.
    And it was time to get out of the box. Time to extract himself from the battle. Time to take some control.
    He pushed against his seat and frowned as he settled on his plan. It was ugly. It was brilliant. And it had to be done. He had a day, maybe two, before he lost all control. It was just enough time. But he knew what to do.
    Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv
    Peter ran into the command center with a heavily mustached Israeli captain in tow. Three other Israeli officers followed after, then a one-star general, his eyes piercing and bright, his walk intent, his shoulders square, his face defiant and proud. He moved into the control room and positioned himself behind the central desk, where he stood, his arms crossed, the decision maker in the crowd. The American colonel glanced at the general and hung up the phone. Walking forward, he announced, “I need you to synch up a streaming download to our KH-21 satellite.”
    The general’s eyes burned. “The KH-21?” he repeated in disbelief.
    Bradley hesitated, then nodded. The KH-21 Killbird was far and away the most sophisticated reconnaissance satellite ever built. To suggest allowing access to the satellite through an Israeli control room was more than remarkable, it had never been considered, let alone done before. Not in almost fifty years of space-based reconnaissance had the United States allowed any ally to data-link to