Just after 5.30 a.m., as dawn was breaking over this city, a dull hum was heard in the sky. It took a moment to remember what had happened just before 9 p.m. the night before.
American planes had rained bombs and missiles down on Afghanistan, just 100 or so kilometres from here. This strange morning noise was the sound of the planes returning through Pakistani airspace.
The first goal was to get out of the hotel. As expected, the police who had been ordered to keep all Western journalists confined were still in force in the hallways, lobby and outside.
A ruse was initiated, and three of us escaped the hotel. By 9 a.m. we were at the medical clinic of Dr Sima Samar, an Afghan doctor profiled in these pages recently.
Many of Dr Samar's family were still inside Afghanistan. She also runs more than 40 schools and two hospitals there. She was unable to reach any of them by phone.
"I cried last night for my country," she said. "We need to get rid of the terrorists, but I thought of the women and children running in the night. It must have been terrible."
As we sit and talk in the clinic, a steady stream of people begin to assemble. There is tear gas on Jinnah Road in the centre of town. People have been breaking windows. Crowds are beginning to gather.
This was what Pakistan has feared. This Muslim country is unspeakably fragile, torn between a majority who support the decision of President Pervez Musharreff to support the attack on Afghanistan, and a solid minority who support the Taliban regime.
Until September 11th, Pakistan was a sponsor of the Taliban; it is still the only country which officially recognises them.
Here in Quetta, close to the border, support for the Taliban is perhaps stronger than anywhere else in the country. The madrassas, or Islamic religious schools, are powerful here and the largest is reported to have been the one in which Mullah Omar, the Taliban leader, was educated.
We decide to head out to the centre of town, an exercise which involved finding a driver willing to floor it through the barricades and security checkpoints if necessary.
At a moment like this it becomes evident that Pakistan is still clearly a military dictatorship; aside from the confining of reporters to hotels, the police have set up checkpoints every few blocks.
At 11.30 a.m. we leave for a neighbourhood called Satellite town to visit a prominent anti-Taliban leader. The city is a tinderbox.
Near the Serena hotel, we see some 400 pro-Taliban protesters tossing rocks and shouting slogans. Police are trying to keep them from the hotel gates and the streets are filled with tear-gas.
We reverse the van and try to head another way. The roads are blocked as thick black smoke fills two streets as the crowds have set tyres on fire.
A small group has gathered around our van, which seems to be momentarily stuck between a couple of the common three-wheeled motorised vehicles called rickshaws.
I say "seems" because it is somewhat difficult to see; the British female television reporter from Channel 4 news and myself are covered head to toe in a salwar kameez with duppatta head covering.
But we have been advised to cover our entire faces and remove our glasses lest we be taken for Westerners.
The cameraman is, unfortunately, a large blonde man who is trying to lie on the floor of the van with limited success.
One man in the crowd presses his face against the window and spies the camera with an expression that suggests we are about to become a news story. I quickly learn the Urdu expression for "Go! Go! Go Now!" to our brave driver.
When does a crowd become a riot? There is rage here, rage on the streets that will not be spent or exhausted by the mere burning of tyres. What these Muslims know is simply that the West, America, has bombed an Islamic country. Were there civilian casualties? It is of little interest at this moment.
What they know is that the American infidels have violated Afghanistan, used Pakistani airspace to do so. That fact alone is more than sufficient to ignite the fire this time.
We give up making it to Satellite town as all roads are blocked. We head back to the clinic where a 12-year-old Afghan boy with a bullet wound has just been brought in by his mother. He was playing in the street when the shooting began. He is lucky; an X-ray shows the bullet has passed through his arm, just fracturing a bone. He will be fine. He is not even crying.
But we look at the fear in his eyes and the tears on his cheeks and the truest damage seems evident. Today is October 8th and another Afghan child has lost his innocence
Inside, Dr Samar is on the phone to Afghanistan, speaking to various people in Kandahar now who say that the strikes hit only military bases.
She phones Kareen Khalil, a prominent Hazara (an ethnic group here) and anti-Taliban activist who is currently in Yakowlang, a six- hour drive from Bamiyan, site of the famed Buddhist statues destroyed by the Taliban.
The Northern Alliance is close to Bamiyan, Mr Khalil says, but the Taliban still have tight control of the city and there are many Taliban troops all around.
As the afternoon progresses, and after a generous lunch served to us by Dr Samar's family, we begin to learn the extent of the rioting here today. One person has been killed, and 26 people injured.
There have been over 100 arrests. Three cinemas have been burned to the ground. Pro-Taliban protesters destroyed the offices of both the UNHCR and UNICEF.
A curfew has been declared. We must all get back to the hotel to file our stories.
But first we pay a call on Abdul Aziz Khan, a lawyer, tribal chief-leader, and prominent member of the JUI Party (Jamiat Ulama-e-Islam) a fierce pro-Taliban political party which threatened to wage Jihad in the event that Afghanistan was attacked.
Mr Khan is sitting in the backyard of his home in Khilij, a neighbourhood distinctive for the number of black and white striped Taliban flags flying above the homes and shops.
"We are very angry," said Mr Khan. "We felt there was more time for negotiation. What you saw today in Pakistan was a natural reaction of the common people.
"We see this as an attack against an Islamic country and therefore an attack against Islam." In the past Mr Khan has promised to send fighters to Afghanistan. Now, he says, everyone wants to fight America.
"We are ready but the Taliban doesn't need any manpower right now. Everyone wants to fight. The network of Osama is in 60 countries. If they kill Osama there will be 100 Osamas."
After speaking with us, Mr Khan is set to go see the local police to discuss further demonstrations.
We return to the hotel to find that the trapped journalists have obtained a legal order from Pakistan's High Court to free them. The written order is handed to the police.
The police look at it, smash one photographer who has stepped outside to the ground and promptly ignore the order.
This, then, is Pakistan on Monday. And the war against terrorism is only 24 hours old.