Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Brigadier Ali Waris, sector brigade commander, had been watching from his headquarters a kilometre away. He had left his deputies to capture the peak while he marshalled the remainder of the forces to consolidate the Indian Army’s victory. But finally, he realized that too many men had died pointlessly trying to overcome the unconquerable, using all the standard war tactics. It was time he intervened. Waris knew that wars are won only through strategy; if the enemy had an advantage, he would have to create one for himself. And he did just that.

  Some time just before noon, on the fourth day of fighting, when the two forward battalions had finally given up attacking the peak and retreated several miles further back, the Brigadier walked into his camp. By evening he had drawn up a plan, a daring and highly risky one that would have to be executed in darkness. There would be two teams, both from his reserve battalion – one would climb behind the other. Leading the first team was his trusted man, Major Brijesh Singh, who handpicked his men, choosing them for specific qualities only they had. The man in charge of the second team was a young captain by the name of Vikrant Singh, who had proven himself to be a quick-witted and highly capable officer on the numerous patrolling assignments led by him in the brigade sector.

  The first team would approach the plateau slowly, in the dead of night, and because of the darkness they could remain concealed until they started climbing the peak. After that though, the noise would alert the enemy. This was where Waris’s genius came into play.

  The first team up, led by Brijesh, would number around thirty. They were all heavily bearded Pathans dressed in Pathani suits, long kurtas and pajamas with rucksacks slung across their backs. On their heads were turbans or the knitted skull caps worn by Muslims. From the moment they started the climb, they shouted slogans of ‘Naare-takbeer’ and ‘Allah-o-Akbar’. Brijesh had to practise very hard to correctly intone the Muslim war cries and sloganeering; for a Thakur from Pratapgarh, they were quite a mouthful. The Brigadier was gambling on the fact that the Pakistanis at the top would assume that these men were their own Muslim brethren, both because of their chant and how they were dressed, and wouldn’t open fire. They would think that these were reinforcements for their own ranks, and allow Brijesh’s team to climb all the way up.

  Following Brijesh’s team from behind would be Vikrant and his men. They too would be dressed in Muslim attire, but would climb quietly. The darkness would hide their identity effectively and Brijesh’s team would keep the enemy busy until it was too late. And here was the second gamble: to keep Brijesh and his men from winning the peak, the Pakistani soldiers would call in reinforcements. But they wouldn’t arrive immediately, certainly not in time to lend support. So the soldiers who were guarding the only path through the peak would leave their posts and join their fellow soldiers to defeat Brijesh. Once the way was clear, Vikrant and his men would attack from the rear, which the Pakistanis would by that time be powerless to defend.

  All through the next day, the two teams readied themselves. They had to carry food and ammunition because it was impossible to predict how long they would have to keep up the fight, especially if reinforcements for the enemy arrived quickly.

  As soon as darkness began to fall, they set off. By 10 p.m. they were at the base of the plateau and starting the climb. Soon the silence of the night was shattered by the false war cries and the scraping of the boots of twenty-six men as they climbed the face of the plateau, clinging to tiny handholds, ledges and assorted undergrowth.

  Far below them, the second team took their own diversion and headed towards the path. Soon enough, they spotted the sentries prowling the area, and more than two dozen snipers perched high above, giving them full visual access to the valley. At that spot, they waited. They couldn’t afford to show themselves until the soldiers on the road rushed to repel Brijesh’s attack.

  In the dead of night, the Pakistanis did exactly what the Brigadier had predicted — one by one, they began helping Brijesh’s men in the final stages of ascent, pulling up the climbers as they reached the top, mistaking them for their own. No shots were fired. No boulders came hurtling down, aimed to crush the climbers.

  But it was nearing morning by now, and Brijesh could see the slightest glimmer of light on the horizon. He realized that he couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as twenty men were up on the peak beside him, he yelled without warning, ‘Yalgaar!’

  Hearing Brijesh shout to his men to attack would have been warning enough, but his use of Urdu left the enemy uncertain. Before any of the Pakistanis could react, his men opened fire.

  The front ranks of the Pakistani soldiers were cut down before they could offer any resistance at all, and Brijesh’s team managed to get behind cover as they engaged the rest of the forces. However, both numerically and strategically stronger, the enemy retaliated once they gathered their wits. In the space of four hours, Brijesh lost three of his men, while the others grouped around him, firing constantly.

  The instant the shots rang out from above, the second team became alert. Any time now, the soldiers below would abandon their posts; it was only a matter of time.

  But time was against them. Even though the second team of Pakistanis was immediately alerted of the attack, none of them moved. Not a single man left his post, and the road remained as impenetrable as ever.

  Throughout the day, shots rang out from the top of the peak. It was impossible to tell what was happening, or who was winning. All Vikrant and his men could do was wait grimly and impatiently.

  The Brigadier had underestimated the Pakistanis. They didn’t give ground and for the entire day they fought, every man to the last breath. Brijesh soon realized, as did his men, that things had gone horribly wrong. But none of them retreated a single step.

  Night fell, but the shots didn’t stop. At brief intervals, a gunshot would shatter the silence. But nothing changed. And the men guarding the road still didn’t budge.

  On the third day, when Brijesh’s team had worn thin, with only twelve of his men standing, they heard shouts from behind the enemy. Reinforcements had arrived at last. The captain of the team of soldiers barricading the road had sent a runner up to the peak, and decided to retaliate. Brijesh realized what had happened, and so did his men. With renewed vigour, they fought on.

  Down below, Vikrant waited and watched. He maintained the holding position he had been ordered to, while Brijesh’s men drew fire. Nearly the entire regiment had now left to reinforce their troops, and only four snipers had been left behind. Easy.

  He selected three of his men, all brilliant marksmen. Together, the four of them marked their targets and, at a signal from Vikrant, fired. Every shot found its mark and the four snipers fell from their perches, stone dead even before they hit the ground. The path was theirs. Leaving six of his men to guard the post, Vikrant and his men charged up the peak, not a minute too soon.

  As the Pakistanis heard them approach, their cries of victory turned to dismay.

  ‘Ya Ali madad!’ cried Vikrant as he dove into the fray, firing left and right, every shot finding its mark. His men shouted in chorus, ‘Ya Aliiiii madadddd!’ The dark night rang with screams and gunshots. This was pure battleground. Waris had used religion to turn the tide against his enemies.

  Brijesh and Vikrant’s heroics proved too much for the Pakistanis. Within a matter of hours, the peak was theirs. Except for one casualty, all of Vikrant’s men were alive, and the twelve remaining men on Brijesh’s team, and Brijesh himself, were alive too — exhausted beyond belief, but alive.

  Waris’s gambit had paid off. He set off now with two companies drawn from his battalions, determined to push the advantage and move deeper into enemy territory, to capture it before the Pakistanis could launch another attack. The apparently indefatigable Peak 5250 had been captured – but not without a final setback. As the two teams settled down for the evening, Vikrant’s men lined up in front—any reinforcements would come from there, and Brijesh’s exhausted team had fought for three whole days—while
Brijesh watched the rear.

  Even the best of men have their weaknesses, and Brijesh let his guard down for a few minutes; the Muslim jawans had expressed a desire to offer namaz to express gratitude to the almighty.

  Brijesh knew that it was these men who had saved the day for the country, and they were entitled to kiss their motherland with their foreheads.

  It was this moment of weakness that the enemy was waiting for.

  Somehow, enemy soldiers managed to sneak around the camp and attacked them from behind. Brijesh was caught unprepared, and even as he scrambled up with his weapon in hand, he watched as his men were cut down in front of him. Vikrant and his men joined the battle almost immediately, but they were exhausted and too few in number.

  It was only because of the frenzied pace at which the Brigadier was driving his men that they arrived just then. Before the Pakistanis could take back the peak, the Indian soldiers fell upon them and averted the danger.

  Of the fifty-two men who made the climb, Vikrant’s team was left with only seven. And not one of the men in the first team survived, except for Brijesh. It wasn’t his fault – after three days of continuous fighting, he was barely able to stand. But there, in that makeshift tent, Waris knew he was looking at a broken man.

  It had been almost a decade and a half but Brijesh still awoke at night with his clothes and bedsheets drenched in sweat. The same old dream haunted him: of Pakistanis charging towards his men as they prostrated on the ground, oblivious to the attack, while he watched in horror from a distance, helpless.

  Brijesh had spoken to counsellors and therapists, but none could help him. He still couldn’t sleep properly. Even the strongest of sedatives failed to tranquilize him.

  He had opted for a desk job and spent years at the Immigration desk in Attari post, still haunted by his vivid dreams of losing his men.

  Waris had kept in touch with Brijesh. He knew only too well that no amount of therapy, counselling or sedatives could help a warrior overcome his demons. Brijesh would be healed only through a similar mission.

  The moment Sky gave the go-ahead, Waris knew that Brijesh would head his crack team.

  5

  Sayed Ali Waris had been recruited into the Indian Army in 1971. His grandfather, Sayed Mohammad Hasan, had fought in World War I and his father, Sayed Mustafa Husain, had retired as a colonel in the Indian Army. Waris’s three uncles and several of his cousins were still in the army. His grandfather and father were known to be legends in their own right. This illustrious and patriotic lineage accorded Ali Waris a meritorious position in the army.

  Hailing from Barabanki near Lucknow, Waris rose to become a role model for most of the army and policemen in all of Uttar Pradesh. At the time of Partition, his grandfather refused to go to Pakistan. For his clan, India was one of the most sacred places on the planet.

  Waris disliked what he thought of as the treachery and duplicity of Pakistan. While New Delhi was initiating bus diplomacy with Islamabad, the Pakistani army was slowly infiltrating Kargil and Kashmir. Brigadier Waris had been part of the convoy that had taken that bus trip with Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, to be greeted in Lahore by the Pakistani premier Nawaz Sharif.

  After a first glance at Nawaz Sharif and Pervez Musharraf, Waris took his friend Sky aside and told him, ‘I don’t trust either of these men. They could be really harmful to India.’ Kargil proved that Waris’s fears were not unfounded.

  Waris almost caused an international scandal when he took his brigade across the Line of Control in Pakistan, in response. Given the length of the border and its porous nature, it was possible to walk across. ‘I want to tell Musharraf that warriors don’t hide and backstab; they take to the battlefield like men. Let him send his best men. We will send ours. Kashmir can be settled here and now.’

  His misadventure could have cost him a court martial. Only his pedigree and the PM’s direct intervention saved the day. He was quietly shunted to a desk job at RAW. He had served at RAW earlier and the experience came in handy in his second stint. In his second coming, he quietly bided his time until he retired.

  A widower, Waris never remarried. His daughter Vibha had moved to the US after marriage and he lived alone.

  His Kargil wounds had been opened afresh by the 26/11 attack. He knew that diplomacy was often a sham, that nothing could be achieved through lobbying. He believed in the justice system of Israel, where an attack on a Jewish person anywhere in the world was tantamount to an attack on the State of Israel and retribution would be sought.

  Five years after the attack in Mumbai, he realized that his government was still trying to get the conspirators out of Pakistan and that they were not willing to cooperate. He decided to take matters into his own hands and dispense justice. He was not an army man anymore and did not have to take orders from anyone. He just needed a few intelligent and dedicated soldiers to deliver justice to the victims of 26/11.

  Brijesh and Vikrant were both obvious choices for his Justice League. While Sky managed to get immediate sanctions for both, Brijesh took a lot of convincing. He finally gave in when Waris told him, ‘This may be your only chance to redeem yourself and take revenge for your martyred team.’

  Brijesh’s eyes showed the spark that had been missing for so many years as he finally relented.

  A professor of anthropology, Brijesh had initially joined the Indian Army by sheer accident. But once he got in, he forgot his academic background and showed an amazing passion for intelligence work. The transformation was surprising. The man was a paratrooper, comfortable with any gun and skilled in close combat martial arts; his fitness level was that of an Olympic athlete, which is why he had been chosen for that dangerous Kargil mission of Peak 5250.

  Vikrant Singh had been biding his time with the Border Security Force (BSF) and proved to be a revelation. The G Branch of BSF, which is its intelligence wing, had been facing major strife as most of its top honchos were reeling under corruption charges. With most of his bosses facing an inquiry for cooking up actionable intelligence, Vikrant had been given additional charge of the branch. He had not only spruced it up, he had made them look much better than military intelligence.

  When the Bangladeshi army had begun killing Indian jawans, Vikrant had sent a subtle message to them. One night he slyly crossed the border, planted explosives in the arsenal of the Bangla army, and blew it to smithereens. ‘It could have been an entire battalion instead of an arms depot,’ Vikrant conveyed to his counterpart in Bangladesh. After that incident, the BSF began to call him One Man Battalion.

  Vikrant’s promotion to the post of commandant relieved him of his duties at BSF, and he was asked to report to Ali Waris immediately.

  Waris was setting up the biggest mission of his life, against astronomical odds. He needed good, solid men, men whom he could trust without question. Brijesh and Vikrant were those men.

  The three of them sat quietly in the General’s study, not speaking, reliving without words the anguish that the Kargil victory had brought with it.

  The door opened and Iqbal Kang walked in.

  ‘So this is the man,’ thought Waris, as he scrutinized Kang from head to toe. ‘Looks like a strong character, has clearly gone through a lot.’

  Aloud he said, ‘Come in, Mr Kang. Take a seat. Please excuse me if I don’t say anything more, I’d rather wait for the final members of our team to arrive. I dislike repeating myself.’

  Kang nodded equably and sat down on a chair in one corner of the room.

  It wasn’t a large room. One side of the wall was lined with tall, barred windows, and in front of it was an enormous table, behind which sat Lt Gen. Waris. The other three walls were lined with bookcases, reaching right up to the ceiling. A flat TV was set into a groove in one of them, and was soundlessly flashing a news channel.

  The table was in a corner to the right of the door, which was set into the wall between two bookcases. It opened into the room in such a way that anyone coming in wouldn’t see the table
until he’d closed the door behind him.

  There was a potted plant to the right of the table, and Vikrant sat on the chair next to it, reading a newspaper. Brijesh was sitting on one of the three chairs facing the table. With the exception of Vikrant, they were all watching the news silently.

  Finally the door opened again and two people walked in. One of them was a slight man with a balding head, thick glasses resting on his nose and a nervous look on his face.

  The other person was a woman who they knew was in her late thirties but looked considerably younger. She was wearing a dark grey pencil skirt that accentuated her curves and showed off her shapely legs, and the white shirt she wore fit her snugly, its top two buttons open to reveal a little more cleavage than was necessary. The effect she had on most men was electrifying, and she knew it. She also knew that the effect was lost on everyone in the room except for Iqbal and the man she had come in with.

  Waris stood up and looked her up and down. ‘Is it really necessary to dress so provocatively, Ms Borges?’

  The woman was unfazed. ‘Not really, sir,’ she said. ‘But then, how I dress shouldn’t matter, should it? It’s my work that has got me here.’ Her voice was honey, heavy and alluring, but it also possessed an air of command.

  He looked at her appraisingly, then nodded. ‘True.’

  He sat down and signalled for the others to take their seats. ‘I’ll introduce everyone in turn. This is Laila Borges. She’s our tech expert. Her companion is Subhrata Ray. He’s a biotechnologist, geneticist and computer systems expert. They are both on loan from NTRO.’

  He pointed at Vikrant. ‘He’s an army major, and has also served with the BSF. And this is Iqbal Kang. He’s from the Punjab Special Task Force. And this is Brijesh Singh, retired colonel.’

  Laila looked at Vikrant. ‘Isn’t he too young for this, sir?’