PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  CHAPTER 4

  RESEARCH AND ANALYSIS WING HEADQUARTERS

  Seated at his desk, the director of RAW read a document, signed it with a flourish, and dropped it in his out-tray. He frowned at the pile of paper still occupying his in-tray. It was going to be a long morning. Hearing the rap of knuckles on the door, he welcomed the distraction. “Come in.”

  The door swung open and Major Sachim Jayaram strode into the office, holding a manila folder.

  “And to what do I owe a visit from SPEC-B? Tell me you have something more interesting than a financial report.”

  “You’re going to want to take a look at this, sir.” Major Jayaram passed over the file. “The Kashmir Desk received it this morning.”

  “It better be good, Sachim. I rely on you for solutions, not extra reading material.” The director nodded toward the pile on his desk. “I’ve already got quite the collection.”

  The major smiled. “That’s what happens when you take a break, sir.”

  He scanned the short report. Brow furrowed, he reached the end of it. “Do we have anything else?”

  “No, sir. The Signals Intelligence Directorate failed to locate the receiver of the call.”

  “So we’ve only got the originator?”

  “Yes, or at least a partial hit. At the time of the call, he was located within Kashmir, on the Pakistan side. We’ve narrowed it down to a ten kilometer zone in vicinity of the Naltar Valley.”

  The director closed the folder. “Hardly corroborated intelligence.”

  “We’ve been trying to nail down this training cadre for a while, sir. The location fits with historic reporting. Additionally, this phone has been directly linked to a number of Lashkar operatives,” Major Jayaram said, referring to Lashkar–e-Taiba, a terrorist organization.

  “Have you requested imagery?”

  “Yes, sir, but the Air Force is unable to provide assets at this time. What we need is men on the ground to narrow the search.”

  “And let me guess. You want to send in your operatives?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if it’s a hoax, some low-level jihadist running his mouth and making grandeur claims?”

  Jayaram picked up the document and read from it. “What if it isn’t?”

  “We will strike fear into the heart of India. We will hit them at home. Their streets will run red with the blood of the infidel…”

  He paused then read another passage.

  “Our training is complete. Targets will be given when we arrive in the city…”

  “If they manage to conduct a large-scale attack and the government finds out we had this…”

  “After Kargil that’s not something we can afford.”

  “My thoughts exactly. We need to move fast. I’ve already got operatives in the border region. They can be across by midday and in the area by nightfall.”

  The director stroked his mustache as he considered the options. “Hmmm, very well, deploy your men.”

  “Very good, sir.” Major Jayaram turned to the door.

  “If they find this bastard and his camp, I want it followed up immediately. Have a company of para commandos on standby for a raid.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that all?”

  “That’s all, Major.”

  ***

  CONTESTED BORDER REGION, KASHMIR

  Mirza danced the sputtering Chinese-built scooter along the potholed gravel road. Ahead of him, Captain Himesh Arjun hunched over his 110cc bike, shirt and pants flapping wildly in the wind. They wore local garb with intricately woven karakul skullcaps and shawls. It was midday, the sun was bright, but it was still bitterly cold. Ahead of them, snow covered the mountain peaks.

  They had received an activation call while conducting surveillance training near the town of Kargil. It had taken less than three hours to cover the short ride to the Pakistan border.

  Mirza pulled his bike alongside Himesh and stopped. The captain looked nothing like the smartly uniformed officer who had recruited him over a year ago. Today, his face was shrouded in a heavy beard, his clothes torn, and filthy. Not that Mirza looked like a corporal in the Special Frontier Force. His beard was ragged and hair a shaggy mop that poked out from under his hat.

  “The border post is just over the next rise,” said Himesh. “Are you a hundred percent on how we’re going to do this?”

  Mirza nodded. “I follow your lead. If they ask questions, I answer with short sentences using my cover story.”

  “Which is?” he asked in Urdu.

  “I’m a Pakistani returning to my home village in Allai. For the last six months, I’ve been working on the construction sites in New Delhi,” Mirza said in the same dialect.

  “Very good.” Himesh checked his watch, a cheap Chinese timepiece which suited his disguise. “We’ve got a little over ten hours to locate the training camp. Insertion of the para commandos is still on for tonight.”

  “We’re rushing it.”

  “Noted, but for once all the assets have lined up. If this comes off, it’ll set the precedent for rapid response to a real threat.” He kick-started his scooter and wound his scarf around his face. “And that’s a step in the right direction.”

  They rode slowly, over a rise and down the ridgeline to the border crossing. The Indian border post reflected the tensions between the two countries. Only four months earlier, the Indian military had defeated Pakistan in the Kargil War. As they approached the border, Mirza took in the heavily armed soldiers manning concrete fighting positions overlooking a double-layered razor wire fence. The crossing point had only recently been reopened.

  The captain spoke to the guards. A minute later, they were through the security perimeter and entered no-man’s-land. They rode cautiously, between the single strands of barbed wire that marked the edge of the road. Small red triangles, hung every ten yards, warned of the presence of lethal anti-personnel mines.

  In spite of the cold, Mirza felt the rubber grips of his scooter getting sticky with sweat as they approached the Pakistani checkpoint. Clandestine border crossings always made him nervous.

  As they reached a brightly decorated jingle truck, Mirza sputtered in beside Himesh. High up on the fence CCTV cameras watched them.

  The truck pulled away in a cloud of black soot. Mirza coughed as a soldier waved them forward.

  The Pakistani guard’s face carried a permanent scowl. “Passports and papers.”

  They handed over their documents and the official scrutinized them, comparing the passport photos to their faces. Satisfied that all was in order he waved them on to the next queue.

  They parked their bikes and waited in front of the immigration office. The line progressed quickly. Himesh went first. He answered the security officer’s questions and his documents were stamped. Mirza moved up.

  “Where are you from?” the official asked.

  “Allai. I’ve been working construction in New Delhi.”

  “I can see that.” The man studied his documents. “Why did you go to India? There is plenty of construction work in Islamabad.”

  Mirza glanced sideways at the two soldiers standing at the heavy sliding gate into Pakistan. They were both watching him.

  “That’s true, but the pay isn’t as good.”

  The man nodded, but Mirza noted he didn’t seem convinced. “I also wanted to watch the English team before they came to Pakistan.” Mirza nodded at the Cricket calendar hanging on the wall. “The test series is next month and I think we have an excellent chance.”

  The official nodded. “Yes, I agree. Our team is too good for Nasser Hussain and his side.”

  “Our batting lineup is strong. With the likes of Yousuf Youhana they won’t stand a chance.”

  “So did you get a chance to see them live?” the man asked.

  “No. The Indian pig foremen wouldn’t give me the day off. I ended up having to sell my tickets.”

  The officer stamped his passport with a smile. “Perhaps you will have more luck in Isl
amabad.”

  Mirza picked up his documents. “Inshallah.” As he walked back to the bikes, his hands trembled.

  ‘Everything OK? You ask him out on a date?”

  He kick-started his bike. “No but I think he liked me.”

  As they rode through the final checkpoint and continued into Pakistan, sweat dampened his clothing. They were now behind enemy lines.

  CHAPTER 5

  PAKISTAN-CONTROLLED KASHMIR

  Five hours later, Mirza pulled his scooter next to the captain’s and dismounted. His hands and legs ached from the long, jarring ride. He flexed his hands stretching his forearms.

  “Bit stiff?” Himesh laughed.

  “What is this place?” Mirza looked around. A row of jingle trucks was parked along the rutted track. On the opposite side was a mud-walled compound with a large painted sign proclaiming ‘Welcome’ in Urdu.

  “A stopover for weary travelers. The gentleman who owns it is a friend of ours.”

  They entered the dusty compound. Tired drivers were sleeping on rattan mats under the shade of a tattered awning. A skinny, flea-bitten dog scratched itself and eyed them warily as they crossed the compound to the dining area.

  Inside, it was dark and smelt of heavily spiced food. As their eyes adjusted, they located the source of the magnificent aroma. It was coming from an earthen pot that sat on a long wooden table. The flanking benches were empty and the table strewn with dirty bowls. Mirza’s stomach growled as he silently hoped that the cauldron still held enough for them to eat.

  “Hungry travelers.” The landlord appeared out of the gloom, short, rotund, and with a long beard that almost reached his waist. He opened the pot and proceeded to spoon a thick stew into two tin bowls. “You fellows look like you’ve come from afar.”

  Himesh sat at the table and took a bowl. “We have, all the way from Ludhiana.”

  “Is that right?” The man paused as he filled the second bowl. “And what is the weather like in Chandigarh at the moment?”

  “Hot and always with the chance of rain.”

  “Well the conditions are much more favorable here.” He handed the bowl to Mirza who immediately dug his spoon into the hearty meal and shoveled it into his mouth.

  Himesh looked up from his bowl and nodded at the man. “That’s good to hear. We won’t be staying long. We’ll fill our bikes and be on our way.”

  “Once you have enjoyed your meal, bring your bikes around to the back and my son will fill them. How much further are you going?”

  “Not far. We are looking for friends of ours in the Naltar Valley. Do you know it?”

  “I know it well. It’s a very dangerous area.” He turned to Mirza. “More?”

  He nodded.

  Himesh finished off his bowl before continuing. “Is there any chance you could recommend a guide?”

  The man ladled more food into Mirza’s bowl. “My son could guide you, for a small fee of course.”

  “Of course.” Himesh opened his satchel and took out a thick wad of Pakistani rupee. “Will this do?”

  The man nodded and stuffed the cash into his pocket.

  Mirza shook his head. Some people would sell their own kin given the opportunity.

  After they’d finished eating, they wheeled their bikes behind the compound and met the innkeeper’s teenage son. He was the opposite of his father: tall, clean-shaven, and rake thin.

  “Your things are in the shed,” he said as he pumped fuel out of a barrel into the scooters.

  As Himesh supervised the refueling, Mirza looked inside the ramshackle shelter. It was filled with bags of rice and palm oil containers. On the floor were two tightly wound blanket rolls. Mirza undid the straps holding them together and unwound them, revealing the contents.

  RAW maintained an extensive support network throughout Pakistan. Agents like the innkeeper received smuggled equipment and cached it for when it was needed. Mirza knew the equipment he was inspecting was one such stockpile. He checked the folding stock AKs, pulling back the bolt on each. They were in excellent condition. He took one of the Makarov pistols, stuck it in his belt, and slipped a spare magazine into his pocket. Then he checked that the satellite phone, tactical radio, GPS, and night vision scope had fresh batteries. Finally, after he’d inspected each of the AK magazines, he slipped them into a pair of canvas chest harnesses.

  “Everything we need?” Himesh asked from the doorway.

  “Yes.” He handed the satellite phone, GPS and a pistol to his partner. Then he bundled a rifle and a harness into each blanket using rope to fashion a sling for each roll.

  Himesh took a blanket roll from him. “It’s getting dark. We need to move now.”

  Mirza slung his own bundle across his back. “Are you sure we can trust the boy?”

  “Yes, his father’s worked for us for years.”

  They walked outside and joined the youth waiting with his scooter.

  “How far?” Himesh asked as they mounted up.

  “Not far, only a few hours.” The boy kicked the starter on his bike and revved the little engine. “I know a shortcut.”

  “OK, lead the way.”

  ***

  It took ninety minutes to reach a point where their guide refused to go further. Mirza wasn’t sure what unnerved the boy more, that they were behind enemy lines or that the narrow track was a sheer cliff on one side.

  The youth cautiously turned his bike around. “They sometimes send men to check this area. Mostly in the morning, but you should still be careful.” With that, he putted off leaving them alone in the rapidly fading light.

  Himesh removed his traditional garb, replacing the shawl and skullcap with a dark sweater and knitted wool cap. He unraveled his rifle and put on the canvas chest rig. Then he rerolled the blanket and used the flap of his satchel to secure it. “We’ll ditch the bikes here.”

  Mirza parked his scooter next to his partner’s and prepared his own gear.

  “We need to locate the camp in the next three hours. The assault force is standing by. You ready?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “I’ll lead.”

  They marched off along a goat trail as the setting sun bathed the snowcapped Himalayas in an orange glow. The high altitude and lower oxygen level sapped their strength. Still, they moved quickly, covering over a mile in the first thirty minutes.

  “We need to move faster,” Himesh said as they paused behind an outcrop.

  Mirza looked ahead. In places, the trail was less than a foot wide and dropped off into the darkness. “If we push it one of us could end up down there.”

  “Noted.”

  They moved as rapidly as they dared. As the captain charged around a bend, he ran into two men coming the other way. Armed with AKs, they were clearly on patrol.

  Himesh didn’t have time to raise his rifle. He reacted instinctively and pushed the first man off the track like a bulldozer. The scream was whipped away by the wind as he fell.

  The second man was a different story. Tall, with broad shoulders and powerful arms, he had his weapon slung. Upon seeing the demise of his partner, he shoulder-charged Himesh delivering a solid blow.

  The captain’s legs were knocked out from under him. His AK dropped to the ground. He grabbed the bigger man’s ankle with one hand and scrabbled at the cliff edge with the other. He refused to release the militant even as he was kicked savagely.

  Mirza caught a glimpse of a blade flashing in the starlight as the assailant drew a knife. His AK barked once. The bullet ricocheted off the cliff.

  “NO!” screamed Himesh as he held on to the Pakistani’s leg.

  Mirza lunged forward as he fired again. The bullet blew the man’s head apart. As the lifeless body collapsed, Mirza slid to a knee and grabbed the captain by his chest webbing. With a grunt, he pulled him onto the path and watched as the corpse toppled off the cliff and into the darkness.

  Himesh knelt on the track gasping for breath. “Thanks.”

  Mirza handed the capt
ain his AK. “Do you think anyone heard us?”

  He pushed himself up onto his feet. “Unlikely,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind. “Let’s go.”

  Within a few hundred yards, they crested the ridgeline and could see down into the valley. Below, they made out faint lights flickering in the darkness. After they’d taken shelter beneath a craggy outcrop, Himesh peered through the night vision scope.

  After a moment he handed the device over. “That has to be it. It’s a training camp. Couldn’t be anything else.”

  Mirza scanned the valley with the scope. “You’re right.” Through the green hue of the image intensifier tube, he recognized an obstacle course and several firing ranges. There were a number of pickups and a van parked in the center of a cluster of buildings. “How do we know it’s the right camp?”

  Himesh checked the GPS. “It matches close enough with the coordinates SIGINT gave us.”

  “And there’s nothing else in the area.”

  “Time to send the coordinates through.” He used the keypad on the satellite phone to send a short transmission to their headquarters. The device emitted a long beep to indicate the message had been sent. “It’s done.”

  Still watching the valley below, Mirza spotted a group of militants filing into what he assumed was a dining facility. A few men stayed outside with the vehicles.

  The satellite phone beeped again. Himesh read the message and packed the phone away. “The mission’s a go.”

  Mirza watched as a group of five men climbed into a van. The vehicle drove away from the camp with its headlights on. Through the scope the lights were dazzling. “We could have a problem. There’s a van leaving the camp.”

  “Could be normal movement, a visit to a village, a resupply of food or equipment.” The captain reached for the scope.

  “At this time of the night? We need to report it, they could be our target.”

  He lowered the scope and looked at his partner. “You’re right. I’ll message it in. The para commandos will miss them, but if the van tries for the border it’ll be picked up.”