by Mukul Deva
‘We’ve been following the intelligence summaries,’ Tiwathia cut in as Sami and he flicked through the names on the file covers. ‘All these guys are being sheltered and supported by the bloody ISI.’
‘The whole world is aware of who and where they are but this is the age of plausible deniability. Even though their weddings and funerals are front-page news, nobody is ready to acknowledge their whereabouts,’ Sami added.
‘Our government has released extensive proof about all of them a dozen times but the damn Pakis deny it blatantly.’
‘I want you both to study all twenty files.’ Anbu explained what the PM wanted: ‘Look for patterns and avoid those for whom there are no confirmed sightings. Give me your independent views…four each…okay?’
For the next forty-five minutes only the rustle of pages being turned broke the silence as the three men scrutinized the files. Sami was the last to finish. Anbu looked at him. ‘You go first.’ Sami plucked out four files from the bundle and handed them over. Anbu placed the files face down and turned to Tiwathia. ‘What about you? Which ones do you recommend, Vikram?’
Tiwathia took four names without missing a beat.
Anbu gave a small smile as he heard the names then he flipped over the files Sami had handed him. ‘I thought as much,’ he said quietly. ‘You guys have also picked out the same three people that I had identified. We only differ on the fourth. That’s okay…this time we take down only three.’
Colonel Anbu outlined the operational plan in a calm measured tone. Tiwathia and Sami were the two most experienced officers in Force 22. In fact, Sami was the official second-in-command. They both listened carefully as Anbu spoke and gave their input when he finished. An hour later when they finally got up, each knew exactly what had to be done; they had played out many such scenarios in various war games. It did not take Anbu long to fine-tune the plan and hammer out the operational details. Activating his laptop he checked out the availability of men and materials. Then he called in his staff officer and issued precise orders.
Anbu requisitioned a series of satellite and aerial photographs. While these were being uploaded to his machine he put together the Op Orders. Thirty minutes later, twelve of the nineteen Force 22 officers were assembled in the briefing room. Anbu put them through the paces. ‘That’s it, folks. Any doubts so far?’ he asked when he had finished.
There were. Several. Anbu took another fifteen minutes to clear these and then in accordance with the commonsense rule that nothing goes as planned he spent another thirty minutes carrying out some detailed contingency planning. Finally he handed over a Compact Flash Card and some photos to each one of them. ‘Everything you need is here. Study it en route and erase the files when you are done.’ The men were filing out of the room when Anbu called out: ‘And folks, keep your GPS locators on at all times once you leave the base.’
‘Don’t worry about us, boss.’
‘I’m not. I just need to be able to find you in case you get lost.’
The laughter that rang out was a welcome change from the sombre mood that had prevailed during the briefing.
IQBAL
Iqbal spent the whole day on a settee in the far corner of the room. He could not bring himself to speak to anyone. It was as if he had battened down the windows of his mind. Finally, a distraught Nawab sought Omar’s help: ‘Beta, please talk to him. He is not talking to any one of us. He is very disturbed…he loved them very much…specially his sister…I am very afraid he will try to do something to himself…please…I will die if something happens to him also.’ Nawab’s voice quavered.
Omar stood up and held the old man’s folded hands between his own. ‘Please calm down, Uncle. Everything will be all right, I promise. You just need to stay calm.’
Embarrassed that a stranger was giving him solace Nawab choked back his tears and abruptly left the room. Ashraf looked uncertainly at his brother sitting silent and unreachable on the settee and then followed his father out.
Omar sat next to Iqbal and tried to speak to him. His voice was like a drone in Iqbal’s ears. He felt its vibrations but heard nothing of its content. Omar was trying very hard to intrude on Iqbal’s thoughts but everything he said was deflected by the one thought playing on and on in Iqbal’s mind: You are responsible for the death of the two people who meant the most to you. You killed them almost as certainly as if you’d planted the bombs yourself. The echo inside Iqbal’s head grew louder with every passing minute. ‘Murderer!’ the voice within him mocked.
Omar put his hand on Iqbal’s shoulder. ‘I know how proud you must be feeling at their martyrdom.’ It was the word ‘martyrdom’ that caught his attention and wrenched Iqbal back to reality. It suddenly became imperative for him to know what Omar was saying. He made an effort to clear his mind.
‘Remember what Rehman Sahib used to tell us?’ Omar was speaking in the calm, reassuring tone an adult uses when talking to a sick child. ‘There are always casualties in every war. You must remember that the sacrifice made by your Ammi and your sister will not be in vain…They were martyrs for the jihad…’
Martyrs? How can you be a martyr for someone else’s cause? Iqbal suppressed the urge to reach out, shake Omar hard and scream at him. He turned and looked at him incredulously. How could Omar even think that it was all right to sacrifice innocent people for a cause that had no meaning to them? He was just a deluded, misinformed, juvenile idiot with no sense of the value of another’s life. A mindless monster. And then he thought: I am one too.
Suddenly Iqbal knew with blinding clarity what he had to do. He knew his new mission as surely as he knew that no God or religion could ever teach or expect anyone to kill innocents. We have been misguided. Misguided and used. The Prophet (Peace be upon Him) would never condone the slaughter of women and children in Allah’s name.
Iqbal would have to kill Omar. He knew this as surely as he knew he was going to kill each and everyone who had led him on to this path. The Maulavi who had recruited him; Maulana Fazlur Rehman; Brigadier Murad Salim who was the brain behind the entire operation; and all those other merchants of death who had trained with him – they would all die. He had to kill them not because any of the wrongs they had done would be rectified by this. He had to kill them as part of his penance. This is going to be my way of saying sorry to all those countless innocents whom we have brought grief to. To Ammi and Nawaz whose lives were cut short by their own flesh and blood…It is going to be my way of ensuring such things do not happen again.
‘Thanks for talking to me, Omar.’ Iqbal sat up straight and looked him in the eye. ‘I feel better now.’
Omar’s eyes searched his face deeply. Finally he nodded, relief flooding his face as he reached across and held his friend’s hand.
Iqbal stood up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be alone with my father.’
When Iqbal entered his father’s room Nawab was lying on the bed staring up at the ceiling. He must have heard his son enter but he did not acknowledge his presence. Iqbal did not disturb him. He sat through the long night by his father’s bed massaging his father’s feet in a silent plea for forgiveness. When dawn broke and his father had fallen into a fitful slumber, Iqbal stood up. His body was stiff from sitting for so long, but his mind was crystal clear. The time had come for him to get moving. Back in his room, Iqbal left a message for his father:
‘Please forgive me for leaving you at a time like this. I need to be alone. The wound in my head is too fresh and everything in the house reminds me of Ammi and Navaz. I do not know how to tell you how much I love Ashraf and you.’
As he wrote the note his eyes grew moist. The first tears he had shed after learning of his mother and sister’s deaths were not for them. They were for his father; for the old, grieving, broken man alone in his room. He realized that this was the first time as an adult that he had told his father he loved him. He had always been sure of his love for his mother but Abbu had always been…Abbu…a remote and somewhat scary person; love w
as not a word he had readily associated with him.
Having finished the note Iqbal went and quietly woke up Omar: ‘Get ready. We are leaving.’
Omar gave him a long look. ‘You haven’t told your folks that you are leaving?’
Iqbal turned away without answering him.
‘Where are we going? At least tell me that,’ Omar asked as he got up and started hurriedly pulling on his clothes.
Iqbal ignored him as he quietly transferred the two grenades he had carried back from Chakoti into his rucksack. He had already packed in some tools from Nawab’s toolbox knowing he would need them soon. The events that lay ahead were so clear in his head that he could pin them down with military precision.
The night had not yet fully receded into the light of the new day when Omar and Iqbal began to walk down the road that led towards town. They had gone about a hundred metres from the house when Iqbal stopped. He turned back and for a very long moment just stared at the house they were leaving behind. ‘Where are we going?’ Omar asked again when they had gone some distance.
‘Delhi.’ Iqbal answered without breakin his stride, ‘I need to meet Maulavi Sahib.’
Omar came to a dead halt. ‘He is going to be pissed as hell. We had been told very clearly to return to our homes and await further orders. Especially after these blasts and all…do you think it is wise to try and meet him?’
Iqbal stopped and gave Omar a long cold look before he answered: ‘I am going to see him. You come if you want to.’
Omar felt a twinge of fear run through him, but he didn’t know what else to do. He hefted his bag and started to walk alongside Iqbal.
SPEED
1440 hours, 30 October 2005, Force 22 Base, Kasauli Hills.
A MI-8 helicopter belonging to the Indian Air Force landed at the Force 22 base near Kasauli. It was a machine that the Indian Air Force commonly used and it attracted no untoward attention. The brainchild of Mikhail Leontyevich Mil, who was involved with Soviet gyroplanes and helicopters until his death on 31 January 1970, the Mil helicopter is an unparalleled success story. Today every fourth helicopter in the world is either of Mil construction or origin.
When the chopper lifted off again, nine of Force 22’s superbly trained killing machines were on board carrying an odd assortment of gear with them.
Anbu was at the helipad to see them off. None of the stress and tension that he was feeling showed on his face. ‘Remember, gentlemen, this is our first major mission. There will be hundreds of eyes on us so we need to do this right. Remember our motto – speed…’
‘…stealth and surprise!’ The assembled team chorused in unison. Then they laughed: ‘Don’t worry, Chief…just keep the beer chilled.’
Anbu shook hands with each of his men as they boarded the craft. The clatter of the engines ramped up to a crescendo as the chopper lifted off. Anbu stood on the edge of the helipad for a very long time watching with unseeing eyes as the helicopter disappeared into the blue skies. It is never easy to send your people off into battle; no matter how many times you do it. A cold coil of stress began to knot itself in the pit of his stomach.
A short haul later the helicopter landed in Chandigarh and the men transferred their gear from the chopper to the Air Force jet waiting with its engines already thrumming a few metres away. The strike force was soon winging its way towards the western coast. Barely an hour later the jet touched down at Bikaner Air Force station in Rajasthan. Six of the Force 22 commandos offloaded with their gear and moved to another nondescript MI-8 chopper waiting for them. This chopper was headed towards Khajewala, the small desert town on the Indo–Pakistan border, which had the dubious distinction of counting Afzal the smuggler as one of its own.
The remaining three Force 22 officers continued towards the Indian coastal town of Bhuj, located on the western coast. Except for the crew of the choppers, the jet and the few people who helped them move their gear no one had seen them come and go.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, four more seemingly unrelated events had begun to unfold. These had started within a few minutes of the helicopter taking off from the Force 22 base and did not appear to be even remotely linked with it.
An Indian Navy warship on routine patrol along the western coast received orders to divert. It immediately altered course and set sail towards Bhuj. Around mid-afternoon, just off the coastline, it transferred a container to the fishing dhow that linked up with it. The sorry-looking dhow then continued its leisurely journey seawards on a north-western course. Nothing about its appearance hinted at the real power of its superbly maintained engines, the sophistication of the surveillance and communication equipment it carried on board or of the highly trained and specialist Indian Navy crew manning it.
Having delivered its cargo the warship turned around and headed out for the open sea. An hour later two Indian Navy missile boats linked up with it. Maintaining visual distance from each other the trio continued seawards with a slight north-western tilt in their bearing. By evening they would take up position in international waters and start a random patrol. As and when they were noticed, which they would definitely be, no one would be unduly perturbed; the Indian Navy routinely kept an eye on Karachi port.
Though not much activity was visible on the decks the watch on all three crafts had been doubled, all weapon systems had been readied and the crew primed to take up battle stations instantly. The warship and its accompanying missile boats were ready and loaded for bear. So was the flight of fighter-interceptors at the Indian Air Force base at Bhuj. The pilots had been briefed, the jets readied and moved to the highest operationally ready platform (ORP One). They were ready to touch the skies at almost negligible notice. At all times the three crafts made sure they were within comfortable striking distance of the fishing dhow – just in case the need arose for them to move in and protect it.
The warship had been transferring the container to the dhow when a convoy of three very ordinary looking vehicles left the Force 22 base and headed towards Amritsar. Moving with the convoy were two Force 22 officers – Ankita Bhatnagar was busy with her laptop in the leading vehicle while Manoj Khare played Spider Solitaire on his Ipaq in the third vehicle.
The demure Ankita was a flight lieutenant in the Indian Air Force. She was just over five-feet-two with a build that could best be described as spare. She made an odd pair with the tall dark and burly Captain Manoj Khare. Though on the face of it the two appeared to have little in common both were capable of doing things with computers that would have made Bill Gates sit up and take note. Had they walked into a computer company anywhere in the world they would have been instantly employed. Both were also physical fitness freaks, adept in a variety of martial arts and unarmed combat. Anbu had pulled them out of the humdrum of a regular Army life just as it was beginning to pall. The duo had been humorously nicknamed ‘Beauty and the Beast’ by their comrades in Force 22. ‘Bloody hell, Ankita. They’re calling you a beast!’ Khare had roared across the room when he heard the appellation the first time.
The convoy moved at a steady clip as it chewed up the miles across Punjab. They had just crossed Chandigarh when Khare’s mobile phone beeped. It was a text message from Bhatnagar: ‘Stop playing mind games and check your mail.’
‘It takes a mind to play mind games,’ Khare texted back before putting away the mobile phone and hauling out his laptop. The Net-Connect Data and Voice Card plugged into it allowed him to connect to the Internet whenever and wherever he pleased. He watched as his emails downloaded into Outlook. There were forty-five mails waiting for him. Forty-two of them peddled Viagra, various weight loss drugs, online gambling, stock alerts, pornography and home loan offerings. Of the three that remained, one was from his mother reminding him to be regular with his prayers and his meals, the second was from the Force 22 Accounts Officer informing him that his last batch of expense vouchers were not being processed for reimbursement since the signature was supposed to be on the revenue stamp and not beside it and the last was from Ankit
a. It had a huge attachment that took its own sweet time to open.
It was a map of the Indo–Pakistan border with the focal point being the area ahead of Amritsar. Overlaid on the map were the details of all Pakistani radar sites that covered this border. An arc defined the coverage areas of every radar. There were two such overlays; the first one marked the horizontal coverage and the second marked the vertical coverage. Meandering through these overlapping arcs was a thin red line. It seemed to probe through the radar coverage and find gaps in the vertical or horizontal planes as it went along. Khare whistled in admiration. The detailing Bhatnagar had done was impressive. Khare began a detailed study of the file as the convoy steadily wound its way along the highway towards Amritsar.
They would reach their destination – a cluster of trees flanking a little village just short of Amritsar, a few miles from the Indo–Pakistan border – by midnight. The site had been carefully selected after a detailed study of photographs downloaded from the Indian spy satellite that had passed overhead a few hours ago. No road or track led up to that cluster of trees, but the terrain seemed easily fordable by a 4 x 4 vehicle. All three vehicles in the convoy were four-wheeled drive and would face no difficulty navigating the terrain.
Right near the cluster of trees was a narrow piece of flat uncultivated land about 200 metres long. With no rain in that area for almost a month now the ground was firm and hard. For almost two kilometres on all sides there was no habitation barring the sporadic farmer’s hut. The nearest airfield, in Amritsar, was well over sixty kilometres away. All said and done it was an ideal spot for what the Force 22 officers had in mind.
A few minutes after Khare and Bhatnagar left Kasauli for Amritsar, two jeeps started out from the Military Intelligence detachment located in Bikaner. Both jeeps were the typical beat-up variety found in abundance on both sides of the border. In fact they were almost carbon copies of the one that Afzal and his ilk used. What the casual eye would miss was the souped-up engine and the fancy noise suppressors fitted on one of the jeeps. Everything possible had been done to reduce the audio and infrared profile of this vehicle and radar absorbing material had been extensively used to minimize radar detection. The same had also been done for the motorcycle which lay covered by a tarpaulin in the rear of the jeep. It sported desert tyres. A jerry can of fuel was lashed alongside it, and also concealed under the tarpaulin. The other four jerry cans of fuel that would be required by the jeep were lashed onto the small metallic brackets fitted on either side. This was more the norm than the exception in almost all such areas where fuel stations were few and far between. The speedometer and odometer of the jeep and motorcycle had been artfully replaced by state-of-the-art GPS systems. The jeeps headed out at a steady pace for Khajewala. All at once life in and around this small sleepy town in the Rajasthan desert was becoming a hotbed of activity.
