by Mukul Deva
It was going to be removed again tomorrow. If all went as planned.
The jeep was crossing through the cut in the border fence when, a couple of hundred miles to the west, another MIL-8 chopper with Indian Coastguard markings, pulled into a hover over an Indian Navy warship on the high sea around which two missile boats were busy frolicking. The chopper alighted lightly on the deck and Lieutenant Commanders Chandan Deopa, Ranjit Dhankar and Sunil Jaggi of the Indian Navy, all presently seconded to Force 22, jumped out. It took them a moment to retrieve their gear from the chopper, which then took off immediately and returned to the Air Force Base at Bhuj.
A few minutes later, the warship launched a small speedboat that sped away from it at high speed. The tiny speedboat did not reflect on any radar or raise any alarms as it skimmed over the choppy waters and headed for the fishing dhow, which was still moving at a steady pace and by now was barely forty miles out of Karachi.
Deopa and Dhankar were on board the speedboat along with two other sailors from the warship. It closed in on the dhow and tied up with it. Both Force 22 officers got on to the dhow while the two sailors returned to the Naval warship on the speedboat. Deopa activated his radio set and called in almost as soon as they were onboard the dhow. ‘Dolphin for Golf. We are on now. Confirm strength.’
‘You are strength five Dolphin,’ Jaggi replied from the warship.
‘Roger Golf. See you tomorrow.’
Both Deopa and Dhankar had cut their teeth in the Navy SEALS and were just beginning to feel frustrated with their careers when Anbu proposed Force 22. Both snapped up the offer since they no longer found anything special about the Special Forces.
From a small village in Haryana that boasted one son from every household in the Defence Services, Dhankar could have walked onto a movie set anywhere in the world and signed on as the archetypal villain; there was something hard and brutal about his eyes that sent an involuntary shiver up one’s spine. He was definitely not the kind of person you would like to bump into in a dark alley. Or anywhere.
His buddy Deopa, on the other hand, was amiability personified. He had an infectious smile and talked as much as he grinned. Deopa was so short and stocky that his course mates used to say that he qualified the minimum height stipulation in the medical selection test for the National Defence Academy because they had measured his girth instead of his height.
Appearances notwithstanding, the two men gave each other close competition when it came to the speed and skill with which they handled all kinds of weapons. Dhankar could hit a bird in the eye with almost any gun as efficiently as Deopa’s knife could slit a throat. The two men were as much at ease in water as they were on ground and equally adept at fighting in both elements.
Arriving on board the dhow they checked their gear and then, with the help of two crewmen, unpacked the Chariot mini-submarine that had been delivered to the dhow by the warship earlier that day. With a length of around seven metres and a diameter of about one, the Chariot mini-sub can accommodate two men and their complete weapon-load and stay submerged for over twelve hours covering ten knots per hour; it is the perfect vehicle for a covert insertion into enemy territory.
Just before midnight, about eight miles out of Karachi, the fishing dhow changed tack and released the Chariot into the sea. The Chariot took a minute or so to right itself and settle down on an even keel. Then it slid silently through the water as Dhankar guided it towards the Karachi coastline.
‘Why can’t they make these things a little more roomy?’ Deopa said and smiled when this elicited a string of curses, as Dhankar roundly abused the mothers and sisters of the Chariot designers for the mingy dimensions of the craft.
IQBAL
Omar was right. Maulavi Sahib was not pleased to see them. In fact it was clear from his expression that had he known they were coming he would have refused to meet them. ‘Hadn’t you been told to wait for orders? Didn’t they clearly tell you that I was not to be contacted?’ he said curtly when he saw them waiting outside his room.
Omar was mumbling a reply when Iqbal cut in: ‘Something important came up. It was imperative that I meet you.’ His tone was mild but there was nothing remotely apologetic in it.
Maulavi Sahib unlocked the flimsy looking lock on the door and irritably ushered them inside the same small room that they had met in everyday soon after he had recruited them. Despite his obvious ill humour, which he made no effort to hide, the Maulavi was a man of fixed habits. He motioned for them to sit down as he went straight to the small metal box in the corner of the room. He opened the box and emptied the contents of his pockets into it. It only took a brief glance for Iqbal to confirm that there were still several bundles of cash in the box. Iqbal watched the Maulavi replace the key in his pocket.
Iqbal heard Omar recount the story of their adventures in Pakistan. He saw the Maulavi listen to everything keenly yet with a pretence of impatience. He was clearly torn between his curiosity to know everything about the terrorist camp and the troubled restlessness of being burdened with a situation he did not wish to have to deal with.
When Omar finished with his narrative the Maulavi took up his usual refrain: ‘Allah’s will…the jihad…a blow to the kafir…martyrdom…’
Iqbal was not really listening. He felt detached and removed. The Maulavi’s words no longer swayed him. He sat in stony silence, his fingers caressing the knife that was stuck in his waistband and concealed by the shawl he was draped in. He longed to pull out the knife and drive it deep into the withered body of the man talking at him but he restrained himself.
Somewhere during the one-sided conversation the Maulavi sensed that he did not have Iqbal’s attention. He looked up. What he read on Iqbal’s face unnerved him. He stopped talking abruptly and stood up. ‘I would like both of you to leave now.’
The Maulavi scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Omar. ‘This is my phone number in case you need to talk to me. Let me talk to the others and find out what you should do next.’ He gave Iqbal a long searching look, as though seeking concurrence. ‘Okay? But don’t call me unless it is imperative. And don’t come to see me again… no matter what happens…’
Iqbal nodded briefly as he felt Omar take his arm and tug him towards the door. ‘Let us go to my home now. You can stay with me for the time being, okay?’ He looked at Iqbal questioningly, but did not wait for a reply. ‘Let’s go.’
The two men walked out onto the road and up to a waiting autorickshaw. Iqbal and Omar climbed in and Omar gave directions to the driver. ‘Mohammedpur.’ The autorickshaw pulled out into the chaotic traffic that flowed all around them as Omar began to save the Maulavi’s mobile number on his own phone.
STEALTH
As the Chariot sped its underwater course to Karachi, the four jeep-borne Force 22 officers used the gap between the Rangers’ BOPs at Ranabhana and Lambawala Toba to cross into Pakistan. Due to three halts forced on them by the movement of the Rangers patrols they took a little over four hours to cover the next seventy kilometres. The patrols of course did not pose any significant threat to them since they were being guided by the Krishna UAVs circling overhead and unseen in the sky.
The terrain they traversed was rough and undeveloped. ‘I guess they are too busy setting up madrassas, training terrorists and growing opium to develop their economy,’ Tiwathia muttered. The others laughed, softly: ‘Why the hell would you want to grow sunflower and wheat when you can grow opium instead?’
They were deep in enemy territory now. Danger lurked behind every sand dune; anyone and everyone they might run into was the enemy. The slightest mistake or error in judgment could result in death. And, if they had the misfortune of being taken alive, death would be exceedingly painful. Anyone who had seen the mutilated bodies of the soldiers of the Indian patrol whom the Pakistanis had captured during their Kargil intrusion could bear testimony to that.
It was almost 2300 hours when they skirted the Pakistani military garrison at Fort Abbas and h
it the road to Bahawalpur a little ahead of the town. Just before getting onto the road they stopped for a minute. ‘You take the rear plates,’ Tony told Sami as they both jumped out.
A tall lanky man with an unruly head of hair, Captain Kuldeep Ahlawat was an an expert with explosives. For some strange reason his mother had nicknamed him Tony. In direct contrast to Tony, Captain Mohammed Sami, his operational buddy pair, distrusted explosives. Although he was quite adept at using them he much rather preferred the scoped sniper rifle that he carried today.
Working swiftly together it took them barely two minutes to change the plates on the jeep. When the jeep hit the road to Bahawalpur it bore a Pakistani number plate.
‘There is no way the number plates or the vehicle will stand up to a close scrutiny, but it should get you past the casual glance of other passing vehicles. In the worst case it may create doubt and give you those few critical seconds that you need to act,’ the Force 22 Intelligence Officer had said. ‘In any case, the road is not very heavily used. There is not likely to be much traffic on it at that time of the night. I have personally reviewed the satellite logs of the past few weeks and barring the odd military vehicle the road is mostly deserted.’
The four men rode in silence as the jeep kicked the gravel through the chilly October night, burning the 117-odd kilometres to Bahawalpur.
‘Tango for Fox.’ The radio set in Tony’s hand squawked to life. Tony double-clicked the transmit button. He did not want to transmit unless it was absolutely imperative. ‘Get off the road now. You have three inbounds. They’re about fourteen hundred. Sorry for the delayed warning but they seem to have come out of nowhere.’
Tiwathia, who was at the wheel, swerved off the road immediately. He hit the lights and killed the engine as the jeep came to a halt behind a small sand dune about forty feet from the road. The four men waited in silence as an Army jeep and two three-tonners thundered past in the night. Their grip on their weapons relaxed as the vehicles vanished in the distance. Tiwathia waited for another few minutes before he gunned the engine and hit the road again.
Set amidst sand dunes and poorly cultivated cotton fields stretching on all sides, the remote rocky outcrop two miles outside Bahawalpur town was not only sans houses or population it was also at easy striking distance from the target.
Bahawalpur town was notorious for the rabid religious fundamentalists and the hardcore criminal types who gave the cops a perennial run for their money. Surrounded though it was by fields of cotton and corn, the sleepy little town had a reputation for Sunni extremism. Consequently, the town police was up and about at all times and more than quick to pull the trigger when they saw something out of the ordinary. ‘Buying a gun there is as easy as ordering a pizza from Dominos,’ the Force 22 Intelligence Officer had said wryly, adding, ‘and not half as expensive.’
Tony and Sami got off the jeep, quickly offloaded the motorcycle and wheeled it out of sight into the rocky outcrop. The jerry can of fuel required for the motorcycle was buried next to it. Sami retrieved three almost identical rocks and placed them in a neat triangle exactly ten feet to the right of the spot where the bike and fuel were buried. The rocks would mark the spot. Katoch took two jerry cans from the four strapped onto the sides of the jeep and emptied them into the jeep’s fuel tank. The empty jerry cans were carefully strapped back onto the jeep.
Then the four men shook hands with each other.
Courtesy the Krishna’s miracle eyes, sitting far away in the Khajewala and Kasauli command centres, Tiwari, Vashisht and Anbu saw the one green dot split into two on their electronic battle boards. Fox One stayed static on the outskirts of Bahawalpur while Fox Two began to move away silently.
Katoch and Tiwathia climbed back into the jeep and drove off into the night. They headed back towards the road that ran from Bahawalpur to Multan. Just short of Lodhran was the bridge they had to use to cross the Sutlej.
‘Tango for Fox Two. The bridge is clear. Also, we are now at the end of our tether. Another few minutes and then we have to close shop for the night. Stay loose guys and God speed.’
The safety blanket of the night was retreating fast and they still had another ninety kilometres to go. Tiwathia double-checked their location on the GPS as they moved off.
Katoch and Tiwathia had the advantage of having trained together at the National Defence Academy. They had taken well to being back together again, though it did take some time for both of them to adjust their ideas of each other, from the RAW recruits they had known each other as, to the men they had grown into. They drew up the jeep and killed the engine. Working quickly they dug a small pit in the side of one of the sand dunes and concealed the tarpaulin-wrapped motorcycle in it. The tarpaulin would keep the bike safe from damage by the sand. It took them twenty minutes. Then they both sat down to wait. ‘We have a couple of hours at least.’ Tony checked the luminous dial of his wristwatch. ‘Might as well get some rest.’
‘You go ahead and take a nap. I’ll take the first watch.’
Before Tony hit the sack, both men took a little time to memorize the spot where the motorcycle was buried and fix down its relative location from the town. They knew there would not be much time for scouring the desert on their way out after the mission.
Two hours later, hefting their small packs, they moved off at a brisk pace towards the town. Reaching the outskirts they stopped again for a closer, more careful look at the town of Bahawalpur. Somewhere in the labyrinth of lanes and houses clustered ahead of them slept the man they had come this far for.
At about the time Tony and Sami set out for Bahawalpur, Katoch brought the jeep to a halt in a remote stretch of the desert about two miles southwest of Multan. Even though the chance of it being discovered was remote, they covered it with a camouflage net. Then Tiwathia and Katoch grabbed their gear and set off for the town at a brisk pace.
Tony and Sami were starting their approach to Bahawalpur and Tiwathia and Katoch were throwing the camouflage netting on the jeep outside Multan when Deopa and Dhankar emerged silently from under the ocean and slipped onto the beach.
Deopa and Dhankar had sunk the Chariot at a spot deep enough in the water to ensure it was not found in a hurry. They’d covered the remaining distance with powerful, silent strokes till they’d reached the shore. Running on light feet till they hit a grove of trees some distance from Gotismailkarachi, a fishing village about four kilometres outside Karachi, they’d slid out of their wetsuits and buried them deep in the soft ground.
Up ahead they could see the sparkle of Karachi city lighting up the horizon. Changing into more appropriate clothing for what lay ahead they hoisted their packs and started on the last leg of their journey.
Fox One comprising Mohammed Sami and Tony Ahlawat was entering Bahawalpur; Fox Two comprising Pradeep Katoch and Vikram Tiwathia was on the outskirts of Multan; and Deopa and Dhankar had entered the suburbs of Karachi. Three prongs of the Indian counter-strike had moved into place.
As he paced the floor of the control room in Kasauli, Colonel Anbu watched the tiny green dots converge on their destinations on his glowing battle board. The stress of impending combat coiled tighter in the pit of his stomach. As promised by the Indian Prime Minister, justice was about to be delivered.
IQBAL
The autorickshaw had a little problem getting to the house as it was located at the end of the narrow, twisting alley that broke off from the main road just after the bus stop opposite Safdarjung Enclave. Despite the late hour the door was answered almost as soon as they rang the bell. The pretty young girl who answered the door looked at Omar in surprise and delight. ‘Bhaijaan!’ she squealed as she hurled herself at Omar. They hugged hard as she shouted – ‘Ammi, Abbu! Look who is here!’ Breaking free from her brother’s embrace she caught hold of his hand and whooping with delight began to drag him inside. Omar was laughing as he allowed himself to be pulled inside. ‘Come, Iqbal,’ he waved at him with a wide grin.
Within minutes the room was
full of people as Omar’s parents and siblings materialized from the rooms within. Iqbal watched the family reunion awkwardly and felt his head begin to throb. The agony of his own loss was stark as he watched Omar’s mother and sisters cluster around him. ‘This is Iqbal,’ Omar introduced him to his relatives. ‘We were together at the training institute…he is a good friend.’
‘Salaam Waleikum,’ Iqbal smiled politely. He noticed the wide-eyed look that Omar’s teenage sister was giving him. It unsettled him further. As soon as he could Iqbal pleaded a headache and tiredness. He could not wait to be alone.
Omar took him to a room as soon as dinner was over. ‘I know what you must be going through. You get some sleep.’ He paused apologetically. ‘I would like to spend some time with my family. I’m meeting them after very long.’ He gave a small smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Iqbal gave him a brief tight smile and watched him leave the room with relief. Then he placed the rucksack on the bed beside him and began to construct the device he needed for his next move.
When Omar came into the room next morning to wake up his friend he found the room empty.
Iqbal knew the man he sought would not be in his room when he reached there; he would be at the mosque attending the Fajr prayers. He was right. It took Iqbal only a few seconds to pick the small lock on the door. Bolting the door from inside, he went to work swiftly. The lock on the metal box took a little longer. Iqbal quickly went through the contents. He removed the bundles of cash, the small address book and the mobile telephone that was inside and transferred them to his rucksack. The cash was in bundles of thousand-rupee notes. There were eight of them.
