LASHKAR

by Mukul Deva

  ‘Those damn choppers are not good news at all,’ Tony remarked as they raced through the desert, putting the maximum possible distance between themselves and the place they had transmitted from last. ‘I wish we had a couple of MANPADS (Man Portable Air Defence Systems) with us. I would have shown those buggers a thing or two.’

  IQBAL

  0700 hours, 08 November 2005, Terrorist Camp in Jungle above Hari, Kashmir.

  Omar’s stomach heaved as he looked at the mutilated body of the sentry lying before him. The rank odour of death hung heavily about. Omar did not want to look at the body, but was unable to drag his eyes away from it. He was trying to shake the horror from his mind and figure out what to do next when he heard a faint rustling sound. Nervously he imagined Iqbal creeping up on him with a blood-soaked knife in his hand. He was turning to run when he heard a man say: ‘Hold your fire! Don’t shoot! I know this man.’

  Omar’s mind screamed in relief as he recognized the sentry who had been guarding the camp when Iqbal and he had gone there last week.

  ‘You?’ The sentry was accompanied by two other men, one of whom looked about the same age as Omar. ‘What are you doing here? Why did you kill…?’

  ‘I-I didn’t.’ Omar tried but couldn’t overcome the quaver in his voice.

  ‘And where is the other chap who was with you?’

  ‘He is the one who did this.’ Omar pulled himself together with a huge effort and began to talk, the words tumbling out of his mouth. The shattered radio set and missing weapons convinced them of Iqbal’s grim purpose more than Omar’s breathless narrative did. He noticed the glance that the sentry exchanged with the older man. ‘You have to help me,’ Omar pleaded.

  ‘Of course we will. We will come with you,’ Hasibul, the younger chap, assured him.

  The older men exchanged glances again. ‘I have a better idea,’ the sentry said. ‘You and Hasibul go ahead to Chakoti. Meanwhile, we two shall go across to Camp Shamsher which is two valleys away. We will use the radio set there to warn the Maulana.’

  Before Omar could object the two had turned around and trudged off. Omar watched them go. He turned to Hasibul, wanting to share his misgivings about whether the other two would even head for the next camp at all, then he stopped, unsure if it was the right thing to do. ‘Don’t you think we should also get a move on?’ he asked instead.

  ‘No. We will wait for sunset before we move out. The Pakistan Army post at Chakoti is barely three hours away. It would be suicidal to move around near the LOC in daylight. We wouldn’t last a minute,’ Hasibul replied.

  No matter what route you take to Chakoti, that point has to be crossed; you cannot avoid it. Iqbal remembered the words of the dying guard. Iqbal forced his mind away from the man whom he had tortured and killed the previous night. He scanned the track lying ahead of him. It stood still and silent. Almost five hours had passed since the darkness of the night had silenced the sun when Iqbal heard a faint scraping sound. Iqbal was about to pass it off as a figment of his overwrought imagination when the first man hove into view, silhouetted against the skyline. He was barely forty metres away. The second man appeared a little behind him. They were moving slowly and cautiously, picking their way up an almost non-existent mountain track.

  Iqbal knew he would not be seen as long as he stood still. At night it is generally motion that gives us away, the field craft instructor had told them at least a hundred times during their training.

  As he continued to watch Iqbal realized that the man leading the way seemed to know the route well. The second man was a few feet behind him. Iqbal only recognized Omar when he came over the ledge and for a few seconds was clearly outlined against the skyline. The presence of the other man bothered Iqbal. He had visualized a special encounter with Omar with no room for another person in it. Iqbal’s mind shifted gears furiously as he tried to improvise and figure out a way to handle this new development.

  Omar and the other man were now even closer. At one point they were so close to Iqbal that he could have reached out and touched them. He could hear Omar’s breath wheeze in and out of him as he walked. How can he not pick up my presence? Iqbal’s hands tightened on the rifle butt and he got the weapon ready to cut them down the minute that happened.

  The man accompanying Omar stopped suddenly. As though he had heard the working of Iqbal’s mind. He cocked his head as he listened harder. Behind him Omar also froze. Then they moved on.

  According to the sentry he had interrogated last night, the Indian patrols were the most active from this point onward. Iqbal waited for them to get a reasonable distance ahead before he got up and started to follow them.

  Omar and the other man silently skirted the Indian post. Iqbal, maintaining a constant hundred to hundred and fifty metres distance behind them, followed suit. Given the ruggedness of the terrain that little distance seemed a lifetime away.

  The light of a new day was beginning to creep through the darkness of the night when the muted sounds of Chakoti Post fell upon Iqbal’s ears.

  ‘Hoy! Who goes there?’ The voice of the Chakoti Post sentry pierced the early morning fog. He seemed to be using some kind of a hailer since his words echoed hollowly.

  Iqbal hit the ground immediately and lay very still. The two men walking ahead also stopped. Iqbal heard one of them shout something back. The wind was blowing away from him so he was unable to make out what was said. Whatever they said did not convince the post sentry. ‘Wait there!’ The sentry’s amplified voice boomed again.

  Iqbal saw the Chakoti Post sentry turn towards the inner part of the post and gesticulate repeatedly towards the minefield, in the direction where Omar and the other man were standing. He seemed to be calling out to someone.

  A minute later Iqbal saw another man emerge from the depths of the post and join the sentry. The two men spoke for a moment before the sentry turned and called out something to Omar and the second man. Iqbal heard Omar shout back. This time it was clearly Omar who was doing the talking. Finally the sentry stepped forward and began to weave his way through the minefield that lay along the entire front of the post. He must be following the same kind of markings that they had used for us when we had crossed the minefield. The marking must not be so obvious…that is why he is stopping to check every now and then.

  Seeing that everyone’s attention was diverted Iqbal quickly moved to a more advantageous position. It took the sentry almost fifteen minutes to get across to where the two men waited on the outer fringe of the minefield. By now Iqbal had taken position behind a rock about a hundred metres away. Through the sights of his rifle he watched the sentry come up to the two men. The three of them stood together and conversed for a moment then the sentry turned and started walking back towards the post. Omar and the second man followed his lead. They were following him closely, like a line of geese.

  The best time to hit an enemy patrol is when it is about to enter its camp or post. The familiar camp right in front of their eyes makes them feel safe psychologically and their guard is down. The words of the tactics instructor at the training camp echoed in Iqbal’s mind. They think they are safe because they can see their post clearly. Troops seldom realize that they are still as exposed as when they were a kilometre away from camp.

  The three men had covered another twenty metres when Iqbal crawled to the flank and took up position behind a larger rock just off the trail. He settled himself in as comfortably as he could against the cold damp earth and sighted carefully on the sentry leading the way. The three men were now almost midway into the minefield. Iqbal could feel them slowing down for yet another route check. Iqbal’s breath stilled for a fraction of a second as the rifle steadied in his hands. Steeling himself, Iqbal fired.

  The sound of the rifle shot echoed in the stillness of the morning. Iqbal was sure it would give away his position. Instinct urged him to cut and run. Training and logic held him back. Nobody would be expecting it. Why would anyone be watching this area? The next shot will be dicier. T
he third will definitely locate me and the minute they find me I am dead meat.

  Iqbal held his position as he saw the shot strike home. It gave him a strange sense of satisfaction as he saw the clearly visible puff of dust and debris that spurted in the air as the bullet slammed into the sentry leading the way. The man was flung forward. Rapidly switching targets Iqbal fired another two shots in quick succession at Omar and the man with him. Both shots were a waste of ammunition.

  As the first shot rang out and the sentry leading the way fell, the two men following closely behind him froze for a long second. Then some half-remembered battle drill must have erupted in the mind of the man accompanying Omar.

  Run-Drop-Crawl-Sight-Fire. That is what they teach you to do when you are confronted by enemy fire. Run…It is imperative to get away from the spot where the enemy has already ranged in his weapon. Drop…to ensure he cannot hit you easily. Crawl…It is equally imperative to move away from the spot where you dropped because the enemy has seen you drop there and will be sighting on it very soon. Sight…Having evaded the enemy thus you must now try to see where he is firing at you from. And then…Fire…to make sure you kill the enemy before he kills you.

  Hasibul followed the drill instinctively. He had gone about three steps when there was a sharp thunderclap and a loud, hideous scream. This was followed a second later by another thunderclap as a black cloud arose from the spot where he had been. The poor sod had run smack into the minefield. He must have stepped on a mine and then landed on another one when he fell. Unfortunately both the mines were simple anti-personnel mines. Had they been the fancier, jumping fragmentation ones that leap out of the ground and detonate at waist height spraying the area around with deadly metal shrapnel, Omar would have died with him.

  The early morning light was still not good enough and the situation too confusing for anyone to determine exactly where the fire was coming from. Iqbal raised the sights of his weapon and fired two more rounds at the men rushing towards the Chakoti sentry post.

  Iqbal had not bothered to aim the last two shots properly because whether he hit anything or not was irrelevant. The fact was that the return fire was going to be immediate and plentiful.

  Iqbal had not been wrong to bank on the inherent instinctive trigger-happy response of sentries on active border posts the world over. On this particular line of control nerves were always on edge and sentries almost obsessively keyed up. The roar of several guns broke out as Iqbal pulled back. The Pakistanis let go with everything they had on hand. They aimed for Omar and the area around. This was logical since he was the only stranger on the scene and his arrival had coincided with mayhem breaking loose on their post. It was easy to assume that he was responsible for it.

  In any case, Iqbal had no intention of hanging around any longer. Moving rapidly he left his position and started crawling back to the dip in the ground about thirty metres down the trail.

  He knew the Chakoti Post would launch a patrol soon. So would the Indian post on the other side of the mines and fences, not too far away. He had no desire to be anywhere in the area when that happened. He chuckled as he fled deeper into Pakistan Occupied Kashmir. Friendly fire is such a bitch.

  1815 hours, 31 October, 2005. Somewhere in the Desert, South of Fort Abbas.

  The Pakistani monitoring stations once again picked up the signal transmitted by Sami. Brief though the message was, it was enough for them to home in on the Force 22 commandos. By now the Pakistanis were fully aware that something seriously untoward was brewing on their western borders.

  The Fort Abbas Garrison Commander’s phone rang again. ‘No matter what happens, no matter how many they are, they must not be allowed to get away across the border.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m pulling out all stops.’

  ‘Yeah, do that, but nothing goes across the IB.’

  Putting down the phone the Garrison Commander got on to the radio set and started getting on everyone’s case.

  This second set of transmissions allowed the Pakistan monitoring stations to triangulate the location of the radio set on the ground and get a precise fix. ‘Control for Mike One and Two. This is your new bearing.’

  Immediately the two Cobra choppers altered course as they got a more specific area in which to concentrate their search.

  Back at the command post, Vashisht saw the whole picture developing. He had a bird’s eye view of both of the Pakistani patrols, the two attack helicopters converging on them and the Force 22 officers. He also had the advantage of knowing exactly what was going on whereas the Pakistanis were still struggling to put together the larger picture. ‘Tango for Fox. Head south-west, approximately twelve hundred.’

  He gave them a bearing that sent them straight in the direction of the Pakistani patrol from Ranabhana BOP heading their way. When they were about six hundred metres short of the patrol Vashisht transmitted again. ‘You’re now heading straight for the bandits from Romeo Bravo.’

  Click. Click.

  ‘Tango for Fox, halt now and acknowledge my transmission, but keep it short. The Snakes are close now. Coming up on your port side. ETA five minutes at max.’

  ‘Reading you loud and clear Tango,’ Sami acknowledged crisply. ‘Port? Don’t you bloody go Navy on me at this time…what the fuck is port side?’

  Vashisht laughed as he told him.

  ‘Roger Tango. I’m getting the drift.’ By now Sami had understood what Vashisht was planning. ‘We are standing by.’

  Sami’s subsequent transmissions had given the Pakistanis ample opportunity to home in on him. He knew they would only be able to pick up the transmissions, but not read them since the transmissions were coded.

  The coding process was not very simple, but given the modern code cracking technology that was available these days it would not take much time for the messages to be read in the clear. However, the Force 22 officers knew that by the time the message became readable it would also become redundant. That was the problem with most real-time battle intelligence; it was only worth something if it was available immediately. Otherwise it was only good for operational post-mortems and military history books.

  ‘Tango for Fox. Get ready to rock. Ground bandits at three hundred and Snakes coming up overhead now.’

  Click. Click.

  The Pakistanis were tracking the transmissions continuously.

  ‘Mike One and Two the target is now in area…’

  It took another minute for the Pakistani controller to guide the Rangers patrol to the new location. He had to do both separately since the choppers and the Rangers were operating on different channels primarily due to the different types of sets the two were using. In fact, in the heat of the moment no one had remembered to even tell the Rangers that the choppers were also on the way.

  Vashisht saw the change in course of both helicopters and also the men on ground. He watched carefully for a few moments, confirming that they had taken the bait.

  ‘Fox this is Tango. Move now as advised. Guns hot. Radio silence till Chengiz Khan. Chengiz stand by to cover Fox. Over.’

  ‘Chengiz for Tango and Fox. Roger that.’

  Sami did not reply. He just double-clicked the transmit button in confirmation.

  Then the four commandos were off.

  The Pakistani helicopters took another two minutes to reach the precise area they had been given. During this time the Force 22 officers had withdrawn from the location. Moving rapidly in a short arc they circled the Pakistani patrol that was by now almost at the same spot from where Sami had transmitted the last two signals.

  Vikram reconfirmed the bearing and location with his GPS locator. ‘This way, guys!’ he pointed. ‘Tony, all yours…and catch up fast.’

  The three men raced away as Tony Ahlawat, who was bringing up the rear, stopped and took up position. He waited till one of the helicopters was almost directly over the Pakistani patrol. It was circling slowly and noisily, scanning the desert with a huge searchlight. He knew that most of the Pak
istani patrolmen would be busy following the light with their eyes. The glare would render them totally night blind for a while.

  Using the rifle he had retrieved from the jeep he fired two deliberate shots into the helicopter. ‘Got you!’ he hissed triumphantly when he saw the chopper lurch momentarily before steadying itself. That was good enough for him. Shouldering his weapon, he ran after the other three commandos towards the Indian border.

  The sound of the two shots was almost completely lost in the roar of the helicopters’ rotors. Most of the Pakistani patrol party was not even aware of the firing. But there was no way the Pakistani pilots could have missed it. The co-pilot took one of the two bullets in the tender-most part of his anatomy. His startled yelp and sudden start as he soiled himself almost caused a total loss of control and sent the helicopter plunging wildly towards the ground. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ the pilot screamed in panic as he wrested back the controls and managed to correct it just in time.

  ‘I’ve been shot,’ the co-pilot moaned.

  ‘Shot?’ The pilot instinctively pulled away from the sudden threat that had emerged from the desert. He banked the helicopter away and aligning it towards the general area, from where he assumed they had been fired upon, cut loose with his machine-guns. With honour duly satisfied, he gave an urgent call to his base.

  ‘Control, I have taken fire. My co-pilot is hit. I also have possible damage to the bird. Returning to base now.’

  ‘Mike one where is the fire coming from?’ The agitated Controller asked trying to get a clear picture of what was happening out there.

  ‘Who the hell knows Control! There are lots of people down there. I need to go now. We’re hit. I don’t have time for this shit.’ He wrinkled his nose as he spoke. The smell of crap was getting stronger. He just couldn’t wait to get out the chopper.

  The pilots of the second helicopter heard the entire conversation. They duly noted the threat that had suddenly emerged from the desert sands and arrived on the scene with guns blazing. The desert sands churned madly as hundreds of machine-gun shells blazed out from the twin guns mounted on either side of the chopper.