by Deva, Mukul
Iqbal turned and began to run for his life.
He had barely started moving when the first wave of Hellfire missiles from the unseen, unheard UAV circling overhead erupted out of the darkness like glowing pinpricks of light and vanished into the village.
For a fleeting moment, the fiery-tailed missiles simply melted into the darkened cluster of houses. Then a series of massive, blinding explosions ripped the village apart. A hurricane of debris, human and material, ballooned out. The second set of missiles struck seconds later, adding to the carnage.
Then the screams began.
A chunk of a wall of the hut nearest to Iqbal leapt into the air with an explosive snort, driving him into the ground. His hands instinctively fanned out to break the fall as he hit the ground hard. Dust and debris flew everywhere. It seeped into his lungs, making him cough. Throwing off the brick and mortar, his head ringing with the noise, Iqbal fought his way up. That was when he heard the dreaded whir of chopper blades cleaving through the still night air.
Special Forces! Bloody hell!
The rapidly escalating sound made it clear they were closing in fast. Iqbal estimated that it would take a minute at the most for the choppers to reach, another minute or two for the shock troopers to hit the ground. And they would come in with their guns blazing.
These guys don’t mess about. They are here to kill.
Iqbal wondered who they were after. He knew it had to be a really big fish and the intelligence had to be rock-solid, otherwise no commander would risk sending in a Spec Ops unit.
Iqbal knew he had to get out of the area if he wanted to stay alive. But he had barely taken a few steps when something rammed into him, once again knocking him down.
This time it was a huge man, partially undressed. He had come out from the now decimated hut in front of Iqbal. The entire left side of his body was covered with blood. The smell of charred flesh and burnt hair emanated from him.
Working on blind instinct, Iqbal regained his footing, threw his arm around the blood-soaked hulk’s waist and began to guide him away from the village towards which a host of armed men were headed. He could hear the commotion as helicopters began to circle the target area.
Ideal for night-time low-level insertion and extraction of Special Force teams, the two American MH-47E choppers had 7.62 mm miniguns mounted on both the side doors. The M60D 7.62 mm machine gun on the rear cargo ramp of each chopper put down a lethal blanket of suppressive fire, ensuring the other two birds could offload the strike teams without interference from anyone on the ground.
Iqbal was unable see any of this from his position but, having witnessed Force 22 teams practise search-and-destroy missions several times, he could visualize how dangerous it was for anyone caught in the line of fire. He knew he had to get as far away from the doomed village as possible. He also knew he couldn’t abandon the injured man because he would draw the troops into the area. He shuffled away as fast as he could, dragging the man along.
He managed to get about 50 metres away from Jalakhel as the continuous roar of covering fire from the choppers died away and the shocktroopers hit the ground. Almost at once, short, sharp bursts of small arms-fire erupted behind him.
Fuck! They have landed! He hurried towards the narrow ravine along which he had come up to the village. He had barely made it to the edge when he heard the sound of gunmen rampaging through the darkness, accompanied by the hiss of radio sets and the ammunition-conserving, two or three round bursts that Special Forces are trained to fire.
They couldn’t be more than 50 feet away. Iqbal knew the time had come to go to ground; after all, movement is always a sure giveaway. Lowering the injured man against a rock, he drew the pistol from his waistband and cautiously raised himself up, trying to peer over the lip of the ravine at the village.
A man suddenly emerged in front of Iqbal, barely ten feet away. Even through the layer of camouflage paint, the expression on his face, in the sporadic light of the several fires that had seized Jalakhel by now, showed that he was equally surprised. The fact that the commando was Caucasian added to Iqbal’s shock.
For a second, both men froze. Then training reasserted itself with blinding speed and the weapons in both hands exploded to life almost simultaneously.
Although a solid reliable weapon in most circumstances, Iqbal’s 7.65 mm, Type 77 Chinese-make pistol was no match for the 5.56 mm calibre M-4A1 Special-Operations Peculiar-Modified carbine that the American SOF soldier wielded.
A shortened variant of the M-16A2 rifle, the light weight, gas-operated, air-cooled M-4A1 SOPMOD carbine with a collapsible stock was designed to provide the American SOF soldier with the capability to tailor the configuration of his weapon in accordance with the mission and operational environment. It was a formidable weapon with an array of accessories that increased operator survivability with enhanced weapon performance, target acquisition, signature suppression and fire control.
The Laser Aiming Module fitted on it imparted an eerie Star Wars quality to the M-4A1. It was pointed directly at Iqbal. He could not see it, of course, but his mind could almost feel the tiny red dot thrown out by the LAM. It seemed to be burning a hole between his eyes. Iqbal aligned his weapon at the shock trooper racing towards him and fired.
In the time it took Iqbal to unleash his first bullet, the SOF operative had triggered off two short bursts. The only thing that saved Iqbal was the fact that he was still woozy from the onslaught of the debris. When he raised his pistol to fire, the sudden movement made his foot slip on the loose shale beneath. As he stumbled, Iqbal dropped below the mouth of the ravine and both bursts from the M-4 whined away metallically in the darkness above his head. The terrifying buzz and strong smell of cordite froze him into inaction.
Fortune, they say, favours the brave. Sometimes dumb luck also has a say. This was one of those moments.
When Iqbal lost his balance, his hand hit the edge of the ravine. The bullet that should have caught the commando somewhere in the safe confines of the Kevlar jacket protecting his body, instead took on a higher trajectory when Iqbal’s pistol hit the ground and jerked the barrel up. It shot past the SOF operator’s body armour and found its way just above his upper lip. The tiny piece of lead ploughed through his frontal faceplate and came to rest in his head. He died instantly, his body landing with a dust-billowing thud, inches from Iqbal’s face. Iqbal was unable to tear his eyes away from the man’s unflinching gaze.
It seemed like a very long time before Iqbal began to breathe again. He knew the others would come looking for the guy he had just shot. Forcing himself into action, Iqbal hauled up his injured comrade and began to move down the slope. They were almost at the base when Iqbal heard voices overhead. He pressed his companion and himself into the face of the mountain, ensuring they were invisible from above. Soon he heard the men moving away.
Iqbal knew the commandos would be in a tearing hurry to get out of there before a coherent ground response to the raid could develop. And rightly so, since the success and survival of Special Forces depended purely on speedy infiltration and a speedier getaway.
The gunfire, the hiss of radio transmissions and the sound of men moving around faded away. It was replaced with the rumble of chopper blades and a renewed roar of gunfire that covered the retreat of the helicopters till they were out of range of the small arms fire.
Finally, the noise died down. With shocking suddenness, barring sporadic screams of pain and grief, silence returned to the night.
Still feeling unsafe and shaken by his near encounter with death, Iqbal huddled against the rock face. He stirred only when he heard voices floating through the darkness. The Pashtun accent was hard to miss, making it clear that the search for survivors had begun.
‘Here!’ Iqbal called out. ‘There are two of us here.’
‘Come on up,’ someone from the search party yelled back.
‘I need help. This guy with me is badly hurt.’
‘Hang on then. We are coming down.’
&nbs
p; Iqbal heard several footsteps begin the descent down the ravine. Small stones and debris slithered down the slope like a continual advance guard. Iqbal found the sound strangely comforting. Five minutes later, a group of men encircled them, the yellow light of their torches dancing on Iqbal and the wounded man.
‘Allah be praised,’ one of them exclaimed excitedly. ‘It is him!’
This triggered an immediate reaction from the others. The light increased as several more torches came alive and more men could be heard rushing down the ravine. Iqbal was wondering what the fuss was all about when his gaze fell on the long, angular scar on the cheek of the injured man. Recognition was instant.
The Ameer-ul-Momineem.
Iqbal could not believe his luck. At the same time he cursed himself for not recognizing the Ameer earlier. I could have easily left him to die, or even cut him down myself.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man questioning Iqbal seemed more puzzled than alarmed. ‘I have not seen you before.’
‘That is because I just got here.’
‘From where? Who are you?’
‘Oye! Enough of that for now,’ another man interrupted. ‘Let us get the Ameer up first. We need to take care of him, he is bleeding heavily.’
‘You guys take him.’ The interrogator was persistent. ‘I am going to search this man. For all you know, he could be the one who directed those firangi bastards here.’ The others nodded and rough hands began to search Iqbal.
‘Then why would I have dragged him here to safety?’ Iqbal retorted, knowing that offence was the best possible defence right now. But he did not fight the search, knowing they would find nothing suspicious on him.
‘He is clean.’ The searcher stood back and surveyed Iqbal.
‘Come on, we don’t have time,’ one of the men called out. ‘Get moving and bring him along.’
Keeping a close watch on Iqbal, the men followed the stretcher on which the Ameer was being carted.
They were soon moving away from the village.
‘I thought the village is that way,’ Iqbal pointed.
‘It is,’ the man next to him replied, ‘but there is no way we are going back there now. They might send in more of their bloody missiles. It is obvious that someone has squealed and those gora shaitans knew the Ameer was here. They must have known, otherwise there is no way in hell they would have sent their commandos into Pakistan. Drones and missiles, yes, but men – no way! The Americans have never done that before.’ He jerked his head angrily. ‘Someone has betrayed us. The bastard… wait till we find him.’ An echo of curses sounded from the others.
There were three vans waiting when they finally reached level ground. The engines were already running and they sped away into the darkness as soon as the group was on board. Iqbal was pushed into the rear of the last vehicle.
The headlights were off but even in the faint light of the running lamps, the drivers navigated the narrow mountain terrain with practised ease. To avoid further questioning, Iqbal hunched forward and pretended to doze off. He need not have worried; every man in the vehicle was only talking about the Ameer’s injuries and whether he would survive. For a moment the traitor, whoever he was, seemed to have faded from their minds. Of course, the man who had saved the Ameer featured in the conversation more frequently than Iqbal would have liked, both during the drive and later at the village where they halted. Everyone came to gawk at him, some came to talk to him. In no time at all, they had even given him a name. ‘Al Hindustani!’ The Indian.
‘Indian! The Ameer wants you. Now!’ The battle-scarred mujahideen was dressed in the trademark black attire that the Ameer’s close-proximity protection detail wore. In the four days that he had been here, Iqbal had seen them hovering around the hut in which the Ameer was recovering. Hauling himself up, he wordlessly followed the messenger through the village.
Huddled deep in the South Waziristan tribal area, the Zangari village lay encircled by a ring of rugged mountains. At the moment, it was buzzing with intense activity and a large number of the people seemed to be foreigners. Iqbal was not sure who they were, but from their dialects and accents it was clear they were neither Pakistani nor Afghan. Iqbal primed himself for his meeting with the Ameer. He was not sure why, but he knew his life depended on it.
The room he entered was done up far more lavishly than anything Iqbal had seen since he had entered Pakistan. In fact, by the standards of jihadi life, it was opulent.
On the large bed at the far end of the room, propped up against a pile of pillows, looking much better though still obviously weak, was the man who had faced down the American and Pakistani security forces for so many months, the man who was firmly riding the crest of the wave that threatened to seize control of Pakistan. Standing behind him was a vaguely familiar, heavily-bearded man wearing horn-rimmed glasses.
Isn’t he the one who tended to me in Faisalabad… Iqbal wondered. It was hard to be certain since he had been largely unconscious during the two or three days this man had stayed at the Faisalabad compound.
‘So, you are the one who saved me.’ The Ameer’s voice brought Iqbal back to the present. Despite being severely injured, he sounded authoritative.
‘Salaam waleikum, janab.’ Iqbal bowed his head. ‘Allah sent me in time to return the favour you did me once.’
‘What favour?’
‘You saved my life.’ Iqbal recounted the incident of the shoot-out near the Indo-Pak border and how the Ameer’s convoy had picked up Tanaz and himself. His two-man audience heard him out, their unblinking stares acutely disconcerting. As Iqbal proceeded with his story, he could see the gleam of recollection in the eyes of the man who stood behind the Ameer.
‘And who are you?’ the Ameer asked.
‘My name is Iqbal. I am from India and I have come to meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘To serve with you, Ameer.’
‘Why me? Why not with your own group?’
‘My group has been destroyed and I have nowhere to go. In India I am a wanted man. In fact, that is why our leader told me about you just before he died.’
‘This leader of yours, who was he?’
‘We called him Mujib but I do not know if that was his real name.’
‘Describe him.’
Iqbal did. The hateful image of the man who had been responsible for the death of Tanaz was so firmly engraved in his head that the picture he painted was vivid. As he spoke, he could see the light of recognition on their faces; it was obvious they knew Mujib well.
Finally the Ameer asked, ‘How did Mujib die?’
‘We had been carrying out bomb blasts in several Indian cities as per Mujib’s plan, but then things started to go wrong.’ Iqbal paused. ‘Perhaps there was a traitor amongst us, perhaps we got unlucky… I am not sure, but we lost several people in a shoot-out with the police in Delhi last month and the very next day, the rest of us were pinned down by the police in Pune.’
Iqbal narrated the story that Ankita and he had decided on, about the final showdown in Pune in which the police had killed Mujib, Asif and Tanaz, while Iqbal had managed to flee under cover of darkness. The account was carefully hinged on real events and plausible facts to ensure it stood up to sustained questioning, if it came to that.
‘So now you are the only one from the group who is alive?’ the Ameer asked.
‘No, two of the others, Imtiaz and Khalid, are also alive. They were captured by the Delhi police during our last strike.’ Iqbal pretended to hesitate. ‘At least, that’s what we saw on television, but Mujib was not sure if they were captured by the police or if one of them was the informer who gave us away.’
‘And then you crossed over and came looking for me?’
Iqbal nodded, aware that he was treading dangerous waters. The Ameer’s scepticism was obvious.
‘You seem to be very lucky. How did you get across the border so easily?’
‘I used the same route we took while going to India.’
‘Which is?’
Iqbal described his journey. There was a long silence when he finished.
‘That is an incredible story,’ the Ameer said finally. ‘Rather too good to be true.’
‘It is true, Ameer. Why else would I be here?’
‘Why else indeed?’ he said quietly, his eyes bore into Iqbal’s. A few minutes passed before he spoke again. ‘And you reached just when the gora bastards did? Is it not strange the way death follows you around, especially the deaths of our brothers, of the faithful?’
Iqbal did not say anything. He simply shrugged as he forced himself to meet the Ameer’s eyes without flinching.
‘So who are you really? Deep down… here.’ The Ameer tapped his chest. ‘Friend or foe, a victim of circumstances or a traitor to the cause?’
‘I am Allah’s soldier, Ameer, a loyal soldier.’
‘Really? The first time I met you there were a handful of dead Pakistani soldiers all around you.’ The Ameer narrowed his eyes. ‘Now you tell me that your entire group has either been killed or captured by the Indian police. And on the very day that you arrived here, the kafir missiles paid a visit. Even more surprisingly, the Americans sent in their commandos – something they have never done before and would only do if they had confirmed intelligence about someone they are really desperate to get their hands on.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How did they know I was in Jalakhel?’
‘Ameer, I do not know the answer to that. Even I did not know you were there. If I had any intention other than to serve with you, why would I have rescued you?’
The Ameer’s stance did not soften. ‘Do you know what we do with traitors around here? We do not allow them to die till they have suffered more pain than you can even begin to imagine. And then, just before they die, we cut off their balls and stuff them down their throat.’
‘I know who I am, Ameer.’ Iqbal realized his enemy was bordering on a decision, one that would traitor, or just the unlucky one who comes along when death is near?’
‘I do not believe in coincidences either,’ the doctor replied gruffly. ‘He is a stranger and death rides too closely in his wake. Why take a chance?’ He shrugged. ‘Kill him.’
