by Deva, Mukul
Iqbal felt nothing as he walked away from the soldier. Thought, feelings, anger, hate, rage, pity, remorse; nothing touched him. What would Tanaz say? The thought was bludgeoned aside by the animal that had been unleashed.
The bayonet practice resumed, but now that the American was no longer conscious, the men lost interest. Karamat finally slit his throat with one short slash. His torment finally over, the American slumped forward with a tired gasp, his head lolling weirdly to one side. He seemed to be smiling.
A couple of minutes later, they were off again. ‘Where are we going now?’ Iqbal asked the man walking beside him. ‘Back?’
‘Back? Why? The fun is just beginning.’ Coming up from behind, Karamat laughed as he thumped Iqbal’s shoulders. ‘Now, my young mujahideen, you will know why they call us Lashkar-al-Zil – the shadow army. In the coming days we shall strike again, right at the heart of the kafir. The Americans will soon realize they are not the only ones who can deliver shock and awe.’
Karamat appeared to be in a good mood, buoyed by the success of the ambush. Or was it in anticipation of what lay ahead?
That night, they halted at a series of caves sunk into the face of the mountain they had spent all afternoon climbing. Every now and then they were forced to take cover as American gunships soared overhead, searching for the men who had ambushed the ISAF convoy. Every jihadi knew his chances of survival were bleak if the AH-64 Apache gunships, with their 30 mm M230 chain gun and the mix of AGM-114 Hellfire missiles and Hydra 70 rocket pods found him. Even deadlier were the AC-130 Spectre gunships which, with their two 30 mm mini guns, two 40 mm canons and a 105 mm Howitzer, had more firepower than a US Navy destroyer. Every time the gunships failed to spot them, the men would make crude gestures and jeer, as much in relief as anything else.
Darkness and the bitter cold that came with it had already set in when they reached the caves. Iqbal was amazed at how deep the cluster of caves ran and the degree to which it had been developed. The caves in front were the living accommodation; to one side there was a designated cook house and a well-equipped sick bay. The other side was used to store arms and ammunition. Iqbal followed the others to collect food from the cookhouse and replenish the ammunition he had expended. In addition to bandoliers of small arms and ammunition, there were piles of rocket launchers and mortar shells stacked against the walls. Right at the back he spotted a few crates of Stinger missiles. The whole set-up had obviously been created over a long time and with sustained effort.
By now they had been on the move for over twenty-four hours and every man in the assault team was showing signs of fatigue. Barring the two sentries at the entrance to the caves, most of the men were asleep within minutes. The cave was damp, the cold seeping in from all sides, and the men huddled close to stay warm.
As Iqbal prepared to get some much-needed rest, he noticed Karamat huddled to one side with his section commanders. Sitting next to him was a young Chechen who seldom strayed far from Karamat. They were bent over a map, holding an animated but quiet discussion. He would have loved to hear what they were talking about, but Iqbal was so exhausted that he could not focus any more. He soon drifted into tormented sleep.
His dreams were filled with the screams of the American soldier. The man’s eyes followed him everywhere, staring at him in accusation.
Iqbal woke up with a start, confused and disoriented, not realizing he had screamed. Then he saw Karamat and the men in the far corner of the cave staring at him. After a while, Karamat got up and came across to him.
‘What happened, Indian?’ he asked, kneeling next to Iqbal and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Iqbal was trembling.
‘Are the faces of dead men calling to you?’ Karamat’s eyes searched Iqbal’s face. His tone was surprisingly gentle. ‘Don’t worry. It happens to the best and the bravest of us. Soon the faces will begin to fade and one day they will no longer come back to torment you, for we ride on the path shown to us by Allah. Remember, always remember, that we are truly blessed.’
Iqbal did not know how close he was to death at that moment. He did not know that if Karamat decided the man in front of him was weak, he would put an end to his life, without pity, without remorse. There was no place for the faint-hearted in the ranks of Lashkar-al-Zil.
Karamat patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it and don’t think so much. You did well today. Sleep now.’ He returned to his conference.
Disgusted that he had almost given himself away, Iqbal crawled deeper into his lumpy sleeping bag. A few minutes later he was asleep.
When he felt someone shaking him awake, it seemed to Iqbal he had barely slept for a few minutes, though the entire day had fled past. His tired body felt like one massive bruise, throbbing all over with pain.
He got dressed quickly and wolfed down some cold dry bread, leathery meat and a handful of dry fruits. He was ravenous. He remembered what they had drilled into his head during his training at Force 22: ‘Sleep, water and food – these are your ultimate weapons. Never say no to them.’
Half an hour later, they were off again. Daylight had just begun to turn into shades of grey when they began their descend down the other side of the mountain. Then followed another trudge through the dark night, through treacherous shale and narrow winding paths. As usual, Iqbal brought up the rear along with the ever watchful Altaf, who seemed to have been designated as his mentor, perhaps even his minder.
Once they left the rugged mountain trail and headed across the valley, the endless march seemed easier. However, the danger of enemy patrols and detection had mounted; the strike force was now moving with greater caution and the distance between each man increased considerably.
Just as Iqbal started getting used to the walk, they halted yet again. He joined the others in the all-round defensive posture they always adopted. Iqbal listened as Karamat briefed his lieutenants.
‘Stay clear of Kamakhel and get on to the Sur Pol–Kabul road. See that you stay well away from the road, there are regular security patrols on it,’ Karamat warned. ‘I want you to go to ground a few miles short of Kabul. You must be in position at least an hour before midnight the day after tomorrow.’
A longer discussion followed, which Iqbal was unable to overhear. Moments later, the raiding party split up, this time in two, and Iqbal found himself following Karamat with half the men.
The terrain soon turned difficult again as they started up another mountain trail, as bad if not worse than the one they had navigated earlier.
By the time they broke for the day – it would be easier for the Americans to detect and interdict movement in daylight – Iqbal’s body had ceased to feel anything. But his exhaustion returned with a vengeance the minute he threw off his rucksack and allowed himself to sink to the floor of the caves where they were taking shelter.
Iqbal woke up when the light in the cave had dimmed, as the sun prepared to drop below the ring of mountains. Despite the rest, he still felt exhausted. The others were surly and ill-tempered too, the lighthearted banter at the start of the mission was gone. The slightest remark seemed provocation enough for the men to pounce on each other.
The rest of the night was spent in another long trek. Every now and then, Iqbal could spot the lights of Kabul in the distance. Remembering what he had heard Karamat tell the others, he guessed the other team would approach Kabul from the other side.
They were about eight kilometres short of Kabul, coming down parallel to the Mir Bacheh Kowt–Kabul road which lay a few kilometres to their right, when Karamat brought them to a halt and made them go to ground. Gesturing silently, he selected six men, among them Iqbal and the young Chechen. Leaving the others behind, the seven men began to trek with Karamat leading the way. But this time they were moving very slowly, as though Karamat was looking for something or someone. And because they were now close to Kabul, the possibility of being spotted by security patrols went up dramatically.
The reason for Karamat’s cautious approach bec
ame clear when a man stepped out from behind a large rock and hailed them softly. Karamat motioned to the others to stop and went to meet the man. They hugged and exchanged greetings with the easy familiarity of men who know each other well. The stranger kept gesticulating over his shoulder as he briefed him. They spoke for a long time before Karamat returned. He took two of his men aside and briefed them at length before sending them back to the main party lying in wait, now almost a mile behind. Then he and the other four men followed the newcomer towards Kabul.
Almost a dozen security posts had to be skirted before they finally reached a battered looking house deep inside the town. Most of the houses were in an acute state of damage and disrepair, silent spectators to the decades of strife that had torn the country apart. Considering the perpetual state of siege the city was in and the late hour – it was early morning by now – all the lights in the house were off, except for a low shaded lamp that lit up a room at the back. At this hour, anything more conspicuous would have drawn one of the patrols in for a closer look.
‘Who will drive it?’ the newcomer asked Karamat after they had all had a drink of water, some food, and settled down on the reedy carpet covering the uneven floor.
The newcomer was a tiny, heavily bearded man, dressed in a Pathani suit. There was a clean-cut, military air about him. It was especially prominent in the precise, collected way in which he spoke. He reminded Iqbal of the ISI agents who had often visited the LeT training camp in Muzaffarabad.
‘He will.’ Karamat beckoned to the Chechen. ‘Come here. This is Pasha… he will help us complete the task.’
‘Come on then, let’s show him the vehicle and make sure he knows what he has to do.’
The agent provocateur named Pasha led them out to the courtyard in the back. The other men immediately lay down to relax but Iqbal casually got up and made his way to one of the windows.
He could see the Chechen sitting in the driver’s seat of a Toyota Camry with Pasha next to him, while Karamat looked in from the window on the driver’s side. The metallic-grey Camry seemed to be new. The rear springs of the car were sagging discernibly, as though the boot was heavily loaded.
Even as Iqbal watched, the three men began to walk back into the house. Iqbal hurriedly moved away from the window and lay down, pretending to be asleep.
‘You are sure you have understood everything?’ Pasha asked the Chechen as they re-entered.
‘Yes, I am,’ the Chechen murmured. ‘Once I see the cars approaching, I have to head for the gates. I have to get as close as possible and then activate the switch you showed me.’
‘Perfect. Now get some sleep. You must be well rested. Tomorrow is the day you make your mark.’ Pasha gave the Chechen an encouraging pat on his shoulder. ‘Remember, jannat awaits.’
‘Inshallah,’ the Chechen said softly, almost by rote.
The way Pasha smiled as the Chechen went to get his rucksack made Iqbal’s hackles rise. How many times had he seen that smile? First, it was the maulavi who had recruited him, then it was the maulana who ran the Muzaffarabad camp, and not so long ago, it was that bastard Asif, who had recruited him for the Indian Mujahideen.
Jannat awaits!
The words sent a shiver down his spine as Iqbal realized that a suicide mission, a fidayeen attack, was in the offing. So that was why Karamat always kept the Chechen close to him. After all, even though the fidayeen training regimen was the toughest mental and physical training a man could be subjected to, there was always a chance that he would suffer a change of heart as the moment of death approached; after all, survival is the primordial instinct in all living things. So the fidayeen is always kept primed and pumped up by his controller, right until the point of no return, when death becomes the only available option. Till that moment, the controller shepherds him. And to deter the fidayeen from changing his mind, their families are often held hostage till the deed is done.
Iqbal lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, his mind whirling as he tried to figure out the Chechen’s target. It must be something big. Why else would they go through all this trouble? Iqbal tried hard but was unable to come up with anything meaningful, which was not surprising because his knowledge of Kabul was rudimentary at best, limited to what little he had read up in the Intelligence Summaries in Kasauli, and Ankita’s briefing.
I wonder what the Chechen’s name is. Does he know he is being conned by these bastards? Random thoughts began to gnaw at Iqbal’s mind. What difference does it make? Tomorrow he will die and take Allah knows how many more with him… and for what?
Iqbal felt a sudden wave of anger. He remembered the intelligence reports he had read – the mean age of the suicide bomber in Pakistan was now down to sixteen and their families were paid barely a few hundred dollars in return.
Where will it end?
For the third night in succession, Tanaz’s face was blurred when she entered his dreams, by now she seemed so remote that Iqbal could barely make out it was her. The battered face of the American soldier leapt out from behind her, beckoning wildly to Iqbal.
Iqbal was not aware of the tiny tortured moans he let out all night long. But he did not scream. That frontier had certainly been crossed.
They were up early the next morning. The first person Iqbal saw when he opened his eyes was the Chechen. The young man was immersed in prayer, oblivious to everything around him. Iqbal noticed that from the other end of the room Karamat was watching him too.
The minute the Chechen finished praying, Karamat went across to him. They exchanged a few words in a low voice and sat down to eat. They ate in silence, Karamat’s gaze still fixed on the Chechen.
It was a little over half past seven when Karamat, touched the Chechen’s shoulder and gave a brief nod when the man looked up. They rose as one.
‘I need two volunteers,’ Karamat called out to the others.
Iqbal instantly raised his hand, grabbed his rifle and stepped forward. Altaf gave him a disgusted look as he followed suit.
So he is my minder, Iqbal noted with interest.
Karamat led the three men out to the Toyota Camry and motioned to Altaf and Iqbal to get into the back seat. ‘Keep your weapons low, but be ready to bring them into action in case we have to fight our way out. Of course, you will do so only when I tell you to,’ Karamat instructed as the Chechen started the engine and carefully reversed into the street.
A strong smell of almonds pervaded the car. At first Iqbal was puzzled, then he remembered that plastic explosives like Semtex and C-4 emitted such an odour. Iqbal wondered which one it was and how much of it was in the boot of the car. More importantly, where was it going to be used?
They drove through the streets of Kabul, sticking to side roads, with Karamat constantly indicating the route. Like the rest of the city, the streets bore the scars of a hundred forgotten battles. Most buildings had unmistakable pockmarks left by bullets and yawning holes caused by rocket shells. Apart from sporadic patchwork attempts, not much had been done to restore them.
There were security checkposts on almost every major road. Karamat guided them along empty, dirty side lanes and back alleys. He had either been here before or had been very thoroughly briefed because they did not make a single wrong turn.
After half an hour of driving, the landscape began to change. There was a distinct improvement in not only the buildings, but also the type and condition of the roads.
‘Halt here,’ Karamat commanded as they finally came up to the mouth of an alley.
From the rear seat, Iqbal could see a large square across the road. Further ahead, at the other end of the square, was a long queue of people in front of a security barrier. The view was not entirely clear because of where the Camry was parked; obviously, they were not visible to the guards at the gate either.
‘Switch off the engine,’ Karamat said.
The Chechen complied wordlessly.
‘Get out, you two,’ Karamat told Iqbal and Altaf as he got out of the car, ‘a
nd leave those damn weapons in the car. Hide them under the floor mats.’ He waited till they were out of the car before he motioned for them to follow him. The trio crossed the narrow alley and stopped outside a nondescript, three-storey building. We are going to get to the roof and take position.’ He kept his voice low.
‘What for?’ Altaf interrupted.
‘I will tell you when we get there,’ Karamat snapped. He seemed very edgy, not like his usual even-tempered self. ‘Wait here for a minute.’ He returned to the Camry, leaned into the driver’s window and spoke to the Chechen. Finally he reached in and patted the Chechen’s shoulder. Then he made his way back to Iqbal and Altaf. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Stay low,’ he cautioned as they came out on the roof. ‘Most high buildings have snipers posted on them.’ He slithered across to two large cement water tanks fitted on one side of the terrace, and Iqbal and Altaf followed suit.
An array of pipes led out from both tanks and ran down the outer side of the building. Reaching past the pipes, Karamat pulled out a rocket launcher that had been hidden there. It was a Russian-made RPG 7V.
Evidently, a lot of planning, preparation and external support had gone into this operation. Whoever had masterminded it had taken care of every detail. Iqbal instinctively knew the operation had been set up by Pasha.
Karamat turned to the two men. ‘I want you two to take position here with the launcher.’ He gestured at the water tank closest to the terrace wall; it overlooked the square and shielded them from the road. ‘If and when – and only when – I tell you to do so, you will fire at the Camry.’
‘But…’ Altaf started again.
‘No buts, Altaf. Just shut up and do what I am telling you,’ Karamat cut him off. ‘And if I tell you to fire, aim for the Camry’s boot.’ He turned to Iqbal. ‘You will act as his loader in case a second shot is required. Got it?’ Both men nodded. He looked at his watch. ‘Fine. Get ready.’
By the time they loaded the launcher, got the back-up rocket ready and took position, Karamat had moved to the other side of the terrace. Crouching behind the parapet wall, all three of them began to watch the road.
