SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  Saleem’s initial shock melted away as he landed on a similar conclusion to Sikander’s. Intrigued and excited, he would give everything to do this job well. Abdul Rahman grinned and nodded in agreement.

  Feeling prideful, Sikander turned to ask Andy, in English, “When do we leave?”

  “Ten minutes,” came the short and deflating Pashto reply.

  With Simon at the wheel, the group drove the short distance to Sargodha airport. Simon handed the Pajero’s keys to a uniformed PAF officer who seemed to be expecting the travelers. They entered one of the small buildings adjoining a hangar. Against the far wall were several lockers. Andy and Simon opened one and took out a couple of large rucksacks, removed what looked like clothes from them, and stepped into the bathroom next to the lockers. Minutes later, they returned wearing British Army uniforms.

  “Let’s go!” Andy called out. He led them through the door at the far end of the room, which opened out onto one of the many aprons of the airfield. Sikander saw the other mujahideen together with their escorts, and as they converged on the aircraft that was to take them to Qatar, he experienced a growing sense of purpose. At that moment, all feelings of homesickness lay buried under the weight of anticipation of the mission ahead.

  The Hercules C130 of the PAF’s Six Squadron, based at Chaklala near Rawalpindi, waited on the airfield apron, ready to roll. The rampant antelope insignia at the front of the aircraft gave away its pedigree. It belonged to Pakistan’s oldest air squadron and the only one used for tactical air transport operations such as the one being undertaken that day. Having landed barely an hour earlier, now, at almost nine in the morning, it was fully fueled and awaited its human cargo.

  The group climbed the loading ramp into the back of the aircraft’s cavernous cargo bay. Neither Abdul Rahman nor Saleem had ever flown. Despite their typically casual Pathan attitude toward most life-threatening experiences, they felt sufficiently lacking control of this one to exhibit nervousness, though with no shortage of excitement.

  Sikander had already traveled with his father by air, but this plane’s interior was completely different from a commercial airliner’s. Presently, however, he felt an undeniable sense of pleasure at his advantage over his companions. They had routinely had the upper hand in Afghanistan, their home turf, and now it was his turn. This time, he had been around and seen or done things with which they might be unfamiliar. Perhaps they could learn a thing or two from him.

  Once the mujahideen were seated and strapped in on the metal benches lining the walls of the cargo hold, the massive ramp door was closed and the lights in the rear were turned on. The airframe juddered as the engines began to wind up; as they finally spun into self-sustaining action, the noise became a ninety-seven decibel roar. The British officers sitting nearest the cockpit of the aircraft withdrew ear-protecting muffs from a bin and passed them out.

  Sikander and Saleem were seated next to each other on either side of a window. Neither was able to resist the temptation to swing around somewhat awkwardly on his perch and observe the scene outside. Abdul Rahman was on the opposite side of the airplane facing them. The prospect of being suspended in the sky inside a large metallic object made him reluctant to peer outside.

  The aircraft taxied to runway 14, Sargodha’s longest. After completing a few final checklist items, Squadron Leader Omar Amin pushed the combination throttle forward. A brief lurching jolt was quickly followed by the aircraft gathering speed as it rolled smoothly down the runway.

  As the C130 climbed rapidly, Sargodha retreated beneath them. Eventually, however, the haze over the city left little to see. Maintaining heading, the aircraft climbed to over six thousand meters before making a large sweeping turn to the south and then the southwest as it established cruise heading toward Qatar on a course that would keep it well to the south of Afghanistan’s airspace.

  The aircraft landed in Doha just before noon local time. When the engines finally shut down, everyone removed their ear defenders and the big ramp door was lowered. A sudden rush of heat and the blinding noonday light burst into the comparatively dark cargo bay. By the time the door had completely opened, they could see that three-dozen Qatari soldiers had flanked each side of a path all the way from the ramp door to the building that the disembarking mujahideen were to enter. Two British Army officers stepped forward to greet the travelers.

  They were ushered quickly into the small building. Andy and Simon offered their three charges drinks and light refreshments. Out of courtesy they stuck to their Pashto. Everyone took advantage of the food and drink as the flight had dehydrated them. They also took bathroom breaks and made their prayers in a chapel off to one side of the main hall. It was a very well appointed room, probably some kind of VIP lounge, Sikander observed, and from the way Saleem’s and Abdul Rahman’s heads were swiveling, he guessed the same thought was crossing their minds.

  After an hour and a half of resting, strolling around the room, or picking up the occasional magazine—which Sikander could see offended the sensibilities of some of his fellow mujahideen with their pictures of uncovered female faces and tight clothing—the men were led out of the building, past the lineup of Qatari soldiers, and into the cargo hold of what seemed to be the same aircraft but was in fact a type C-3 Hercules from RAF Lyneham’s Forty-Seven Squadron. It was in better shape than the PAF aircraft. Everyone took the same seating arrangements as before.

  The familiar rumbling of the engines began once more, and after taxiing out to runway 16, they were airborne again. Rising into the sky, the aircraft entered a steep climbing turn to the right to establish a northwesterly course over the Arabian Peninsula in the direction of Alexandria, Egypt. About four hours later, they were passing over the grand, sweeping arc of Alexandria’s bay. Shortly afterward, the airplane turned onto a more northerly track, making the Mediterranean crossing directly toward Italy and a landing in Rome.

  Rome was mythical. Sikander had read so much about it and but for the arcane language, had thought himself fortunate to study Julius Caesar. His curiosity trumped his weariness as he strained to see parts of the city’s old, majestic face, especially the Colosseum, present itself through patchy cloud cover.

  Six hours out of Qatar, at five in the afternoon local time, the mujahideen passengers were led off the aircraft to wait in a lounge one last time. With sunset came the maghrib prayer, with one of the older mujahideen leading the congregation. Their traveler status meant they could combine the maghrib and isha prayers in qasr. After a light meal, appropriately respectful of a Muslim diet, by six-thirty they were back in the air headed toward Scotland.

  Broadford was a small airfield on the Isle of Skye. The C130 demonstrated its ample skills as it came to a halt on the short, narrow runway, approaching the airfield’s solitary building before the pilot finally cut the engines. It was nine-thirty at night as the fresh, cool air brushed against the travelers’ faces when the cargo door opened. To Sikander, it felt very similar to a cool night in Laghar Juy, though lacking its familiar livestock smells.

  Tired and sleepy, the mujahideen were ushered out of the Hercules and marched over to a nearby HC2 Chinook helicopter of the RAF’s Eighteen Squadron. Another ten short minutes and they were descending onto a helipad at the SAS training facility at Applecross, whose existence was little known to most people, and not at all to the mujahideen.

  Everyone stepped out of the boarding ramp onto a windy tarmac surface, from where they were directed to a large cabin a short walk from the helicopter. Well lit, warm, and of metal construction, it had bunks along its windowed walls. Perpendicular to the walls, each double bunk with its headboards against the cabin wall, stood between each pair of windows.

  The weary travelers shed their shoes and dropped onto whatever bed was nearest. Sikander and Saleem stayed together. Saleem took the lower bunk and Sikander climbed to the top. He was exhausted. It was three in the morning in Pakistan. Abdul Rahman, having grabbed the bunk to their left, had already drifted off. Above h
im was an older mujahid, a fellow by the name of Hamza Ali, who had led the prayers in Rome.

  None of the visitors slept for long. By three in the morning, Sikander and many of the others arose, wondering what to do next. The SAS training compound was secure, so their hosts felt that locking them up in the cabin was unnecessary. It would also give the men a sense of greater freedom to wander outdoors. The local terrain was a reasonable proxy for their own home country and would provide an ideal environment in which to learn Stinger operations. Some of the men did venture outside in the predawn darkness, but remained close to the cabin while taking in the fresh, sweet, Scottish air.

  The first hint of daylight cast a dim, pink glow through the small window in the door at the end of the cabin. It was easily visible with all the cabin lights turned out. Comparing it with the relative darkness of the remaining cabin windows, Sikander noted that this must be the southeast source of the autumn morning sun, which in Scotland, also meant it was in the direction of the Qiblah. He went to one of the bathrooms at the far end of the cabin and waited in line to perform the wudhu. When he was done he came out and joined the others who laid out their blankets on the floor to perform the dawn prayer. Others had either already done so and were back asleep, or had simply failed to rise for the prayer.

  As the morning established itself, sleep was out of the question. The airplane ride had been too noisy to allow any chatter and they had been too tired to try. Now was the best time to make good on the lost opportunity. One of the two young men on Sikander’s right, a twenty-year-old, sat on the edge of the lower bunk facing Sikander and Saleem while above him was a younger boy of eighteen.

  “Assalaamu ‘alaykum! I’m Irfan,” offered the mujahid on the lower bunk. Sikander and Saleem reciprocated the greeting and introduced themselves. “We’re from the Khost area,” explained Irfan, rolling his eyes up toward his companion. “He’s my brother, Usman.”

  “Waziri?” asked Saleem, seeking instinctively to understand tribal origin.

  Irfan shook his head in smiling denial. “Ghilzai Pashtun.”

  Saleem acknowledged politely as Abdul Rahman came over to join them.

  The five of them engaged in small talk until, at around nine-thirty, the SAS officers arrived, banging on the cabin’s walls. The cabin’s largely metallic structure made this action effective in getting the few remaining sound sleepers to stir. Those who had returned to sleep after fajr arose for the second time that morning and were soon piling into the bathrooms to prepare themselves for the day. Like most of the others, Sikander was wide-awake from being on Pakistan time.

  Before long, Simon entered the cabin. Sikander walked eagerly toward him. “Simon! Good morning! So, what’s happening now?”

  Simon politely asked him to return to his bunk, saying instructions would come later. Meanwhile he and four fellow junior officers had brought in several boxes. They opened them and pulled out polythene bags containing fresh beige qameeses and shalwars with quilted green body warmers, fresh underwear, and black woolen socks. From other boxes the officers retrieved black boots and laid them out on the floor.

  “Her Majesty’s government is pleased to welcome you all,” Simon pronounced in clear Pashto. “These new clothes are a gift from the British people. Please take them and put them on.”

  Given what he was wearing Sikander found no difficulty complying with the request. He sprang forward, avidly selecting items that would fit. Everyone else followed. Despite their new clothes being in regular Afghan style, the troop took on the appearance of uniformed soldiers.

  With attire out of the way, Simon directed them to an adjacent cabin where a modest breakfast buffet had been laid out.

  “Simon, where’s Andy?” Sikander asked.

  “I can’t say. He’ll join us later though.”

  As breakfast was wrapping up, another officer, a little older than Simon, walked into the cabin. Simon called out to the group to pay attention as the officer made his announcement in English while Simon translated.

  “Welcome, mujahideen! Today, we’re going to begin a four-week intensive program to teach you to use the Stinger missile effectively. I’m Captain James Laing, and I’ll be in charge of your training.”

  Before Simon could complete his translation, Sikander had already whispered it to Saleem. Captain Laing explained that each day everyone would need to be awake by dawn so that a full day’s training could be completed.

  “There’s a lot to learn about using the Stinger effectively,” Laing declared. “It might be an easy weapon to fire, but it isn’t easy to fire successfully without training.”

  Laing also laid out the camp rules. There was to be no travel outside the camp perimeter as the entire operation was secret. They were free to exercise and play games or worship as they wished. Materials for reading and writing would be provided, and all food was strictly halal, being supplied from Glasgow where there had been, as Laing patiently explained, a thriving Pakistani community for the past three decades. Several other minor rules were clarified, as was the reason for not asking the visitors to wear Western clothing. They were to be trained in whatever attire would normally be worn while using the Stinger in Afghanistan. If this policy exposed any issues with clothing, the training would be a good way to discover them. Captain Laing wrapped up his short introduction and everyone was encouraged to relax in the bunk cabin, continue to introduce themselves to each other, and take a walk around the campground, but in time to be back for lunch at noon.

  Following lunch, the men were led into a hangar-like building that had been set up with classroom seating. At one end was a raised platform with a podium, behind which was a large white screen.

  Captain Laing walked in with Simon by his side. “Please be seated everyone,” he said. Simon translated. The lights were dimmed, the drapes drawn, and a 35mm slide projector was turned on as Laing opened the proceedings.

  “The Soviet Fortieth Army has occupied Afghanistan since December 1979,” he began. “In that time, they’ve supplied the puppet government in Afghanistan with deadly helicopters in the form of the Mi-24 Hind and the Mi-8 Hip, which you all are quite familiar with, unfortunately. They have indiscriminately attacked your villages, your fields, your crops, and your livestock and innocent women and children have been killed or badly wounded.

  “We’re about to train you to use a weapon to defend against such shameless attacks. Sometimes you will hear the word MANPADS. In English, this stands for the Man-Portable Air Defense System and refers to several small but deadly types of anti-aircraft missile. The latest of these is the FIM-92A Stinger.”

  On the screen behind him, Laing’s comments were supported by simple but powerful images of the notorious helicopters and the horrific results they had wrought. He also showed a picture of the Stinger system being held over an operator’s shoulder, illustrating its use. Pausing for each of Simon’s translations, Laing remained watchful to be sure that his audience was following him.

  “Mujahideen, you’ve been selected for this important training because of your courage and intelligence. These qualities will be critical to your success, both in training and when you have to use this weapon. Our objective is to turn you into deadly users of the Stinger missile by the end of this program. If we can help you succeed, there’s a good chance your country will be rid of the Soviets and a great victory will have been achieved…inshaAllah.” Laing didn’t understand Pashto or Arabic, but he knew enough to utter the Muslim invocation of the will of God.

  The audience perked up when they heard the familiar word. Before Simon could begin translating, one of them called out “Takbeer!” to which the rest responded in a loud chorus “Allahu Akbar!” After the hubbub settled, Simon delivered Laing’s comments.

  Laing continued. “We’re passing out books that contain the lessons we’re going to cover.”

  Two soldiers picked up a large pile of ring binders in which the training course, a 194-page tome entitled: Introduction to Man Portable Air Def
ense Weapon System: Subcourse No. AD 0575, Edition A—US Army Air Defense Artillery School, Fort Bliss, Texas, had been rendered in Pashto.

  “There are three main lessons and within each will be several learning activities. Each activity consists of a classroom portion and a practical portion in which we’ll ask you to use training versions of the full weapon. As you become more capable we will also ask you to fire at least one live missile at our firing range.

  “The first lesson is an introduction to the overall system and will have the following learning activities.” Supported by illustrations, he proceeded to describe each activity.

  “First, we’ll cover the capabilities of the system. Second, will be a detailed description of its different components. Third, will be familiarization with handling procedures, and fourth will be operation of the weapon. Each of these activities will have one or more exercises. The exercises are designed to make your knowledge complete and, in time, your use of the weapon fast and flawless. Please be sure to study these documents after we go through the lessons.” Laing paused, seeing several mujahideen flipping through the pages.

  “Now, we know that some of you aren’t…um, able to read. This should not be a problem as we’re going to arrange you in groups of three, and we’ve made the selection so that at least one person in each group can read the material and explain it to the others. Does anyone have any questions?”

  On the heels of Simon’s translation, the room fell silent. No mujahid was looking to embarrass himself. As Laing was about to continue, a voice called out from the audience, “Thank you, sir. How long do you expect this lesson and these four activities to take?”

  Laing hadn’t been briefed on Sikander’s facility with English. He was surprised and pleased that this young man had stood up, unafraid to ask a question and to do so in English. As the Pashto translation came through to the men, Laing scanned the room and could see that Sikander had for many of them become a source of pride against possible patronizing on the part of the instructors.