The jihadis on the other hand were holy war-fighters and once the battle began, it would be a fight to death. With pen and paper Harry drew his battle plan. The Lashkar would be lightly armed – AK-47 assault rifles, IEDs, rocket launchers – and highly mobile. In discussion with Abdus Malik, he’d estimated they would need thirty men. First, a small attack to draw the Taliban out. Once the Taliban figured the small scale of the offensive they would stay and fight. Exactly as intended: Harry did not want them to disperse. If they did, he might never be able to locate Mehr. However, if Malik’s Lashkar engaged them in battle, only a few men would be guarding her. That would be his opportunity to rescue her. Once he had his daughter they would have to exit the area swiftly.
Which was why Harry needed a horse. It was the animal that had helped Genghis Khan make his empire the single largest contiguous one in history. It was the animal that helped Osama bin Laden flee Tora Bora in a driving snow storm in the middle of the night even as US troops attacked. It was the animal the Afghan guerrillas rode when not walking. Harry had ridden horseback on his first trip to the Panjshir Valley and enrolled in formal riding lessons right after. That particular skill had served him well – heavy snow rendered most vehicles useless. The US Marine Corps troops used High-Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles to conduct mounted patrols in the cold and snowy weather of Afghanistan. However, the marines got stuck in heavy snow and had to move on foot.
The page was a mass of black lead by now. And the terrain and operation were imprinted on Harry’s mind. From the corner of his eye, Harry noted one of Malik’s men bending down to whisper in his ear. Malik nodded and instructed him to wait. Turning to his friend he said, ‘Looks like your parcel has arrived. On four legs.’
Harry acknowledged this with a brief smile. Rab Nawaz had delivered, once again. Another link in the chain leading to his daughter had fallen into place. A horse to get him through the night’s ambush and make his getaway.
Jihadis hiding in caves. Near-zero visibility. Conditions adequately primitive. Time to fight like a medieval cavalryman and take the battle to them.
Bhakra Dam, India
Thursday 3:16 a.m.
With night vision goggles and guns with silencers, Singh and Raghav investigated the dam’s extensive grounds, which yielded nothing beyond floating mist and security personnel on edge. The nature of the impending attack had not been divulged but the security apparatus knew something big was coming – the men were expectedly keyed-up. Inside Mishra’s control room they went over the security detail once again. Sleep, thereafter, was a couple of hours of intermittent shuteye. Now, pre-dawn, they were gathered at the edge of Gobind Sagar Lake. A heavy mist overlay the massive reservoir and shifted sluggishly with the wind.
The water body lay still. Several boats sat on quiet guard. More would begin patrolling the waters soon. Divers pressed into service in the past fifteen hours had located no submarine, no torpedoes, no missiles.
With a nod at one another the men proceeded in different directions. Jag Mishra would oversee the operation from the control room set up near the Visitors Gallery, R.P. Singh would be at the secure perimeter that CISF manned with the help of state police while Raghav would be on one of the boats that security personnel would soon ride on the lake.
Adezai, Pakistan
Thursday 3:34 a.m.
Jag Mishra had called, and after hearing Harry’s update, offered two alternatives. The CIA Pakistan Head, in a desperate attempt to bridge the rupture caused by the discovery of Saby as a mole, had offered assistance. One: a military convoy to assist Harry with the attack. CIA would move adequate levers to get Pakistani troops to assist – as prize they could claim another victory against the hardened Orakzai Taliban. Two: a drone attack.
Harry mulled over it. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he’d have to do it alone.
As he dressed for combat Harry was not underestimating the problem he was facing. Taliban bases and hideouts dotted the rugged Orakzai landscape, and Taliban commanders such as Babur Khan were equipped with arms, cash, training camps, hardened foreign fighters and suicide bombers. Plus the Taliban were guerrilla fighters with thirty years of experience. They worked the terrain to their advantage, engaging the enemy in small-unit combats and fighting till they killed all or died themselves. The roadless basins, desolate plateaus and caves of the region were inaccessible to a regular army. A military convoy moving on the road would be easily ambushed from surrounding hillsides. Taking a convoy with him was, therefore, out of the question. There was a reason why the mighty US army relied on drones to target the hideouts. Innocents killed in such attacks were ‘collateral damage’. And how would a US drone distinguish his daughter from the beehive of Babur Khan’s fighters?
One bungle and he could lose Mehr.
Harry discussed his strategy with Abdus Malik: doing a Taliban on the Taliban. Abdus Malik nodded. ‘We become the bees. We buzz over their heads, sting them, disappear and regroup further away. This way we draw them out of their caves.’
In the resulting vacuum he’d sneak into the hideout and rescue his daughter.
Bhakra Dam, India
Thursday 5:15 a.m.
Security build-up had been orchestrated in a smooth fashion overnight. And the news had been circulated that a VVIP visit was due. Which would explain the additional security to anyone curious. As a result, no tour groups were expected and the strategy was to delay the arrival of individual tourists. All water activities – water-skiing, kayaking, sailing, water-scooter racing – had been temporarily stopped. Patrol boats under the guise of tourist boats would soon ply on the lake.
The lack of anything lethal in the water body was countered by the dread in Mishra’s bones – the attack was coming, he hadn’t read its mechanism right.
Raghav was on a motorboat that cruised the waters of Gobind Sagar as the men aboard scanned the horizon, several with binoculars. Light from the half moon struggled to part the shifting mist. At least a dozen boats were out on the reservoir, a few in the vicinity of the dam, the others fanned out. Ferry services across the reservoir had been temporarily halted. Except for the churn caused by the boat, everything lay ominously still.
Meanwhile, R.P. Singh had padded up-down the dam perimeter such that he could navigate it with his eyes closed. Security men swarmed the dam like bees. Bees, like cops, behaved in concert with one another. He needed to find that one bee that was behaving differently… He continued with his scrutiny, the ticking of a clock deafening in his ears.
Orakzai, Pakistan
Thursday 5:45 a.m.
The snow was stinging. It was pre-dawn, but daylight was many hours away. Icicles were forming on the eyebrows of the thirty-member Lashkar team accompanying Harry and Abdus Malik. Some men wore parka jackets but the others were dressed in old army jackets and scarves, their faces swathed in the loose end of their turbans. None wore gloves – it slowed down their response.
To motivate his men Abdus Malik had pitched the operation as a way to prevent the Taliban from opening a new front. If they managed to run the militants from this hideout, they would have effectively prevented them from closing in on Adezai and Peshawar. And since the enemy was not anticipating such an attack it would surely rout them and send the message that the local Lashkar was standing its ground.
They rode quietly through the flurry and whistling wind, the horses’ hooves soundless on fresh snow. A half moon was in the sky, its faint light silhouetting the riders in a ghostly glow. Harry had his night vision goggles on but the Lashkar, led by Malik, needed no such accoutrement to navigate the terrain that mirrored the ravines on their ragged skin. Legends sang of their skill and strength. A famous wrestler from the region had made his mark during the Indo-Pak War of 1971. Such was his stock that he single-handedly carried artillery guns up steep hillsides to firing positions. Local lore had it that evidence of his Herculean
feat was imprinted on rocky slopes in the Kashmir Valley – in the shape of his giant-sized footprints.
Through the sleet Harry smiled at the recollection. His experience was that one was seldom disappointed when with the Pathans. The trail was tricky, narrowing to two feet width in places, and even with his night-vision goggles Harry had difficulty seeing the bottom of the ravine to one side. If a horse were to stumble, it could plunge a thousand feet.
An hour of riding had brought them to the edge of the ravine down which Mahmud the herder had witnessed the jeep and its captive. Abdus Malik raised his hand and the Lashkar on horsemount went still. They took shelter behind an escarpment and watched Harry.
In one lithe move he jumped off Jerand. Two Lashkar men joined him with bags of mortar. They placed the bags in a direct line up from the ravine that the Taliban would use to chase them. After placing the mortar Harry led all the firing wires to a large jar half-filled with garbanzo beans. One of the Lashkar then filled the jar with alcohol. In under an hour, the beans would swell up enough to close the firing circuits.
By that time Harry would have rescued his daughter, the Lashkar would have re-congregated and the Taliban fighters would be discovering the explosive trouble swollen beans wrought.
Allah hu Akbar! The men intoned in one voice.
The horses were led behind the escarpment, out of harm’s way. Harry patted Jerand and offered him a boiled egg. He glistened in the moonlight, not a quiver on his magnificent red coat. Buzkashi horses were huge, in height and bulk, and especially trained. Soldier-saint, Rab Nawaz had called this horse, and Harry could see him on a buzkashi field – still as death when the rider dismounted, off at a ferocious gallop as soon as he snatched the carcass. One man in the Lashkar was charged with keeping the horses safe while the rest mounted the operation. Harry stroked Jerand’s coat, whispering in the ear of the gentle giant: Rest, my friend; soon, we fly.
Abdus Malik clamped a bear-like hand on his shoulder. ‘You, my friend, are the legendary Snow Leopard. These mountains know you as one of their own. Once you saved my son. Now, it’s time to go rescue your daughter. Fi amanillah!’
May Allah protect you!
Bhakra Dam, India
Thursday 6:28 a.m.
The time had come.
Abu Ansari, aka Kishen Sharma, strode towards the left bank of Gobind Sagar, his INSAS rifle leading him purposefully as he scoured the area keenly, his eyes darting the surround. To an observer he would appear to be on strenuous watch. His feet scrunched in the undergrowth as he made his way towards the bank. A motorboat sat in the placid water.
Suddenly a figure darted across the policeman’s path and into the boat. A bundle that scrambled for the steering wheel and clamped it fiercely in his hands as he looked determinedly ahead. Abu glanced above to see if anyone had noticed, slung his rifle on one shoulder and dived into the undergrowth to his right. Two canvas bags, as promised. He dragged one towards the boat. The grass was slick with dew and squelched aloud. The boy didn’t glance back, his back rigid. With a low grunt Abu hoisted the bag into the boat. It tipped left.
Abu hurried back for the other canvas bag. This he dropped towards the right inside the boat and it went even keel. Once again he cast a nervous look around as he brushed his hands clean. All clear.
Allah hu Akbar! he said, loud enough for the boy to hear, and patted the boat’s stern. Nothing. Had the boy lost his nerve? Abu watched. The boy was preternaturally inert. Allah hu Akbar! Allahhu Akbar! AllahhuAkbar! he chanted rapidly, the syllables piling into each other, evoking the Quranic intonation of a madrasa.
A low growl rumbled. The engine started to rev up. A second later the boat was whirring into the lake. The boy could not afford to be intercepted. He had to get to the dam. Meanwhile, Abu Ansari had to get back to the generator room.
A quick glance at his watch as Abu prowled back up. By the time he was in the room, inshallah, the boy would be ablaze.
Orakzai, Pakistan
Thursday 5:58 a.m.
Malik’s men opened fire by launching their rocket-propelled grenades into the cliffs. They had the element of surprise on their side. The inclement weather, the early hour and the unexpectedness of the attack were factored to give them an edge. A swift and heavy attack would inflict significant casualties on the surprised enemy. By the time they galvanized and deserted their caves to meet the challenge, Harry would find his opening.
The boom of RPGs filled the air. Years of fighting the Russians had taught the men how best to use the Soviet bazooka. Anyone good with a rifle could become quite accurate with an RPG after firing a few rounds. The thing to watch out for was its back-blast. Not only was it hard to miss, a flash of light accompanied by a cloud of greyish smoke, it also created a blast that wreaked havoc on anyone or anything within a seventy-five-metre semicircle rear area.
Malik’s men had learnt their fighting from the Taliban and were now using their battle manoeuvres on them. The Lashkar was firing and moving on. This made it harder for enemy troops to immediately fire on the RPG gunner and hit him. Harry’s instruction had been clear to the gunners – give each other a wide berth. Since it was an ambush, the men had time to pick out their firing spots. The RPG gunners had encircled the target, spaced themselves such that after each shot at the target, they had a quick route out of there to a second, and even third, firing position. Each RPG gunner was accompanied by two or three men with AK-47s, carrying additional rockets.
The ensuing mayhem in the Talibani group was already evident. Several fighters who had blundered forth with their guns blazing now lay dead on the rocky ledges while others had rolled off the cliffs. One grenade had found a vehicle laden with ammunition – a hit had sent a blaze roaring into the night sky. The falling sleet would dampen it in time.
With an RPG on his shoulder Harry bounded up the cliffside. He mounted the craggy face without disruption, reached level ground and crouched. Ahead, to his right, a narrow path led down to the darkened mouth of a cave. As he assessed it, he heard a footfall to his left. A jihadi was hunkered down against the rocky outcrop and firing towards the Lashkar. He had not sighted Harry. However, from the track in front there was a loud cry as another jihadi came blazing forth, his gun firing at Harry. This attracted the attention of the first jihadi and in the next few seconds Harry would be sandwiched between two enemy fires. A pincer attack would fatally injure him, if it didn’t kill him right away.
In the split second he had to take a decision Harry demonstrated why he had lasted so long in a field where men were snipped like carrots. He pointed the RPG at the jihadi on his left. As the grenade hit the man and hurtled him against the cliff, the back blast from the bazooka lifted the maniacally mouthing jihadi high into the air and tossed him over the craggy tops. Harry threw himself to the floor as the blast and debris from the RPG caught a few more of the fighters who had rushed up the narrow path. Blinded, they staggered about wildly. Harry fired his gun at them – as if targets on a firing range, the men dropped like pins.
Overhead, the incoming artillery hissed through the air. The Lashkar rockets ripped, crunched and shredded the surround. How was Mehr holding up? She would never have heard anything like this…
He saw her cowering against a wall, hands muffling her ears, her eyes shut tight. But that would require her to be alert and awake and, Harry’s jaw hardened, he knew better. Briefly an image flashed through the father’s mind: five-year-old Mehr in bed. She’d awoken from a bad dream. Papa took her in his lap but she insisted on going to their bed and sleeping between her parents.
An explosion sounded. Harry saw another man blundering his way through the cloud of dust and debris.
Since the jihadi could sight nothing Harry ignored him as he began to crawl down the narrow path towards the mouth of the cave. The man on guard hadn’t budged – could it be the hideout he was seeking? He was moving through an obstacle course, bullets w
hizzing over, under and around him. The sound was of angry bees buzzing agitatedly. Muzzle flashes twinkled eerily like some modern, low-wattage Christmas lights, off-on. Harry had seen men bewildered by the light and sound show that greeted them in their first battle. It was entirely disorienting and a momentary lapse could kill them.
Nearing the mouth of the cave, Harry tossed a grenade at the entrance. It was a ‘flash-bang’. It did little damage, its intent to stun and disorient the enemy. As intended, a jihadi who was standing guard just inside the mouth of the cave let off an answering barrage of fire. Except, since his vision had been compromised by the flash, the fire was to Harry’s right. The next instant Harry shot him, the dead man fell forward. Propping his body in front of him as shield, Harry advanced. An enraged Allah hu Akbar and another jihadi sprang into view.
The jihadi was overconfident, naïve or young – all fatal weaknesses when dealing with an experienced veteran like Harry. Whatever the factor, the jihadi dashed through the mouth of an interior cave inside the labyrinth, his AK-47 leading the way. Harry seized hold of it as he shoved the man against a rock wall. He followed it with a crushing knee jab to the man’s groin before delivering a swift elbow jab in his eyes. The man toppled back, his head scraping the rock as he slid down. Easing the gun from the jihadi’s slack grip Harry shot him in the head.
Bhakra Dam, India
Thursday 6:33 a.m.
Abu returned to his post outside the generator room. The man standing guard for him joked about Abu’s long toilet break. With a slow shake of his head Abu remarked on an unfortunate dinner that had played havoc with his stomach. The other man tut-tutted good-humouredly. Abu cast a look around as he resumed his scrutiny of the vista. Only minutes now. And no one had missed him.
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 26