‘Also, I think some of our SOPs (standard operating procedures) are wrong. We move in large teams, which can be spotted easily. Whenever a raid is planned, we buy rations in bulk from the market. Veerappan has a well-oiled network of informers, so he gets to know of our plans,’ Hussain added.
‘Let’s take care of that issue immediately. Start buying rations in large quantities and store them here. Be ever ready with five days’ rations issued directly from our stores,’ I said. I then moved on to my next concern:
‘How many men are there in Veerappan’s gang now?’
The answer was prompt. ‘Sir, four to six.’
Though Veerappan had many sympathizers and informers all over, his core group had dwindled to a handful.
‘Why can’t we have six-men teams too?’ I questioned.
I wasn’t being facetious, but was just drawing on the theory of Colonel John McCuen, a renowned American expert on counter-insurgency ops, who insisted that one should first mimic the foe, then go one better.
‘Sir, if you recall, the STF had fifteen-men teams with LMGs when we first started patrolling,’ someone said.
That was true, but the STF had since shrunk the patrol size, as it was hard to conceal big teams in the jungle.
I was instantly reminded of the tactics instituted by Brigadier Russell W. Volckmann, a founding member of the US Army Special Forces (Green Berets) and one of the leading authorities on counter-insurgency and guerrilla operations. As a young colonel, he had led a guerrilla resistance against the invading Japanese army in the Philippines.
The Japanese General Tomoyuki Yamashita later insisted that Volckmann’s tiny bands of intrepid guerrillas gave him more trouble than the big armies he had faced in conventional battles. Volckmann’s and his men’s heroism earned him a place at the table when the Japanese finally surrendered, though he was quite low down in the food chain. Volckmann’s exploits had convinced me about the power of small units.
I asked my boys if they could attain the standards set by Cuban military leader and insurgency guru General Alberto Bayo. ‘Most of you have been in the jungle for a long time. Can you march for fifteen hours with short breaks?’
Since the jungle’s undergrowth, poor visibility and general disorientation made night and day virtually the same, I insisted that we train harder at night, using simple techniques. ‘Just tie a handkerchief on your eyes right here in class and day turns into night. Walk on dry leaves to enhance the element of stealth,’ I asserted. The idea was to bridge the forty-year head start that Veerappan had acquired over the STF, owing to his longer presence in the jungles. It could only be achieved by tougher training and more discipline.
‘But first, we need to get smart and small,’ I said.
My words sparked off an animated discussion. Finally, after much deliberation, it was decided that the STF would function in self-sufficient teams of six, equipped with the best possible gear, including night-vision devices. The decision boosted the men’s sense of confidence and made them more close-knit, since they knew they had only each other to rely on.
Now that we had so many teams, the issue of leadership cropped up. Some teams were led by SIs, some by head constables, but in many teams all the members were of the same rank—constables.
Leadership cannot be imposed in a jungle fight. A nervous, unsure leader, unfamiliar with the strange sights and sounds of the jungles, will only spread panic in his columns. Since it would take too long to import platoon and section leaders, the cutting edge of such missions, we urged our boys to choose their own leaders. In some cases, one man from the team volunteered and the rest endorsed his leadership. But in other cases, the team unanimously chose its leader. I was often surprised to find that the man chosen was not a fiery orator, but someone with a cool head and steady nerves, blessed with the ability to bring the team home safely. It was a reiteration of an important management lesson: in stressful situations, people seek the same qualities from their leaders—calmness, faith and tenacity.
Another major concern was the morale of the officers and men. I was worried that the years of fruitless searches could have left them demotivated. But I was wrong. Officers like Hussain, Mohan Nawaz, Karuppusamy, Rajarajan, Ashok Kumar, Sampath and Ramalingam had spent a significant part of their careers chasing Veerappan and remained just as enthusiastic as on their first day with the STF.
I even promised to ensure a speedy posting-out of officers and men unwilling to serve in the STF, as I wanted only committed officers. Nobody took my offer. But after discreet enquiries, it emerged that some officers would conduct patrols in the opposite direction of Veerappan’s last-known location. Some would tell the men setting out, ‘Go ahead, you won’t even find Veerappan’s shit.’ Such elements were either eased out quietly, or moved laterally—just to retain institutional memory—to take care of supplies, where they would not interact with the men every day.
I was also inundated with requests from enthusiastic young officers wanting to join the STF. My screening procedure was simple. I would call up a few colleagues whose judgement I trusted and ask them to list out the best, bravest and brightest in the Tamil Nadu Police. If the same name appeared on two or more lists, I would ask for the officer to be transferred to the STF. We were able to induct quite a few valuable reinforcements in this way.
But I stopped the practice of SIs being rotated through the STF in three-month stints. Most of those who came on these short tours had no experience in jungle combat and needed intensive training. Just as they started to show promise, it was time for them to leave. I found this exercise a waste of time, energy and resources, and requested that it be scrapped, even at the risk of leaving the STF short-staffed. ‘I’d rather have a few dedicated men that I can count on than lots of people marking time,’ I said. I was delighted to get wholehearted support for my ‘Miltonic fit-though-few’ approach. The STF men more than lived up to my faith in them.
26
Getting Down to Brass Tacks
In preparation of our final mission, three issues stood out as urgent: coordination, intel and training.
First, I assessed our level of coordination with the Karnataka STF. I never got carried away by the terminology ‘joint task force’. The word ‘joint’ may exude synergy and strength, but demolition manuals insist that the ‘joint’ is the best spot to fix a charge.
In the past, patrols of both teams had unwittingly walked into each other’s ambush. Once, one of the STF team’s LMG fire had roared just inches above the other STF team that was hiding in a floating ambush in a coracle midstream in the Cauvery. The boys dived into the river instantly, seeking a rather wet cover.
Issues like poaching of intel assets and Bidari’s daring raids into Tamil Nadu had also caused occasional rifts between the two sides. Kolathur Mani’s sudden arrest by Karnataka only exacerbated matters. It put an end to all hopes of the Tamil Nadu STF to harvest crucial intel from Mani, who had been under its discreet watch.
I was very clear that both the STFs needed to work more closely than ever before. I held over a dozen meetings with B.G. Jyothi Prakash Mirji, IG, Karnataka STF. Our mutual desire to develop a strong synergy led to several issues being ironed out and to a series of joint patrols and camps. The resulting pincer effect confined Veerappan to a restricted area.
The second issue I took up was intel and informers. We made sure all old dues were paid. Inspired by Carl von Clausewitz’s ‘blood-is-the-currency-of-war’ quote, I created a new one: ‘Currency (notes) is the blood of intelligence.’
Since constables constitute over 80 per cent of any police force, I also insisted on improving every constable’s skills in cultivating intel and informers. Finally, it was a constable’s personal informer who brought us our real breakthrough.
I also impressed upon all the men to try and win the hearts and minds of the local populace and build upon my predecessor Nataraj’s work. ‘If you can’t befriend them, at least don’t antagonize them,’ I would emphasize repea
tedly.
Veerappan could not survive without the people outside his gang who aided him either out of fear or greed. We needed to win these people over. To this end, we organized extensive programmes in villages, including medical camps. In many cases, it was the first time in years that the villagers were examined by a qualified doctor. Then, there were spiritual doctors like Inspector Dharmaraj, who wooed the villagers of Martelli—once the gang’s stronghold—with a Bible in hand instead of an AK.
We also informed the poor villagers about the ₹5 crore reward on Veerappan’s head. But such a large figure meant little to a man who barely had enough to survive the day.
‘How much is that in goats?’ one villager asked.
He was told that assuming each goat costed ₹2,500, it would amount to 20,000 of them.
‘What would I do with so many? It’s better to preserve one’s life than run after an unmanageable reward, which you may not even live to see,’ he blurted out. I couldn’t help but laugh when I was told about the honest response. But it also demonstrated the odds against us.
The third issue I addressed was training. My stint at Rossie’s school, the breathless climb up the Alps and my other postings enabled me to simulate conditions that were harder than anything the men were ever likely to encounter. I also sought the help of my old friend Colonel Britto of the 9 Parachute Regiment to pass on life-saving inputs in the Sathy jungles, based on the hits and misses both in Sri Lanka and J&K.
The men went through a gruelling regimen, including the notable innovation—the ‘one-minute drill’, inspired by the ‘one-minute manager’ series.
As a boy, I had watched the centenary parade of the Tamil Nadu Police in awe as the band stripped down from full ceremonial dress to shorts and vest even while they continued playing and ran 100 metres, all within a span of one minute. I modified that drill to pack in speed, perfection and stress management. The idea was to ensure that the STF was alert at all times. There were drills for both urban and jungle scenarios, while some were devised for pure fun. The message was clear: everything had to be done within a tight time frame, which was not always 60 seconds.
Some drills, like dismantling and assembling one’s weapon, took less time. Other drills included running a certain distance while carrying one’s buddy, going from deep sleep to full battle readiness, firing over twenty rounds from a.303 or an SLR—all within a minute. These drills broke the monotony of regular training. Though the boys sweated hard, nobody protested.
In the years since I have left the STF, I have noticed that the one-minute drills have gone viral, with several other police and paramilitary forces adopting and even improving on them (airports security and corporates for bonding-drills). Perhaps these tests were introduced by STF men deputed to these forces. Or maybe good ideas just take on a life of their own!
By the end of 2003, the men were fighting fit and in high spirits.
As 2004 dawned, many of us assembled at the STF memorial at Thattakarai and took a solemn oath that we would not rest till we accomplished our mission.
We didn’t know it then, but our vow would be fulfilled even before the end of the new year.
27
Operation Boston
December 2003
‘Sir, do you know what we’ve been doing wrong so far?’ asked an officer of the Karnataka STF, who had been posted out.
I was chatting with him at his farewell lunch at MM Hills and could have thought of quite a few things to say, but it seemed that the man had something on his mind. So I waited.
‘For years, we’ve tried to get Veerappan inside the jungle, where he’s well entrenched like a crocodile in water. We should lure him out into our area of strength. His wife is comfortably settled in Salem. Try moving her out of there. She’ll surely try to contact the gang, or vice versa,’ he recommended.
Luckily, the heavy lunch had not slowed down our thoughts. As Kannan and I drove back to the Palar checkpost, we discussed the man’s suggestion. In the next few days, this idea developed into an operation that, as per our plan, would culminate in a tea garden in Ooty. The operation was code-named Boston, drawing inspiration from the famous Boston Tea Party.
‘We’re spread thin. It would be good if Veerappan is drawn out of the jungle.’
Kannan said cautiously, ‘There’s no doubt that our odds would greatly improve if we got him out. Maybe after the Hidayatullah infiltration he has raised his defences.’
‘Veerappan has an eye problem. And he hasn’t seen his family in years. If Muthulakshmi were to send him a message, he might risk coming to meet her and getting treated as well,’ I said.
‘He won’t come to Salem. It will have to be another location. We will have to make Muthulakshmi feel secure,’ replied Kannan.
‘Can’t we get somebody to befriend her? Once she opens up to that person, we can plant the idea of calling Veerappan. How about an undercover policewoman?’ I said.
‘I know a civilian girl. She might be willing to help,’ said Kannan.
A plan was beginning to take shape. Kannan and I were excited, but we knew that a lot of pieces would have to fall into place for it to succeed, especially as we were determined to make sure Muthulakshmi was not endangered.
While we had been busy chasing Veerappan, Muthulakshmi was first placed in the custody of the Karnataka STF, then within weeks, was transferred to the care of the Tamil Nadu STF. She was not under arrest but kept under watch. After the Rajkumar release she was put under the watch of DSP Ramalingam. For a while she stayed in Mettur, Mechery, then shifted to Salem.
The first step was to get her to move from Salem to a location of our choice. DSP Ramalingam was away on some work. But she also trusted DSP Ashok Kumar. Ashok Kumar was assigned the task of drawing her out.
As Muthulakshmi walked to a shop near her house to make a call, she spotted a jeep with a Karnataka licence plate. It had four passengers—all in civilian clothes, but with close-cropped hair. None of them looked older than forty years. She rushed home in panic.
Two days later, she spotted the same jeep parked in the street corner. Her brain went into overdrive. She figured in many FIRs as Veerappan’s wife and accomplice. She had also read in Tamil dailies about a warrant issued against her by a court in Karnataka.
‘They’ve come to get me,’ she thought. ‘I can’t let them take me again.’
In desperation, she tried calling Ramalingam. But his phone was out of reach.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
‘It’s me, Ashok Kumar.’
It was a familiar voice. Muthulakshmi opened the door and pleaded, ‘Please help me.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll move you to a safe location. But I can’t reveal my identity. I’ll pretend to be your brother, Shankar, who has just come back from the Gulf to help you find a place to stay. Now pack quickly; take only absolutely essential stuff. Let’s leave at once,’ said Ashok Kumar.
The duo went from Salem to Erode and then to Tiruppur—to houses already prepared by STF’s intel branch. At each location, Ashok Kumar made a big show of pleading and negotiating, while Muthulakshmi watched from his jeep. At each place the ‘owners’, who were actually STF personnel in plain clothes, declined to rent their homes.
By the end of the day, Muthulakshmi was getting desperate. Finally, they reached Vadavalli, a quiet middle-class neighbourhood in Coimbatore.
‘Let me try one last time,’ suggested Ashok Kumar, pointing at a ‘To Let’ sign. Only women—a mother, daughter (our informer, Ramya) and grandmother—lived in the house. They said they could offer her a room with an attached bathroom and a small kitchen, with a separate entry.
Muthulakshmi leapt at the offer. She was delighted to find a place after a long harrowing day. Besides, the company of the young woman, Ramya, who seemed to be about ten years younger than her, was a welcome change after years of living alone.
Ashok
Kumar made sure that Muthulakshmi had settled into her quarters and then bid her farewell. As he drove away, he called Kannan.
‘First step of Operation Northern Star over,’ Kannan reported to me. ‘It went off rather smoothly.’
We had decided to name the operation Northern Star inspired by Vadavalli, where Veerappan’s wife now stayed. In Tamil, ‘vada’ is north, while ‘velli’ means star.
‘The hard part starts now,’ I replied. ‘I hope Ramya is up to it.’
February 2004
Ramya exceeded our expectations. She soon became friends with Muthulakshmi, even convincing the latter to visit a beauty parlour for the first time in her life. After years of stress, Vadavalli must have seemed idyllic to Muthulakshmi. Soon, she would be chatting with Ramya all day.
At night, on the pretext of visiting the market, Ramya would meet Kannan and pass on updates on the day’s developments.
An undercover STF man, who was designated as the family’s driver and man Friday, monitored Muthulakshmi’s activities. He observed her visitors closely and followed them. He was also supposed to protect the family, though the members were oblivious to his real identity. He had strict instructions not to intrude on Muthulakshmi’s privacy.
With a strong friendship between the two women now in place, Kannan and I decided to take the operation to the next level. If we wanted to lure Veerappan to Muthulakshmi, we would have to take her to a remote location. There was no way he would take the risk of entering Coimbatore.
We located the perfect spot—a guest house of a tea garden some 20 km from Ooty. It offered a scenic view and, more importantly from our point of view, was completely isolated. This was the estate ‘Boston’. We posted an STF man there, posing as the cook-cum-caretaker.
Ramya and Muthulakshmi drove there one day.
‘It’s so beautiful. Who does it belong to?’ asked Muthulakshmi.
Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Page 19