Line of Control- A Thriller on the Coming War in Asia

by Mainak Dhar

  The Indian police was ill equipped to tackle the small bands of heavily armed and motivated terrorists now striking across the valley. These had usually seemed to be random attacks, but in the past few days, Deora could discern a clear and frightening pattern. Suicide squads of two or three terrorists were striking at rear echelon army units and key officials-acts that in isolation did not mean much, but when added up, painted a grim scenario, and reflected a conscious strategy to degrade India’s ability to mount any meaningful campaign in the valley in case war did break out. The papers were full of Pakistan lauding these `hot blooded youth’ for rising up against oppression, but the Pakistani army had been unusually silent for days now, with the usual cross border firing slowing to a trickle.

  He looked at the intelligence reports in front of him, and they all told one story. Militant strikes were intensifying exponentially following the Indian air strikes, and critically, there were not just strikes aiming to create terror, but well planned attacks against India’s security forces and infrastructure.

  Deora’s reverie was interrupted by loud shouting just outside his office, followed almost immediately by the rattle of automatic rifle fire. He knew something was very wrong, but he would not think of cowering in his office for a minute, and waiting for the militants to come after him. He pulled out his service revolver and rushed outside.

  He froze on seeing his two guards lying in pools of blood, three masked men standing over their bodies. He tried to raise his gun to fire, but before he could do so, several dozen AK-47 shells tore through his body.

  ***

  The salvos of multi barreled rocket fire shattered the quiet of dawn as rockets poured down on Indian positions. These Soviet era rocket launchers had been painstakingly moved to the border, sometimes under cover of `refugee aid convoys’ and sometime hidden under regular army deployments. Now they gave the militants unprecedented firepower against the Indians. The movement of men and small arms had been much, much easier. Put together, there was now a small army at Kashmir’s footsteps, a far cry from the small bands of militants India had been used to fighting.

  The Indians had been on a high state of alert, but had been expecting human-wave type charges by the Mujahideen. They were really not prepared for the heavy rocket fire the Mujahideen were now bringing to bear from across the Line of Control. By the time the war was over, they would learn to be surprised.

  It was a picturesque location, and in more peaceful times, would have been a tourist’s paradise, with the clear lake and surrounding hills. Now however, the only people around were a reinforced infantry platoon of the Indian Army-about forty men.

  Their mission was to report on Mujahideen movement across the Jhangar bridge, which connected the narrow, rough road on the far side of the lake to a concrete road which led straight to the town of Uri, less than 10 kilometers from the Line of Control in Kashmir.

  The Indians were lightly armed with assault rifles and one LMG. Following the initial air strikes, the Indians did expect a counterattack, but believed these would be concentrated farther south, near Poonch, which had been the scene of heavy fighting during the earlier India-Pakistan wars or further north, nearer Kargil, which had been the scene of vicious fighting in 1999. Reinforcements were on their way to the bridge, but were still two days away, having been held up by a terrorist attack that had destroyed two connecting bridges.

  That was pretty much the story across Kashmir. Many frontline Indian units had witnessed vicious, usually suicidal, strikes by small terrorist groups. While the material damage caused, was in the larger scheme of things, minimal, these tied up and distracted many units. The story was even worse with the reserves and police units. The Police Headquarters in Srinagar had been gutted in a rocket attack the day before, and many senior officials assassinated in surgical strikes.

  The Indian platoon could call upon artillery fire from a firebase twenty kilometers away. However, this close to the border and given the heavily forested terrain, it was doubtful whether they would get enough of an advance warning to call upon any meaningful artillery support.

  A whistling noise overhead alerted the Indian commander to the attack and they had barely hunkered down in their bunkers as the rockets exploded all around them. Within seconds of the salvo stopping, nearly two hundred Mujahideen ran across the border towards the Indian positions. About half of them went for the bridge; the others engaged the Indian defenders.

  It was an old fashioned infantry slugging match and the superior training and discipline of the Indian Army soldiers was evident. The Indians knew they were outnumbered badly, but instead of making a stand at one place, began trading space for kills, moving from bush to bush, one cover to another, inflicting casualties on the approaching enemy.

  The momentum of the attack had almost been broken when another squad of Mujahideen appeared.

  The young Indian Lieutenant in charge had a clear choice, to retreat and lose the bridge or to die trying to stop the attackers. A member of the proud Jat regiment, the choice was simple. He ordered his men to fire the last of their ammunition and then to follow him. He affixed his bayonet and charged screaming his regimental war cry, followed by the twenty surviving members of his platoon.

  The Mujahideen were temporarily caught off guard and a half dozen were killed at the ends of Indian bayonets, before their comrades recovered and began fighting back.

  The fierce hand-to-hand fighting lasted for all of five minutes, but the outcome was obvious. Only in the movies do twenty men win against a hundred.

  By afternoon, a dozen trucks were crossing the bridge, each filled with Mujahideen. The attack had happened so suddenly that the Indians could not report the loss of the bridge and as the Indian artillery swung into action, engaging other incursions across the valley, this critical opening went unnoticed.

  It was a brilliant tactic, as the Indians had never expected it. The past conflict in Kargil had led the Indians to believe that any future incursion would occur only in isolated mountain posts. But the near paralysis of rear echelon units by superbly planned terrorist strikes, and the sudden and brilliantly planned attack on the platoon had given the Mujahideen an opening in much flatter terrain-and a road straight to a major town-Uri.

  ***

  It was an impressive fly past, and locals gathered around the base to watch the procession of jets. One by one, the twin turbofan engines of the jet fighters roared to life and lifted the fighters into the clear morning sky. The silver darts flew due East.

  By the end of the day, twenty-four F-15 Eagles and two E-3 AWACS were ready for combat at Pakistani airfields.

  At about the same time, a convoy of seven large container ships left Jeddah, each carrying a large cargo, hidden under huge canvas sheets.

  ***

  The WNS office was unusually quiet today, Pooja mused as she walked in. Coming to office was not a phrase she would use, because for the last one week, she had virtually been living out of office. Dasgupta had been unusually nice, insisting that she go home the previous night to get some sleep. Pooja figured he was just being grateful to her for not blowing the Sethi story and also trying to be especially nice after Khosla had called him, asking for Pooja’s new appointment.

  No sooner had she entered her cubicle that Rahul shouted out from his desk, holding the newspaper up in the air.

  `Boss, have you read the papers!’

  Pooja did not have to even guess what he was talking about. Every Indian newspaper was plastered with editorials raving about the Indian government’s bold decision to launch air strikes across the Line of Control, and a few articles talking about the vicious retaliation Indian forces were facing across the LOC.

  `Yeah, Rahul-war’s happening. And guess what, we’re going to be in the middle of it.’

  Rahul jumped over his desk to walk over to Pooja’s cubicle, `What does that mean?’

  `This’, Pooja handed over a print out.

  `Wow! This is big. Part of the press corps accompany
ing the army!’

  `Relax; we’re not going to Kashmir. We’re slotted with the 3rd armored division in Rajasthan. I’m not too sure we’ll see much action down there.’

  The last time things had gotten this hot-in Kargil-both sides had balked at escalating the conflict to the plains-for fear of a nuclear escalation. Pooja had a feeling it would be more of the same this time around as well.

  `Wow, man, tanks!’

  Pooja looked up at Rahul and broke out laughing. Sometimes Rahul really seemed like a ten year old kid.

  `So, Boss, when do we leave?’

  `Tomorrow.’

  ***

  NINE

  He will win, who prepared himself, takes the enemy unprepared.

  - Sun Tzu

  `How’s it going?’ It was a rhetorical question. Khosla knew the answer well enough.

  `We’ve badly underestimated the numbers of Mujahideen we could be dealing with. Our latest estimates show at least forty thousand mercenaries attacking the valley.’

  Joshi did not look up from the intelligence report he held, knowing that this failure was his. The Pakistanis had used a very clever plan of bringing in Mujahideen to various villages in PoK over a period of at least six months, so that the impression of a large-scale mobilization was never created. Most of the Mujahideen were hardened soldiers, many having fought the Soviets in the hills of Afghanistan over twenty years ago, and more recently against the Americans. When it came time to attack, it was relatively simple to gather these forces at short notice. What they lacked in formal military training and discipline, they made up in fanaticism and ruthlessness. Most of them actually believed they were fighting a Holy War to liberate their brethren, and as any soldier would confess-the most difficult man to defeat is the one who believes in his cause. Added to that, the terrorist strikes in the valley itself were playing havoc with Indian mobilization plans and rear echelon units.

  The air chief spoke up, `Well sir, our attack aircraft are flying round the clock-and the PAF hasn’t really stepped in so far. Their Mirages and Airguards took quite a beating in the first attacks on PoK. With this kind of air superiority, I’m confident we can hold the Mujahideen. Its just a matter of time before we can break the back of their offensive.’

  `Also, there’s no sign that the Pakistanis are planning to move their regular forces in-they’re mobilized and at a high state of alert-but are showing no signs of crossing the border to help the Mujahideen. They might be testing the waters with the Mujahideen-if these thugs do get a breakthrough-regular troops may step in. On the other hand, if we can really give the Mujahideen a bloody nose, the Pakistanis may just stay out-saying these were youth who had raised the banner of revolt against us.’ Joshi did not have much confidence in his own intelligence assessment, and it showed.

  `I hope so, I just hope we do.’

  What was left carefully unsaid was the fact that the Indians had absolutely no forewarning of the kind of retaliation they were facing both across the LOC and in the form of guerilla attacks within its own territory.

  Khosla took Joshi aside as the meeting got over.

  `Well, what the hell is this Patriot up to? All we do is keep getting surprised.’

  `Sir, I really don’t know-but my guess is information on the full operation is restricted to only a small group-so he’s taking longer to get a lead. Also, remember Sir, now the stakes are much higher-its that much easier for him to be exposed now. I would just give him some time. We’re passing on an urgent message for him detailing what we want-let’s hope that helps direct his efforts.’

  `You know, Joshi-maybe I’m being too harsh on the poor guy. His life must be one living hell-deep in their territory, forever in great danger. What say we get him out sometime?’

  `Its too late for that, Sir. He’s too deeply entrenched-he’ll just have to stay there. It’s a miracle he retained his loyalty after all these years.’

  ***

  The room was sparsely furnished, with a small desk and chair and a termite-ridden bookshelf. There were only a few dog-eared books on the shelf, and an old fan creaked overhead, doing precious little to cool the room. The board outside read `A.M.Malik and Company, Solicitors’. The office had not been used for anything approaching the line of business advertised, and indeed the firm made no efforts whatsoever to attract any clients.

  The man was sitting at the desk, hunched over a book, a magnifying glass in hand. On closer inspection, the book looked like an ordinary diary, with a page for each day, and indeed there were appointments and reminders scribbled all over it. The only aberration was a small box at the bottom of each page, which seemed to have a completely random matrix of numbers and alphabets.

  As the man looked at the matrix, he made notes on a separate page. When he was through, he consulted his notes and wrote on a blank piece of paper what would seem to be utter gibberish to a layman.

  To the Patriot, however, this was a regular chore. Over the years, he had repeated it every alternate day, without fail. It was a simple matter, and after so many years, one would have thought that it would have become a matter of little consequence for him. Nothing could be further from the truth. He knew any carelessness or oversight would mean death.

  After the message was complete, he put the paper in an envelope and sealed it. The diary went into a locked drawer and the Patriot went outside.

  The method the Patriot was about to use was one that dated back to the earliest days of modern spy craft, and really reached high levels of refinement during the Cold War. In this modern age of computers and satellite communication, it seemed anachronistic, but it was probably still the most secure means of communication. Each day brought a different drop zone, along with a completely different code. All he had to do was to use the code for that day to encode his message. Similarly, any message to him would also come encoded using the same code. If there were a change in the code or drop locations, the Patriot would find a new diary in the mail. His employers believed in taking no chances

  The Patriot got into his car and drove out of the ramshackle office complex. As he drove, he kept looking at the rear view mirror. A layman would have thought this unnecessary paranoia-but he knew better. He was especially careful to stay within speed limits and obey all traffic rules-the last thing a spy wants is to draw attention to himself. Unlike their celluloid counterparts, who seemed to thrive on flashy cars, real life spies usually presented a most mundane appearance. In the real world, it is best to melt into the crowd.

  The Patriot drove for about fifteen minutes, till he reached a small cafe.

  He entered the place and sat down at a table, ordering a coffee. He sipped on the cup while waiting for the designated time. There were a dozen or so other people in the cafe. He scanned their faces-a young mother with a child, two teenagers arguing over a cricket match, an old man slurping his tea. It could be any one of them. Initially he had been curious, but experience had taught him to ignore this-he did not need to know who his contact would be.

  At exactly ten-o clock, he got up and went to the restroom. Once inside, he took the envelope out of his pocket and left it in the garbage can. He looked around inside the can for a couple of seconds-there was no message today.

  He walked out, and left after paying the bill. As usual, he would have no clue as to who would pick up his envelope.

  ***

  The Indian Mi-35 had exhausted all its rockets and was now using its machine guns to hunt the Mujahideen. Here, as in many other sectors in the Central and Southern part of the valley, the insurgents had made initial gains and it was taking considerable effort to hold them. Indian artillery and air power were taking their toll, but in this mountainous area, it was relatively easy to take cover from air attacks. To make life worse, some of the Mujahideen were carrying Stinger missiles, part of a small stockpile left over from the Afghan war. Old and badly maintained, they were not a great threat, but still made low level flying that much more dangerous, as another Hind had found out earlier
in the day.

  The PAF had still not made its presence felt in a big way, much to the surprise of the Indians, and the IAF had a relatively unchallenged control of the skies over Kashmir.

  `Thunderbolt, I’m out of here. You guys take over.’ The Hind pilot turned his machine around and headed home, knowing he’d be up again soon.

  `Thunderbolt’ was a flight of four Indian Jaguar strike aircraft. Flying low from the North, they passed the Hind and headed for a large concentration of Mujahideen. Here the Mujahideen had set up their rocket launchers and were using them to support incursions further to the North. The Thunderbolts’ mission was to take these launchers out.

  Each Jaguar carried two rocket pods and two 500lb bombs-enough firepower to easily knock the Mujahideen launchers out, and have some left over for any Mujahideen left in the open. They were operating without fighter escort, as each carried two Magic AAMs for self-defense and the Jaguar’s low-level performance was judged enough to enable it to evade most Pakistani fighters, except the F-16. And there were no F-16s to be seen over Kashmir.

  The Jaguars represented the cutting edge of India’s strike aircraft, along with the MiG-27. Jointly designed by the United Kingdom and France, more than 100 Jaguars had come to be license produced in India. Armed with relatively advanced sensors and a respectable weapons load, the Jaguar was ideally suited for the mission being currently tasked to the `Thunderbolts’.

  `Thunderbolts, I have three bandits closing in you at 800, bearing one-nine-zero, range fifty’.

  The warning came from the Indian early warning platform-a converted Il-76 transport acquired from Russia almost eight years ago and subsequently modified greatly with Israeli avionics-notably the Phalcon early warning radar system. Nowhere as capable as the American E-3, it still gave the Indians an AWACS capability that neither Pakistan nor China had.