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

by Mainak Dhar

  Two F-16s were on Runway Two, nearest to the Control Tower, having just landed after their CAP duty. They were low on fuel, but were armed, and still had their pilots in them. As soon as the Indian missiles hit, the pilots began turning the fighters around to take off and engage the attackers. Their replacements were still undergoing pre-flight checks on Runway One, a kilometer to the South, and near the hangars.

  Singh came in at over 500 knots at an altitude of 850 feet. At such speed, he would get just one shot at his target. He homed in on the two F-16s at the south of the base, which were being fueled by a large oil tanker.

  He aimed at the tanker, and when he had it lined up, fired a long burst from his 30mm cannon. As he flew over the F-16s, he saw his bullets track into the tanker. The tanker exploded in a huge fireball, sending burning oil flying over a radius of a square kilometer. Both F-16s were destroyed instantly, and an Alouette helicopter to the left also caught fire and exploded.

  Bhatia had gone after the Crotale battery, and fired both his rocket pods at the battery. The Pakistanis got off one missile before the battery was destroyed, but at such low altitudes, the Crotale missed.

  The two Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns at the base were swiveling to deal with the Indian planes, when the two other Sukhois arrived.

  One went straight for Runway Two and dropped its four Durandel clusters and pulled up sharply as tracers from the Oerlikon reached out at it.

  The Durandel is a specialized anti-runway weapon. When dropped, a parachute is deployed to slow its descent to allow the carrier aircraft to climb to a safe altitude. Small rockets in the bomb then propel it into the concrete and the warhead explodes only when the bomb is inside the runway, thus tearing apart the runway.

  The bombs hit as the F-16s were beginning their take-off runs. One of them exploded just a dozen feet from the fighters, destroying both of them. The second bomb failed to explode, but the other two Durandels struck home.

  The remaining Sukhoi had hit Runway One, and though peppered by small arms fire, put two of its four bombs on target and pulled away.

  Singh and Bhatia were to cover the retreat of the two other planes, and Bhatia went after the Oerlikons that were spewing fire at the Indian planes. He scored hits on one gun, but the other put a dozen shells into the aft side of the Sukhoi. Singh watched in horror as the big plane tipped over and crashed into the ground, exploding. There were no parachutes. At such low altitude and high speed, ejection was not an option any Indian pilot had seriously considered in case they did get hit.

  Singh still had his rocket pods left and went after the Oerlikon, avenging Bhatia by destroying it with one of his pods. He climbed steeply and circled around to attack the Control Tower with his remaining rockets.

  One of the Pakistani soldiers had picked up an LMG from the perimeter guard box and was aiming at the approaching plane.

  He emptied the magazine in a desperate attempt as the Indian fighter shredded the Control Tower with its rockets.

  Singh was pulling up from his run when he felt the bullets hit. The plane shook momentarily from the impact, and then stabilized again.

  `Hey, Goel, how bad are we hit?’

  There was no answer from the back seat.

  He called out again, but there was no answer. He looked back to see Goel slumped in his seat, his head tilted to one side. A cold stab of fear went through his bowels as he tried to concentrate on getting the Sukhoi away.

  He rejoined the remaining two planes fifty kilometers away, and though the mission had been a resounding success, no one spoke a word on the flight back. All Singh could think of was getting Goel some help.

  ***

  SIXTEEN

  Let us not hear of generals who conquer without bloodshed. If a bloody slaughter is a horrible sight, then it is ground for paying more respect to war.

  - Karl Von Clausewitz

  It was ten at night when the Patriot entered the building. Security was unusually tight and he knew he had to be extra careful. He knew roughly where the room was-and would just have to find his way around once he entered the main complex.

  He had heard talk of a Pakistani plan to hold the Indians near Lahore and the confidence with which it had been talked of had instantly got his attention. He had not been able to get any more details from his sources, which was why he was taking the risk of entering the Army Headquarters himself.

  He was patted down twice, and his authorization checked three times. That was not a good sign-the more he was noticed, the more people would remember he had been here.

  After walking for about five minutes, he came to the room he sought-the office of the Assistant to the COAS. He had had one of his sources bribe the sweeper to leave the door open-there was of course no way he would get directly involved.

  He looked up and down the corridor twice to ensure that there was no one around. Satisfied that he was alone, he pushed the door gently. It did not open.

  His heart in his mouth, he pushed a bit harder. And to his immense relief, the door swung open.

  It was pitch dark inside. The room was briefly illuminated when he held the door open, and he used the few seconds to orient himself with the layout before closing the door.

  He went straight to the main desk, which was placed against the wall on the far side of the room. He fumbled in the dark, running his hand across the top of the desk, and cursed himself as a paperweight fell to the ground. Thankfully it did not make much noise on the carpeted floor.

  He found a thick sheaf of papers in the in-tray and took out the small flashlight from his pocket to study it better. It was a thin folder with perhaps a dozen stapled pages inside. The cover page had just two words printed on it- `Plan A’.

  He took out the pages and turned the top page to see a map of the area adjoining Lahore. This was it! He was about to begin reading when he heard footsteps outside. He stopped to see if anyone was coming into the room. To his dismay, the doorknob turned, and now he could hear two voices-one male, one female. He quickly put the folder back, and not finding any other place, hid under the large desk, flattening himself against the wall. He held his breath as the two people came in.

  `Shakeel, are you sure we’re safe here?’

  `Relax, no one’s going to come here at this time of night.’

  The Patriot recognized the male voice as that of Shakeel Ahmed, the COAS’s secretary. What was intriguing was the identity of the woman with him. She sounded very young, and Shakeel was over forty and married with two kids.

  He thanked the gods that Shakeel and his companion had a need for secrecy almost as great as his, and did not turn on the lights. From the fumbling noises and moans, he guessed that Shakeel had not brought the young woman in to discuss official matters. He stored this away in the back of his mind-this could be useful later, and could be good leverage against Shakeel-but for now it was a nuisance, and was merely preventing him from completing his task.

  He smiled at the absurdity of it all, as the couple lay on the desk, making love, while he hid under it. Judging by the amount of noise they were making, they probably would not have heard him if he had been singing away.

  He continued lying in his uncomfortable, crouched position till Shakeel and the woman finished. By now he had learned three things-Shakeel was cheating on his wife, which could cost him his job, and under the Sharia (Islamic law), his life; the woman’s name was Hina; and that he would never again try and play James Bond again.

  The couple dressed and Shakeel seemed to shuffle some papers on the desk.

  `Boss wanted to see some stuff. Gotta go.’

  As soon as the door slammed shut, the Patriot got out of his hiding place and groped for the folder where he had left it. He realized with horror that it was no longer there! He looked for what seemed an eternity, but there was no sign of the papers. Convinced that Shakeel had taken them with him, he left the room, dejected. He would not be able to give the Indians any warning now. They would just have to find out for themselves what Sh
amsher and his men had in store for them.

  ***

  Ramnath was looking forward to the operation. While his task force had killed two Agostas, this had been offset by the loss of the Kuthar. As far as the Navy was concerned, the submariners had really stolen the show so far, with six kills for the loss of only one Kilo. Now was the Vikramaditya’s chance to really show her stuff. The news of the IAF raid on Karachi had been welcomed enthusiastically by everyone on the Vikramaditya. With PAF Faisal reported to be out of action for at least the next four hours, the convoy was pretty much a sitting duck. The convoy was now only 50 kilometers from Karachi, and 150 kilometers from the Vikramaditya. The Indian task force was maintaining this distance to keep out of range of the Harpoon missiles that the Saudi and Pakistani ships carried.

  He looked out over the flight deck to see the two MiG-29K fighters taxi for take off. These were navalized versions of their land-based cousins, modified to be able to operate from aircraft carriers, but in every way just as capable. Each carried four KH-31 anti-ship missiles. All four missiles probably would be needed to sink even one of the large transports in the convoy, but Ramnath did not want a massacre He just wanted to scare the Saudi ships away.

  The two fighters took off and flew in slow circles over the carrier. At his order they would attack the largest ship in the convoy. He hoped it would not come to that.

  Before he gave that order, Ramnath had been instructed to give the convoy a chance. His radio officer raised the lead Saudi frigate, the Al Madinah, on the radio.

  `This is Vice Admiral Ramnath of the Indian Navy. Please identify yourself.’

  A gruff voice answered.

  `Hello, Admiral. I am Captain Niazi. What may I do for you today?’

  Ramnath was in no mood for pleasantries.

  `Captain Niazi, we have reason to believe that you are carrying war material to be used against India. If you do not turn back, I will have to treat your convoy as an enemy force, and will have to sink your ships.’

  Niazi smiled to himself. With a squadron of F-16s for cover, there was little chance the Indians would get at his ships easily. He did not know yet of the Karachi raid, which had taken place a mere fifteen minutes ago-the Pakistanis were trying their best to limit the terrible damage to morale news of the raid would bring. The Patriot had however passed on news of the raid’s success to the Indians even before the Indian planes had flown out of Pakistani airspace.

  `Admiral, these are international waters. You cannot order me to do anything. If you try and interfere with our progress, we will interpret it as an act of war and defend ourselves.’

  Ramnath almost felt sorry for the arrogant Captain, as he ordered his planes in. The idea was for the MiGs to fly in low and fast over the convoy so they could get a good look at the missiles and decide whether going ahead was still a bright idea. Ramnath’s rules of engagement were explicit-he was not to fire on any Saudi ship until they fired on the Indians.

  The Al Madinah picked up the fighters on its radar at a range of ninety kilometers. Just two planes, Niazi thought to himself, as he radioed PAF Faisal for assistance. There was no reply. He frantically tried to get through again, but all he got was the hiss of static. The Indian MiGs were now just thirty kilometers away. Without the F-16s, this would turn into a turkey shoot unless he did something about it. Niazi ordered his radar operator to lock onto the lead MiG, and a couple of seconds later, two Crotale surface to air missiles left launchers on the Al Madinah’s deck.

  `Sir, missiles in the air!’

  Ramnath had hoped the Saudis would not do this, knowing the odds they faced. But then, he did not know that the Saudi convoy had not known about the fate of PAF Faisal. In this fog of war, both sides were rushing into a shooting match neither wanted. But if it did come to that, Ramnath wanted to be one to walk away alive. He listened on the radio as the Indian pilot put the MiG through gut wrenching maneuvers to evade the Saudi missiles, and then he heard the words he dreaded hearing most.

  `I’m hit. Mayday. Mayday. I’m hit!’

  The MiG had been clipped by a near miss and debris from the exploding missile had destroyed one engine. Luckily for the pilot, the other engine was working, and he began to nurse the plane back to the Vikramaditya. Ramnath did not have to think twice about what he needed to do next.

  `Fire at will.’

  Niazi frantically shouted over the radio to engage countermeasures as the four missiles from the second MiG tracked in on his convoy. At a range of thirty kilometers, he fired a defensive salvo of Crotales, but hit only one missile. The remaining three were now too close. One hit his sister ship, Tabha, while the other two slammed into the nearest tanker, the Badr.

  The KH-31 hit the main magazine of the Tabha and there was a terrible explosion. The ship did not sink, but was burning end to end. The Badr was almost ten times heavier, and could sustain much more damage, but the fire on board was unmistakable. Niazi looked on in impotent rage as the Tabha began to list, water streaming into the stricken ship.

  Ramnath’s calm voice sounded over the radio again.

  `Captain, I have no wish to sink all your ships. Please turn back now. If you’re waiting for the F-16s, they won’t be able to take off for hours. By then they’ll have nothing left to protect.’

  ***

  Pooja was caught up the exhilaration that had possessed all men of the Vth tank regiment. Just an hour ago, the XIIth Corps had moved. Their objective was to push as deep as possible towards Multan, in the heart of Pakistan.

  She looked at Chauhan beside her. His face was glistening with sweat as he coordinated the movement of the more than fifty tanks in his regiment. All round them, over a stretch of many miles, armored vehicles and tanks were streaming into Pakistan.

  They did not have much time to talk about the previous night, and Pooja figured it would only be after the war that she could bring it up. However, she now knew two things-she was more than certain she was falling in love, and the inscrutable Indian tanker was nowhere as tough as he made himself out to be-especially when he was alone with her in bed. They had talked almost all night, and finally having someone to whom he could unburden his anxieties, Chauhan had let his defences drop. She had found herself drawn to him by his disarming honesty and simplicity, and felt after a long time that she could finally relate to someone.

  Rahul had noticed an almost palpable change in the dynamics between Pooja and Chauhan, but did not have a chance to ask her anything. He was too busy capturing the men and material of an army on the move.

  `Come up, Pooja!’ Chauhan shouted as he climbed on to the commander’s raised platform and stood with his body from the shoulders up outside the turret. Pooja jumped on. It was a tight fit, but the view was breathtaking. All around, she could see the dust being whipped up by the vehicles on the move. To her left, she saw Rahul at the turret of another tank, his camera running.

  As she looked up, she saw a dozen fighters streaking over the border, their sonic booms following a split second later. As with the XIth Corps, the sheer force of the Indian attack was pushing the Pakistanis back. So far, Chauhan’s regiment had not seen any combat, but they all knew that was going to change soon. The regiment of T-72s just six kilometers to the South had met up with a mixed force of Type 59s and TOW-equipped M-113s. Reports were still sketchy, but the Pakistanis had retreated with heavy losses. The Pakistani regiment, or whatever was left of it, was reported to be in their path.

  Chauhan spoke into his radio transmitter, `All wolves, stop till further orders. Enemy ahead.’

  Chauhan had a pair of high power binoculars over his eyes, and had evidently sighted Pakistani forces ahead.

  `Pooja, go down.’

  She went back into the tank, to see the other two crew members, Ram Singh, the gunner and Pratap, the driver, fidgeting nervously. It was Ram Singh’s job to line up any enemy targets using his gun sight, which would then feed the data into the Arjun’s fire control computer. This would then automatically adjust for wi
nd speed and elevation and give an optimum firing solution. All this worked perfectly in practice, but in wartime the enemy would be moving to avoid being hit, and would also be shooting back.

  Normally, the tank’s sighting systems, which allowed for an 8x magnification up to ranges of over 3000 meters, would have meant that there really would be no need for the commander to seek out targets visually, as Chauhan was doing. However, the regiment had just entered a pretty heavily wooded area, and straight-line visibility was in the hundreds of meters. There was a small clearing to their right, and it was a good guess that if the Pakistanis were headed their way, it would be through that clearing.

  `Ram, they’re at 310 degrees.’

  At Chauhan’s comment, the tank’s turret swiveled to the right to bring its 120mm gun to bear on the target.

  Singh had been nervous about his first combat experience, but now training and practice took over, and his mind and hands began working, almost without his being conscious of it.

  `Sir, Type 59 at 1600. Its got its back to us!’

  Chauhan smiled to himself. They would have the advantage of surprise as well.

  `Wolves, enemy to the right, 1500 onwards. Happy hunting.’

  `Sir, target in sights.’

  `Load SABOT.’

  Singh selected the required ammunition on the automatic loading system.

  `Fire!’

  Pooja felt herself being pushed back by the impact as the big gun belched fire. She watched in fascination on the main screen as smoke and fire obscured the silhouette of the enemy tank as the round landed home.

  `Good shot, Ram. Another one at 285.’

  Pratap swung the big tank around to the right so that Singh could get on target faster. He did not miss.

  For over a minute, Pooja could hear nothing but the sound of dull explosions as the Arjuns fired.

  Over the din, she heard Chauhan’s deep voice.

  `Cease fire. Cease fire.’