PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  “How long till the Pakis get here?” Mirza screamed over the noise.

  “We slowed them down with a landslide.” The squad leader gave a thumbs up as they climbed into the chopper.

  Mirza passed Himesh his notebook as the captain pulled on a headset. Using the helicopter’s radio, he relayed the details of the van to headquarters as Mirza sat next to the door gunner.

  The loadmaster slammed the rear clamshell doors shut and the engines screamed as the helo lurched into the air. They banked hard, soared over a ridgeline and gained speed as they dropped into the valley that led back to Indian airspace.

  Looking over the door gunner’s shoulder, Mirza could see the first rays of sunlight appearing over the mountains. He turned back to the para commandos. Their faces were etched with fatigue, but also relief. The mission was complete.

  With a clang, a line of bullet holes appeared in the fuselage. A round tore through the door gunner’s leg, knocking him backward. More bullets impacted above them, smashing into the engine compartment.

  Mirza leaped from his seat. He grabbed the machine gun which was hanging limp in the doorway. He pulled the gunner’s headset off and jammed it on. As the helicopter banked wildly, he heard the screams of the loadmaster over the noise of the radio and the engines.

  “Paki attack helo on our six,” the pilot bellowed over the headset.

  Mirza caught a glint of the early morning sunlight reflected off the gunship’s canopy. “I’ve got visual. It’s a Cobra.” He hit the butterfly trigger on the PK machine gun and spat a line of tracer toward it.

  The Cobra pilot took evasive action, throwing the nimble craft into a dive.

  “He’s gone low,” Mirza reported.

  “We’re going high then.” The Mi-17’s engines screamed as the pilot hauled upon the collective, sending it skyward. “He doesn’t have the power to follow us.”

  Mirza stuck his head out the doorway into the buffeting wind. He could see the Cobra behind them but could not swivel the gun far enough around.

  The helicopter lurched. An alarm wailed over the headset. “Shit, we just lost an engine!” the pilot said.

  They dropped fast. Mirza saw the Cobra climbing, moving in for the kill. “Push the nose twenty degrees to the right!”

  The pilot turned the chopper and Mirza lined up his sights. The machinegun bucked. The rounds went wide. He fired again to no effect. The gunship was climbing and they were losing altitude. Within seconds, the Cobra’s cannon would blast them out of the sky.

  “I’m losing power in engine two,” the pilot announced.

  Mirza fired a long burst, walking the tracers onto the Cobra. The 7.62mm rounds bounced off its armored canopy. He could almost make out the faces of the pilot and gunner. He thumbed the triggers again; hoping that one of his rounds would find a vital component.

  As he fired off the last of his ammunition, the impossible happened. The Cobra exploded in a ball of flame. The blast rocked them as an Indian MiG-21 swept past with a thunderous roar.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” Mirza announced over the radio.

  “We’re not out of trouble yet,” the pilot replied. “Engine two is on its way out. Get everyone strapped in.”

  Mirza abandoned the machine gun and turned his attention to the passengers. The para commandos were all tightening their belts. Within seconds, he’d secured himself to his seat. “Brace for impact!”

  The chopper hit hard. The landing gear tore off. It flipped onto its side, smashing the rotors to pieces as it slid along the ground. The pilot had put them down on top of a hill. Only when they came to rest a few yards from a steep slope did Mirza breathe.

  He flicked open the clasp on his safety belt and surveyed the damage. The stench of aviation fuel kicked him into action. “Get the doors open!” He stuck his head into the cockpit. The glass canopy had splintered but held. Both pilots gave him a thumbs up as they crawled out of their seats.

  Himesh and the medic were with the wounded gunner. Together, they carried the man to the back.

  The loadmaster had managed to wedge open the rear doors. He helped maneuver the wounded man from the wreck.

  Mirza waited for the pilots to get clear, then checked everyone was out before sprinting away. He stopped when he reached Himesh and the wounded gunner. “Is he going to live?”

  The captain had powered up the satellite phone and was checking for a signal. “He will if he gets help. But that’s not our problem. We need to get to New Delhi.”

  The sound of vehicles snapped the para commandos into action. They moved fast, setting up a defensive perimeter.

  A pair of Indian MiGs screamed overhead as the four-wheel drive pulled up and soldiers jumped out. They were Indian Army. “Well, at least we’re on the right side of the border,” Mirza said.

  CHAPTER 8

  CHANDNI CHOWK, NEW DELHI

  The Lashkar cell leader Al-Jahiz led his team of four through the back streets of Chandni Chowk. They had swapped vehicles after crossing the border into India, changing the van for another a local contact had supplied. Once in New Delhi, they abandoned that vehicle on the outskirts of Chandni Chowk and walked into the shantytown.

  Now, early morning and already this derelict part of the city throbbed with life. Beggars, homeless youths, shoppers, and desperate merchants clogged the streets.

  The stench of poverty, refuse, and death was suffocating. Al-Jahiz glanced at his team and took in their shell-shocked expressions. He spat in the gutter. “This is how the infidel lives.”

  Jawid stared at a legless beggar perched on a wooden cart. “Disgusting.”

  “A direct reflection of their lack of morality. Follow me.” Al-Jahiz left the alley and merged with the foot traffic on a wider street. A smile almost broke free at the gaggle of street urchins playing cricket with a makeshift bat and using a trash can for wickets.

  Spotting them, the kids surged forward with hands outstretched and voices demanding change.

  They reminded him of seagulls fighting over a scrap of food. “Go away! Get lost,” Al-Jahiz snarled in Hindi, plowing through the pack. He ignored them as they followed for a dozen yards before switching from demands to abuse, then returning to their game of cricket. All except a young teen with a gaunt face. Nothing Al-Jahiz did or said got rid of the skinny urchin.

  “Best guide in Chandni Chowk, mister. Atal can get you anywhere and get you anything. You want tuk-tuk, I get tuk-tuk. You want cell phone, I get you cell phone. You need shoes, I know a man who does shoes. Atal can get you anything you want.”

  “Enough! Do you know where New Nawab Guest House is?” Al-Jahiz snapped, realizing he’d say anything to stop the boy’s unceasing jabber.

  “Yes. I told you I can get you anywhere.”

  “Then take us there.”

  “OK, mister! Atal take you to New Nawab Guest House.”

  The youngster guided them through a bewildering maze of alleyways, courtyards, and market streets. As they moved deeper into the slum, they saw more foreigners: Pakistanis, Arabs, even Chinese.

  Atal waved his hand down a street. “You pay now. I take you the rest of the way.” He stood waiting with his hand extended.

  Al-Jahiz flicked him a copper coin.

  “What’s this?”

  “Take what you get.” He searched the street ahead for a landmark.

  “You are cheap, mister.” With his hand extended, his fingers motioning for more, Atal followed the Pakistanis down the street. “Come on, mister, you pay more.”

  “Go away,” Al-Jahiz snarled.

  “I go. But you give me more. I can follow all day.”

  “I’ll give you something more.” He hit Atal with a right hook and snickered as the kid collapsed into the gutter.

  With a savage kick to the ribs, Al-Jahiz pivoted and continued with his team down a side street. A hundred yards along the road, he threw up his arms in frustration. He took out a phone and dialed a number. “It’s me. I can’t find the house. Send some
one out to meet us.”

  A moment later, a scruffy looking Indian appeared on the street. Al-Jahiz struggled to hide his disgust. The man was filthy; his knotted beard speckled with scraps of food. He was either destitute, a desperate criminal, out of his mind, or perhaps all three.

  The man waved them to where an orange wooden door blocked an alley. A hand-painted sign above it proclaimed ‘Nawab Guest House’. “Are you Jahiz?”

  “Yes. Karim has been expecting us.”

  “He’s in here.” The man pushed open the door and waved them down the walkway between two buildings into a small courtyard.

  Al-Jahiz checked the street behind them and spotted the kid glaring at him as he closed the door. In the courtyard, he eyeballed two men playing cards. They stared back with cold lifeless eyes. More of the same, destitute criminals wearing filthy clothes.

  He and his team followed trash-beard through a metal door and entered a two-story gray building. As they passed a room, he caught a glimpse of plastic bins and shelves of jars. Sniffing, he sneezed. It reeked of heavy, burning disinfectant.

  “This way.” The man led them up a flight of stairs.

  Karim stood at the top, his arms held wide. “Welcome, my brothers.”

  Al-Jahiz grasped the plump Saudi by the shoulders and hugged him. “Nice place you got us.”

  “It smells foul, but it’s secure. We’ve prepared your team’s room.” He led them down a hallway into a prayer room. It was clean with freshly painted walls and woven mats laid over the concrete floor. In the corner, four vests lay on a table. Each was blue, with magazine pouches on the front and the word ‘POLICE’ stenciled on the back.

  “The detonators and weapons are in another area,” Karim said. “I don’t trust the criminals not to sell them.”

  “But they can be trusted not to sell us out?”

  “Their loyalty has been bought.”

  Al-Jahiz nodded and turned to his team. “This is where you’ll stay until we are ready to strike.”

  “How long will we have to wait?” asked Jawid. The Afghan’s beard had been neatly trimmed. He almost looked respectable.

  Al-Jahiz clasped his shoulders. “It will not be long, brothers. Glory will be yours. Rest and I will have food and water brought to you.” Leaving the team in their makeshift mosque, he and Karim headed down the corridor to the dining area. “Where are your men?”

  Karim placed a jug of water and some naan bread on a tray. “Surveillance on the kidnap target.”

  “The woman.”

  “Yes, the lawyer.”

  “She deserves to die.” Al-Jahiz settled on one of the four battered chairs surrounding the equally decrepit looking table. He sniffed the air. “This place smells like a…”

  “Like a morgue.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it smells like. What in Allah’s name are they doing in here?”

  “Harvesting organs from the homeless.”

  Al-Jahiz snapped his mouth closed and asked, “You’re joking, yes?”

  “I’m afraid not. They take them from the poor and sell to the rich.”

  “That’s vile. We can trust these, these flesh merchants?”

  “ISI seems to think so. They’ve used these criminals for years. Which reminds me—” He withdrew a cell phone from his pocket. “—this is the only phone our contact will call. Now that you’re here, he will want to talk to you.”

  “Me?”

  “You are the commander, remember. Now if you excuse me I will feed your men.” Grinning, he picked up the tray and left the room.

  Al-Jahiz studied the phone. The history had been wiped. There were no recorded numbers or messages. With a shrug, he dropped it into his pocket, then managed a smile. Karim was right. He was the commander. This was his chance to strike. It was his time to be the sword of Allah.

  Karim returned a moment later. “Your men are very motivated.”

  “They want nothing more than to give their lives for jihad.”

  A knock sounded on the door and they glanced at one another. “Come in,” said Al-Jahiz. One of the Indian criminals entered dragging a battered sports bag. He dumped it on the table.

  “These are the uniforms you asked for.”

  Al-Jahiz had trouble hiding his contempt of the slovenly criminal. Not only was he filthy but a massive gut bulged from under his sweat-stained singlet.

  “This is Neeraj. He’s the leader of our friends,” said Karim.

  “The criminals?”

  Neeraj licked his lips as the Saudi counted a handful of rupee notes and handed them to him. “I prefer the term entrepreneurs. Always good doing business.” He tucked the money beneath his singlet and left, shutting the door behind him.

  “And you say you can trust them?” Al-Jahiz asked as Karim unzipped the bag and removed a bundle of khaki clothing.

  “As long as we pay him. Let’s just hope no one makes a better offer.” Karim held up a shirt. On the breast pocket was a tag that read ‘POLICE’. “We have enough for all the men.”

  Al-Jahiz smiled. “The Colonel was right to choose you to path-find for this mission.”

  “He chose both of us. Together, we are unstoppable, my brother. Together, we will deal the infidel blow after blow in the name of Allah.”

  CHAPTER 9

  RAW HEADQUARTERS, NEW DELHI

  The director paced the sleek corridors of RAW’s headquarters. He had spent the morning in a budget hearing reassuring fat cats that their precious funds were spent frugally. It frustrated the hell out of him and left him in a foul mood. He hated wasting time. Yet these corrupt nepotistic morons demanded he account for every rupee when they were lining their own pockets. Entering his office, he saw Major Jayaram waiting and bit back a curse.

  Jayaram jumped to his feet. “Sir, I have an update on the mission.”

  “Proceed.” The director moved around his desk and upon sitting, poured a cup of tea from the steaming pot before him.

  “Sir, the para commandos hit the objective at 0500 hours this morning. They seized the camp and killed in excess of eighty terrorists and an ISI training team. Upon extraction our air support was forced to shoot down a–”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve already seen the incident report from the Air Force. The Prime Minister was less than pleased but that’s not your concern. Tell me about the terrorists.”

  “Our SPEC-B detachment was able to gather intelligence. Unfortunately, we believe the terrorist team had departed several hours earlier.”

  Frowning, the director placed the cup down. “Go on.”

  “They got a description of a van. Late last night, it passed through the border crossing point near Kargil carrying five Pakistanis. A surveillance team picked it up and tracked them.”

  “And then?”

  “We lost them on the outskirts of New Delhi. They’re still searching now.”

  “Fucking Pakistanis!” The director slammed his fist down so hard tea splashed from his cup.

  “Sir, we have the IDs these guys used at the border and photos of them. My SPEC-B detachment can hunt them down.”

  “Why the hell weren’t they stopped at the border?”

  “The decision was made to track them and locate their support network.”

  “So we’ve just let a bunch of bloody terrorists into the country? And to make matters worse, the problem’s now out of my jurisdiction.” Scowling, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m going to have to hand this over to the NSG.”

  “Sir, my men will arrive here this evening. They can marry up with the surveillance team. If we give them a little time, they’ll find the terrorists.”

  “No.” The director shook his head. “The surveillance team will have to stand down. NSG has the mandate for domestic ops. Tell your boys their role is purely liaison. Have them report to the Delhi NSG compound and liaise directly with the commander.”

  “Sir, you know the Black Cats are corrupt and inept. My sister is a prosecutor with CBI. She can–”


  “An attack is imminent. The NSG has jurisdiction, not to mention direct access to the Delhi police and domestic intelligence networks. Corrupt and inept be damned, by law we have to work with them.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll inform my men.”

  ***

  CHANDNI CHOWK

  Atal found a policeman at a street stall a few blocks from where the bug-eyed Pakistani had hit him. He was hungry and sporting a swollen face but also had something of value. Something he could trade for cash. Information.

  “Officer, how are you this morning?”

  The turban-wearing policeman looked up from his newspaper and put down his coffee. A scowl marred his bearded features. “I would be better if you weren’t interrupting my breakfast.”

  Atal lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sir. But I have information. Very good information. Make you a big man.”

  “What is it?”

  Atal held out his hand. “Ten rupee.”

  He dropped his paper on the table. “I should flog you for begging.” He paused and stared at Atal’s face. “It looks like someone already beat me to it. Now run along.”

  “OK, eight, officer, eight rupees. A bargain, I tell you. Low, low price.”

  The policeman turned his attention back to his paper.

  “OK, OK, five. But at this price I’m giving it away.”

  He kept reading.

  “Two? Two rupees for information? Less than your coffee. Good deal. It’s like you’re stealing it from me.”

  The policeman reached into his pocket. “You can have my loose copper.” He held out a few coins.

  Atal’s hand darted out and grabbed them. “Five Pakistanis came this morning. They stay with Neeraj’s gang.”

  “That’s interesting but hardly anything new.” He gave Atal a sad look and went back to his paper.

  Atal shrugged his shoulders and left the officer to his breakfast. He knew a place where he could turn the coins into a feast. He was so focused on the prospect of eating that his normally sharp eyes did not spot one of Neeraj’s men. The filthy criminal with the knotted beard sat with a beggar’s cup not more the five yards away.