As soon as the last paratrooper was out, seconds after the main gate was blown, the pilot took the Mi-26 up again, flying south towards the Kuru Sampa, the main southerly bridge across the Kyichu River. Chinese reinforcements from the east were entering the city, but the area around the bridge was still clear. The pilot brought the helicopter down on the northern banks of the Kyichu, dropped off twenty commandos and delivered another twelve to the southern edge of the bridge at the beginning of the Tibet– Sichuan Highway. Looming above them was the Bhumpa Mountain, where they were to flee once the helicopter was out of action.
1,500 metres to the south-west armoured vehicles came out of the PLA’s main depot south of the river, heading towards the bridge. Tibetan fighters saw them, melted into the rocky terrain and watched them pass.
It would only be minutes before the helicopter was identified as an enemy aircraft. The pilot’s most dangerous task now was retracing the flight path to Drapchi. He flew low over the Jokhang, now an orange glow of burning buildings and street-fighting. Then it fell quieter below him until suddenly he was above the flames curling up from the prison compound itself.
The first burst of tracer anti-aircraft fire cut a line of speckled yellow and white in front of the cockpit. The gunners returned with a long burst of theirs and the pilot brought the helicopter down into a hover above the prison compound.
SFF units had taken high positions in the prison buildings and watchtowers. The winchman released the ladder from the helicopter, and the pilot identified Choedrak, running through the smoke, with the prisoner, Lhundrub Togden.
The Mi-26 was not designed for such elaborate work and the pilot had difficulty keeping her steady. Togden was on the ladder first, as commandos set up fields of fire in protective layers around him. The Drapchi prisoners formed a human barrier at the gates of the prison, where Chinese troops were now trying to get in. As Togden was on the ladder the first Chinese mortar landed in the prison compound with a ferocity which caused panic among the prisoners. The Chinese later admitted that twenty-nine were killed or wounded with that one mortar shell.
Choedrak was the next up on the ladder. It swayed precariously, but the winchman’s hand was there to haul him in, while the pilot took the helicopter up and turned the nose south again. A second mortar landed right inside the prison and exploded beneath them.
Heavy machine-gun fire from the ground cut through the fuselage, killing the starboard gunner. Choedrak took the weapon and kept firing at troops moving in on the prison perimeter. He saw a Tibetan commando raise his weapon above his head in a salute as the helicopter cleared the prison wall. It was the finest salute Choedrak had ever seen: a Tibetan fighting for his country, proud, brave, determined, and holding his post so others could escape. A happy man about to die.
The pilot, too, sensed he had only minutes to live. He kept the helicopter low and fast, skimming the rooftops and twisting to avoid the high buildings. Another round of machine-gun fire hit the tail, striking the rudder control which at once became sluggish. He kept her height at barely 100 feet. He saw the roadblock set up by the SFF units north of the Kuru Sampa, already under attack by two Chinese armoured cars coming down from Samchen Dong Lam. One APC was stopped in a jarring explosion, hit by a rocket-propelled grenade from the Tibetans. The helicopter flew overhead in a deafening roar, following the line of the bridge, an agreed signal to the men on the ground that Togden was on board and they should move on to the next stage.
The SFF explosives unit detonated the charges laid under the bridge. The road collapsed into the river, leaving their own men on the northern banks cut off from escape, but blocking the Chinese pursuit.
‘Out now,’ the pilot ordered. The aircraft was barely airworthy. He just managed to control its descent again, keeping her steady above the road, recognizing the Tibetans on the ground and holding off Chinese armoured vehicles. ‘Everyone,’ he repeated, turning in his seat. ‘Not a man left on board.’
As the last paratrooper jumped off, he regained enough height to move the wrecked machine towards the PLA barracks. He could have landed her on the road and surrendered. But that would have been the act of a coward. He saw his fellow Tibetans, distant shapes now, taking to the mountains. He got the helicopter to 150 feet, then let it drop, guiding it down until the last few feet to make sure that it shattered in the middle of the highway, spewing out oil and burning fuel, wrecking the thoroughfare with twisted parts and lumps of aircraft metal which would block the PLA attack for the vital minutes that Togden and Choedrak needed to get away.
Briefing
India
British rule in India officially began in 1858, although the East India Company had been extending its grip there since the 1760s. Through trade and conquest, it controlled areas from the southern coastal region to what is now northern Pakistan. By the early twentieth century, there were growing demands for independence, pushed forward by the nonviolent campaign of Mahatma Gandhi. The culmination was the partition of India in 1947, with Islamic Pakistan ruled by the Muslim League and secular India governed by the Indian National Congress. The unresolved issue of Kashmir led to the first Indo-Pakistan War, and India’s development was plagued by other insurgencies on its borders.
During the Cold War India remained non-aligned, but forged a close relationship with the Soviet Union. Its economic policies were protective and socialist, and the United States viewed it as hostile. In the nineties, the country lost its secular umbrella and elected a government based on Hindu nationalism. It became a nuclear power and proclaimed China its long-term threat. Tibet simmered. The war in Kashmir continued and India remained the world’s biggest democracy.
Operational Directorate, South Block, New Delhi, India
Local time: 0730 Thursday 3 May 2007
GMT: 0200 Thursday 3 May 2007
Hari Dixit, the Indian Prime Minister, slapped his hand on the conference table in his office and angrily pulled out a chair. ‘Why do I have to find out what is happening from the Chinese?’ he snapped at the two men standing in front of him. ‘It’s your job to tell me.’
Mani Naidu, the director of the Intelligence Bureau, which handled internal intelligence, and Chandra Reddy, Special Secretary of the Research and Analysis Wing, responsible for external intelligence, were unlucky enough to be the first members of the National Security Council to arrive for the meeting.
Twenty minutes earlier, Dixit had been holding meetings at his official residence at 7 Race Course Road. He was a tough medical doctor in his early sixties, who through sheer political brilliance and some brawn had moulded a coalition to keep his party in power. Three years earlier, he had suddenly risen to political fame, from the obscurity of being Chief Minister in Andhra Pradesh. His policies had concentrated on disease prevention, health education, housing, education and information technology, and had become a model for Third World development. The press hailed him as the only genuine leader India had had since Jawaharlal Nehru, a man who could balance the needs of the poor with the national aspirations of the world’s greatest democracy.
The unexpected visitor to the Prime Minister’s residence was the Chinese Ambassador, who came in person, unannounced, his lower lip quivering with rage. ‘Unless my government has an immediate explanation as to why Indian troops have invaded Chinese sovereign territory,’ he spluttered, ‘I am instructed to tell you that China will consider itself to be in a state of war with India.’
The British High Commissioner telephoned. The Russian Ambassador sent a hand-delivered note. Dixit blocked calls when he heard that the American Ambassador was also trying to get through. He ordered a meeting of the National Security Council at the Operational Directorate, which was a military crisis centre near the Prime Minister’s office in South Block. On the way, Dixit spoke to his Foreign Minister, Prabhu Purie, who told him: ‘It appears a renegade unit of the Special Frontier Force was responsible, sir, but the Chinese are refusing to accept this explanation.’
The telephone line
from the Prime Minister’s white Ambassador car was encrypted and secure. The car had been custom-built in Calcutta by Hindustan Motors with bullet-proof tyres and windows, and an armour-plated chassis. Special Protection Group (SPG) officers changed the number plates at least twice a week.
Two SPG cars pulled out in front. The one closest carried a scanner to detect missile attacks. Two more cars flanked the Ambassador behind and an ambulance followed the convoy. The driver and an SPG commando with a Sten gun were in the front, while the Prime Minister sat alone in the back.
The route varied each time he travelled from his residence to his office. This morning the convoy headed along Akbar Road and on to Vijay Chowk, just below Raisina Hill at the foot of the Central Secretariat complex. The final leg took it up towards the elegant red-stone buildings of South Block, designed by Edwin Lutyens in the final days of the Raj and now the nucleus of government for the world’s biggest democracy.
The car turned into gate eleven near Rajaji Marg, and Dixit saw his two most senior intelligence officials drive in just before him. As he stepped out of his car, Dixit could only wonder whether he was to preside over an era of yet more war.
Tibet was the silent, dangerous front which had been swept under the carpet for more than half a century, dormant, but never forgotten. On his way in, Dixit walked past walls covered with photographs of men who had won the highest Indian award for bravery, the Param Vir Chakra.
His private secretary was waiting at the lift and they rode up together to the first floor, turning left towards the room marked OPERATIONAL DIRECTORATE. There had been no time to separate the tables, which had been moved together for a meeting of twenty-five people late the night before. The officials of India’s National Security Council pulled up chairs and sat down. Present were the Prime Minister, the Foreign Minister, the Defence Minister, the Home Minister, the National Security Advisor, the heads of the Intelligence Bureau and the Research and Analysis Wing, the deputy chairman of the Planning Commission and the chiefs of the Army, Air and Navy. The Finance Minister, who would have been present, was out of the country.
Briefing
China
Modern China grew out of years of colonization, civil war and internal conflict. Mao Zedong’s Communist Party took power in 1949. But it was not until 1979, after Mao’s disastrous economic and social policies, that genuine reform began. Western democracies fashionably courted the one-party state with encouragement and investment. The China boom years were temporarily halted by the 1989 Tiananmen Square killings, which underlined China’s intention to remain an authoritarian power. The Chinese leadership believed that political reform would lead to uncontrollable violence. The army and police maintained a repressive presence in Tibet. Missile, aircraft and naval development was aimed primarily at deterring Taiwan from declaring independence. China’s stated long-term goal was to become the leading regional power in Asia. The return of Hong Kong in 1997 was hailed as a victory over years of humiliation by foreign powers. By the end of the twentieth century, China was jostling with the United States, wooing and threatening South-East Asian neighbours, and warily watching Japan. Then, after India’s nuclear tests in 1998, China was forced to begin changing focus.
Zhongnanhai, Beijing, China
Local time: 1200 Thursday 3 May 2007
GMT: 0400 Thursday 3 May 2007
‘The Indian Ambassador is insistent that a renegade military unit is responsible,’ said the Chinese Foreign Minister, Jamie Song.
‘They were Tibetans, trained by India and using Indian equipment,’ said the Chinese President, Tao Jian. ‘We must decide on a suitable response.’
‘We have declared martial law in Lhasa,’ said Tang Siju, the third man present and the Second Deputy Chief of the General Staff. Tang had served as defence attaché in London, Washington and Berlin, although his German tour was cut short when it became clear he was heavily involved in covert intelligence gathering. His brief now was intelligence and strategic gathering, but his grasp of Western military technology, coupled with his hawkish views and uncompromising discipline against internal dissent, gave him power far above his status. As debate within the Chinese leadership swung between authoritarianism and reform, Tang was often tipped as a successor to President Tao. Jamie Song was on the other end of the pendulum’s swing.
Three of China’s most powerful men walked along the shore of the lake known as the Central Sea in Zhongnanhai, the walled compound in which the Chinese leadership lived and worked. The air was filled with spring blossom swirling like snowflakes, although it had been a cold night and tiny wafer-thin patches of ice clustered in the corners, showing that winter had only just passed.
Tao nodded, but Song blanched.
‘Our policy in Tibet, more than anywhere else, will impact on our global position,’ Song argued. ‘Since the 1989 Tiananmen incident and the Dragon Strike event, we have skilfully become a role model for the developing world.’
‘Tibet is an internal matter,’ said Tang bluntly. ‘The incursion by India has given us an opportunity to act. We should not lose it.’
Foreign and Commonwealth Office, London
Local time: 0800 Thursday 3 May 2007
‘Do we know where Togden is?’ asked Christopher Baker.
‘We don’t, Foreign Secretary,’ said Sir Malcolm Parton, the Permanent Under-Secretary and the civil servant in charge of the Foreign Office. ‘If he’s alive, he’s probably hiding out with ten or twenty of the guerrillas, trying to make their way to India or Nepal.’
‘With the Chinese army in hot pursuit, we assume,’ said John Stopping, the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. ‘Even if he turns up in Nepal, his final destination will be India.’
‘And if he doesn’t make it?’ said Baker. ‘If the Chinese get him?’
‘That would be a more settled outcome,’ said Sir Malcolm, exchanging glances with Stopping.
‘If he gets to India?’ pressed Baker.
‘The Indians might give him asylum with the usual conditions that he doesn’t engage in political activities,’ Sir Malcolm explained. ‘They might feel he’s too hot to handle and pass him on to a third country. Wherever he is he will become a focal point for violent resistance against Chinese rule in Tibet.’
‘And how’s China going to react to India’s inadvertent incursion?’
‘President Tao will milk it for everything he can,’ said Stopping. ‘But quiet diplomacy through the Security Council should keep it in check.’
The Foreign Secretary stood up, looking at his watch, indicating that the meeting was over. His mind was far away from China, a country which he didn’t like and didn’t understand, and which didn’t fall in the British or European hemisphere of world affairs. The press were still running with a story about his numerous infidelities, no doubt leaked by his soon-to-be ex-wife. The House of Commons Foreign Affairs select committee was homing in on a bribery scandal in Malaysia, about which he had known nothing. Apparently, the papers on it had been sent to him at the bottom of his red box one weekend six months earlier.
His Under-Secretary had made a valiant attempt to defend him, so, when Sir Malcolm called asking for an urgent early-morning meeting, he reluctantly agreed. The presence of John Stopping, Chairman of the JIC and soon to be appointed Ambassador to Beijing, indicated that something both secret and significant was afoot. The JIC was not directly involved in policy-making, and Sir Malcolm had not made it clear why he had insisted on bringing Stopping along. The most obvious colleague would have been the Director for Asia–Pacific.
But right now he was running late for a breakfast meeting at Downing Street with the Prime Minister and the new German Chancellor. ‘Draw up some options, will you, Malcolm,’ he said, putting on his jacket. ‘Apart from that my instinct is to keep our mouths shut. It seems that Britain’s most pressing concern is if Lama Togden turns up alive and says he wants to live in Clapham.’
The White House, Washington, DC
Local ti
me: 0300 Thursday 3 May 2007
GMT: 0800 Thursday 3 May 2007
‘I think you need to wake the President on this one.’ Reece Overhalt, the American Ambassador, was speaking to the White House Chief of Staff, Charles Nugent, from the secure communications room in the Embassy in Beijing. Nugent was propped up in bed, eyeing his clock and trying to sound polite.
‘I don’t see it, Reece,’ said Nugent. ‘You say it’s an Indian cock-up. If we woke the President every time a Third World government screwed something up the man would be a walking zombie.’
‘China could lose it,’ Overhalt insisted, ‘become uncontrollable.’
‘Well, let them lose it in the morning – Eastern Standard Time.’
Briefing
Dharamsala
In 1959, after the Dalai Lama fled Tibet, the Indian government allocated the town of Dharamsala, nestled in the mountains of northern India, for him to use as his headquarters. The Dalai Lama lived there in a modern compound, while buildings off the steep little streets housed the institutions of the Tibetan government-in-exile. One of those buildings was the Tibetan Parliament.
Chandigarh, India
Local time: 0300 Friday 4 May 2007
GMT: 2130 Thursday 3 May 2007
The call from his controller interrupted his light sleep. Chandigarh was never quiet, with the blaring of a horn or the crunching of gears on the busy road outside his room. It was only a week since he had been rotated, the beginning of his second tour of duty in Chandigarh, the city chosen many years ago from which to launch an attack on Dharamsala. His operational name was Tashi and he was a graduate from the People’s Liberation Army Foreign Affairs College in Nanjing. Unlike most educational institutions specializing in international issues, the Foreign Affairs College avoided employing foreign teachers, to try to ensure that its graduates were not recognized when they were sent overseas.
Dragonfire Page 3