LASHKAR

by Mukul Deva

  By the time a Brigadier’s stars found themselves on his shoulder boards, Salim had acquired an impeccable reputation. As part of the core team of the Pakistan High Command he had discussed the debacles of Operation Gibraltar, which was launched in August 1965 to infiltrate fighters into Jammu and Kashmir and start a rebellion with local support, and Operation Grand Slam, which a panicked Pakistani High Command had unleashed to try and contain the situation. However, both these boomeranged and led to the 1965 Indo–Pak war.

  That is when the Pakistani dictator General Zia decided to inflict the festering wound of insurgency on India. Salim was part of the key leadership team that spearheaded the operation. ‘We must ensure that the Valley is always in flames; make it an international example of the despicable kafir violating human rights and international agreements by denying the Kashmiris plebiscite.’

  The presentation that General Zia had made to the ISI leadership team on that fateful day in April 1988 was indelibly embedded in Salim’s mind:

  1045 hours, 17 April 1988, Central Briefing Room, ISI Headquarters, Islamabad.

  The General was a fluent and polished speaker. He chose his words with care and delivered them with conviction:

  ‘Gentlemen, I have spoken on this subject at length before, so I will skip the details. Due to our preoccupation with Afghanistan, in the service of Islam, I have not been able to put these plans before you earlier. Let there be no mistake however that our aim still remains clear – the liberation of the Kashmir Valley. In the past we had opted for ham-handed military options and subsequently failed in our mission. We will now keep the military option for the last, as a coup de grace, if and when necessary.

  ‘Our Kashmiri brethren, though with us in their hearts and minds, are simple-minded folk who do not easily take to the type of warfare against foreign domination that say, a Punjabi or an Afghan is naturally inclined towards. The Kashmiri however has a few qualities, which we can exploit. First is his shrewdness and intelligence; second, his power to persevere under pressure; and third, if I may say so, is the fact that he is a master of political intrigue. If we provide him the means by which he can best utilize these qualities he will deliver the goods. We must adopt those methods of combat that the Kashmiri mind can cope with. In other words, a coordinated use of moral and physical means other than military operations, which will destroy the will of the enemy, damage his political capacity and expose him to the world as an oppressor. This aim, gentlemen, shall be achieved in the initial phases.

  ‘In the first phase, which could last a couple of years, we will assist our Kashmiri brethren to get hold of the power apparatus of the State by political subversion and intrigue. I would like to mention here that as no government can survive in Occupied Kashmir unless it has the tacit approval of Delhi, it would be unrealistic to believe that the Muslim United Front or any other such organization can seize power through democratic or other means. In view of this, power must apparently remain with those whom New Delhi favours. We must therefore ensure that certain favoured politicians from the ruling elite are selected to collaborate with us in subverting all effective organs of the State.’

  There was a dramatic pause. The General used it to take a sip of water from the glass on the podium.

  ‘In brief, our plan for Kashmir, which will be codenamed Operation Topac, will be as follows’ – the General nodded to his aide who flicked on the first slide and projected it on the huge screen mounted across the podium – ‘Phase 1. A low-level insurgency against the regime, so that it is under siege but does not collapse; after all, we don’t want central rule imposed by Delhi at this stage.

  ‘We will plant our chosen men in all key positions; they will subvert the police force, financial institutions, the communication network and other important organizations.

  ‘We will whip up anti-India feelings amongst the students and peasants, preferably on religious issues, and enlist their active support for rioting and anti-government demonstrations. Then we will organize and train subversive elements and armed groups that have the capability, initially at least, to deal with paramilitary forces located in the Valley.

  ‘Without recourse to force we must develop means to stealthily cut off the lines of communication between Jammu and Kashmir and within Kashmir and Ladakh. The road from Srinagar to Kargil over Zojila and the road over Khardungla will receive special attention.

  ‘In collaboration with Sikh extremists we will create chaos and terror in Jammu and divert attention from the Valley at a critical juncture and discredit the regime even in the Hindu mind.

  ‘We will establish virtual control in those parts of the Kashmir Valley where the Indian Army is not located or deployed. The southern Kashmir Valley may be one such region.’

  There was a slight pause as the projector blanked out and the next set of slides were readied for the screen. The General resumed:

  ‘Phase 2. Exert maximum pressure on Siachen, Kargil and Rajouri–Poonch sectors to force the Indian Army to deploy reserve formations outside the main Kashmir Valley.

  ‘Attack and destroy base depots and HQs located in Srinagar, Pattan, Kupwara, Baramulla and Chowkiwala by covert action. Afghan mujahideen, by then settled in Azad Kashmir, will infiltrate into the pockets with a view to extending areas of our influence. This aspect will require detailed and ingenious planning. The fiasco of Operation Gibraltar holds many lessons for us here.

  ‘Finally, a Special Force under selected retired officers belonging to Azad Kashmir, with the core consisting of Afghans, will be readied to attack and destroy airfields and radio stations, block the Banihal Tunnel and the Kargil–Leh Highway.

  ‘At a certain stage of the operations, Punjab and adjacent areas of Jammu and Kashmir will be put under maximum pressure internally by our offensive posture.’

  As the third set of slides came up on the projector the General triumphantly concluded his presentation: ‘Phase 3: Detailed plans for the liberation of the Kashmir Valley and the establishment of an independent Islamic State.’

  The aide turned off the projector and the General walked briskly across to the centre of the room to look his audience squarely in the eye. ‘Please remember, we do not have much time. Maximum pressure must be exerted before the general elections in India and before the Indian Army reserves, which are still bogged down in Sri Lanka, become available. By the grace of Allah, we have managed to accumulate large stocks of modern arms and ammunition from the US consignments intended for the Afghan mujahideen. This will help our Kashmiri brethren achieve their goals. Even if we create a kind of Azad Kashmir in some remote parts of Occupied Kashmir as a beginning, the next step may not be as difficult as it appears today.’

  The General paused, trying to gauge the effect of his words on those around him. When he resumed, it was with a note of caution: ‘On the other hand, it should also be noted that a part of the Indian Army, particularly the Infantry, will be well trained by now, especially after their experience in north-eastern India and more recently in Sri Lanka. But the situation in Kashmir will be somewhat different; more like the Intifada of Palestinians in towns, and on the pattern of mujahideen in the countryside to attack hard targets. A period of chaos in the state is essential in the circumstances.

  ‘And what about our Chinese friends? Our Chinese friends will help us by ensuring that the Indian forces deployed against them are not moved out; if at all, this will be required only in the third or final stage of our operations. Of course, if we are in serious trouble, the Chinese and our other powerful friends will come to our rescue; they will ensure that even if we do not win – we don’t lose.

  ‘But, remember, it will be disastrous to believe that we can take on India in a straight contest. We must be careful to maintain a low military profile so that the Indians do not find an excuse to pre-empt us, by attacking at a time and at a point of their own choosing, at least before Phase I and 2 of the operation are over. I need not emphasize any further that a deliberate and objective assessm
ent of the situation must be ensured at each stage, otherwise a stalemate will follow that will not be good for Pakistan.’

  The General paused dramatically before pumping his right hand in the air –

  ‘Pakistan Paindabad!’

  An hour later the General addressed a much smaller gathering of the key leadership team of the ISI. There was no one in the room who sported anything less than a Brigadier’s stars. ‘Operation Topac does not concern J&K alone,’ he said. ‘Let me assure you, gentlemen, it is going to be one of the most innovative and audacious covert actions launched by any intelligence agency in history. It is designed to eventually balkanize India by unleashing a low-intensity conflict that, with assistance from the ISI, will snowball into civil war. Considering the inherent contradictions of the Indian polity, this is a very feasible option and the ISI is eminently capable of executing it.’

  After the General departed from the headquarters there was a massive uproar; there were many in that room who felt Pakistan was biting off more than it could chew.

  Salim was not one of them.

  Salim had no doubt in his mind about what Pakistan was going to do. After all, he was one of the first to advocate switching support from the Khalistani militants and focusing their energies on Kashmir at one of the quarterly review meetings of the India Strategy think tank.

  ‘Why? What is wrong with the Khalistani militants?’ The Director had asked Salim when he proposed it the first time. He did not like ideas that did not originate, or at least seem to originate, from him: ‘They are doing a good job by tying up thousands of troops in Punjab…not to mention the huge economic impact that the Khalistani militancy is having on India.’

  ‘I am not saying there is anything wrong with them. They are dedicated fighters and yes, I agree, they are inflicting huge losses on the Indian security forces.’ The fire that burned deep in Salim was not evident in the measured tone he used.

  ‘So what is the problem?’

  ‘The major problem is that we have nothing to bond us together.’

  ‘Bond us together? We don’t have to marry them…just use them.’ A dutiful titter ran through the officers attending the meeting; even the General cracked a rare smile.

  ‘That is the problem.’ Salim ignored the crude attempt to rile him. ‘They know we are using them. They may be stupid, but they are not that stupid.’

  The General was watching Salim carefully. So far he had not spoken a word. ‘The other problem,’ Salim continued, now a little wary of the General’s scrutiny, ‘is that it is so hard to raise funds for the Khalistani militancy, whereas in the case of Kashmir it is so easy for us to play the Islamic card. The religious bond makes it very easy for us to raise funds for them from all over the Islamic world.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we withdraw support from the Punjab area?’ The General finally spoke up.

  ‘No, sir, not at all.’ Salim turned to face the General. ‘I think we should turn it down a bit and support them only as much as it does not hurt us financially or diplomatically. Our main focus area should always be Kashmir.’

  IQBAL

  0001 hours, 30 October 2005, Pakistan Army Post Chakoti along the LOC, POK.

  The newly-trained jihadi infiltrators left the Pakistan Army Chakoti Post half an hour after midnight. There were fourteen of them: the twelve boys who had trained together and the two instructors who had trained them. Iqbal’s friend, Abu Khan, was leading the way. Iqbal had taken an instant liking to him when they’d first met. Something about Abu’s quiet demeanour and determination had attracted him. He was easily the star of the class – the best shot, the best navigator and the most versatile in field craft. Omar was present too, despite a fever that was raging through his skinny body. The only concession made to his condition was being spared the added torture of carrying extra ammunition. At the training camp the previous night Fazlur Rehman had given Omar the once-over and pronounced him fit to travel. ‘You are Allah’s soldier, what is a little fever, boy? You!’– he had suddenly barked at Iqbal who had unfortunately been standing beside Omar – ‘you stay with him and help him along. Make sure he doesn’t lag behind.’ That was how Iqbal was designated to wet-nurse Omar.

  It also explained why Omar and Iqbal were right at the end of the column that was moving in single file towards a gap in the Indian Army posts strung along the LOC. One of the instructors, Wahid Ali, was at the tail of the column with Omar and Iqbal ensuring no stragglers. The other led the column along with Abu Khan.

  About ten minutes after the patrol had left Chakoti Post the instructor at the head signalled the column to a silent halt. They all stood around in silence for a good five minutes till a scruffy, battle-hardened man suddenly appeared from the flanks. ‘Salaam!’ the man whispered to the instructor, who acknowledged his greeting with a brief nod.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Something came up at the last minute.’ The man had a guttural voice and a very pronounced Afghan accent. He took up position right at the head of the column, ahead of Abu Khan. Clearly he was their guide for the night. They set off again. The pace was slower and more deliberate. The strong current of tension in the air was palpable in the stillness of the night. It showed on the grim faces of the instructors. Only the rugged Afghan seemed impervious. All of them knew that the Indian Army was on high alert despite the recent earthquake in Muzaffarabad which had devastated a large part of that area. Infiltrating into India was becoming increasingly tough and, if Indian news channels and newspapers were to be believed, the mujahideen casualty rate during this phase of the operation had become shockingly high. During their training, the instructors had repeatedly warned the trainees about the new battlefield surveillance radars that the Indian Army was using; capable of picking out a small group of men moving six kilometres away despite the broken terrain. And those fucking Russian Dragunov sniper rifles, they’d cautioned, were certain death: ‘A good man can take out a guy with a clean head-shot from over 600 metres away – day or night!’

  Just how effective these devices were and how well-trained the Indian soldier was, became abundantly clear barely forty minutes later, when the infiltration party was about 300 metres across the LOC. One moment there was total silence broken only by the sound of heavy breathing as the fifteen men trudged stealthily up the rugged mountain path. Then two shots rang out and immediately dozens of flares illuminated the sky. The first two shots killed the Afghan and Abu Khan. Immediately, hundreds of glowing bullets arced through the darkness like fireflies. The ear-shattering din of the fusillade that followed was a combination of the harsh chatter of machine-gun fire and the tortured screams of the young jihadis. A few of the trainees managed to get their weapons out and return fire. Iqbal saw a couple of his friends try to rush the ambush, as they had been taught, but luck was not on their side that night. In a matter of minutes, the silence of death lay heavy around him. The merciless hail of bullets that tore through the undergrowth and blanketed the trail cut down the entire patrol, barring the three who lagged behind.

  Watching his companions of six months die before his eyes Iqbal felt a liquid warmth spread down his legs. Iqbal did not even realize he had pissed in his pants as he frantically stumbled in the treacherous darkness. Wahid Ali pulled Omar and him down to the ground, fiercely motioning for them to fall back. ‘Get down! Down!’ The instructor’s strident whisper was more effective than the loudest scream. ‘Get down and move back down the trail…. stay low, you fools.’ Maybe the sound of gunfire had deadened the ears of the ambush party. Maybe Allah was watching over them and did not want them to die that night.

  A classic ambush comprises scouts or stops on all routes that lead out from the kill zone, an ambush party that is sited to deliver the maximum possible firepower on the kill zone and a small reserve party to cater for unforeseen contingencies. The Indian Army ambush was well sited. The kill zone had been totally saturated with firepower. However it had obviously been set up in a hurry to take out a suddenly emerging
target of opportunity because the tail of the infiltrating party was not covered. Obviously the Indian ambush party stops were not even aware of the three people trailing about eighty feet behind the tail of the column since no shots came anywhere near them.

  Twenty minutes later the three of them were back on the trail, moving stealthily, when all of a sudden Wahid Ali stumbled and fell. As Iqbal rushed to help him up, he saw him tentatively touch his stomach and holding up bloodied fingers say, ‘Crap! I think I’ve been hit.’

  ‘Janab, do you think you can go on?’ Iqbal asked, desperately trying to sound calm, while inside his head he was going berserk. Please don’t die on me. What the hell will I do alone with Omar? I don’t want to die in the wilderness here…

  ‘Don’t panic, boy, I’m not done for yet.’ Wahid Ali seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Pull out one of those field dressings from your pack…and some painkillers.’

  Iqbal’s hands trembled as he shrugged off his pack and pulled out the first-aid kit. Omar, sitting on a rock a few feet away, held his head in his hands. From time to time he shuddered and a low moan escaped him. He was in shock.

  Iqbal watched the instructor down a painkiller and stanch the bleeding with the field dressing. Then, grimacing in pain, he wrapped a bandage tightly around his abdomen. A few minutes later, the instructor staggered to his feet and took up his weapon again. But for the fact that he clutched the right side of his stomach it was hard to tell that he had been hit. ‘It must have been a ricochet that got lucky,’ he said.

  ‘Is it hurting?’ It seemed an absurdly dumb question to ask. Then again, Iqbal could hardly ask him if he was going to die, though in fact that was all he was interested in knowing. Wahid Ali had to live because his own survival depended on him.

  ‘It seems manageable right now,’ the instructor spoke through gritted teeth, ‘but the bullet is lodged inside. I can feel it. I need to have it looked at…or else…’ he broke off; he did not want to pursue that chain of thought.