by Mukul Deva
‘I am sure that we should be able to…’
‘Gentlemen, please.’ The PM raised his hand again and waited till silence returned to the room. ‘We will not worry about what anyone has to say or do. The right to defend itself is not the sole right or privilege of any single nation. We too have the right and we will exercise it…this time, and from now on, whenever we are compelled to. I have told you what needs to be done. Now you have to translate it into action.’
‘I agree with you totally,’ the Defence Minister rasped importantly. ‘These damn Americans with all their talk of human rights and their moral high ground are absolutely full of shit. They have historically always supported dictators, drug lords and terrorists all over the world.’
‘Come, come, Minister,’ the Foreign Minister tried to butt it. ‘Let us not get…’
‘Let me speak, man. You know what I am saying is true. We all know who gave birth to the terror factories in Afghanistan and pumped in planeloads of arms into the region. We all know who supplied chemical weapons to the Middle-East so that they could be tested at no cost to those bastards themselves. We all know who is responsible for the mess in and around Israel. And Afghanistan.’
‘There I agree with you, sir,’ the Army Chief spoke up. ‘I am sure you know that it was the ISI and the CIA that encouraged opium cultivation in Afghanistan during the 80s. It is an established fact. They wanted the Soviet troops to get hooked on to it. Of course, once the Soviets withdrew, the ISI and the Afghan terror networks simply diverted the opium supply to America and the West. So you are right in…’
‘Of course I am right!’ The Defence Minister was so angry that flecks of spittle flew all around him. It was obvious that no one was going to be able to stop him. ‘The kind of proof we have given those pansies about Pakistan’s involvement in terror activities all over the world…. What have they done about it? They have just gone and sold them more arms and fighter planes. Whereas with one-tenth of that proof they have attacked Afghanistan and Iraq just to further their economic goals.’
‘No proof is enough for the Americans when it comes to Pakistan.’ It was the Army Chief again.
‘Of course it is not! You think they need any proof? You think their CIA does not know what is going on in Pakistan? We all know those shit-eaters are running drugs along with the Pakis, after all if they could smuggle drugs in the body bags of their own soldiers during Vietnam why can’t they do it here? What involvement or attachment do they have with this part of the world, except oil and their own goddamn economic agenda?’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Do you think they have the balls to do anything to make the Pakis stop? You think they will do anything except cosy up in bed with that rabid General and give him some more tanks and planes? Who the heck are the Americans to tell us what to do?’
The Defence Minister suddenly found an unexpected ally in the External Affairs Minister: ‘You can rest assured that the Americans are going to pay a very heavy price for all this Paki mollycoddling. The Pakis are going to carry out more and more terrorist strikes on the American mainland with their own money and resources.’
‘Absolutely! But then that’s their look-out. If they are so stupid and short-sighted then they deserve what is coming to them.’ Even the normally contrary Home Minister concurred. ‘Why should we worry about what they have to say or wait for them to sort out our problems?’
‘That is exactly what I am saying!’ The Defence Minister was half out of his chair as he shouted. ‘I agree completely with the Prime Minister. There has been enough beating around the bush. This time we must act. It is our problem and we have the means to sort it out…all we need is the bloody balls.’
‘Please leave it to us, sir.’ The Army Chief, who was also the Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff Committee said quietly. ‘We know what needs to be done…and how to do it.’ His quiet, calm tone radiated confidence.
‘Good!’ the PM nodded. ‘For a world that has become so used to taking India for granted and has always mistaken our non-alignment and love for peace as a sign of weakness the Indian response must come as a powerful and assertive warning.’
*
The world had forgotten that this was the same nation that had executed one of the most successful military campaigns in the history of modern warfare – when its Armies had raced in and liberated Bangladesh 34 years ago even as the Pakistani Army stood by, stunned and shocked, as over 95,000 of its soldiers were taken prisoner.
The world had forgotten that this was the same nation that had withstood hundreds of years of occupation and was now an economic tiger raising its head quietly and proudly.
The time had come to remind the world of the strength and resolve that lay behind this huge democracy. And, as fortune would have it, the right man was at the helm of affairs. A scholar of world renown, known for his love for peace and justice, Dr Singh was just the right face to present to the world. No one could ever accuse him of being a rabid warmonger.
In a very short time a number of orders were issued from various offices of the Indian Army, Navy, Air Force and the Home Ministry.
A series of small but lethal cogs began to move into place. A strategically planned, innovative and well-orchestrated drama was about to begin.
Justice was about to be meted out at last.
IQBAL
Srinagar, India.
Allah was clearly watching over the two newly-trained terror mechants that day. Omar and he were not stopped even once though they passed several clusters of cops and Army men as they made their way into Srinagar. They simply used the flow of traffic to guide them to the city and only started asking for directions when they were well inside it.
The walk into town took them an hour, not because of the distance but because they had to switch routes continuously to avoid the checkpoints.
They were also lucky to get on the bus for Jammu almost as soon as they reached the Srinagar bus station. Barring the interminable stops for security checks en route the journey down to Jammu was uneventful.
The wait for the train to Lucknow at Jammu was a lot longer since the next train only left at 2205 hours. ‘We have more than two hours to kill,’ Iqbal said checking the time on the platform clock.
‘I don’t mind. Not as long as I get to sit down.’ Omar heaved a weary sigh as he parked himself on the hard wooden bench at the very edge of the platform. He looked totally played out.
‘Well, I need to change and clean up,’ Iqbal said; the smell from their unwashed bodies was getting to him.
‘Come on, Iqbal.’ Omar protested. ‘You’ve managed without it so far…live with it for a bit more. We can always clean up on the train.’
‘No. I am sure I smell really bad. I know you do. I can smell you long before I see you…besides we will attract too much attention if we continue like this. Come on, the shops are just outside the station… ’ Iqbal pushed Omar to accompany him and they both went to the nearby market and bought themselves new clothes.
‘We can bathe and change in the waiting room,’ Iqbal said as he led the way back into the railway station. ‘Then let’s find something decent to eat. I need to get rid of the vile taste of that broth we have been surviving on.’
Two hours later, the two young men who boarded the train for Lucknow looked nothing like the scruffy jihadis who had left the camp near Hari the previous day.
‘Is it okay if I come to Lucknow with you?’ Omar had asked Iqbal the night before. ‘I don’t think I am up to travelling alone.’
‘Not a problem.’ Iqbal hadn’t really wanted to be alone either. He still dreaded the nightmare memories of the earthquake and the sight of his comrades being killed; terrifying thoughts which clamoured to return whenever he found himself alone. Beneath the tremendous eagerness he felt to be going home, a disturbing medley of thoughts whirled tumultuously through him as the train devoured the miles and crossed the heart of the country. He tried to shrug away the fear. Abbu and Ammi will understand and forgive me.
Iqbal felt a sharp sense of excitement course through him as he rang the doorbell of the house in Lucknow in which he had grown up. Every memory of his childhood lay entwined with this house. Where is everyone? They can’t be sleeping at this time.
He rapped impatiently on the door again. They seemed to be taking forever, or maybe it was just his eagerness to meet everyone that was making him unduly impatient. He could almost smell his Ammi’s siwai and rogan josh and involuntarily his mouth watered. Oh yes! It was good to be home. He rang the bell again. A longer and more insistent ring.
It was his brother Ashraf who finally opened the door. ‘My God! Iqbal bhaijaan! It is you!’ Ashraf gave him a long disbelieving look and then hurled himself at Iqbal. Thoroughly pleased at such a stupendous welcome Iqbal hugged him back warmly.
Iqbal felt the wetness of Ashraf’s tears on his neck as they hugged tightly and was a bit nonplussed. ‘Hey, relax, yaar. I know you are overwhelmed, but I am coming home not going away.’ All at once Iqbal was acutely aware of Omar standing a few feet behind him and for no apparent reason his presence bothered him. ‘Come on, Ashraf…’ He tried to gently push his brother away and enter the house. ‘Stop crying and let me enter the house at least.’
But Ashraf would not stop sobbing. He clung to Iqbal as though he had no strength left to hold himself up. ‘What the hell? Can’t you see there is an outsider standing behind me? It’s embarrassing…’ Iqbal’s nerves were shot to hell from the events of the past few weeks and Ashraf’s apparently meaningless tears shred what was left of them. He was about to completely lose his patience when the bedroom door opened and he saw his father standing there.
One look at his father and Iqbal knew that something was seriously wrong. Nawab’s strong muscular body seemed to have been drained of life. Those solid athletic shoulders drooped in a way Iqbal had never thought possible. Pulling away from Ashraf he ran up to his father and took him in his arms. ‘What’s wrong, Abbu?’
The sobs that racked through Nawab surprised Iqbal and, even though he declined to acknowledge it, scared him a bit. ‘What has happened, Abbu? Talk to me, please, tell me…’
‘Your Ammi has left us.’ Nawab was speaking so softly that the words were almost lost. ‘She is gone, she is gone…’ Then he said it again: ‘Your Ammi has left us, Iqbal. She has gone forever.’
‘How? What happened?’ Iqbal’s breath whipped out of him and bands of pain tightened across his chest. His head felt heavy as his mind refused to absorb what his father was telling him. His father was sobbing brokenly. His strong, invicible father, so defeated, so pathetic. Control yourself. Get a hold on your emotions. They need you…Abbu and Ashraf need you to be strong and take charge. Iqbal felt his body stiffen and some measure of control return. He knew he needed to stand firm. ‘Hush! Hush, Abbu…don’t cry…please…hush, Ashraf.’ Iqbal whispered softly as he tightened his grip around both of them. But then the reality of his mother’s death impacted his body like the steel edge of a knife and he felt the fact of her death like a visceral wound. Like the life blood seeping out of a gut-shot man. How could she have left us alone? Had she not known that she was the anchor that had held us all together? He struggled to understand that his beloved mother was no longer among the living. I wonder how Navaz is taking this? She is closest to Ammi. Iqbal shuddered as he thought of how distraught and lonely his little sister would be. The poor kid, she must be totally devastated.
Suddenly he realized that she had not come running when she had heard the doorbell and knew he had returned. He fought back the panic in his voice. ‘Where is Navaz?’ he asked already dreading the answer. ’Where is she?’
The sobs intensified. Iqbal was about to ask again when Abbu spoke: ‘They killed her too…the bastards… so horribly…. so brutally…’
Iqbal’s mind froze. Everyone and everything else fell away from him, forgotten for the moment. He pulled back from them. His brain refused to accept the unacceptable things his father and brother kept telling him. He didn’t believe them. It wasn’t possible. Who kills innocents? Who kills defenceless little girls?
That is when Iqbal learnt about the savage end his beloved mother and sister had met; the two people who had meant everything in the world to him. Iqbal felt the world inside him give way, he felt his very being crumble and implode. The anguish and pain he felt at the loss of his mother and sister slowly transformed into a revulsion for himself. I am responsible for their deaths.
In his mind’s eye Iqbal saw the look on the Maulana’s face as he had stood proudly in front of the television and told them all of the great deed his brave trainees had done. Just behind him was the shadowy face of the other man who had been there at that time. Salim. The famous Brigadier Murad Salim of the Pakistani ISI. ‘Today a great blow has been struck for the jihad,’ the Maulana had said in triumph.
How could the killing of innocent women and children be called jihad? What God would ever condone such senseless violence?
The snow-flecked images on the television that evening flickered through Iqbal’s tortured mind. But now two of the dead bodies on the ground wore faces he knew and loved. The self-revulsion inside him exploded and he felt the darkness of despair and guilt flood through him.
‘O Allah, I have oppressed my soul and undoubtedly there is no forgiver of sins but You alone. O Allah, forgive me and have mercy on me. Undoubtedly You are the most forgiving and most merciful…’
From somewhere deep within him the words of the Salaat ran through Iqbal’s head in relentless circles.
He wanted to lie down and die.
Part Two
THE COUNTER-ATTACK
FORCE 22
1150 hours, 30 October 2005, Kasauli Hills, Himachal Pradesh.
The most critical set of orders sent out at the behest of the Prime Minister were going to be the hardest to implement. It was Colonel Rajan Anbu, the Commanding Officer of Force 22 who received this set of orders. The orders of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were absolutely clear and concise. It took him barely two minutes to go through them. Absorbing the import, and the twenty files that accompanied the order, took longer. He sat in the solitude of his command post and gave the matter serious thought.
Many people knew about the existence of Force 22, but not more than a handful knew what it was capable of doing. Born in the bloody crucible of the decades-long low-intensity conflict that had been thrust upon India by Pakistani military and intelligence establishments, Force 22 was created to provide a rapid, highly professional and covert response to certain situations that could not, due to tactical, strategic, diplomatic or political reasons, follow standard procedures.
Force 22 comprised officers drawn from the Indian Army, Navy, Air Force and the RAW (Research and Analysis Wing – the Indian Intelligence Agency). All of them were carefully handpicked volunteers every detail of whose personal and professional life had been thoroughly scrutinized before they were allowed to join Force 22.
Each of these officers had some basics in common: they were all commissioned officers not below the rank of Captain, all in superb physical condition, all high achievers amongst their peers, all trained to fight over land, sea and air, all skilled in most known methods of killing and destruction and all highly motivated. In thought, word and deed they all manifested and depicted the credo of Force 22 – speed, stealth and surprise.
To keep the existence of Force 22 as quiet as possible it was located in a small secluded barracks a few miles away from the picturesque hill town of Kasauli. In this sparsely habited area there were not many people around to take any notice of these tough looking men in camouflage uniforms as they punished themselves with a variety of arduous physical exercises at all hours of the day and night. Yes, the sound of gunfire and sporadic explosions did echo through the hills, but these are normal activities associated with any military unit and did not attract undue attention.
However had someone walked into the barracks that housed Force 22 and taken a close look around, he or s
he would have been in for a surprise. On the surface it was a typical army set-up, but at its core it was a state-of-the-art, ultra-sophisticated facility equipped with highly secure, multi-mode communications and could latch on to any database in the country and, if the need arose, overseas.
Colonel Rajan Anbu, the first Force 22 Commanding Officer, had been specifically picked by the PM in consultation with the army, navy and air force chiefs when the force was set up about a year ago. An innovative and resourceful mind coupled with a rugged physique, a lead-from-the-front attitude, and a decade of experience in counter-terror operations made the forty-one-year-old Colonel the ideal choice for the job. In the past year, Anbu had interrogated hundreds of potential candidates and put them through a battery of physical, mental and psychological tests. He had finally put together a small but lethal team. He had also used his generous budget to shop for a variety of state-of-the-art weapons, communications and support systems to enhance the potency of the force.
Finally he had set about blending his chosen warriors to fight as a team. Anbu was a firm believer of the more-you-sweat-in-peace-the-less-you-bleed-in-war school of thought. The result of this belief was a training regimen that made Force 22 a hell-hole for those who had been chosen. Despite the rigid selection criteria, six of the twenty-six handpicked officers did not cut the ice and were duly reverted to their parent battalions. Of the remaining twenty, one chose to opt out for personal reasons.
Now the time had come for him to set his team in action. Anbu picked up the intercom. ‘Get me Tiwathia and Sami,’ he told his staff officer.
When they walked in two minutes later, Anbu pushed the bundle of files at them: ‘Each of these files is about a specific individual. The data on these individuals has been systematically collated over the years and kept up-to-date by our intelligence agencies. Each of these individuals is a proclaimed offender who has played a major part in the various heinous terrorist activities that have plagued India all these years. For each one of them a Red Corner alert has already been issued by Interpol. As you know, all twenty of them are living a life of comfort in Pakistan.’