by Deva, Mukul
The innermost defensive ring, which lay 100 metres from the outer edge of the compound, was manned by the fiercest, most trusted mujahideen, all of them related by blood to the Ameer-ul-Momineem, a man they all revered. This was the ultimate Praetorian Guard. Any head of state or religious leader in the world would have been proud to call them his. Each of these warriors had proved his unflinching loyalty to the cause and to the Ameer. Each one had been bloodied in battlefields all over the world, wherever the call for jihad had taken them. And each one would die a thousand deaths before he allowed a hair on the Ameer’s head to be harmed.
The second layer, of almost equally formidable fighters, comprised the others who walked under the Ameer’s banner. It was a mix of foreign fighters and Pashtun warriors. Strung approximately a kilometre outside the innermost ring, this was the densest layer and would provide enough resistance and tactical depth to the compound in case of a ground assault.
Iqbal, now a trusted warrior of the Ameer’s camp, held the northern flank of this defensive layer. Probably due to Maqbool’s alleged betrayal, all three bodyguards who had travelled with the Ameer had been dropped from personal protection duties and relegated to the second layer.
If he swivelled it around, the machine gun Iqbal manned commanded a clear field of fire of the entire compound. But in many ways, his was also the most redundant position, because the rugged mountain peaks towering over him posed an invincible barrier to man and beast alike, making it unlikely that anyone would attempt a ground assault from this direction. Iqbal’s companion an inscrutable, surly man they all called Uzbek, was lounging next to the machine gun.
The third and final layer, about 500 metres deep, was another kilometre away from the second line of defence. This was manned by a battalion of Pakistan Army. The troops were out in full force, the Eleventh Corps Commander ensuring that every able man, including the battalion commander of his most trusted battalion, was present in the trenches. A full regiment of artillery guns and a complement of attack helicopters were on stand by. Circling high in the sky, like tiny specks of lightning, a flight of F-16s ran a protective CAP over the sector. They were there to see that no harm came to the compound from the air. Their presence did not stand out, in light of the current offensive against jihadi leaders by the Pakistan government, or rather the Army-ISI combine which yielded power in the country.
‘You have to make sure that even if the Americans get wind of this meeting and decide to get trigger-happy, you are there to give them a bloody nose. We will worry about reprisals and the diplomatic fallout later, but nothing must get through. No attack helicopters, no drones, no Special Forces, no air strikes. Nothing! Do whatever you have to, but make sure the compound is not disturbed in any way for the duration of the meeting.’ That was the mandate the corps commander had given him and that is what the battalion commander would ensure, or die trying to.
‘And there must be no large-scale troop activity during daylight hours,’ the general had said. ‘I do not want anything to alert the Americans. I have told the muj to see that none of their people mucks around in daylight. One never knows who is watching.’ The corps commander pointed his finger skywards, referring to the shoal of spy satellites that circled unseen above them. ‘Don’t worry, the muj will ensure their fighters move into position immediately after last light and spend the night laying out the camouflage.’
By morning, all activity on the three defensive lines came to a halt. As the sun strengthened, under the uneven shade of scores of camouflage nets, men hunkered down with their guns and got ready to tide through the day. Nothing moved, barring the occasional man stepping out to use the shithouse, which was deemed permissible since some activity is normal around every place humans inhabit. In fact, the total absence of activity might have drawn unwanted attention to the compound.
Unseen and unheard, high in the sky, the spy satellites did take note of the trenches in and around the compound but they raised no flags in the minds of the intelligence analysts examining the satellite feed; with the current Pakistani offensive to secure this area, it was only logical that they be there. This time the Pakistanis had been vehement about American drone attacks in this area on the grounds that their operations would get jeopardized. Keeping in view the sensitive stage at which relations between the two countries were currently poised, the Americans had decided to oblige.
Curled up beside the machine gun, Iqbal’s companion was fast asleep. While the Uzbek was undoubtedly a ferocious fighter, he did not have the temperament to sit patiently through an entire day of watching and waiting.
Iqbal was grateful that the man was asleep. He needed to think and he needed to do so in peace.
His eyes restlessly scanned the area in front of him, using the binoculars that had been provided to all those who were manning machine guns. The binoculars were standard Russian Army ones, as most military hardware in this part of the world tends to be, a lasting legacy of their misadventure into Afghanistan. The ones cupped in Iqbal’s hands had seen extensive use, but were in surprisingly good shape. He could see the compound with acute clarity. All the while his mind was churning in fervent overdrive.
How the hell can I get word out to Colonel Anbu about this meeting?
For the umpteenth time he looked at the battered watch on his wrist. It was 0700 hours. He had almost the entire day to get word out.
But how?
He scrutinized the area again. He knew the machine gun was useless. Apart from punching a few holes in the walls and killing some of the guards, he knew it would be unable to get at any of the tanzeem.
And how long will I last if I open fire?
He visualized the wave of fighters who would instantly converge on him. Discarding the option, Iqbal widened his scrutiny and noticed the ZU.
Though he was barely able to see it due to the camouflage nets, he knew about the ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft gun that had been deployed 400 metres to the right of his trench. It covered the break in the mountains to the north since that was a likely ingress point for aircraft wanting to attack the compound. Iqbal knew it was a weapon that could wreak serious havoc.
But will it be enough?
Iqbal thought back to the time he had seen the ZU in action, during the ambush they had sprung on the ISAF convoy in Afghanistan. He remembered the thunderous roar of the twin auto-canons as the ZU tore up the convoy. The vehicles had been shredded to bits.
Iqbal tried to work out how he could use it to destroy the dangerous group of men who would arrive at the compound very soon. He glanced at his watch again. It was forty minutes past noon.
Bloody hell! Where did the morning go?
In the distance, about 500 metres to the north, Iqbal could see one of the Pakistani soldiers from the outer cordon head towards the rocky outcrop that had been designated as the shithouse. It was not on the windward side of the defensive positions, nor were there any men deployed in the immediate vicinity.
Iqbal checked his watch again. He realized he had barely four hours left to decide what he was going to do and execute it. The thought sent a fresh wave of anxiety through him. He could not fail after having come so far; he couldn’t allow the tanzeem to leave this place alive.
Iqbal shuddered at the thought of the death and destruction these men would unleash all over the world if they managed to get away. He turned his mind to the task at hand.
The ZU was one option. It might not get all the bastards but it would certainly cause considerable damage. He ran through the possible sequence of events in his head. He would first have to get rid of the Uzbek, then get to the ZU and take out the crew.
How many will there be? Three? Four at best! It would be difficult to take on four men at once, but it was his best possible option. He would have to launch a sudden assault with a knife. Gunfire was too risky.
He had to take the chance. If he managed to take out the crew of the ZU, he would have to wait for the tanzeem to reach the compound and then open fire on the house they enter
ed.
Using his binoculars, Iqbal eyed the house in question. He had never been inside, so he had no idea of the layout or strength of the walls. It seemed to be a sturdy structure.
Should I cut loose with the ZU when they start walking inside? If I can catch all of them in the open, I may be able to get all six of them, and the Ameer too. But will they all wait to go in together or will they go in one by one as they arrive? He reflected on this for a moment before he realized that there was no way he could come to a logical conclusion. And how long will I get before the men in the other trenches decimate the ZU – and me?
Iqbal concluded that it was not at all a sound plan. There was too much scope for error and for chance to dictate the outcome, but it was the best he had.
He threw another glance at his watch. 1405 hours. Shocked at the speed with which the hours were bleeding away, Iqbal returned to his planning, his mind assailed by a renewed sense of urgency. With each passing moment, his spirits sank as no other solution presented itself.
1550 hours.
They would start arriving in another hour. Last light was approaching rapidly.
Iqbal made up his mind with a snap. The ZU is my only shot. I will just have to take my chances.
With the decision made, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus on the crucial moments ahead. His breathing picked up pace and a coil of steel began to grip his heart. He knew there were no more decisions to be made, no more dilemmas to be resolved. This was the time for action… to kill or to be killed. No! Just to kill. Iqbal knew he could not fail. The price of his failure would be paid by thousands of innocent men, women and children… like his mother, sister and wife.
Reaching for the knife in his belt, Iqbal crawled across the trench silently. His hand came up and the knife slammed into the Uzbek’s throat, with all the force Iqbal could muster. The Uzbek died instantly.
Iqbal began to lift the camouflage net to get out of the machine-gun pit. His hand had just caught hold of the net when he froze. Coming up along the horizon of his vision was a Pakistani soldier. He was bent forward as he made his way to the shithouse, the way most radio operators do when they are on the move, hunching to compensate for the extra weight on their back.
Iqbal got out of the trench and began to saunter towards the shithouse, keeping his pace casual. By the time he had wandered into the rocky outcrop, the radio operator was squatting near a rock, his ass facing Iqbal. Along with his rifle, his radio set rested against a nearby rock, hissing softly with static.
The soldier turned his head slightly to see who was intruding on his happy commune with nature. By then Iqbal was almost onto him. He caught the top of the man’s head with his left hand while the blade in his right sliced open the extended throat. Air escaped from the gaping cut with a hiss. The man toppled backwards, collapsing into his own pile of shit.
Iqbal returned the knife to his belt, caught hold of the man’s arms and began to drag the body towards the narrow crevice between two large rocks a few metres to the right. Grimacing at the smell of fresh shit smeared all over the man, he shoved the body into the crevice. He pushed it in as far as possible and threw some dirt and leaves over it, camouflaging the body as best as he could. By now he was breathing hard, as much from the fear of getting caught as from the exertion. He picked up the Paki’s rifle, grabbed the radio set and began to scout for a suitable hiding place.
He spotted a ledge on one of the larger rocks in the outcrop just 30 metres away. It would offer only partial cover but Iqbal had no choice; time was running out.
Lugging the radio set and the rifle, Iqbal made his way up to the ledge, careful to stay low. Crawling to the farthest corner of the ledge, he sat down and surveyed the radio set. It looked pretty much like the sets they had practised with in Kasauli.
Iqbal turned the dial, setting the frequency that Ankita had drilled into him, and pressed the transmit button.
‘Babur for Fox Base!’
That was the code name they had given him when Iqbal had gone into Pakistan with Sami and Tiwathia to hunt down Salim. He had taken to using it during the practice sessions at Kasauli.
‘Babur for Fox Base!’ Iqbal transmitted again, unable to keep a note of desperation out of his voice.
They say that when evil walks the face of the earth, the gods return to combat it. Someone at the Force 22 Base was listening.
Flight Lieutenant Ankita Bhatnagar had just stepped out to get a cup of coffee and was standing at the ops room door when she heard Iqbal’s transmission. The words were not very clear, but she recognized his voice immediately. The coffee cup hit the floor as she ran across the room and snatched up the handset.
‘Babur, this is Fox Base.’
Ankita’s crisp voice crackled out of the set with startling clarity, shocking Iqbal. For a moment he just stared at the radio set in amazement; he could not believe he was actually listening to Ankita. Shaking away an unexpected surge of emotion, Iqbal pressed the transmit button again.
‘Fox Base, this is Babur. Majnu.’ He tried but was unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘I repeat, Majnu. Laila 997428.’ Iqbal felt a huge burden lift off him as he rattled out the grid reference coordinates of the compound. ‘Fox Base, do you copy?’
‘Say again, Babur. You are strength one.’
‘Shit!’ At the other end Iqbal cursed. Strength one meant that Ankita was barely able to make out what he was saying.Clicking his tongue in exasperation, he dragged the radio set to the other end of the ledge; maybe changing the position would improve the transmission. However, he was now almost fully exposed to anyone passing by.
‘Fox Base, I say again, Majnu.’ Iqbal spoke slowly, hoping to break through the static and make sure that Ankita picked up the codeword, which Tiwathia had told him to use whenever he located the tanzeem.
‘Babur, I copy Majnu,’ Ankita replied after a brief pause. ‘Give me Laila at alt three.’ The ever alert Ankita had just invoked the first, most basic security rule:when in doubt, always assume the enemy is listening.
‘Alt three means you have to step up the transmitting frequency by five,’ he remembered Ankita telling them during the training, before the YPS operation.
‘Five, but you are saying three?’
‘You must always add two to the figure we give you the first time, and then subtract three the next time, and so on… Keep alternating. We will use this procedure whenever we are transmitting from insecure sets or if our transmissions are in the clear. The process is a little tedious and certainly not foolproof but it makes it harder for the enemy to get the whole conversation since he has to work at finding the frequency we are moving to next.’
Switching frequency rapidly, Iqbal resumed transmission. ‘Laila 997428.’ He was acutely aware that he was running out of time; sooner or later someone would come.
‘I copy, Babur. I repeat, Laila 997428. Alt two now.’ Iqbal heaved a sigh of relief as Ankita correctly repeated the grid reference.
Ankita’s professional tone betrayed none of the shock she was experiencing. Hearing Iqbal’s voice so suddenly had pulverized not just her but also Captain Sami who had been walking past and saw Ankita drop the coffee cup and rush into the room. He had run behind her and was at the door when Iqbal transmitted the second time. They could hardly believe that the man they had given up for dead, that too for the second time in as many years, was back. Sami had reached for the telephone while Ankita snatched up the radio handset.
Sami’s call brought an equally surprised Colonel Anbu to the ops room just as Ankita was repeating the grid reference coordinates.
Iqbal’s mission was complete. Force 22 would now do whatever was necessary to put an end to the madness.
‘Pull up that grid reference on the map,’ Anbu said to Sami as he took the handset from Ankita.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the tenuous radio link holding them together, a column of dust just beyond the compound caught Iqbal’s eye. Scoping it out with his binocula
rs, he saw two SUVs drive up to the compound. As the vehicles came closer, there was a flurry of activity in the compound. Several people emerged from the houses. Standing among them was the unmistakable figure of the Ameer.
The SUVs came to a halt in front of the waiting men. Most of the men who stepped out of the vehicles carried weapons. But the one who strode up to the Ameer walked with his hands free. Like the Ameer, he had an aura of command and authority. Iqbal saw the two leaders embrace. From a distance they looked like friends meeting after a very long time; one would never have guessed that they were meeting to plot murder, to deliver death to thousands of people across the world.
The first of the tanzeem had arrived.
The two men were turning towards the house when one of the men in the entourage pointed. In the distance Iqbal saw another cloud of dust and another pair of vehicles. They would reach the compound in twenty minutes.
Iqbal hit the transmit button again. ‘One has arrived. Second coming in now. Majnu window closes in five or six hours.’
‘Say again, Babur. This is Fox. Alt four,’ Anbu replied.
The colonel’s voice brought back the memory of Tanaz and his baby boy. He forced himself to focus on the radio set and changed the frequency.
‘I repeat. Majnu closes very soon.’
‘Babur, I copy Majnu closes very soon. Alt five now.’
Iqbal automatically switched to the desired frequency.
‘Babur, is Majnu intact?’ Anbu was asking if all the tanzeem members were together. ‘Alt six now.’
‘Negative, Fox.’ Iqbal switched frequency yet again. ‘Majnu has just begun. Only two are in so far. It should be intact by last light.’ Checking the time on his watch, Iqbal estimated that last light was not more than an hour away. He could see the second set of vehicles clearly now; they were almost at the compound.
‘Not good enough, Babur. You need to tell me…’
Iqbal suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Clicking off the radio set, he hauled it back to the far end of the ledge, and crouched into the shadows.