Red Jihad

  Roy was visibly shocked as the call ended.

  He began, 'Pakistanis have corroborated our own findings. Rogue SSG-ISI elements joined hands with the Naxalites for this operation. They also told me about the mastermind. Yasser Basheer, leader of a jihadi outfit, collaborated with our own Comrade Agyaat. Pakistanis think that they have located Basheer in a town in NWFP and are planning an operation to nab him,' Roy declared.

  'Good,' muttered General Malhotra, 'This will show us how sincere they are. I just hope he is not a scapegoat for their own treacherous deeds.'

  'And the Pakistanis also said that we are most welcome to join in the hunt.' Roy dropped the bombshell.

  'What?' The naval chief was shocked. 'What! This is insane! We working with the Pakistanis! Barely after we've disengaged ourselves from a war with them!' Sapra said furiously.

  The cabinet secretary, Ajay Mishra, countered him, 'There are no permanent friends or foes, just national interests. We should cooperate.'

  'Is there a catch?' asked Malhotra cautiously.

  'Yes. They want us to allow Pakistani soldiers to join the operation in India to hunt Agyaat,' remarked Roy.

  'Hang on. Let me get this straight: Indian and Pakistani soldiers working together to catch Yasser Basheer in Pakistan and Agyaat in India?' Malhotra could not believe his ears.

  'Yes.' Roy's expression was unreadable.

  'This is utterly ridiculous. They are the enemy!'

  'But it seems a symbolic enough gesture. Gadhe ko baap...' said the air chief.

  'Do you agree?' asked the PM.

  'Hmm... Now that I think of it, no sane man can refuse this offer. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Whoever caused these many deaths deserves to be punished, even if I have to work with my greatest foe for that,' said the general.

  'Foes and friends are epistemological constructs, General, not ontological entities,' Mishra spoke up again. Malhotra gave him a dirty look and he looked away, smiling.

  An orderly rushed in and addressed PM Roy, 'Sir, there is another call for you. It is the American president.'

  Heads turned towards the PM. Roy got up and took the phone. The US president urgently whispered something in the phone that made Roy's face twitch. He eyed the gathering uncertainly, pressed the phone tightly to his ear and swept out of the room.

  Topi, NWFP, Pakistan

  Local time: 1345 hours

  Date: 26 April 2014

  Captain Habib of the 7th Zarrar Battalion of the Special Service Group waited patiently as an Antonov-32 transport of IAF completed its final approach to a covert military airstrip. The PAF F-16s that had been escorting the Antonov streaked away to their own base in Kohat, their task complete the moment the plane was safely on the ground.

  The Antonov-32 gracefully landed on the Pakistani soil. It taxied on the runway and stopped as per the directions given by ATC. From now on, its safety was Habib's concern, alongside his duty to ensure that the Indians were upto no espionage.

  The door flew open and the passengers started to disembark. Habib walked to the first man who was down, knowing that he would be the ranking officer, and who was, by the stars on his shoulder, a captain. Habib saluted the moment Shyam Singh Rathore of the Indian National Security Guard was within range. The two captains, having exchanged pleasantries, looked at each other with an expression that was a peculiar mix of surprise, distrust, and yet a desire to cooperate.

  Unbelievable, thought Rathore, next to impossible.

  The two captains started walking towards a truck parked nearby as the NSG men trooped down the ramp with their luggage. They saw Rathore's gesture and understood. They were to follow, at a discreet distance.

  'Welcome to Pakistan, Captain Rathore. I am Habib, your liaison. Follow me please. We hope your stay in Pakistan will be fruitful.'

  Captain Rathore started and gave Habib an intense look. Is he serious? Or am I stuck with a Pakistani Special Forces psycho with whom I will be going into combat soon, Rathore wondered.

  Habib remarked hastily, 'Er...have I said something wrong? What I said was taken straight out of PIA's handbook. Thought it would make you feel comfortable. I apologize if I caused any offense.'

  'No, no!' protested Rathore, 'It was just that I was not expecting someone, least of all a military officer, to welcome me into Pakistan, you know.'

  Habib smiled, 'Ha ha! Yes, our history is quite loaded for that. However, things change. Before the war, you were half as much of a threat to us than the insurgency on our North West Frontier. 'The war...' Habib was suddenly reminded of the civilian deaths on his side of the border.

  There was an awkward silence for a while. Even the Pakistani JCO talking with his Indian counterpart seemed to sense that something was wrong. The following groups stopped talking. Only the regular rhythm of boots pounding asphalt remained.

  Rathore seemed to have felt his counterpart's discomfort. 'War was bitter, as always–but thankfully short.'

  'I lost friends,' lamented Habib.

  'So did I,' said Rathore as gory images of dead pals flooded his mind. He checked himself. He was here to carry out a mission. And for that he needed full support of the people who he would be fighting with. Rathore tried to cover up for this painful digression, 'You were telling me about the insurgency...'

  'Oh, yes. Pardon me,' Habib came back to the moment, 'they are slowly and steadily gaining a foothold–if they continue, the going could get really tough for us.'

  Rathore did not react, unsure of how he was expected to react.

  Habib sensed his thoughts and remarked, 'Oh! If you think we are bad right now, wait until you see them! They will not even let you play football! Exposing shins is a sin for them, you know!'

  Rathore's interest was suddenly piqued by the reference. 'Football? You play football?' he asked in sudden excitement.

  'Yeah, I do. In fact, I...' was all Habib managed to say before he was cut by Rathore.

  'So do I, a passion from my school days…EPL?' He hoped the other captain was not the La Liga type.

  'Of course!' Habib exploded with enthusiasm and a new found respect for Rathore.

  'Team?' Rathore wanted to know.

  'Man U, of course. The Red Devils all the way!'

  'Huh! I thought you were a good man.' Rathore suddenly felt another wave of anger sweeping him. This really was the enemy. He turned his head away to hide his scowl.

  'What happened?'

  'Nothing. Just your club choice. Stupid, if I may add. Any intelligent and sane man would support Liverpool! It is the team. Reds all the way!'

  Habib merely shook his head and repeated, 'Man U', this time in a much louder voice.

  'Liverpool!' Rathore shouted back at him, frothing.

  'Man U!!!' Habib screamed at the top of his lungs, his face red.

  'Liverpool!' repeated Rathore, shaking with anger.

  The men had been watching their officers curiously. They saw them about to come to blows. The Indians caressed their guns and started choosing targets. The Pakistanis did the same. Commandos are the same world over. Shoot first, talk later. Even better, don't talk at all.

  Then, suddenly, the situation got defused, as both the captains burst out laughing and put an arm around each other. Rathore was the first one to speak out, 'It does not matter which team we support, at least we both love football!'

  They reached the truck. The men loaded their gear in the truck as Habib led Rathore to his jeep stationed ahead of the truck. They would be travelling in it.

  'Your unit will be joining mine for the raid, as you must know by now. I will take you to your quarters. After you have rested, we will assemble together for the mission briefing, Captain.'

  'Please, my name is Rathore, but my friends call me SS.'

  'And my friends call me Haba.' Rathore's eyebrows shot up. Habib saw the look and asked, 'You don't happen to understand Bangla by any chance, do you?'

  The jeep started moving. They pulled out of the military air base and started to move
towards the cantonment. Rathore noticed another truck follow the one carrying his men. This one full of Pakistani soldiers. Is it meant to keep us in, or others out, he wondered. His gaze returned to Habib urging him to answer his question.

  'Bangla? As a matter of fact, I do. Although I belong to Rajasthan, I spent my formative years in Kolkata. My father, who was in the army too, was posted in the Eastern Command.'

  'Oh...'

  'What happened?' asked Rathore.

  Habib sighed and accepted what was about to come, 'Then you know.'

  'About what? Your name?'

  'Yes.'

  'Might I be bold enough to enquire what got into you? Or was it merely linguistic ignorance?' Rathore said.

  'I am a Baloch, but my father, like yours, was in the army. I had a Bangladeshi godfather, my dad's colleague who had to leave West Pakistan in 1971 but he always kept in touch with us. He saved my father's life when he was posted in Dhaka. My father decided he would be the one who would name me when I was born. He named me Habib. Habib Rehman. My bhalo naam. And following the glorious tradition of Bengal, I got a dak naam too...this one not so glorious. Haba.'

  'Haba...the fool?'

  Habib nodded serenely, and then pressed on the gas, 'Precisely. It is not fair. You get the name of a cool, dreaded organization while I get to be the fool.'

  'So you watch Second World War flicks too, despite the ban by Islamists! As for the name, do not worry about names – you are an inch taller than me.'

  'That only makes me a bigger haba than you!' Habib retorted.

  Rathore went silent for a moment, and then said, 'Guess what, back home I would not have realized that Pakistanis had such a sense of humour.'

  'What!' Habib replied grinning, 'You are telling that to a nation whose comedians adorn your TV shows? Why we even bother firing at you, I do not know. We could just tell you jokes and tickle you to death! However, to be fair, your Bollywood rules our hearts and minds. I will let you in on a state secret. If we ever nuke India, we will have to leave Mumbai untouched. Otherwise, how will we enjoy your movies? That is our national pastime!'

  Rathore started to guffaw with Habib. Things suddenly looked upbeat. Both of them were captains, second-generation army officers on deputation to Special Forces, and football fans; they kept talking until they reached their destination.

  The NSG men were allowed to rest and were then called for a joint briefing. The plan was all set. Get in, get Yasser Basheer, get out. Simple enough, wasn't it?

  ♦

  Hours flew by. The briefing, insertion and the raid – everything had happened so quickly. Captain Habib, his eyes wide with horror, tried to shout for a medic over the din of the chattering Heckler & Koch MP5s and AK-47s. His hands, with a wad of bandages and cotton in them, were placed on the profusely bleeding chest of Captain Rathore.

  He had taken a direct hit to his chest as a hidden assailant fired at him just when he was about to finish off another attacker. It was an ambush. The house where Yasser Basheer was reported to have been seen last time was booby-trapped, planted with mines, and left to be guarded by zealous fanatics of TNSM who were now firing indiscriminately at anyone in range, whether the military or civilians. The joint commando team of SSG-NSG had taken positions at the perimeter and had tried to smoke the well-equipped terrorists out, who in turn began shooting civilians from the windows.

  Damn! He should have known. These terrorists were at the receiving end of the American forces in Afghanistan and had made a note of counterterrorism tactics. And guess who trained the Pakistanis in such operations? The terrorists knew of what would come and from where.

  The team had realized this and the two captains had a talk. They had to do this some other way. The local police had cordoned off the area though civilian centres were still within the reach of the holed-up terrorists. Rathore had come up with a tactic to infiltrate the building. Create a diversion, and then attack simultaneously from the roof and the doors without waiting for supporting fire to catch the terrorist off-guard. Brave, almost foolhardy, but bound to succeed.

  The commandos were in. There were just two downsides. One, that Yasser Basheer had escaped long ago. Two, Rathore was lying in a pool of blood, severely injured.

  The last words Rathore heard before blacking out were Habib's screaming on his radio for an emergency medical airlift.

  Chabahar, Iran

  Local time: 2100 hours

  Date: 26 April 2014

  Yasser Basheer made his way across the harbour, unseen and all alone.

  Those who trusted him were busy defending his lair in Pakistan. Those he trusted were waiting for him to come to them – to safety across the seas, ending his long mission. His final mission. Almost complete, he told himself, and smiled in self-satisfaction.

  His young Sindhi aide had driven him to the Iran-Pakistan Border, from where his Balochi comrades had taken over. After sneaking him past a Basij Pasdaran border post, they had travelled to the port of Chabahar by car. Basheer was left a kilometre away from his rendezvous point where he was supposed to meet his contact.

  It had started to drizzle. He wrapped his cloak around him and kept walking, following the directions he was made to memorize. Basheer did not care where he went as long as he was able to escape. He reached a deserted pier. A small boat was waiting for him. A man saw Basheer and gestured him to stay where he was. He walked upto Basheer and frisked him for weapons.

  None were found, as the message he received a day ago was very clear: 'If you want to live, come to Chabahar, alone and unarmed.' Upon finding Basheer clean, he motioned with his head, asking Basheer to climb into the boat.

  Am I expected to escape in this, Basheer thought? Damn. I should never have accepted this ridiculous escape plan. Then, another part of him thought, what he was about to do was necessary. He had to take this chance, or all would be in vain. He stepped in the boat nimbly. His contact merely smiled and thrust the speed lever all the way to maximum the moment they were both on-board. The boat sped forward. Basheer knew better than to strike conversation with his transporter. They seldom talked. The tugging and the gentle swaying motion made him dizzy. Water lashed his face. Basheer kept awake for an hour, and then, as the seas calmed, sleep took over.

  After what seemed like an hour, a light tap on the shoulder awoke him. He felt something sticky on his fingers and realized he had been finger-printed to confirm his identity. What will they compare my prints with, he thought? Basheer groggily got up. The man stood over him, grinning. Basheer looked around. It was nightfall. The constellations looked down on him. The sea was calm, almost surreal in the moonlight. Then suddenly, the sea began to move. Basheer started, a rare profanity escaping his lips.

  He thought he saw a whale. A huge whale, just off the boat's port bow. It made him suppress a scream. Combat in water was never his forte. Basheer looked at his contact who seemed unperturbed. How can the other man be so calm? They were about to die!

  Basheer looked at him again. The man was gesticulating. He cocked his head to one side to understand, and then it struck him like a bolt. The man was motioning Basheer to jump in the water and swim towards the whale, which was now slowly coming near them.

  He must be mad! I am not jumping off this boat. And swim towards that monster? To hell with you! It was then that he heard the noise. A steady whirring, gradually coming closer. Basheer squinted at the whale. God, he muttered under his breath. The whale stopped near him and its…turret flew open. Basheer looked closer and saw a yellow sphere emblazoned on a black flag at the whale's fin. He finally understood it was the al-Qaeda flag, and was filled with wonder.

  The man pushed him into the sea and Basheer landed with a loud splash, the cold currents rudely jolting him to reality. In an eye blink, the man started his boat and vanished, as if afraid of what lurked inside that ship. Alone, Basheer had no choice but to swim towards the monster. Someone on top of the whale threw him a line. He held it and was hoisted upwards. He heard his contact's
boat fade away in the distance. Basheer touched the whale. There was no soft cartilage. Its skin was hard. Steel hard, he realized.

  He climbed to the top and was met by a tall, thin man with a beaked nose. He extended his hand to him. 'Welcome, Mr Basheer. I command this boat. Now, please follow me. The master wants to see you.'

  They went down and sealed the hatch. Basheer looked around, thunderstruck at the enormity of what was about to happen, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer of thanks. A diving alarm assaulted his ears as the submarine sank into the seas.

  Basheer's hard work, it seemed, had paid off.

  On-board INS Vismaya, Arabian Sea

  Local time: 0700 hours

  Date: 27 April 2014

  'Men, we have received vital inputs,' Commodore M. Mansoor from the Indian Directorate of Naval Intelligence (IDNI) addressed the select gathering of officers in the ship's conference room, 'SIGINT* from the Intelligence Bureau has given us extremely valuable leads. We have been ordered by the Flag Officer Commanding, Western Fleet, to follow the exact course charted for us without any deviations.'

  They were on-board INS Vismaya, a Type 1145 Kiev-II class aircraft carrier, that was leading, at the behest of urgent orders from New Delhi and Islamabad, a hastily assembled task force comprising of INS Dharti, INS Ranthambore and PNS Shamsheer.

  'We have concrete evidence that Yasser Basheer was seen at Chabahar in Iran very recently and that he left the port in a speedboat with limited range.'

  Mansoor continued, 'Our agents immediately swung into action and followed him. No surface vessels were encountered en route. He just vanished. We should have been more careful in shadowing him.'

  'So he just vanished, sir? But how?' asked Lieutenant SP Dadwal, a communications officer.

  'That leaves us with only one possibility. It seems he was rescued by a submarine since no surface ships were seen in that area by the Pakistani and Iranian Coast Guard that moved to intercept,' said the commodore.