by Mainak Dhar
I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I almost missed seeing the man, but when I did, I nudged Aman, who also saw him. He was heavily built, bearded, with rough, tanned skin and wearing traditional Afghan clothes. But he also wore wraparound sunglasses and carried a large bag across his shoulder, which he hefted with ease as he worked his way through the rocks to our right.
‘Shit. He’s been watching us. Who is he?’
We got the answer a moment later when four more black-clad men burst out of the foliage on the roadside, aiming their rifles at us. They wore body armour and were loaded with weapons and equipment.
Aman stopped the truck as they came closer, shouting in Pashto for us to identify ourselves. I knew who I was looking at. I had trained with them on occasion. I also knew that a sudden move on our part would lead to them killing us without a second thought.
US Navy SEALs!
Aman’s hand was reaching for the pistol he had by his side, and I clamped my hand down on his.
‘Let me handle this.’
One American, a tall blond man, was now at my door and shouting at me to identify myself. I handed over my Indian Army ID. When he saw it, he raised his right hand, making a closed fist with it. The others stopped where they were.
‘What the hell are you doing here, major? You’re a long way from home.’
I stepped out of the truck and faced him, realising now that he had perhaps an inch even over my six feet three. His eyes seemed to be boring into me and I could see his finger was still on the trigger of his rifle.
‘I was on the hijacked airliner. Run my name. It’ll tell you who I am. I was rescued by these locals and was trying to see where the hijackers have taken my family.’
He looked at me curiously, and then stepped away, speaking into the mike at his collar. I saw a man in the distance, perched on the hill, unpack a sat-phone and make a call. It took a few minutes.
Then the soldier in front of me relaxed visibly. ‘You check out, but what you want to do is suicide. You’ll just get yourself and your buddies here killed. There is no way that you are going to get the hostages out. You’ll put them in more danger. Get back to the airfield. I will get you extracted. Head home.’
‘Sorry, no can do. Can’t leave my family here.’
He took a step towards me. ‘You don’t seem to understand what’s going on. We got a bunch of the hostages out. May be your family is already safe.’
‘I know they aren’t.’
He looked at me for a long time. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? The hostages spoke of an Indian guy who saved them.’
I said nothing, but I didn’t really need to.
‘Awesome, man. You probably saved all those hostages. Intel is that the terrorists were going to kill them all at dawn. But don’t go any further. These are some serious badass guys. But we will have more assets on the ground soon. Let us do our job. Stay out of our way.’
This was beyond strange. Why would the US government be sending Navy SEALs out to rescue three hostages? My wife and son were important to me, but certainly not the US or Indian establishment? So, the question was: Who was the third prisoner?
‘Do you know where they are?’
He nodded.
‘Who are they holding hostage?’
He seemed to hesitate.
‘Look, they have my wife and son, but you aren’t here for them. So, who is it?’
The man looked at his buddies and nodded. They began to retreat.
Then before he too turned and walked away, he spoke, ‘You are on a fool’s errand and will get these people and yourself killed. Stay out of our way. ISIS has a few hostages, your family may be in there, but so’s an HVT. Take some friendly advice – don’t get mixed up here. This is serious shit.’
A High Value Target? What in India would be called a VIP.
Without much ado, the SEALs faded into the mountains, leaving us without too many good choices. We could keep going in our truck but risk being taken out by a US drone, which mistook us for bad guys, or just being caught in the crossfire.
Calling in the other villagers was no longer an option. With SEALs operating in the area, there was no doubt about the drones flying overhead or that a large number of armed locals would quickly be seen as hostiles and become targets of Hellfire missiles. We’d be killed before we got anywhere near the base where the hijackers were holed up.
Karzai sensed my dilemma and growing frustration. He got out of the truck and came back with a couple of long cloth bags and tossed me one.
‘Major, yours has all the stuff I think you need. Mine has my rifle and other things.’
He said something to the two men and they drove off, leaving me, Karzai and Hanif in the narrow pass.
‘What’s your plan?’ I asked.
‘We’re villagers out for a walk. Easier that way, plus with the way the roads get up ahead, I suspect we won’t lose all that much time walking through the terrain versus going in a truck. We can just make our way over the hills. Our plan went for a toss. Now we improvise. Let’s get closer and see what the Americans have in mind.’
I had a very bad feeling about what was going on – first the hijackers trying too hard to create a spectacle, now the news of a high value hostage and SEALs in the area.
‘Aman, I need to make a call.’
I took the sat-phone from him. I noticed it wasn’t the one I had got from the hijacker. It was a top of the line Iridium set.
When I looked at him questioningly, he grinned. ‘Use this one, it will be secure. I still have friends.’
It was easy to forget that the smiling man in front of me had once been a sniper trained by the US and Russian Spetsnaz and fought for the Afghan Northern Alliance. At one point or the other, he had been hunted by the Taliban, al-Qaeda, US military, Indian security forces, ISI, and now, ISIS. He was a man used to surviving against the odds, a man who likely had interesting old friends and connections.
I dialed the number from memory.
A gravely voice at the other end answered, ‘Dhar.’
‘Sir, Aaditya here.’
His voice remained even, as befitted a man who had spent well over thirty years as an Intelligence officer, but he exhaled loudly before responding, ‘You weren’t there among the hostages I hear were rescued. Neither was your family. Where are you?’
I told him that I was with some villagers, who had helped me. I did not mention Karzai, since I wasn’t sure how the Indian establishment would react to news that the sniper, who had killed so many in Mumbai, was with me.
‘They have my family and god knows who else… I need help.’
He promised to call back. Within ten minutes the phone rang, and I heard the sound of a patched-on con-call.
Dhar was on the line, but so was an unfamiliar voice. ‘Major Ghosh, Ajay Gopal here. Our mutual friend is on the line. I had intervened in good faith, to try and negotiate with the hijackers, but we had underestimated the stakes involved and may have put your family in greater danger. I am truly sorry. What we had taken to be a hijacking could be something much bigger.’
‘What is going on, sir? We met some American…’
He stopped me in mid-sentence. ‘We have no idea who else is listening. We will stay in touch, but let’s be discreet. I will tell you something which may help you appreciate just how delicate the situation is. They have a hostage of particular importance.’
Again, the high value target. I wondered who it was.
‘She started as a television journalist, devoted much of her time to fighting the menace of drugs. She became pretty famous for several exposes about cartels in Mexico, which put her on lots of hit lists. She was in Mumbai for a conference as far as we can tell. The two men they shot were undercover Secret Service agents accompanying her because of a sudden last minute request to give her added protection till she got back to the US. As far as we can tell from the debrief from the remaining hostages, the leader took her and and your family. Someone overheard the le
ader saying that your family would be insurance because his bosses wanted to get to you too.’
A television journalist?
I thought back to the attractive woman I had seen coming back from Business Class. Had that been her? No wonder her face looked familiar. Then I thought of poor, brave Zoya. Never lost her courage, never backed down. But Secret Service agents? Why would they be with a journalist, who wanted to campaign against drugs? And, how would the hijackers have known who these agents were?
Gopal didn’t have to spell it out. The fact that the hijackers knew who the two men were told me a lot about how much they knew and how much inside information they had.
‘Sir, who is this woman?’
‘Major, they are threatening to livestream her beheading unless the US agrees to their demands. She is the daughter of the former US President.’
Seven
Hanif was walking ahead of us, so that anyone who stumbled upon him would likely let him go, thinking him to be just another kid from a neighbouring village.
At any rate, the people stopping him would be less likely to shoot him on sight than if they bumped into me and Karzai, who were carrying a veritable arsenal of weapons. Hanif burst out of the trees and skidded to a stop near us. He was out of breath and panting as he knelt, taking deep breaths before he told us what he had seen.
‘Trouble up ahead. I saw some men lying in wait for the Americans.’
I looked at Hanif with genuine respect. Here was a kid, perhaps barely into his teens, if that, and he had snuck past a team of Navy SEALs and uncovered a group of men lying in wait for them. Not only that, he had then come back to warn us.
Karzai caught my glance and ruffled Hanif’s hair.
‘He’s a better tracker and spotter than any special forces soldier you’ve ever met. Ever since he could walk, he’s been making his way through these hills and he has an eye like a hawk. You’ll be surprised what learning to trap animals and watching out for your flock every single day since you were born can teach you. Especially, in a world where you don’t know what the next day brings and armed men can drop in, drag anyone they want and force them to join their ranks. What he knows no man in fancy uniform can drill into you in a year or two of training. It was with good reason that I used to take him along with me on my missions. It was also why I stopped taking him along, because I didn’t want him to get into trouble. Now I only bring him along when I believe there is serious threat to the village and this time only because it is your family that is involved.’
I knelt in front of Hanif and looked into his eager, excited eyes. He might be a tracker par excellence, but he was just a kid. I could see the mixture of excitement and fear that mingled in those eyes. In a way, I felt guilty that someone so young should have to spend his formative years hunting men in a forest, and not in a school. If we got out of this alive, I resolved that I would do something to make sure he got a better life than this.
‘Hanif, what did these men look like?’ Karzai asked, and then translated.
‘I saw only one or two, hidden in the bushes, but they were wearing black and I couldn’t see their faces. Their faces were covered.’
Karzai looked at me.
‘Masks?’ I said, not really seeking verification.
So, the ISIS had men waiting for the SEALs, but the bigger and more problematic question was – how in the world had they known that these men were coming in the first place?
Once again, these men seemed to know way too much, and way too soon.
‘Aman, let’s go. Maybe we can get to the SEALs in time and warn them.’
I could see him hesitate. Karzai had been hunted by the Americans, and was in no hurry to show up on their radar again.
‘You come later. I’ll go ahead. The enemy may or may not be ISIS, but they have my family, and those SEALs are just doing their duty. Whatever happened to you, in this case, they are the good guys and we can’t just let them walk to their deaths.’
As I ran ahead, Hanif ran with me, and I could hear Karzai behind me. I didn’t turn to see him. And, he didn’t say a word, but clearly he wasn’t going to leave me alone either. Running into the middle of what promised to be a firefight against unknown enemies, I was glad that I could rely on the fact that he had my back.
I ran on for a few minutes, following Hanif’s lead, but we were too late.
I heard a single loud explosion – likely a mine going off; then the staccato noise of semi-automatic fire and the slightly muffled sounds of grenades going off.
Short bursts followed, and then silence.
By the sound of it, this was no firefight; it was a massacre.
As we came closer, we slowed down and crept behind a large tree. Hanif stepped forward.
The bodies of the five Americans were prone on the ground. Three men dressed in black were kneeling near their bodies, scavenging for the papers or equipment that the Americans had on them.
Karzai was next to me. We had no time to plan or say anything, but both of us had clearly had had similar trainers.
When you’re outnumbered and outgunned, you don’t bother with niceties or try and pretend to fight fair.
I knelt and aimed at the man closest to me, bringing the AK-47 Karzai had given me to my shoulder. Through my peripheral vision, I could see Karzai do the same, except that he had a handgun in both his hands, his sniper rifle slung across his back.
Flip back the selector for single fire, turn off the safety, aim low knowing the recoil would raise the rifle when I fired my second shot. Fire. The first bullet caught the man in the small of the back and the second near his neck. A spurt of pink and red and he went down.
The other men were now turning to face us.
Karzai fired, four shots hitting a man and sending him down.
I turned my attention to the third man, who was bringing up his rifle. Two bullets centre of mass, and he went down.
From beginning to end, it had taken no more than five seconds.
Three lives snuffed out.
Eight men dead, including the Americans, in no more than the time you would take to read these few sentences. But what these sentences don’t convey is the acrid smell of gunpowder, the smell of blood, of human waste voided as someone dies.
When overexcited civilian enthusiasts ask someone like me how it feels like to kill an enemy, I am sometimes tempted to describe what it smells like, and if possible, pull them close to a corpse, watch them retch their guts out and then ask them how their enthusiasm and bloodlust is holding up.
As I began to get up, I heard a rustling sound behind me. Gunshots had prevented us from hearing what was behind us. And, we had let our guard down.
I turned to see a masked man emerging from the trees, no more than a few feet from me, his rifle coming up to his shoulder. Maybe he had been on watch. But he had caught us in a terribly vulnerable position.
My rifle was in my right hand, near my waist. There was no way I could bring it up in time. As his rifle came up to firing position, I launched myself at him, using my weapon like a club to bat his out of the way. He was surprised, but only for a second, as I felt a hard fist slam into my side as we fell to the ground together.
We got up at the same time. He took out a serrated knife from the belt at his waist.
Karzai’s kit had a similar looking knife and I had it out as well.
The man facing me was moving like a professional, his arms moving in slow, lazy circles, his legs pivoting just so slightly, as he shifted his centre of gravity.
A novice would look at his legs or get distracted by the motion of his arms, and would pay for it with his life. He lunged at me, his right leg extending forward and his hand striking out with explosive speed, the blade headed towards my chest.
But I had done this dance. I knew the only place to watch were his eyes. And, I pivoted out of the way, planting my right leg, moving my left leg slightly behind me and blocking his arm with my left hand, deflecting the blow. My left leg shuffled forward,
my right went up and slammed down just below the man’s knee.
The man staggered back, and I moved in, catching him in the right arm with a strike which cut him badly, making him drop his knife.
As he stood before me, unarmed, bleeding, I could see his eyes widen in shock. He had expected to be up against an Afghan tribal or perhaps a local militant. That complacency cost him.
I realised I could take the man alive, learn who these men were and where exactly they had my family and the other hostage.
I lowered my knife.
Karzai was by my side, his pistol pointed at the man. I held out my left hand, motioning for him with my palm held open towards him. I didn’t know which language he’d understand, but English was as fair a bet as any.
‘You don’t have to die here today.’
His response was as immediate as it was shocking.
He spat at me, grabbed a locket around his neck, brought it up to his mouth and bit into it.
‘No!’
I ran forward, hoping to get to him before the poison did its trick, but I was too late.
The man was unconscious before I got to him. I knew he was beyond saving.
I took a look at the small capsule lying by his side. I had seen it before, in training, when we had learned that some diehard jihadis were carrying these, preferring suicide to capture. Old-timers had, of course, told us tales of the LTTE in Sri Lanka wearing similar capsules. Cyanide. It renders you unconscious within seconds, kills within a minute or two. The lungs stop working, the neurons no longer fire.
I shouted out in frustration and yanked off the man’s mask.
Then I just stared in disbelief.
The face I saw was not Afghan, nor that of a middle eastern Jihadi.
It was Oriental.
***
I could barely contain my anger at the condescending tone of the voice at the other end of the radio set.