LINE

OF CONTROL
A Thriller on the Coming War in Asia

MAINAK DHAR
 Line of Control
© Mainak Dhar, 2011
www.mainakdhar.com

Paperback edition published by Vitasta Publishers India, 2010

Line of Control is a work of fiction, and all characters and incidents
depicted in it are purely the result of the author’s imagination, or have
been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or incidents is
purely co-incidental.


TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATIONS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
LINE OF CONTROL – A TRILLER OF THE COMING WAR IN ASIA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 DEDICATIONS

Death is more universal than life. Everyone dies, but not everyone truly lives.

Line of Control is dedicated to the two most important women in my life-
my mother, Sunanda, who taught me how to live, and my wife, Puja, who
gave me something worth living for.


 AUTHOR’S NOTE

While this novel does build off serious and topical issues such as
terrorism and the growing instability in Pakistan, it uses these as a
springboard to take the reader into a fictional world. One where some of
our worst fears do come true, and also one where ultimately we realize
that it’s never too late to step back from the brink. This is a work of
fiction, and all personalities and events depicted are purely the result of
my imagination. However, the military technology and tactics depicted
in the book are close to reality, and do depict how a future war in the
subcontinent could well be fought. At times, I have taken some liberty
with reality in the interests of making the story more fun, but then, this
is a novel, not a serious treatise. For example, some unit numbers and
bases are real, gleaned from openly available sources on the Internet;
others, I’ve just made up.
Every book has a purpose, and the purpose of this novel first and
foremost is to entertain. I thoroughly enjoyed writing this novel, as it
allowed me to create a good old fashioned entertainer, the sort we all
need in these stressed out times. I do hope you have as much fun reading
it as I did while writing it.

- Mainak Dhar

www.mainakdhar.com
LINE OF CONTROL – A TRILLER OF THE COMING WAR IN ASIA

ONE

The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple
before the battle is fought.
- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The five men moved quietly and swiftly in the dark though they could
barely see each other, covered as they were in black battle fatigues. They
were familiar with this kind of terrain, though as they proceeded, they
felt that this side of the border was slightly rockier. That did not bother
them, as they had all spent their childhood in far more treacherous
terrain.
The leader, Ghulam, motioned for the others to pause as they came
upon a small hillock. With practiced, expert movements, Ghulam scaled
the rocks to reach the summit. He unslung the pair of binoculars from his
shoulder and peered into the darkness. He could see no movement, but a
small fire caught his attention. That would have to be where the troops
were likely to be, most probably using the fire to keep themselves warm
in the cold.
The others followed him up the hill- being especially careful not to
make any noise. Ghulam judged the distance to the camp as about three
hundred meters. Just a little bit closer and he would be in position.
Ghulam and his men were now down on their haunches, creeping
along the oft-used trail leading to the camp. This trail was obviously
heavily used for grazing, as evidenced by the large numbers of dung
heaps. At a distance of a hundred meters, Ghulam stopped. He once again
looked through his binoculars. He smiled to himself. This was no camp,
just a small patrol of four men, which had probably stopped to rest for
the night in a small cave on the side of a hill. Probably rookies who had
gotten lost.
As Ghulam scanned the group, he realized that they were not regular
Army troops. Their antiquated 0.303 rifles were a dead give-away. Most
likely they belonged to some police or paramilitary force.
 Ghulam shook his head at what things had come to. This was hardly a
worthy target for one, who as a fifteen-year-old, had fought the cream of
the Soviet army and later, fought the Americans in Iraq- but they would
have to do for tonight. He knew there would be many more targets for
him before it was all over. He began to reach for his Kalashnikov rifle at
his side, but then stopped himself. No, that would just take the fun out of
what was already turning out to be a bit of a damp squib.

***

Inside the cave Lance Naik Ajeet was getting increasingly irritated
with his men. All he had asked was for one of them to guide the group
using the detailed map they had, and they had somehow still managed to
get hopelessly lost. While Ajeet had established radio contact with the
police station, he had decided against trying to walk back in the biting
cold of the night. He could see Havildar Santosh still fiddling with the
map, and he couldn’t contain his irritation any more.
`What are you doing now, you buffoon?’
The Havildar looked up sheepishly and said something about being
directionally right, which caused Ajeet to explode into a stream of choice
expletives. As he lay down to sleep, he asked Havildar Pandey to stand
guard.
The pot-bellied Pandey managed to stay awake for about thirty
minutes, during which he finished off half a pack of cigarettes, but did
precious little guarding. Finally, seeing his boss asleep, he decided to
take a little nap himself. He lay down, muttering to himself,
`What will I guard in this godforsaken place? I don’t think that fool
with the map even knows whether we’re on this side or that side of the
Line of Control.’

***

The men crept closer to the policemen, who were fast asleep.
Now Ghulam could make out their individual features glowing in the
reflected light of the small fire. One of them stirred, causing Ghulam to
stop dead in his tracks. But the man just rolled over to his other side and
continued sleeping.
Now Ghulam was at the entrance to the cave. He took out a long and
curved hunting knife from his belt, and entered the cave, followed by his
men.
He grabbed the nearest man by his hair and slit his throat, the knife
making a sickening grating noise as it cut from ear to ear, slicing through
bone and tissue. The man's eyes popped open as he grabbed at his
mangled throat. He tried to cry out, but all that came out of his mouth
was a steady stream of blood. In his death throes, he knocked over his
rifle standing balanced against the wall. The noise awakened his
colleagues, who scrambled to deal with their attackers.
They never had a chance. The man to Ghulam's right tried to grab at
him, only to be met with a vicious blow that almost decapitated him. By
the time Ghulam turned around, the other two guards were already dead,
lying in expanding pools of blood. As quietly as they had come, the five
men turned around and left, leaving the four Indian policemen dead in
the cave, the fire spreading eerie shadows around their bodies.
Inshallah, all raids would be this easy, Ghulam thought, as he looked
back at the cave, the fire now barely discernable in the distance.

***

His hand paused over the intricately carved rook for a second and
then moved away.
`Karim, checkmate.'
The clean-shaven Air Force officer looked up at his Prime Minister,
who as usual, had won.
`Sir, you've beaten me again- but I'll get back sometime.'
Illahi Khan smiled slightly.
`We'll see. My friend Karim, you were always the fearless one- to go
charging in against impossible odds. I, the more careful one- I guess it
shows in our chess.’
Illahi Khan enjoyed his Thursday evening games of chess with Air
Marshall Ashfaque Karim. He found it intellectually challenging and also
a diversion from the worries that had been consuming him for the last
few weeks. The two men had been close friends from early on in their
military careers. While they had serious differences of opinion,
especially on religious views, and had gradually drifted apart a lot over
the years, the Thursday evening chess game remained a link to their
past.
` Sir, someday we’ll play a game where it will boil down to quixotic
charges. Well, I have to be going, if I’m late again for dinner, my wife’s
going to start suspecting who I actually spend Thursday evenings with.’
Illahi watched Karim get up to leave, not without a trace of envy.
Karim had maintained himself well, his washboard stomach and ramrod
straight posture belying his forty-five plus years. Illahi, though of a
similar age, had softened a lot, especially after leaving active military
service. The hawk like, sharp eyes were still there, as was his trademark
pointed beard, but his body was not as nearly as fit as it once was.
Illahi got up and walked to his bookshelves to take out his well-worn
copy of the Holy Koran, given to him by his grandfather. He had never
been one for the books, but the Koran was not just any book. Since
childhood, he had read it almost every day.
He walked to his CD player and put on some music. The gentle strains
of ghazals filled the room as Illahi sat down to read. It was a fairly spartan
room, with only a simple sofa, a study table and two bookshelves. But
then, Illahi had never been one for creature comforts. Like the chess
games with Karim, he cherished every solitary moment he got. They
served to remind him that he still had a life beyond trying to make sense
of and manage the chaos that was his country. As the thoughts crossed
his mind, he silently rebuked himself.
What do you mean by chaos, Ilahi. This is your country. You chose to
take on the mantle. You chose to make the deals you did. Now you just have
to play the cards you’ve been dealt.
Leading Pakistan was not an enviable job at the best of times, and the
times Ilahi lived in were hardly easy. The coup in Saudi Arabia, led by an
Al Qaeda fanatic called Abu Sayed had provided the flow of money,
material support and a groundswell of fundamentalist ideology that had
led to another military coup in Pakistan- one that had brought Ilahi to
power.
The phone's ringing interrupted his thoughts. He leaned across the
sofa to pick up the handset.
 As Karim left the room, he heard his Prime Minister utter just three
words, `Abu Sayed himself?'

***

More than a thousand kilometers away in New Delhi, Vivek Khosla
settled down in his living room, a copy of The Prophet in hand. Gibran
had always been one of his favorite authors, and no matter how many
times he read it; Khosla could always find wisdom and solace in Gibran's
masterpiece. He had a glass of scotch in his hand as he turned the dog-
eared pages. Unlike most Indian politicians who made a public pretence
of virtue and engaged in most vices known to man in private, Khosla
believed in making the distinction between his private and public faces
as small as he could. Years ago, seniors in his party had warned him that
such an attitude would never take him far in Indian politics. Well, he had
proved them all wrong. At the age of sixty-one, he was relatively young
by the standards of Indian politics, and had reached the pinnacle of
Indian democracy- he was the Prime Minister of India.
Khosla had swept to power in the general elections held in 2009 after
a tumultuous year, which saw two governments come to power only to
fall within months. The past two years had been harrowing experience-
juggling fickle political allies, trying to push forward economic reforms in
the face of staunch opposition from some of his own party members, and
an opposition, which was out to malign the government at the slightest
opportunity. Khosla's greatest successes had undoubtedly been in the
economic field, with considerable success on many fronts, and
continued the onward progress of the Indian economic juggernaut.
However, in the political arena, things had not been as rosy.
It had been a long journey indeed, and sometimes Khosla found it
difficult to accept just how far he had come from his humble beginnings.
Born just after India's independence in 1947, Khosla had been born in a
family of refugees from Pakistan who had left considerable ancestral
property in Pakistan to escape the communal holocaust consuming the
Indian sub-continent. They had arrived in India with almost no money
and the daunting prospect of starting all over again. Khosla's father set
up the family business of textile trading in Delhi and though the initial
years were tough, the family had regained much of its former wealth
within a decade. After a brilliant academic career culminating in a
doctorate in Economics, Khosla had joined politics. Though most of his
fellow party men were staunchly right-wing, with strong communal
overtones, the stories Khosla had heard from his father had convinced
him that he would do whatever he could to prevent such fratricide again.
Now he was truly in a position to do so.
The room was large and tastefully furnished, but bore the marks of
slovenliness that his staff had come to accept as part of his personality.
There were books and tapes strewn across one of the chairs, and Khosla
knew his maid would complain again the next morning.
He stretched out on the sofa and began reading.
A slight knock at the living room door caught his attention and Khosla
got up to answer it. Though he normally had several servants at his
official residence, Khosla preferred to be alone on Saturday nights as far
as possible, so that he could catch up on his reading. Given his hectic
schedule, such Saturdays were rare, which made his insistence on being
left alone even stronger. As he jumped off the sofa, the niggling pain in
his back reminded him that he would have to see the doctor soon-
getting old, Vivek. In his youth he had been quite an athlete, and was still
fairly fit for his age, but there were some things he had begun to accept
as the ravages of advancing age. Tall and trim, he did cut quite a striking
feature, and many columnists remarked that he was quite the most
handsome Indian Prime Minister in a long time. The jury was still out on
that one, though, especially among those who insisted that the late Rajiv
Gandhi would have given Khosla a run for his money in the looks
department.
Khosla wearily opened the door to see his personal secretary, a large
stack of files in hand.
`Good evening, Sir. Sorry to disturb you. Here is the daily intelligence
summary, and some other files for your signature.'
Khosla accepted the well-worn files. They were regulation Indian
Government files, which had changed little in the last five decades. At
least these days they condescend to give computer printouts. As recently as
the mid 1990s, these reports would come typed out by manual
typewriters and sealed in brown envelopes the old fashioned way- with a
wax Government of India seal. Well, some things in the Indian bureaucracy
will take more than technology to change, mused Khosla, as he ripped
open the familiar reddish-brown seal.
He picked up the two-page daily intelligence summary prepared by
the Intelligence Bureau and put the other files aside, which among other
things reported what the Opposition was up to. When he first came to
power, Khosla had taken an idealistic view of the situation, and
protested that the IB was not meant to spy on Opposition politicians.
But, over time, he had come to accept that one had to do some things one
did not necessarily like.
Khosla scanned through the report as he sat down. As he read, he kept
scribbling notes and reminders on the margins. Things looked under
control. The usual couple of killings in Kashmir were of course there, but
that had become a regular feature in India's troubled northern state. At
least large-scale terrorism was on its way out.
One particular paragraph caught his eye. Four policemen killed by
unidentified attackers. The four members of the J&K State Police were killed
with knives while on a regular patrol.
That did strike him as surprising. Why would anyone kill with knives
in an age of rockets and automatic weapons? There had been similar
killings in recent weeks, and many believed these were the handiwork of
hardened Afghan mercenaries crossing the porous border with Pakistan
and striking with the intent of spreading terror in the local populace and
security forces. Need to check what's up with the mercenaries with Joshi.
After the Taliban had been swept from power in Afghanistan by the
United States following the World Trade Center attacks, the Taliban
fighters had melted away. However, with the rise of a new regime under
an Al Qaeda affiliate, Abu Sayed, in Saudi Arabia and his active role in
spreading fundamentalist terror throughout the region, the need for paid
killers had arisen again. Importantly, Abu Sayed could promise these
Islamic guns for hire more than virgins in the after-life. His religious
inspiration was backed by petro-dollars. Many of these mujahideen, as
they were now publicly known, had fanned out across the Middle East,
and several had appeared in that old festering wound in India’s
nationhood- Kashmir. Abu Sayed had adopted Emir as his nom de guerre,
a title that suited his self-image as the leader of Islam worldwide. The
Emir had promised a climactic Jihad against the West, and India was
beginning to feel the first blows in that struggle.
Khosla put the papers aside and settled back to read. He turned to a
page in his book.
`And if you would know God, be not therefore a solver of riddles.
Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.'
Khosla wondered why people could not accept such a simple truth,
expounded by the holy books of all major religions. It would have saved
thousands of lives over his country’s history.

***

There was an almost palpable sense of gloom hanging over the long
conference room, as Illahi waited for everyone to sit down. In front of
him were the people who, along with him, could decide the fate of
Pakistan, and, he hoped, help him fulfill the difficult task that now lay
before him.
It was a powerful gathering- with the Chiefs of Staff, the Intelligence
Chief and the Defense and Foreign Ministers. There was however, one
notable omission, without whom a meeting, especially this meeting,
could not begin.
Illahi waited for about five minutes and was about to ask for a break
while the awaited member arrived when the door swung open.
The man who entered could not have been over forty, and wore a
loose fitting robe, in the fashion of his nation. His long, unshaven beard
and rugged build gave away clues as to his origin, as did the automatic
pistol slung at his waistband.
`Illahi, I'm sorry. I was caught up in traffic.'
`It's okay, Abdul, please be seated.'
The man seated himself among the Generals and bureaucrats.
Illahi began speaking, knowing that he was probably making the most
important speech of his life, one that would not only determine his fate,
but that of his nation as well.
`The Emir called. He expresses his pleasure at our current level of
activity in Kashmir but wants us to increase our pressure dramatically.'
Karim was the first to respond, as Illahi had almost expected him to. If
there was one thing he did not like about Karim, it was the fact that he
tended to ask too many questions. Illahi cut him off in mid sentence.
`It's all in here. Please read it carefully and then I'll continue.'
Illahi handed out a single sheet of paper to each of the men at the
table. As they read it over, there were audible gasps in the room.
`But Illahi, what's come over him all of a sudden?' The speaker was the
Chief of Army Staff, General Shamsher Ahmed.
`We should not use such words while talking of that great man. Illahi,
please go on', interjected the representative of the Emir in Pakistan, and
the last man to enter the room.
`Well, it’s pretty simple. He wants us to move soon. We've had the
Mujahideen operating behind the lines for almost six months now. But
now the Emir feels it's time to escalate and try and wrest some
territorial control.'
`Come on, Illahi- we have nukes, so do the Indians- why would we risk
war now?' the Army Chief was not going to give in so easily.
`You will do as I say!' Illahi's famed temper came to the fore, and the
proud Army officer did all he could to control himself. His face was
flushed with anger and his broad shoulders heaved as he sat back in his
chair, but he did not make his displeasure at this censure known.
The Emir's representative spoke up again, `His Holiness does not
want us to try and get full territorial control- for he knows we are
probably not ready yet. But what he wants is a sign to the doubters
among our faith and a stern warning to the infidels. We need to make
substantial territorial gain and then stop- demonstrating that we are
willing to step in to protect our faith's interests. And remember- it’s not
just a question of going in with our guns blazing- we need to smart about
it- and create circumstances that would serve our purpose. One of the
key challenges before the Islamic Brotherhood now is to unite for the
final battle against the Great Satan. But before that our leader, the Emir,
needs a demonstration of his power. This is our privilege and our
opportunity to contribute to this holy cause. If the Emir wants us to do
something, let us not waste time debating it- let us figure out how.'
As Abdul finished speaking, Illahi could see the distaste writ large on
the faces of many of the men inside, especially the Chiefs of Staff.
Professional soldiers all, they had not taken kindly to the virtual usurping
of power by the Emir. But harsh lessons had taught them not to express
their displeasure openly. Ilahi felt that Abdul, while blunt as always, had
probably been a bit too harsh. He should remember these men are the
most professional soldiers in the world, not his Afghan thugs.
He adopted a more conciliatory tone as he tried to defuse the tension
in the room. `Gentlemen, you have served Pakistan all your lives with
dedication and patriotism that has been beyond question and reproach.
But now I appeal to you to serve an even higher cause- the greater cause
of our Quam- the Islamic nation. The Emir feels, and I agree with him,
that while the Islamic nation has made great progress in terms of
international solidarity, we are still a badly fragmented people. We can
never hope to ultimately win against the Western imperialism and
Indian expansionism unless we do unite. And the honor of the first task
in uniting us as a common front falls to us.’
Ilahi’s always been a great speaker, got to grant him that. But Karim
could feel the tension and apprehension in the room as the meeting
disbanded. The Service Chiefs were clearly not in favor of escalating
military tensions. The past few years had taken a heavy toll on the
Pakistani economy, and its military had not been spared. While
discipline and training had remained at their usually high levels, spare
parts and new equipment were not as easily forthcoming. And Karim
knew that wars were not won with fervor alone, but real equipment and
blood.

***

In the privacy of his bedroom, the Prime Minister of Pakistan was not
so belligerent. He knew he was taking a big risk, but then, he reasoned,
history had rewarded only those who dared. Moreover, he mused that it
was not as if he had any real choice.
Illahi Khan had stormed to power in a military coup with the blessings
of fundamentalist groups. The previous military government under
Musharraf had provided a few years of near autocratic rule, but in the
bargain, had antagonized many of the fundamentalist groups, especially
with its clear support to the United States in its war in Afghanistan to
root out the Taliban and Al Qaeda. The fundamentalist forces had always
lurked in the background, and surfaced occasionally with attacks on
Musharraf and the assassination of Benazir Bhutto in late 2007.
Religious fundamentalism and economic collapse made for a volatile
cocktail, and Illahi had stormed to power in yet another coup, this time
with the backing of the Emir and fundamentalist forces within the
Pakistani army. Illahi had, to his credit, restored some semblance of
economic stability and social order, but at the cost of a harsh clampdown
and a virtually autocratic government.
But he realized, in his quest for power, he had sold himself out. And he
did not regret it for a minute. Starting life as a non commissioned officer
in the Pakistan Army, he could never have dreamed of attaining the
highest position in the country. As he gradually rose in the Army
hierarchy, he was not noticed for his tactical brilliance, but for his
staunch, almost fanatical religious fervor. He had come in contact with
hard-line fundamentalist groups early on in his career, and with his
influence in the army and religious circles, he became a natural
candidate to lead the coup.
Despite his lack of much formal education, Illahi possessed a sharp
mind, and he never deluded himself with the thought that he was actually
in control. He had ridden the fundamentalist tiger to power, and could
now do little without their approval. He was in no way indispensable-
and if he strayed too far, they would find someone else to take his place.
What had queered the pitch even more in the last two years was the
growing power of the Emir. Following the upheavals in Saudi Arabia, the
Emir, known before his rise to power as Abu Sayed had overthrown the
monarchy and had emerged as the political and religious leader of Saudi,
and he claimed, of the entire Muslim world. Most liberal Islamic
countries like Egypt and Algeria were resisting the Emir's visions of an
expansionist religion and his ultimate terrifying vision of an
Armageddon between the forces of Islam and others. However, his
influence was growing by the day- he had many allies in Pakistan and, as
Illahi was never allowed to forget, he owed his coming to power in no
small measure to the money and weapons supplied by the Emir. To
reinforce this, a representative of the Emir, Abdul, had to sit in on all top-
level meetings. This irked Illahi, but he knew better than to make his
displeasure known. His loyalty to the Emir stemmed not just from the
purely selfish consideration of staying in power, but also from a real
belief in the man and his words. Illahi had met him only once, but his
overwhelming charisma and presence had awed him. To disobey him
was unthinkable.
Now the Emir had upped the ante. What he was asking for was bold
and dangerous- but if it worked, it could firmly establish the Emir as the
leader of the Islamic world and Illahi as the greatest national hero of
Pakistan ever.
Yes, he decided, he would go ahead with it. His generals were
competent and more importantly, would carry out his orders. His purges
following the coup had ensured that any officer who tried to rock the
boat would soon find his career destroyed. Illahi had found several
strong allies in the Army, especially the fanatical Lt. General Tariq
Ahmed, who headed a special wing of Pakistan's elite Special Security
Group. In the initial struggle for power, Tariq and his handpicked SSG
commandos had proved decisive.
While Tariq had refused the offer of being made Chief of Army Staff,
preferring to carry on his `holy orders' on the field, he remained one of
the key figures in the military hierarchy and was also given independent
charge of a wing of Pakistani's intelligence arm, the Inter Services
Intelligence. Tariq's men would now once again come in handy, mused
Illahi as he sat down. Illahi also realized that he indeed did not have
much time.
He opened his drawer and took out the brown envelope, which he
must have opened at least a thousand times over the past six months-
hoping each time that by some miracle, the contents would change. He
decided that the Emir's call was indeed a divine sign- now he could at
least fulfill some higher purpose before his time came.
Illahi did not sleep that night, as he sat in his study, thinking up what
would form the core elements of his plan. He had at the most eight
months to do it- as then snow would render most of the mountain passes
impassable- and he would do it. He knew he would not get a second
chance.

***

 TWO

News is the first rough draft of history.
- Ben Bradlee

The alarm seemed to ring forever. Pooja fumbled around in the dark,
sending the much-battered clock tumbling to the ground with a
resounding crash. That woke her up. As she got up she marveled at the
abuse the clock had endured over the years. It had been her constant
companion for the last ten years, from before her days in college. She
wryly wondered that this clock had lasted longer than any of her
boyfriends over those years.
Before doing anything else, she reached for the cordless phone at her
bedside and dialed a number. There was no answer for over a minute.
But she didn't seem surprised or perturbed- it was a part of everyday
life- a routine she had long gotten used to. She mentally started counting,
one hangover, two hangover.
As she reached five hangover, a groggy voice appeared at the other
end.
`Uh, who is this?'
`Good morning, Rahul.'
`Hey boss, not today. You were at the party as well.'
`Yes Rahul- but you were the one who decided that all the booze in the
world was going to disappear and you had one night in which to finish it.
Plus, you're at some party every night- so forget it. Get up, we have work
to do.'
`Slave driver.'
`See you at eight, slave.'
Pooja slammed the phone down and jumped off her bed. Her bedroom
was a study in chaos- the only areas which did not have clothes or
newspaper clippings strewn on them were the huge bookshelf crammed
with books and a computer table with a PC on it. As a journalist, Pooja
realized that it was critical for her to do two things- anticipate things
before they actually occurred, and read up to know enough about the
background to have a meaningful analysis when the news finally broke.
The rest of her flat was equally bohemian- a small living room with a TV,
and a kitchen. She had never bought a dining table, preferring to eat by
her computer, while she surfed the Net.
She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth. She
reminded herself that she needed a new tube of toothpaste as she
squeezed with all he strength to get some paste out of the tube on the
shelf. She showered and shampooed, and as she toweled off, she cursed
herself for not having exercised for a week. Work was about all she
managed to get into her life right now. Every once in a while, her mother
would call, pleading with her to marry a `good' boy, whatever that meant.
Pooja did not want to be like most of her friends, for whom marriage was
a routine thing, something to be done because `it was time', which Pooja
always found ridiculous. It made marriage seem about as exciting as a
haircut. There had never been a shortage of boys wanting to woo her. At
twenty-eight, she was clearly very attractive with her slim body, chiseled
face and long, black hair, and managed to turn heads wherever she went.
But, as she had found, most men felt quite threatened by her
combination of looks and strong professional ambition. There was no
way she was going to compromise on the way she wanted to live her life.
Her mother's parting shot was that the day she found a man she truly
loved, it would not seem like a compromise at all.
Well, that was yet to happen. At the age of twenty-one, she had started
off with a leading newspaper as a journalist. Within a couple of years,
however, she had chucked it for what seemed to be the more glamorous
world of TV journalism. `I want to be there when the news is being made,
not write about it later', she had explained to her editor before putting in
her papers. Her father, a retired journalist, had opposed her move to the
`sensationalist media', but she had gone ahead, and had never regretted
her decision.
Pooja put on jeans and a white T-shirt and rushed down to the parking
lot. It was still relatively chilly, but even the severest of Mumbai winters
never really required anything heavier.
She had joined WNS- a mega media conglomerate that had been
formed with the merger of several of the old news channels in 2010. In
her first year, she had risen to become a senior journalist- and now had a
cameraman of her own- Rahul. Maverick, wild and absolutely brilliant-
those were the words anyone used to describe Rahul. He had once
jumped into a burning building after a bomb explosion a year ago to
capture the news as it broke- but then when he saw the maimed victims
crying out for help, he had ditched his camera and helped them out. It
had cost him his job, but he couldn't have cared less- that was when WNS
had hired him, at Pooja's insistence.

***

Pooja stopped her old Fiat Uno outside Rahul's fourth floor apartment
and dialed his number on her cell phone.
Before she could utter a single word, Rahul shouted out, `Boss, gimme
a break- I'm coming down in a minute. If you want it any faster, I'll have
to jump from the window.'
Pooja watched Rahul sprint down the stairs to her car. Large and
stocky, Rahul was only a year younger than her- but insisted on calling
her Boss. It was uncharacteristic of Rahul, who viewed hierarchy with
undisguised contempt, but reflected the real respect and affection he felt
for her. He accepted as part of his job protecting the little stripling of a
woman who seemed to never bother about how much trouble she might
be running into.
He slumped into the passenger seat, dressed in what was his usual
attire- old jeans and T-shirt, topped off with long hair and four-day-old
stubble. Whenever Pooja made one of her futile attempts to convince
him to expand his wardrobe beyond a single pair of jeans and to get a
haircut, he would point to a global conspiracy involving jean
manufacturers and barbers. It was hard to argue with logic like that.
Pooja started the car, grateful that the engine caught on the first
attempt. The car had been a gift from her father, and though she would
probably never admit it in public, her hanging on to the old car was her
way of showing her affection for her father, though relations between
them had never been very good. Her father had always sought to cast her
in a mold of his choice, and perhaps because of this, she had always
ended up rebelling against him.
`So which grease ball are we tailing today?' Rahul asked between
swigs of a Coke can, which much to the immense annoyance of his
mother, had served as his breakfast ever since he joined college.
The question was a running joke between the two. Pooja had asked for
a transfer to the glamorous foreign desk- but in a bureaucratic snafu, had
been rotated to the home desk. So instead of covering breaking
international news, she was usually on the trail of India's politicians as
they went about their venal ways. The editor had promised her a transfer
out in three months, but that seemed like a very long time away.
`Ram Sharan.'
'Yeah. Grease ball numero uno.' Another large swig.
Pooja looked at Rahul and laughed out loud.
`Rahul, it’s amazing how a human being can stay alive without any
solid food. They should lock you up in a lab or something.'
`It's simple, Boss. The cola gives me the calories I need, and the booze
kind of kills all the germs. It's actually good for health. Serious.'
For the last week, they had been following a lead on Ram Sharan, a
senior minister in the new cabinet. They had nothing firm yet, but their
source had sworn that Sharan was regularly accepting bribes in money
and kind for dispensing favors to large industrial houses. He was the
weak link in an otherwise relatively clean government, and his
appointment reflected the kind of electoral compromises the new
government had had to make to come to power.
`Which way, Rahul?
'Hotel Sea Princess- just keep going towards Juhu.'
It was a fifteen-minute drive from Rahul's house in Bandra to the
hotel where Sharan was supposed to be staying. As the car pulled into
the parking lot, Pooja pulled out her writing pad where she had scribbled
the information her source had given her.
The two got out and sat on a bench about twenty meters from the
main door, obscured by a large tree.
`So, what do we expect, Boss?'
`Get ready to shoot- if this is to be believed, we're in for the biggest
scoop in WNS history, or our careers at least.'
Rahul took out the small Handycam from a bag in the back seat.
`There, Rahul! Right on time.'
`Whoa, Boss- that's Karan Ambujee.'
Oblivious to Pooja and Rahul's presence a few meters away, the elder
scion of one of India's largest business families entered the hotel. Tall,
elegant and dignified looking, he was supposed to epitomize India's
emerging class of global businessmen. Well, corruption is a global thing, I
guess, Rahul thought as Ambujee entered the hotel.
`What do you think he's got in the briefcase?'
`According to the source, about fifty lakhs in cash.'
`Whoa. Must be a big deal if Karan Ambujee is here himself. Who is
this source anyway?'
`Don't know- and really don’t care. He’s probably some rival of either
of these two jokers. That’s the way with these scums.’
The two entered the hotel and checked the room Sharan was staying
in.
`What now, Boss. We can't just walk in with the camera running.'
`Don't know. We'll think of something, we still have one floor to go.
Let's get there and take it as it comes'
Rahul had long gotten used to Pooja's style of functioning. She would
rush into any situation where there was likely to be news- but never
believed in planning too much in advance. That was fine with him- he
was not much of a planner himself.

***

Ram Sharan got out of bed and looked wistfully at the girl next to him.
She was still asleep and stirred a bit as Sharan reached over to fondle her
one last time. He reminded himself that he would be very nice to the
Ambujees. Girls like this one were rare. He looked at the bathroom
mirror and sighed at the sight of his corpulent frame- he would need to
go on that much planned diet soon. A life of overindulgence in rich food
and alcohol had not left him in very good shape at all.
As the bell rang, he threw on a robe and went to the door, expecting
Karan Ambujee, but was instead greeted by a very large waiter with a
lopsided grin on his face.
`Yes- what do you want?'
`Sorry to disturb you sir- but I just wanted to clean up the room
service trays in the sitting area.'
`No, no. I'm expecting guests.'
 `Sir, it'll only take five minutes.'
Sharan did not want to waste any time talking to a waiter, and finally
gave in.
`Okay- go ahead, but make it fast.'
Sharan went back to the bathroom to get dressed, not paying much
attention to this unexpected interruption.
He heard the door close as the waiter left and a minute later the bell
rang again. When he opened the door, a smiling Karan Ambujee was
waiting for him, a large briefcase in hand

***

Rahul had now returned to the corridor where Pooja was sitting,
munching on a biscuit. Trust her never to miss her breakfast.
`Boss, just how illegal is all this? So far we've flicked an uniform, a
housekeeping trolley and have invaded someone's privacy.'
`Rahul, this man is not just anyone- he's an elected representative of
the people. If he's fooling around and betraying their trust- they and we
have a right to know. What are you smiling at?'
`Nothing Boss- just love it when you get all angry and stuff. Just hope
you keep your sense of humor when we get chucked out.'
`Get ready. You'll have to do your waiter act again soon.' Less than ten
minutes later, Ambujee, Sharan and an attractive young girl came out of
the room. Rahul waited thirty seconds and went in to get his Handycam,
which he had left concealed behind a vase while `cleaning' the room.
Bingo.

***

The swirling desert sand made visibility beyond a few dozen yards
almost impossible. To the casual observer, there could not possibly be
any sane man out in this inhospitable terrain.
The quiet of the desert was shattered by what sounded like the roar of
some pre-historic beastsas powerful engines revved to life. Then, out of
the mist emerged four monsters of steel- racing through the desert at
over fifty kilometers an hour, belying their fifty-ton weights.
 `Gunner, HEAT!'
Colonel Dev Chauhan looked through his scope at the enemy tanks
swarming across the battlefield. His troop of four Arjun tanks had just
emerged from behind two large sand dunes. He had spent the last five
minutes waiting for the enemy to swallow the bait he had offered, but it
had seemed like an eternity of waiting. Racing ahead of the enemy tanks,
he could just make out the two BMP armored vehicles he had sent out as
a feint. The plan was simple- let the enemy think the BMPs were lead
elements of the main force, and have them lead the enemy into a trap.
As an enemy tank filled his scope, he gave the order to fire, and
watched the high explosive shot track into the enemy vehicle.
`That's a hit!'
The gunner had already selected his next round with the automatic
loading system on the tank by the time Chauhan found his next target- an
armored personnel carrier just 1500 meters away.
`Fire!'
`Hit!'
The enemy tanks had by now been alerted to their presence and were
swiveling their guns to attack Chauhan's position. The four fifty ton
monsters raced out of their position at the enemy, firing on the move.
Chauhan's tank claimed two more kills before the fighting stopped with
the enemy retreating.
Chauhan had walked the enemy into a perfect ambush- for the loss of
two tanks; his troop had destroyed nine enemy vehicles and blunted the
attack. It had been only a mock battle, played out in India’s Thar Desert to
hone their skills, but in a real war, the losers would all be dead. That
realization made the lessons learnt very real.
The rest of the crews came out of their tanks, cheering, but were
forced back in to take cover from the sand being whipped around by the
wind. Chauhan, however, stood alone in a corner, watching the retreating
enemy. The wind swept past his body and whipped sand into his face,
caking his eyebrows and moustache. But the young officer had only one
thought in his mind- I still have it in me.

***

 `This is dynamite stuff, Pooja! How in God's name did you manage
this?'
`Tsk, tsk, Boss- a magician never tells.'
Rahul watched in fascination with the station chief sitting wide eyed
in front of the television as they watched Sharan accept a suitcase and
then open it to reveal neatly stacked 500 Rupee notes. The audio was as
devastating; with Sharan promising Ambujee inside information on bids
given by rival groups for the new building projects the government was
sponsoring to house Mumbai's teeming slum dwellers. The project was
worth billions, and Sharan obviously believed there was nothing wrong
in helping himself to a small bit.
The balding Station Chief, Mr. Dasgupta, was literally jumping with
excitement.
`This goes on air tonight- Pooja, you've got the lead story.'
He picked up the phone to issue a series of rapid-fire instructions,
which in essence said everything else could wait, this goes on air TONIGHT.
Pooja turned towards Rahul; barely able to conceal her excitement-
and saw him sipping yet another can of Coke.

***

As Chauhan walked back to the mess- he knew the guys from the 14th
cavalry regiment were going to be in a foul mood. They had come down
to Chauhan's regimental HQs in Bikaner to train with them- and had
been comprehensively drubbed in the afternoon's war games played out
in the arid expanse of India's Thar Desert.
Almost all eyes turned towards Chauhan as he entered the mess. As
Chauhan looked into the eyes of the men he faced, he knew what he saw.
To a man, they would acknowledge Chauhan as one of the best tank
commanders in the Indian Army. Yet. Yet- that was one word Chauhan
had been trying to live down for the past two years.
Tall and strapping, he had bucked the family tradition of joining the
Infantry to join India's armored corps. His first assignment had been on
the Russian made T-72, three of which he had `killed' in the war games.
His initial years in the army had been picture perfect- till that fateful
evening in the desert.
 It had been a slow climb back, and the wounds had not healed yet.
Chauhan tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind as he went
to his room. Yet he wondered if his life, and career, would ever be the
same again.

***

Khosla started in disbelief at the images flickering on the TV screen in
his office.
`Oh my God!'
He sat upright with a jolt- he could have sworn he had felt a real,
physical electric shock. The sudden movement sent his dinner scattering
all over the carpet, but right now he had far bigger concerns than a
stained rug.
`This is Pooja Bhatnagar signing off for WNS'. No sooner had the news
story ended that Khosla reached for his telephone to call his Home
Minister.
`Have you watched WNS News? Well, switch the goddamn TV on!'
There was a perceptible tremor in the Home Minister's voice as he
answered. He had been one of the key drivers of Sharan's entry into the
cabinet, in the face of much reluctance from Khosla.
`Vivek. I had no idea....'
Khosla cut him off in mid-sentence. `I told you I wanted nothing to do
with these crooks. I'm going to have a meeting of the cabinet called
tomorrow morning- and I want a public statement that we're expelling
Sharan and that the law should take its own course.'
`Vivek, we need to talk this.....'
`Nothing doing, Prasad. You've heard me- I hope I don't have to repeat
myself.'
`God. I'm sure things just couldn't get any worse', Khosla said to
nobody in particular as he sank back into his couch.
He was very, very wrong.

***

Naik Subeer Singh raised his night vision scopes again- yet again he
saw nothing. He knew he was probably being paranoid, but something
just didn't feel right tonight. Come to think of it, things had gone crazy on
the border for the last month. Incursions and firings were always a part
of life, but these had taken on a whole new dimension in recent days-
firing by regular Pakistani troops had subsided, but incursions by heavily
armed Afghan mercenaries had become almost a daily event. Completely
different from the Kashmiri terrorists Singh and his men had been
fighting for years, these Mujahideen were battle hardened and fanatical
mercenaries who wanted to expand their jihad to India. The past few
years had done much to shatter the myth of their invincibility, when in
the face of overwhelming US firepower and rage following the World
Trade Center attacks, they had chosen to run and hide, instead of even
trying to make a fight of it. Except now the fuckers seem to be crawling out
of the woodwork all of a sudden, Singh thought.
Well, let them come. Singh held the terrorists in utter disdain. Coming
from a family that had sent men to the Indian Army for five generations,
the thought of becoming a paid killer who attacked unarmed civilians
was abhorrent. In the exchanges so far, the mujahideen had come off
distinctly second best to the Indian Army, but had caused havoc among
the poorly trained and armed local police force and paramilitaries.
`Ready', Singh whispered to his men as he noticed some movement in
the rocks ahead. He turned off the safety on his rifle and aimed at where
he thought he'd seen some men. He mentally readied himself for the
telltale rattle of a Kalashnikov, the favored weapon of the mujahideen.
The thought that the mujahideen could for once be packing more than
twenty-year-old assault rifles never even crossed his mind. That error
would be fatal.
Suddenly, the quiet of the night was shattered as two Chinese made
NORINCO Red Arrow anti tank missiles streaked towards the Indian
army post.
These missiles were designed to defeat the strongest tank armor in
the world. They sliced through the sandbags and rocks of Singh’s bunker
like hot needles through butter, and exploded inside, showering the post
with red-hot fragments of steel. Singh barely had time to duck as the
rockets struck.
When he got up, of the six men with him, only two remained alive,
both badly wounded. Singh tried to wish away the pain and the warm
wet feeling along the side of his face as he bought his rifle up, bayonet
attached. He looked up to see six men rushing at his post, guns blazing.
He had been deafened by the explosions, otherwise he would have heard
the sound of gunfire accompanied by cries of `Allah ho Akbar'.
Singh braced himself and took aim. If he was going to die, he would
take a few of the bastards with him to Hell.

***



THREE

It is from the character of our adversary's position that we can draw
conclusions as to his designs and will therefore act accordingly.
- Karl Von Clausewitz, On War

`Do we have even more bad news today?' It was an unnecessary
question from the Indian Prime Minister. He had barely slept at all over
the past two days, and it was telling in his blood-shot eyes. He knew the
same held for his entire National Security Council, now seated around
the table with him.
`Mujahideen have made four more incursions in the last week', the
Chief of Army Staff spoke up, `We've lost a dozen troops over the
weekend and there's no letting up'.
The NSC knew that Khosla was in a foul mood. He was walking along
the breadth of the room, with his characteristic occasional clap that
meant little, except to signify that he was deep in thought.
`What the hell's happening? Has Illahi lost his mind- why the hell does
he want war now?’ Khosla nearly shouted.
Gireesh Joshi, the erudite, soft spoken Intelligence Chief spoke up, `In
a conventional war, we're bound to get the upper hand, and so far the
only insurance they had was the threat of nuclear retaliation. But if they
used nukes, so would we, so it was a nice stalemate. Their current
belligerence makes sense only if something fundamental has changed to
upset that equation'.
`The only way this makes sense is if the Pakistanis have got some sort
of assured first strike ability or a reliable anti-missile system. And
neither of them has happened', the Air Chief cut in.
`None that we know of, Sen and there's a world of difference between
the two'.
Khosla looked up at the remark from his Intelligence Chief. In addition
to the already thankless task of being Prime Minister of the world’s
largest, and by far, most complex, democracy, Khosla also held the
Defense portfolio for now. The previous incumbent, a vigorous but old
stalwart, had been laid low by sudden heart related complications, and
till Khosla could find a suitable replacement, he was double hatted. With
crowns of thorns, he thought.
`Point taken, Joshi. Let's ensure we aren't caught with our pants down.
I want our forces on an enhanced level of alert. I want a review of the
correlation of forces, and I want it by tomorrow morning.'
The Service Chiefs exchanged glances, knowing that they, and their
staff, all had a long night ahead. But they were thankful too. After seeing
dozens of Indian politicians rising to the rank of Defense Minister with
little or no understanding of defense issues, and very little sympathy for
the soldier's cause, Khosla had come as a breath of fresh air. Though he
had never served in uniform, Khosla was convinced that while economic
progress was the top item on his agenda, there would be no compromise
on national security. Within months of coming to office, he had acquired
a high degree of familiarity with issues facing the services and also the
weapon systems and tactics they used. His large library included most of
the military classics ranging from Von Clausewitz's On War and Sun Tzu,
to the latest editions of the Jane's series.
Khosla looked at his Foreign Secretary. `Also, Guha, set up a call with
Illahi as soon as you can. Joshi, find out if he's got something up his
sleeve that we don't know about', the Prime Minister summed up and left
the room.
The members of the NSC got up, wondering why this had to happen on
a Friday evening, of all days.

***

Vice Admiral Ramnath was a worried man. At fifty-nine, he thought
himself a bit too old to go out and play cowboy again- but here he was.
He cut the image of the stereotypical sailor; with his salt and pepper
beard and his spotless white Navy uniform. He had seen combat up close
and personal, and was old enough to know that no war movie could ever
capture the sheer terror and adrenaline rush of combat. Over thirty years
ago, as a rookie pilot in the Navy, he had flown Sea Hawks off India's
aircraft carrier, the INS Vikrant, to attack targets in East Pakistan. He still
remembered that heady cocktail of terror and exhilaration while
zigzagging along the narrow rivers of Bangladesh, shooting up gunboats,
squirming in his cockpit as tracers reached out at his plane, and exulting
when his shots hit home.
Now he commanded the pride of the Indian Navy, the INS
Vikramaditya, acquired just two years ago from Russia, where it had
been born as the Admiral Gorshkov. The Vikramaditya was a powerful
ship- the 44000 tonne behemoth was by far the largest ship in any Navy
in Asia, and it's formidable air defenses and complement of MiG-29K
fighters would give any adversary a nightmare. The acquisition had been
a long and tortuous process, more than once threatening to be derailed
or lost in the red tape and confusion that epitomized any defense deal
with the chaos that Russia’s once vaunted defense industry had been
reduced to. Ramnath had played a leading role in ensuring that the
acquisition pulled through, and was convinced that the future of war lay
in control of the sea-lanes.
Ramnath and his task force were currently about 300 kilometers off
the coast of Karachi, Pakistan's major port. They had been taking part in
routine exercises, when a flash cable had warned them to increase the
level of alert. With increasing tension in Kashmir, the Indian Government
wanted to make sure that there was nothing left to chance. Ramnath
hoped that war wouldn't break out- with both India and Pakistan having
nuclear weapons; war wasn't something to look forward to. But if it did
come to that, he wanted to make sure that he and ship were ready.
`Okay, let's run another ASW drill- we were almost killed last time',
Ramnath growled to his Anti Submarine Warfare officer. The young man
cringed and got back to his display. Ramnath knew that he could not take
any chances now- he was responsible not only for his own life but for a
dozen ships, and thousands of lives.
Ramnath walked out to the flight deck to see a Kamov 31 helicopter
take off. The stubby Russian made helicopter hovered briefly before
flying to its station about fifty kilometers ahead of the carrier. The
Kamov was a `poor man’s AWACS’, but its on-board radar and computers
gave it a powerful ability to detect any incoming air or surface threats
before they could come close to the Indian carrier. The Kamov was
followed by two Sea King helicopters, which would simulate a hunt for
the deadly Pakistani Agosta submarines.
As this aerial ballet was carried out with deadly precision, Ramnath
looked at the seemingly endless expanse of blue sea before him. A
deceptive calm, beneath which he knew death lurked at every turn.

***

`What do you make of this stuff on the border, Boss?' Rahul's question
was barely audible, being muttered between huge bites of his burger. If I
eat solid, it better be meat, he had offered by way of explanation for this
dramatic deviation from his normal diet.
Pooja and Rahul were seated outside one of Mumbai's many
McDonald's outlets. Their newfound celebrity status after the Sharan
Scandal was not lost on them, as many patrons paused to stare at them.
One little girl walked up to Pooja, and pointed at her saying, `TV
auntie.' A sharp growl from Rahul sent her scurrying to the safety of her
mother.
Pooja laughed at another expression of Rahul's professed hatred for
children.
`I'm not sure, Rahul. The new government in Pakistan has been a bit
loony- but I don't know why they would want to escalate matters now. I
don't think they'd go too far- they probably bred themselves a few more
mujahideen than they could handle and are sending them over here to
keep them busy.'
`Yeah- that's probably it, Boss. See I knew you'd know. The papers are
all full of shit.'
`I wouldn't be too sure, Rahul. Things can go crazy real fast. Wanna eat
my French fries? You seem to be hungry today.'

***

`Illahi, what the hell is going on', Guha cringed as the Prime Minister
screamed over the speakerphone. As a seasoned diplomat and the newly
appointed Foreign Secretary, he knew it wasn't good form to scream at
other Heads of State, but nothing would calm the PM down this morning.
The latest wave of attacks that had begun almost a month ago had
continued unabated, claiming over a hundred Indian casualties. After the
first few attacks, the Indians had got alerted, and given back as good as
they got- the most notable victory being during a show of misplaced
bravado by a dozen Mujahideen when they charged a post manned by
eight Gurkhas. It had come down to hand-to-hand combat and the
Gurkhas had massacred the Mujahideen with their khukris, suffering
only three casualties. But it had not been as good across the border and
the Mujahideen had overrun several posts before withdrawing across
the line of control to Pakistan Occupied Kashmir.
Illahi's coarse voice wafted over the speakerphone.
`Vivek, calm down. I assure you that Pakistan has nothing to do with
this. This is the act of Muslim youth who are unable to tolerate the
injustices being heaped on their brethren in Kashmir. I cannot stop
them- though I have ordered increased police presence on the border'.
As the two men talked, the sharp contrast between them was
apparent. Illahi was a man with only rudimentary higher education,
having just completed high school before joining the army. He had come
from a poor family, the only son of a security guard. His background
reflected in his coarse and halting English, which contrasted sharply with
Khosla's sophisticated, clipped tone. Today, however, Khosla was pulling
no punches. Also, the members of the NSC noticed, Khosla insisted on
carrying on only in English, a language Illahi was uncomfortable with,
and which only put him further on the backfoot.
Which idiot once said that this man doesn't understand realpolitik, Joshi
mused as he watched his Prime Minister's verbal duel continue.
`Illahi, hear me out. This has happened before. Or have you forgotten
1948 and 1965, when your `youth' had just created the groundwork for
regular troops. We will not tolerate this invasion of our sovereignty, and
if your forces step in, we will retaliate. For God's sake, we both have
nuclear weapons now, why would you want to bring our countries to the
brink of destruction?'
`Vivek, we give wholehearted moral support to these youth, but are
not intervening militarily. And you have no proof either way. So please
keep your threats to yourself.’
`Whew, that was some tough talking’, Joshi commented as Khosla
almost threw the phone down.
 `Okay guys, if it comes to war, how ready are we?’
`Sir, we can be ready to fight in a couple of days. We've just finished
the summer combined arms exercises, and we're as ready for battle as
we'll get', the Army Chief, Baldev Randhawa summed up. He had the thick
accent typical of his native state of Punjab and had reached the top post
after a thirty-five year career in the infantry. He was by far the most
hawkish of the Service Chiefs, and his heroics in the Kargil conflict had
ensured that everyone knew that he had the bite to match his bark.
`The Air Force is ready to go. Our fighter and strike squadrons in the
Western and South Western Command are at a ten minute alert status,
and our air defense is on full alert', Sen spoke up in his characteristic
drawl. In sharp contrast to the big and beefy Randhawa, Sen had a slight
build and spoke in a slightly anglicized accent, which often aroused the
derision and amusement of his peers. However, there was no such
reaction to his professional capabilities- he had had an outstanding
service record as a fighter pilot, and was particularly known for not
standing for any bureaucracy and political interference. His career had
been on the chopping block after he had stood up to the previous
government over delays in approval for critical spare parts for the Air
Force’s aging MiG fighters. One of the first things Khosla had done on
coming to power was to resurrect Sen's career.
`The Vikramaditya task force is just off Karachi anyway, and we have
two Kilos shadowing the Pak fleet in Karachi. If it comes to war, the
Pakistani Navy will have a short and exciting life'
Raman had spent much of his professional life in submarines,
commanding the Indian Navy's first operational squadron in the 1970s.
He had commanded every class of submarine the Indian Navy ever had-
the now retired Foxtrots, the German designed Type 209 and the even
more modern Kilos.
`The Kilo is one of the most difficult submarines to detect in the
world. Ever since things started getting hot, we moved two boats off
Karachi harbor. Their brief is to lie low and observe the Pak Navy. If war
breaks out, they're to sink their capital ships before they get out into the
open seas. What does worry me is their submarine fleet- their Agostas
are superb boats, and their sub drivers are right up there with the best in
the business. We’ll be watching them closely- if Pakistan is up to
anything aggressive, I would bet on the Agostas being their first punch at
sea.’
Khosla looked briefly at the papers in front of him, not really reading
anything, but taking in all the pieces of information, trying to make some
sense of how they could fit together.
`All this is fine, but why the hell would he want war? Joshi, any
progress?'
The Oxford educated bureaucrat spoke in his usual clipped accent, but
the tensions of the past few days, and his highly overweight frame
ensured that he was constantly wiping perspiration from his forehead.
Khosla always enjoyed Joshi's precise analysis, but sometimes he felt
that his Intelligence Chief was just a bit too mechanical, like a computer
rattling off responses.
`Well, Sir, we've had three MiG-25 recon flights over Pakistan last
night- plus we've got satellite photographs from the latest IRS pass.
There's nothing to suggest that they have any new or unknown anti-
missile systems in place. That leaves one option- they've found a way to
neutralize our nuclear capability.'
`Or Joshi, they believe they can engineer circumstances that would
ensure neither side uses nuclear weapons.'

***

Karim was getting very uncomfortable with the kind of talk he was
hearing around the table. It had been nearly two months since that
fateful telephone call from the Emir, and now Illahi was laying out the
broad strokes of his plan to execute the Emir's directive. The plan
terrified Karim. As the Air Chief, he and his men would carry out much of
what Illahi had envisioned- and the very thought chilled him to the bone.
He noted that Illahi had left many details vague and had really
elaborated only upon what he expected his armed forces to achieve.
Some way to motivate a professional soldier- don't even trust him. Or do
you have something so dirty up your sleeve that you're afraid to tell us
openly?
`So it's pre-ordained- the day is near when we shall restore glory to
our Quam and liberate our brethren in Kashmir', Illahi said with a
flourish that would not have been out of place had he been posing for the
camera.
Illahi had really dressed up for the occasion. While he usually did wear
khakis, today he had dug out his stars and was standing with all his
medals and decorations on his chest.
Karim looked at this display with more than a little distaste. Illahi had
never been in battle, and had he stayed in the Army as a professional
soldier, would not have risen far. Most of his stars and decorations had
followed his ascendance to political power. Karim looked around the
table at the other Service Chiefs and thought he saw similar feelings in
their eyes. None of them, however uttered a word as Illahi continued
speaking
Tariq maintained his usual stoic silence, standing in a corner, his
massive bulk obscuring much of the view out of the window.
As Illahi finished and was about to sit down, a single voice broke the
silence of the room.
`But Illahi, this is madness- surely you don't want to risk a nuclear
exchange- why should we risk millions of innocent lives because of your
visions of grandeur and that old mad Emir'. Everyone turned to the
speaker, General Babar. Babar had retired in the late 90s but due to his
glorious career and staunch patriotism, had remained a key advisor to
the military leadership. Even Illahi's purges had not dared touch Babar,
something Illahi was beginning to regret now.
`Illahi, I too have fought for my Quam, and have shed and spilled blood
for it. But there's no glory in setting out on such a foolish quest'
`You are getting old and tired, Babar, war is not for the faint-hearted.
You worry about nuclear weapons, well, the Indians dare not use them
first, and we will not give them any reason to'.
`Illahi, you know we cannot win an outright victory in a purely
conventional slugging match. And this plan that you seem to have
worked out with the Emir is just too risky. If anything goes wrong, we're
standing at the threshold of using nuclear weapons. Moreover, you're not
even telling us everything. You can't expect us to walk our forces, our
families and our whole nation into something without knowing what's
going on.'
`You do not need to know everything- and I do not need to tell you
everything. Just put your trust in Allah and me and set out on this noble
mission. If you cannot bring yourself to do it, then I have no need for
you'.
`So be it', and to everyone's horror, Babar got up and left the room.

***

Babar sat down with his daily peg of whisky in front of his television.
He savored the rich taste of the scotch as he tried to forget all that had
happened over the day. The alcohol got him thinking of the day’s events
again. The imposition of prohibition in the Pakistani Army in the early
Eighties had in fact been a signal of far reaching changes. It had marked
the gradual transition from an Army created on British traditions- the
Army Babar had joined, to an Army that was part of the larger Islamic
establishment that was being created in Pakistan, which was the Army
that had created the likes of Ilahi and Tariq.
That bastard Illahi, his madness was going to bring ruin to the whole
country! Babar drifted off to sleep, old memories of burning tanks and
dying friends coming back to him. He had long lost his wife to cancer, and
his son was settled in the Gulf. After the day's happenings, the old soldier
felt for the first time that he had very little to live for anymore.
He was awakened by a slight noise outside- a noise his trained ears
recognized as the snapping of a magazine into a rifle. It had been a long
time, but Babar's fitness could put men half his age to shame- and he
raced to his drawer and pulled out his Guernica .25 pistol. Smaller than a
man's palm, the Guernica was not a weapon to kill with at long range, but
at short range, it could be deadly. There was now no time for calling the
police or others for help, but he was determined to make this as difficult
as possible for his attackers. The first thing he did was to switch on all
the lights in the drawing room and then he hid behind a bulky cabinet in
a far corner of the room.
The four gunmen were now almost at the door. They were hired
mercenaries and were hardly the best choice for this kind of job, which
required stealth and precision. But they would have to do- it would be
unthinkable for Tariq to get Army commandos involved in this
operation. The first man kicked the door open and rushed inside, his AK-
47 on full automatic.
Babar now saw what he was up against. One on one, he was sure he
could have dispatched these rogues even at this age, but the odds were
clearly against him.
All four attackers were now inside, having emptied nearly two
hundred rounds in a futile burst that had destroyed the TV and
completely shredded the sofas. As they paused to reload, Babar made his
move. He emerged from behind the cabinet, the Guernica blazing. Three
rounds caught the nearest man, who went down in a heap. Two others
nicked another, who screamed and dove for cover. Before the others
could return fire, Babar had run up the stairs and taken a new defensive
position.
`Get that old bastard!'
Firing from their rifles, the gunmen advanced towards Babar's hiding
place, the steady volley of bullets pinning him down. They stopped after a
minute, realizing they had their quarry trapped.
`There's no hope now, old man, you're going to die!'
Babar knew that was true- he had made a big mistake by running
towards a culvert on the second floor. Now he was trapped- to emerge
from the cavity under the stairs where he had hidden himself would
expose him to his attackers, and there was nowhere else to run.
The old soldier reached his decision quickly. He snapped a new
magazine into his gun and burst out of his position, firing at his
attackers.
The gunmen were taken unawares, and one of them fell, before the
two others returned fire. A burst of rifle fire caught Babar in his stomach,
turning him around and throwing him across the room. The last thing
Babar did was to empty his magazine into the nearest attacker's chest.

***

It had been yet another meeting of the NSC with a lot of speculation,
but very little in the way of hard facts. With the rest of the NSC gone,
Khosla could speak more freely to Joshi. Khosla ordered a couple of cups
of tea and waited for the servant to leave before he locked the door.
`So, Joshi- what we said in the meeting was all we could before the
others- but what about the Patriot? Doesn't he have anything to add to
what we know?'
`No, Sir- for once, things are moving too fast. He hasn't really had a
chance to tap his sources in Islamabad. But I wouldn't bet on his being
out of the know for too long- remember he's the guy who gave us a
week's warning before the Pakistani coup. As soon as he sends any
message, I'll get it directly to you.'
Khosla sat down heavily, as if the worries were physical forces
bearing down on him. He had considered the reactivation of the Patriot
carefully, and after much discussion with Joshi, decided to go ahead. If
there ever was a situation when India needed the Patriot’s help, this was
it.
`Good. Just remember, as usual, no one else gets in the loop.'

***

Illahi paced up and down his office- almost oblivious to the presence
of his Chiefs of Staff. That old fool had almost spoiled everything. But
now nothing would stand in his way. He would finally fulfill his destiny.
His plan was perfect- it had to work. `Okay gentlemen, let's commence
the first phase of our Jihad.’ The generals, still in a state of shock from the
news of Babar's death at the hand of `robbers', nodded and left the room.
Karim could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. He had
known Ilahi to be a ruthless son of a bitch, but he could never imagine his
one time friend stooping to murder. He wondered if Ilahi had been
involved in it, or it had been Tariq’s own initiative- and then decided that
it realty didn’t matter after all. Pakistan was being thrown headlong into
a war. Once everyone had left, Illahi looked at Tariq, still standing where
he had been for the past two hours.
`Tariq, the ball's in your court. Don't fail me.'
The big soldier grinned.

***



FOUR

If we are the invaders, we may direct our attack against the Sovereign
himself.
- Sun Tzu

Khosla finally retired to bed at midnight. Before hitting the bed, he
combed his hair in front of the mirror. If probed, he could never give a
logical explanation of this habit of his, except that it was something he
had done for as long back as he could remember.
As he lay down, it was one of those rare moments when he regretted
never having married. Having someone to talk to would be great just
about now. He had had only one serious affair in his youth, but the
relationship could not stand the strain imposed by the twin hectic
schedules of a banker and a politician, both determined to reach the top
of their careers. He smiled wistfully as he remembered his mother's
frantic advice to him, `Who'll look after you in your old age?'
He had ambitions of reading the day’s intelligence summaries, but
was way too tired. He fell asleep within seconds of hitting the bed. Being
the Prime Minister of the world's largest, and possibly, most chaotic
democracy was bad enough. Adding on the threat of nuclear war was
more than any man could be expected to bear.

***

Naik Iqbal Dar checked his rifle again. It was a worthy cause to die for,
but the prospect of impending death could stop the bravest man in his
tracks. He had been in the Police for almost six years, but the bitter
memories of the past had not left him. He still remembered the day when
his father and brother had died- shot down by Indian troops as they tried
to run. He remembered his rage and desire for revenge. He remembered
the Afghan who had befriended him and taught him to channelize his
anger, taught him that one day he would avenge his father and brother
thousands of times over. He remembered being asked to join the Indian
Police under a false name, and with forged records. He remembered the
hours of training and lies the Indian government told him about his
homeland, Kashmir.
The Afghan had not contacted him for years, and he was surprised to
see him at his doorstep a couple of months ago. When the Afghan heard
that Iqbal had been posted to the elite guard unit outside the PM's house,
he went nearly mad with joy and left, promising to return the next day
with instructions.
Iqbal strode over to the PM's house, telling the Army commandos at
the door that he wanted water. They brusquely motioned him to go to
the back. Iqbal had practiced every day for a month for this, and things
came to him automatically. The Afghan had promised him help, but he
did not know what form it would take. For now, he was alone.
Iqbal whipped out his knife and slashed the throat of the nearest
commando, who went down with blood spurting from his severed
jugular; eyes wide open in shock and surprise. The second commando
tried to raise his gun, but Iqbal's knife sliced through his ribs before he
could shoot. Now there was no time to lose. Iqbal broke open the door
and ran straight for the PM's bedroom, shooting down a servant who
appeared in the doorway.
He jumped behind a pillar as a commando opened fire behind him, but
as he looked around, he was surprised to see that the other commando, a
man he recognized as Ahmed, was not firing at him, but at soldiers
running towards the house, having been alerted by the gunfire.
The Afghan had not failed him.

***

Khosla woke with a start at the sound of gunfire. He got up off the bed
and made a big mistake by opening his door to see what was happening.
He found himself face to face with a man in a police uniform advancing
towards him, assault rifle at the ready.
Khosla compounded his error by coming out into the corridor and
walking towards the policeman, hoping he could clarify what was going
on. To his horror, the policeman brought his rifle up to his shoulder and
took aim at him. Before he could even process what was going on, let
alone react in any way, Iqbal pulled the trigger.
Iqbal fired a three shot burst at Khosla from a range of ten feet. A
bullet caught Khosla in the upper arm and spun him around, slamming
him against the wall.
Khosla had never felt such intense pain before. As a much younger
man, he had once had twenty stitches on his face after a disastrous
attempt at go-karting. He had thought that was the most pain he had
ever endured in his life. Compared to what he felt now, that had been a
walk in the park. He somehow found the strength to roll over and face his
attacker, slipping once in his own blood, which he realized was fast
forming a small pool under him. Iqbal was now a mere six feet away and
raising his gun to finish the job.
Khosla braced himself for what seemed to be inevitable death when in
a blur of movement, his personal security guard, Ram Bhan, threw
himself in the path of the bullets. Bhan had been trained to take the bullet
for his PM, and he did not fail. Nobody would know if Ram Bhan had even
considered what he was getting into. But in that split second he had to
react, training and discipline came before conscious thought.
Iqbal cursed his luck as the Indian commando fell limply to the
ground. Well, it wouldn't change anything- just delay things a bit. He
advanced towards the prostrate figure of Khosla.
As a young man, Khosla had trained in the martial arts- but now he
was over sixty, bleeding profusely from the bullet wound in his left arm,
and facing a man armed with an assault rifle.
`How could you do this....'
Khosla had barely completed his question when Iqbal bought up his
gun and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He cursed the gun and tried to fire again, but the damn gun had
jammed. Well, it would have to be done with the knife. The firing behind
him had stopped and he could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. He
had no time to waste.
Bhan was dying. Iqbal's bullets had struck him in a wide arc, shredding
much of his abdomen. But he had saved his PM from certain death. Now,
out of the corner of his eye, he saw Iqbal approaching the fallen figure of
Khosla, knife in hand.
`Remember Kashmir, dog', Iqbal was now a mere foot away from
Khosla.
Perhaps it was the defiant look on Khosla's face, perhaps his training,
or perhaps just anger at the sheer betrayal of trust he was witnessing-
but something gave Ram Bhan a last burst of energy as he lunged across
the corridor at Iqbal, his own commando knife in hand. Iqbal was taken
by surprise as Ram's knife lodged into his ribs, and he fell back.
Grimacing with pain, he flipped his own knife around in his hand and
nearly decapitated the guard, but it was too late now. As he slowly
stepped towards Khosla, a burst of fire from commandos clambering up
the stairs caught him in the neck and face, spraying blood all over Khosla.
The commandos rushed up the corridor to their Prime Minister to find
him covered entirely in blood- Iqbal’s, Ram Bhan’s and his own, and lying
quietly on the ground.
`Is he dead’, asked a commando, shaking despite himself at the
intense and unexpected firefight he had just been in.
`Get me up’
Those three words from Khosla galvanized the commandos into
action as they helped him up and began calling for an ambulance.
Out of the corner of his eye, Iqbal saw Khosla being helped to his feet.
His last thoughts were that he had completely failed in his mission.
He was wrong.

***

The MGF Metropolitan Mall in Gurgaon was jam packed with familes
out to enjoy the weekend. There was a long queue at the ticket counter
for the multiplex, and people jabbered excitedly at the prospect of
watching the latest Bollywood blockbuster- a romantic potboiler
starring the new queen of Bollywood, Deepika Padukone, acting opposite
Hrithik Roshan.
The two men walked in almost unnoticed. Dressed casually in jeans
and loose shirts, they could have passed for college students- and they
were, in a way. Having studied in the Madarasas of Afghanistan, with
their practical exams in the fields of Iraq and Kashmir, they were
hardened Afghan warriors. They had been surveying the mall for weeks,
and had learnt that the metal detectors were faulty, and were switched
off most of the time. Bribes to a mall emplyee revealed that the detectors
were due to be replaced in two days time. Till then, they were essentially
very expensive pieces of useless furniture. That knowledge had sealed
the choice of their target.
They walked past the rows of shops filled with the latest electronics
and cosmetics and paused when they reached the crowded coffee shop
in front of a book store. For a while, they looked like two students out to
browse the latest bestsellers, but when they seemed to be making no
move to buy anything for a while, a guard walked over to the duo. With
the daily crowds at the mall, he had been trained to look for anything
unusual. He didn’t quite know what bothered him, but something about
the duo didn’t quite look right.
`Excuse me, Sir, looking for something particular?'
The men ignored him, continuing to study the crowd with interest.
The guard ambled away to check on a kid who seemed to be lost.
When he looked back a minute later, the two men were still there. As he
began walking towards them, one of them nodded to the other, and they
pulled out AK-47 assault rifles from their duffel bags.
An old woman near them saw the guns and began screaming
hysterically, but was stopped in mid-scream by a bullet to the throat.
The two men now began walking calmly through the corridor,
shooting with deadly precision as they walked through the mall. People
tried to hide behind counters or run away from the impending death, but
in the press of the panicked crowd, only a handful succeeded.
Five policemen on duty across the road hastily threw away their
lunches and rushed into a situation they were unprepared for. Armed
with the old .303 rifles, which had long passed into antiquity, two of
them were mowed down in the first burst. The others dove for cover and
fired back. Two more fell before one of the terrorists died. The other
terrorist hurled two grenades to add to the carnage before escaping
outside.
The attack on the mall claimed thirty dead, and over double that
number injured.

 ***

India Gate is located in the heart of New Delhi, an elegant and
imposing monument erected in memory of the thousands of Indian
soldiers who had died in the First World War. Since then, it had become a
symbol of reverence for those who had given their lives in India’s
defence, and a lamp burnt continuously under the Gate’s arch, as a
testimony to the unknown soldier. The lush gardens and lakes around
India Gate are also popular weekend picnic spots for families. This day
was no exception, as children played cricket, lovers serenaded each
other behind the bushes, and the elderly walked in the neatly trimmed
grass, reminiscing about how much had changed in India’s capital over
the years.
What had not changed however was the proximity of India Gate to the
nerve center of India’s government, the North and South Block, housing
the External Affairs Ministry and Home Ministry respectively. The two
imposing red-bricked compounds were located on either side of the
same road, a straight drive from India Gate.
Among the families at India Gate were gathered two young men. They
had a large bag with them, and dressed in whites, people assumed they
were young cricket players carrying their kit with them. Hiding behind a
large bush, one of them looked through a small pair of binoculars, and
smiled as he saw what he was waiting for.
Less than a kilometer away, a convoy of five white Ambassador cars
left North Block and turned towards India Gate. The Ambassador was a
fifty-year old design, and obsolete by any standards, but still made up the
bulk of the Government of India’s official fleet. In the third car of the
convoy was seated Mani Tripathi, the head of India’s external
intelligence agency, the Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW), who
together with the Intelligence Bureau head, reported into Joshi. In other
cars were commandos and more officials of the R&AW, headed for an
urgent meeting called by Joshi after news of the attack on Khosla had
broken, just a few hours ago. Word was still slowly filtering out of details
of the attack, but in the prevailing chaos, nobody paid much attention to
two young men out to play cricket.
As the convoy came within two hundred meters, the two men opened
the bag to reveal two narrow tubes. The tubes contained RPG anti-tank
rockets. Both men took aim and fired within seconds of each other.
Tripathi was looking at a summary on his laptop computer when the
lead car in the convoy exploded into a huge fireball, destroying it and the
car behind it. Tripathi’s driver tried to back up, but the car behind them
was almost immediately hit by another rocket. Shrapnel sliced through
Tripathi’s car, decapitating his personal guard and killing his secretary
sitting next to him. Bleeding from a dozen wounds, Tripathi staggered
out of the car and fell unconscious.
The surviving commandos rushed to Tripathi and tried to carry him
to safety while two men stood guard. They soon saw two seemingly
unarmed men in white running at them. One commando stood up and
shouted at them to go away, but realized his mistake too late. The two
men triggered off high explosives strapped to their waists when they
were within a few meters of the shattered convoy. The resultant
explosions killed both of them, as well as everyone in the convoy who
had survived the rocket attacks.

***

Throughout that afternoon, similar terrorist attacks were reported
across the country- in schools, temples, offices and railway stations.
Over 300 people were killed, with the police claiming only a dozen
terrorists killed. If the army had been called out immediately, further
chaos may have been prevented. But once again, India's famed
bureaucracy worked against it. The order to call the army out was given
only late that night after much intellectualization over whether the initial
attacks were one-off attacks or part of a larger pattern. By then it was too
late.

***

The old man looked intently at the piece of paper in front of him. For
several minutes, he did not say anything.
`Sir, what do we say about the attack on Vivek and the Muslim carnage
going on?'
 The old man got up and began pacing the length of the room in
complete silence, as if he had not even heard the question.
`Sir, our cadre are getting agitated. We need to take some action or at
least come out with a statement on what is going on.'
The old man now turned to look at his aide. He had been down this
road before, and he wanted to shout at the younger man. You fool, don't
you realize that a single utterance by us could cause thousands their lives!
Instead, he just kept silent.
He had been in this game for too long- and now it was way past the
time when he could dismount the tiger he had ridden on his way up in
Indian politics. His name was Tarapore and he was an important leader
in the party that was Khosla's largest electoral ally. Tarapore's party had
long been associated with extreme right views and often accused of
communalism. While to its credit, the party had undertaken several
schemes of social service, over the years; it had attracted its share of
lumpen elements, which seem to be attracted to Indian politics like nails
to a magnet. In his younger years, Tarapore had retained an iron grip on
the party- but in the last couple of years, his advancing years and failing
health had meant that actual control of the party had largely passed to
the younger cadre like Vinay Sethi. The new leadership mouthed much of
the same political lingo, but lacked much of the genuine ideological
conviction that Tarapore and his generation had. This lack of any real
ideals combined with the party's extreme views on communal matters
made for a volatile cocktail.
`Vinay, there should be no bloodshed. ...'
`Sir, we need some positive statement from you. The youth of the
party still look up to you for direction. We would not want that to
change.'
The implied threat was not lost on the old man.
`All right, do as you see fit.'
As a gloating Sethi left the room, Tarapore slumped onto his sofa. He
tried to assuage his conscience with the thought that he had never really
had any control over the Pandora's box that Sethi was going to unleash.

***

 Khosla woke up with a start. He had had a terrible nightmare- one in
which the whole world was on fire and a man with a gun was shooting at
him. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his arm reminded him that he was
not in his bedroom, but lying in hospital, where he had been since the
attack the previous night.
He had fallen unconscious after the attack and had been rushed to
hospital. The doctor pronounced him extremely lucky as only one bullet
had lodged in his shoulder. A minor operation later, he was pronounced
out of danger.
After hearing of the terrorist attacks, he had wanted to rush to office,
but was restrained by the doctor, who forbade him from going anywhere
for another day.
As he switched on the TV in the hospital room, he began to fear that
his worst nightmares were about to come true.
The door opened and Balbir Sharma, the Home Secretary, rushed in,
looking almost comical with his huge frame draped in the shiny safari
suit that was still pretty much the default uniform for India's civil
services.
`Sir, it's good to know you aren't badly hurt......'
Khosla cut him off in mid sentence.
`Sharma, I think you have bigger things to worry about than my well-
being. Have you seen what's going on- attacks on Muslims have already
begun. When the hell will we learn to live together as a country? Have
people already forgotten what happened in 1984?'
Khosla was alluding to the communal flare up post the assassination
of Indira Gandhi by her Sikh bodyguards in 1984, when in an orgy of
violence; nearly 3000 Sikhs lost their lives. The proud and patriotic Sikh
community had been dealt such a severe punishment for the sins of a
couple of its members that the psychological scars still had not fully
healed. Then, as Khosla suspected was also happening now, the initial
attacks were being led by politicians- showing their loyalty to the fallen
leader in a perverse and savage manner. Once the madness began, it was
only a matter of time before the common criminals and thugs joined in
the murder and looting. Now of course, things were made even more
complicated by the well-planned terrorist strikes across the country-
that were further fanning the flames of communal violence.
 `Sir, there's even worse news. Tarapore's people just came out with
this statement to their cadres.'
As Khosla took the paper with his good hand and began reading- he
flinched as if from a physical blow. In front of his eyes was a document
calling for revenge against the aggression by `Muslim attackers' and the
use of `all appropriate measure' to safeguard life and property. It was the
blueprint for a communal holocaust.

***

`Daddy, I want to see a cartoon...'
`Quiet, dear. There's something important going on.'
Karim smiled indulgently as his ten-year-old daughter, Nafisa, walked
out, sulking.
All the news channels were full of news of the unfolding chaos in India.
Is this what Illahi had in mind? Karim found it hard to believe that his
government was behind this- but he knew better than to be so naive.
Illahi's first phase had outlined `creating internal disturbances through
surgical operations', but Illahi had balked at going into details, not even
trusting his Service Chiefs. The whole operation was being
masterminded by Tariq's elite cell in the SSG and the Emir's men. This
irked Karim, as he and his people would be forced to jump into the fray
with little or no control over the factors leading to the war.
`Ash, what's going on?'
His wife, Meher, had walked in. Meher was still the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen, even after twelve years of marriage. It had been
love at first sight when they had first met- Karim bewitched by the
sophisticated, Oxford educated woman, and Meher drawn to the dashing
Air Force officer.
`No dear, I don't think it's anything we should worry about.' As Meher
went after Nafisa, Karim wished he could tell her just what a big lie he
had just spoken.
`Nafisa, come back, your cartoon's on.'
Karim left the room, wondering just how long he could shelter his
family from the carnage that was going to engulf the subcontinent.

 ***




FIVE

Without harmony in the state, no military expedition can be undertaken.
- Sun Tzu

Pooja walked as fast as she could without attracting attention to
herself. It was a Sunday morning, and she had gone out for a haircut
when the trouble had started in the market. She was only about two
blocks away from her apartment, but that seemed like a long way off.
So far there had been no serious violence, just some stone throwing
targeting the local mosque, but Pooja knew that could change in seconds.
The journalist in her wanted to take cover to see and report what
happened, but she was terrified. Almost all the shops had begun closing
their shutters and no auto or taxi driver seemed to want to stop to give
her a lift. She knew that all this would never have happened if she had
just bothered to read the papers in the morning. Instead, the first time
she heard about disturbances in her area was at the salon.
She heard a low, rumbling sound across the corner and hastened her
pace. Within seconds, the noise had begun to sound like some animal,
but Pooja knew what it was- the collective howls and murmurs of a mob
on the rampage.
Then, without warning, all hell seemed to break loose. Four young
men, swords in hand, ran across the street in front of her and attacked
the sweet shop she had often frequented. The owner, an elderly man,
walked out to reason with the youth, two of whom he had known for
years.
`Son, why get involved in this madness? I have seen you since you
couldn't even walk. Please go home and leave me alone.'
The response was as swift as it was brutal. A blade cut through the air
and hit the man on his forehead. He collapsed to the ground, blood
spurting from his head.
Pooja screamed- and then knew she had put herself in great danger.
The men turned towards her and after what seemed to be very short
discussion, began running at her.
Pooja turned and sprinted in the direction of her house. She had been
on her school track team, and in a flat out race, could probably have
outrun any of her pursuers, but now she could barely think straight.
She thought she heard their footsteps close behind her, and then
realized that it was her own heart, pounding with fear.
She took a wrong turn and realized too late that she had entered a
dead end alley. Pooja turned around and saw two men following her, now
a bare twenty meters away. She began screaming for help, hoping
against hope that someone would hear her shouts.
The men had now begun advancing towards her; now close enough for
Pooja to see the twisted grins on their faces. One of the men threw down
his sword when he was only five feet away.
`Darling, I won't hurt you. Come to me.'
Pooja tried remembering all that she had read about how to counter
would-be rapists, but now her memory failed her. She backed up against
the wall and closed her eyes, as the man loomed over her.

***

Squadron Leader Nishant Singh rushed to his wife's school just
outside the Air Force Base at Ambala when he heard about the riots.
Twenty-nine years old, Singh had joined the Indian Air Force eight years
ago. He had had a copybook career, starting as a fighter pilot on MiG-23s
and then moving to Mirage 2000s. His latest assignment, which was now
into its second year, had been his most memorable. He was leading one
of India's five Sukhoi Su-30 squadrons.

As he neared the school, he saw a mob just outside the building. The
sleepy town had traditionally been relatively free of the sectarian
tensions afflicting much of the rest of India. But the latest round of riots
had not spared it. Heedless of his own safety, Singh rushed forward. The
crowd, seeing his uniform and holster, melted away. Singh sprinted up
the stairs to his wife's classroom.
`Sonaina, are you alright?'
 His wife was startled to see him, but ran to him as soon as he entered
the room.
`Nuts, what are you doing here- there are riots outside.'
`Hell, I know that- let's get out of here- its much safer in the base.'
`But..'
`No buts. We're leaving now!'
`What about the children?'
Singh stopped and looked at the six young children in front of him.
They were obviously terrified and a couple of them had begun crying.
`Where are the others?'
`They're the only ones. The others have already left.'
`Okay- they come with us.'
Singh and Sonaina ran outside with the children behind them. They
could see a crowd gathering just a hundred meters away. Some of the
men were carrying swords and knives.
`Oh God, there's Mr. Pestonjee lying there!'
Singh pulled her away, `There's nothing we can do- he's dead. Let's get
these kids to safety.'
As they got into his jeep, someone threw a stone that hit the jeep.
Some of the children began crying as more stones started landing around
them.
`Sonaina, take the wheel- head straight for the base!'
Singh had taken out his gun- a 0.38 revolver. He had no wish to kill
anyone, but if he was forced to do so, he would. They had gone no further
than a few meters that the jeep lurched and almost swerved off the road.
`Damn, we've got a flat- they've put nails all around the road!'
`Sonaina, keep driving! Whatever you do, don't stop.'
The jeep was now going no faster than its pursuers, who kept up a
steady volley of stones and soda bottles. It was now a mere kilometer to
the base, and Singh wanted to get as near to the base as possible.
`They're gaining on us, Nuts!'
Singh looked back to see about twenty men, most with swords and
knives in hand, rapidly gaining on the jeep. He pulled the safety catch off
his gun and got ready to fire a warning shot over their heads.
Suddenly, the crowd stopped and ran in the opposite direction. A
bewildered Singh turned around to see the reason- a jeep full of Air Force
Police, armed with automatic weapons.

***

The man reached out to grab her, but Pooja ducked out of the way and
tried to run past him. He grabbed her and pushed her against the wall.
She felt his callused hands grabbing at her hair while he tried to force his
mouth against hers. In blind panic, virtually without realizing it, she
drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over in pain.
`Bitch!'
She tried to run past him, but there was no getting past the second
man. The world seemed to spin around her as she fell to the ground.
Pooja had never felt such pain before- and the warm, sticky feeling on the
side of her face just added to her panic. The man who had hit her was
now standing over her, leering down at her.
Then things happened in a blur. The man seemed to fly at the wall,
hitting his skull against the bricks with a sickening thud and then
collapsing to the ground. The other man had barely turned around to face
their attacker when he met with a similar fate.
Pooja turned her neck up and saw Rahul's, holding a cricket bat in his
hands.
`Oh God....'
She had barely completed her sentence when she collapsed into his
arms.

***

The tank lurched as it caught fire.
It almost seemed a beautiful sight, with bright red flames shooting up
at the sky. For a moment, the flames seemed to transform into
firecrackers and explode far overhead, creating a colorful mosaic in the
skies. Maybe it was Diwali. It was always good to be home at Diwali- with
the sweets and the fireworks.
NO. He could now clearly hear the screams of the dying men. As he
walked towards the burning wreck, he saw a man clamber out, his skin
almost completely burnt off. There was a sickly sweet smell in the air-
like meat in tandoor. But he knew this was no tandoor
`Why, Dev. Why?'
He turned to run, but could not move. The burnt man was now
laughing, pointing his burnt finger at Chauhan. He turned to see other
burnt officers pointing their fingers at him, saying one word, `Coward!'
Chauhan woke up with a start. It was always the same goddamn
nightmare. Always. Would it never leave him in peace?
He got up with wobbly feet and poured himself a glass of cold water. It
had been two years, but thinking of that fateful day still made him break
out in a sweat.

***

`Boss, some coffee.'
Pooja woke to find herself in her own bed, and wondered momentarily
if it had all been a bad dream. That was till she touched the side of her
face to discover a thick wad of bandages.
`What happened?'
`Oh, nothing. Just relax. You're not hurt too bad- should be up and
about in a day. I had come down to your place and the guard told me you
had gone to the market. When the riots started, I thought I'd just check
up if you were okay and started walking towards the market.'
Rahul put the cup of coffee down by the bed and started to walk
towards the door.
`Rahul...'
`Yeah, Boss.'
`I was so scared. I could have run, shouted- done something...' Rahul
turned around and sat by her side.
`Relax. You just acted human. Anyone else would have done the same.
Now get some rest- there's absolute chaos breaking out all over- and we
need to be out there catching it all.'
Rahul got up and began walking out.
`Rahul, thanks...'

***

 By evening, communal riots had begun to break out across the
country. More than a thousand people lost their lives in some of the
worst rioting seen in India. Khosla was livid. From his hospital bed, he
made an appeal on television for sanity- but for now, that was a very rare
commodity in India.

***



SIX

Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without
fighting.
- Sun Tzu

There was an audible buzz in the United Nations General Assembly as
Illahi Khan came to the podium to address the specially convened
session. He was dressed immaculately in a black suit and began speaking
in his rough, rustic accent. He had a prepared speech in his hands, and he
had to refer to it often as he spoke.
`Ladies and gentlemen. What we are witnessing today is genocide
unlike any seen post Hitler's scourges. While my people and I condemn
the terrorist attack on the Indian Prime Minister, there can be no excuse
for the systematic and brutal ethnic cleansing we are witnessing now.
What we must understand that even the attack on the Prime Minister,
regrettable as it was, was the culmination of a long history of repression
of Muslims.' Illahi spoke with increasing confidence, and his appearance
at the UN for a specially convened address did not fail to raise the
suspicions of the Indian diplomats for it's fortuitous timing.
`We in Pakistan have always stood by our Muslim brethren and will
continue to do so. In the past, we have offered moral support but if it
comes to it, the people of Pakistan will not keep sitting on their hands.
Already youth in Kashmir are rising in rebellion, and if the current
communal holocaust continues, I may not be able to rein in the
sentiments of my people'.
`In the past, in Bosnia, in Rwanda, we have witnessed similar actions,
and in all cases, the international community had taken a firm stand
against the perpetrators. I would expect nothing less this time as well.
There is a humanitarian catastrophe staring us in the face, and we
cannot try and ignore it.'
As Illahi spoke, photographs were being projected on the wall behind
him. Stark black and white photographs showing the horrific results of
the communal violence now sweeping across India.
`India has often made a huge show of its democratic credentials and
tried to draw attention to the fact that Pakistan has had military rulers at
its helm for a large part of its existence. But I ask you, what use
democracy if it cannot protect its minorities against wholesale slaughter
and genocide? What use democracy if it is but subverted to suit the
interests of certain religions and groups? What use democracy if states
are sought to be kept in the union by prolonged and brutal military
occupation? Indeed, I submit that India is a democracy only in name. If it
is to prove itself a true democracy, one that is worthy of the ideals of its
past leaders like Gandhi and Nehru, it must rise above the petty religious
bloodlust it is today exhibiting.’
`Pakistan is an Islamic nation- I make no bones about that. Indeed, I
see no reason to be apologetic about it. We are a proud Islamic nation.
But does that mean we have no place for other religions. I ask all
members gathered here today to consider a simple fact- the total
number of Hindus killed in communal incidents in Pakistan over the last
decade is less than the number of Muslims butchered in India yesterday.’
`We give the Indian government one week to put an end to the
bloodletting. Otherwise, it will have to face dire consequences. I call upon
our fellow Muslim countries to stand by us in this time of dire need when
our faith is being put under severe danger. I also appeal to the Muslim
youth to restrain themselves and not give into the temptation to take to
arms in the defense of their faith.'
There was a stunned silence in the General Assembly as Illahi finished
his short speech and walked to his seat.

***

Karim sat at his desk, staring in horror at the scenes on the screen in
front of him. The bastard Illahi was sacrificing thousands of innocent
lives to meet his own goals- so that's how his plan panned out. Well,
someone had to stop him, but who? Karim had a young child and could
not bring himself to rebel now- not after what had happened to Babar. He
thought he knew Ilahi well- at one time they were close friends. But over
the last few days, Ilahi had grown distant and aloof. For three weeks,
their Thursday games of chess had not been held, and the one time
Karim had tried to talk to Ilahi off the record about his concerns, Ilahi
had not even bothered responding.
The anger burned in his head as he clenched his fist, his nails biting
into his palm, drawing blood.
He was lost in his thoughts, when he heard the doorbell ring, followed
by Nafisa's joyous cries of `Arif uncle'. Karim knew who this would be,
and was looking forward to meeting the man he knew would be now on
his way to the study.
`Sir, are you not feeling well? I called several times.'
`No, I'm fine, Arif. Come in. And at home, you can do away with the Sir-
we've known each other far too long.'
Karim looked at the tall and fit man in front of him, Group Captain Arif
Ansari.
Karim and Arif had known each other since college. Arif's parents had
died when he was very young, and he was always reluctant to discuss
them. He had moved in with his uncle, who lived next to Karim's house
when both of them were in their late teens, and they had quickly become
the best of friends. They had gone to the same college and then applied
to the Air Force. As young officers, Karim was always regarded as being
much sharper, but Arif had a fierce determination in him that almost
always ensured he achieved what he wanted. Both were tipped to join
front-line fighter squadrons, but a freak car accident led to damage in
one of Arif's eyes, and he was forced to join the Maintenance Wing.
Karim had rapidly risen through the Air Force ranks, especially after his
exploits as an F-16 pilot over Afghanistan in the late-80s, when he had
shot down two Russian made Sukhoi-22 fighter-bombers. Arif's career
had had a more gradual progress- and now he technically reported to
Karim. However, Arif had never let this come between their friendship-
something Karim had been grateful for.
It was a widely accepted belief that ranks never really meant anything
to Arif. He just wanted to be near planes and tinkering around with
planes was a passion of his. Even though he now a middle level officer in
Administration, he would often be found at bases, flying trainer aircraft.
He had never married, and the running joke went that no woman could
turn him on the way an aircraft did. If there was one thing Arif was
known for even more, it was his fierce patriotism and idealism.
`Karim, I wanted to talk to you about something....something related
to work.'
`Yes, go ahead Arif. We never hide anything from each other.'
Arif sat down opposite Karim, and began talking after what seemed to
be a long pause.
`Karim, I'm concerned at what's happening between India and us. It
would be senseless for us to go to war, and that's the direction things
seem to be moving in. I'm also worried whether we have anything to do
with what's going on in India- you know, the riots, the killings. You would
be one of the few people to know if we did. I need that reassurance. If we
do go to war, I will of course fight for my country. But I need to know
what it is we're fighting for.'
Arif had clearly been greatly troubled, and his sentence trailed off, as
he tried to gather his thoughts. Karim got up and walked towards Arif.
Karim debated in his mind what he would tell his friend. And then the
disciplined, and he thought bitterly, scared, soldier in him took over.
`Arif, we are soldiers of our country. Our duty is to defend it, and we
will do it. Don't bother too much about these bigger things.'
The shock on Arif's face said it all. `You're saying this. All the young
guys in the PAF hero-worship you. They'll fly against impossible odds if
you just say so. But we, I, need to know we're fighting for the right cause.'
`Arif, just have faith in me. Do your duty to the nation, and trust me to
guide you on these matters.'
`Very well, Sir.'
With those words, Arif walked out. Karim sat at his desk, wondering
just how much more he could take. He had just lost much of the respect
his closest friend had for him, and he feared he was losing respect for
himself. You're going soft, Karim. What happened to that young pilot who
would rise for a fight anytime honor was at stake? Where is that honor
now?

***

The Indian envoy to the UN was clearly having a very bad day.
`Madam Secretary General, the Indian government completely and
emphatically denies these baseless charges. While some communal
violence has unfortunately flared up, this is not, I repeat not, an official
act of ethnic cleansing. We are doing all we can to control the situation.
As the world's largest democracy, I hope you and the community of
nations will have enough faith in us. In fact, we have reason to believe
that Pakistani agents and Pakistan trained mercenaries have had a major
role in instigating these riots..'
Illahi cut him off in mid sentence.
`This is nonsense. Baseless lies are being spoken while thousands of
innocent Muslims are being slaughtered. Where is the evidence of these
so-called Pakistani agents at work?'
The experienced Indian diplomat maintained his composure and
continued speaking.
`As I was saying.....'
This time Illahi did not let him speak. In an event unprecedented in
the history of the United Nations, he got up and walked menacingly
towards the podium. Though Illahi was not a very large man, his rapid
strides and glaring eyes were threatening enough.
The Secretary General was in a bind. As part of several UN
Peacekeeping operations in her younger days, she had faced conflict
situations, but she really did not know how to stop the head of a member
state from assaulting another dignitary.
Illahi solved her dilemma by grabbing the mike from the Indian envoy.
His voice was now eerily calm.
`Let the diplomats and bureaucrats squabble. All I know, as a true
Muslim, is that I cannot stand by while those of my faith are murdered. I
call upon my fellow Muslim countries to join me in a symbolic walk out to
condemn the Indian actions.'
He quietly walked off the raised platform and past the seated
dignitaries and out of the Assembly.
For a while, no one moved. Then, to the horror of the Indian
delegation, the representatives of Saudi Arabia, Iran and the UAE got up
and followed Illahi out. A split second later, the delegates from Iraq and
Libya joined them.
The Indians knew they had suffered a devastating reverse without a
single shot being fired.

***

Pooja was sitting at her desk in office, grateful for the break of a few
hours. The past four days had been harrowing, as she and Rahul had been
out in the field, capturing the riots as they unfolded. Though now
increasingly under control, violence continued to erupt across the
country. While what irked Pooja most had been their utter helplessness
to do anything about the riots, this only strengthened her resolve to
bring the full ugly reality of the riots to the people through TV, so that
they might learn the futility of such senseless violence.
She was playing Solitaire on her computer, trying to forget, if only
momentarily, the horrors they had witnessed. Her ringing phone jolted
her out of her reverie.
`Hello, Pooja Bhatnagar here.'
`Hello, madam.'
The voice at the other end sounded muffled, almost as if someone was
trying to disguise his voice. That got Pooja's attention immediately.
`Yes, what can I do for you?'
`Madam, I saw you on TV, talking about the riots. I want you to bring
out the true story of what's going on.'
`And what might that be?'
`Madam, these riots haven't just broken out on their own. Tarapore's
people have had a big hand in these. Many of their ministers are actually
involved in the rioting. I am a party man, but first I am a human being. I
cannot sit back quietly any more, madam. I have to tell someone the
truth.'
`Hold on. We've all read Tarapore's statement. But he's gone on
record to emphasize that his people are not involved in the rioting.'
`They are, madam. It's just that no one's been able to prove it. I can
give you proof...'
`Just wait a second.'
`No, I have no time. Listen carefully to me. Go to Fort at four in the
evening today- near Strand.'
`What do I look for?'
`Just be there. You'll find out.'
 The line went dead.

***

Abdul moved slowly through the crowd- the last thing that he wanted
to do was to draw attention to himself. His mission had been extremely
successful. The bombs at Presidency College and Howrah station had
gone off just as planned, and the resulting communal carnage was still
consuming the city. Normally polite and docile by nature, Bengalis of
both religions had long demonstrated their ability to sink to the lowest
depths of inhumanity when it came to communal violence. Abdul was
quite pleased that his handiwork had unleashed a level of bloodlust
Calcutta had perhaps never witnessed, even during the terrible riots of
the 1940s.
He was at the port, on his way to board a steamer to Bangladesh. Once
there, he was to contact the Pakistani Embassy, and then it would be
time to go home. He had lost all his operatives in the riots and the blasts,
but he had survived- and that was all that mattered. Twelve years in
Pakistan's elite Special Services Group had taught him that compassion
could be a fatal weakness. He had been chosen for his ruthlessness and
expertise with explosives- and he had not failed.
It struck him that his employers had not really planned for him to live
or escape. The remotest chance that he could be caught would of course
create a huge risk for the whole operation. From the beginning, the
whole operation had been shrouded in too much secrecy. None of the
field guys seemed to know anything approaching the full picture. That
irritated Abdul- the best way to motivate a soldier was to trust him.
Anyway, now he had more immediate concerns- how to get out alive
from enemy territory.
Suddenly shrieks filled the air as the crowd dispersed, running in all
directions. Abdul could have guessed the reason. A mob was
approaching, carrying swords and knives. Abdul had his pistol with him,
but using it would be a dead give-away. He hid behind a garbage can,
hoping the riot ended soon.
Had he not been so terrified, he would have considered it almost
poetic justice, after having caused the carnage overtaking the city, here
he was, a proud soldier, cowering behind a garbage can from the same
carnage.
Any hopes he had that he would pass unnoticed disappeared when a
man suddenly appeared in front of him, wild eyed, knife in hand. `You
Muslim bastard, I'll kill you- you killed my son'.
`And I'll kill you too if you don’t move on', Abdul said calmly. All his
fear seemed to melt away. Now he was just a trained killer- all instincts
and training.
The man lunged wildly. He was probably just a bereaved father, who
had succumbed to the rage of the mob. He certainly knew next to nothing
about killing a man. He brought his knife down- an elementary mistake.
The trained killer will always sweep up from hip level. Bringing a knife
down means the blow can be warded off more easily, or if the victim
moves, just produce a grazing wound. The underhand strike has a much
higher chance of killing a man. Of course, the Indian rioter knew none of
this. And of course, Abdul had trained all his adult life with men who
could kill five such rioters bare handed without breaking a sweat. The
man’s fury was no match for Abdul's unarmed combat skills. In a matter
of seconds the attacker lay dead, his neck broken. His dying scream had
however attracted the attention of his friends, five of whom now
converged on Abdul.
This was it- there was no other way out now.
Abdul took out his Chinese-made machine pistol and emptied the
magazine at the approaching men- four of them fell dead. The other tried
to run, realizing that he in knee deep in something he could not handle.
Abdul pounced on him, catching his throat in a vice like grip. With his left
hand, Abdul struck a knife into the man’s stomach, twisting it to cause
the most damage. The man cried out briefly and died.
Captain Bose heard the sound and at once knew what it was. A Captain
in the Indian Army's Engineering Corps, Bose was not meant to take part
in combat, but he had undergone infantry training, and knew gunshots
when he heard them. His unit had been called out in Calcutta to help the
beleaguered civil authorities control the riots. So far, it had been a
nightmare. Shit, some mad fucker now has a gun. Just when I thought these
riots were screwed up enough.
Bose ran towards the sounds and saw a brawny man, gun in hand.
Bose knew that this was no ordinary rioter. The man had adopted a
killing stance and was dispatching an attacker with ease, killing with a
large knife, while several corpses lay at his feet. While Bose had gone
through the mandatory unarmed combat course, he was an engineer by
training, and had never hit a man in anger. Even in school and college, he
had always preferred not to mix it up. He knew that, whoever this
strange man was, he would not stand any chance against him. He cursed
his lack of firearms. The only weapon he carried was a riot baton.
He decided the only thing he had going for him was the advantage of
surprise and the simple fact that if he did not succeed once, Mrs. Bose
would have a pretty lonely old age. Knowing he would not get a second
chance, he hurled himself at the man. He thought he screamed
something remotely ridiculous like `hands up’, but he was so pumped up
at the moment, he had no idea what he was saying. His entire focus was
to use all his strength to bring his baton crashing down on the man's
skull.

***

Pooja's car was now only a couple of minutes from Strand. Her watch
read 3:55. They were on time. The streets were almost completely
deserted- the police had enforced a shoot-on-sight curfew, and only their
Press sticker had enabled them to get past the several checkpoints they
had encountered.
`Boss, we should really have called the cops. We don't know what we
are getting into.' The last few days of being out in the streets had robbed
Rahul of much of his humor. He was sitting ashen faced, his camera
clutched tightly in his hands. Despite his bravado, Pooja knew he had
been deeply affected by the scenes of bloodshed they had witnessed.
`If we called the cops, I'm sure whatever's going to go down would not.
Let's just see what happens and get it all on camera.'
They neared Mumbai's famous Strand bookshop, which had been
attacked and partially burnt the previous day. The attack had led to
widespread outrage and condemnation, but in the madness that was fast
engulfing the city, and the country, no one could really prevent such
attacks.
 They parked the jeep in an alley and stood behind one of the walls of
the shop. For about fifteen minutes, nothing happened.
Rahul had begun to give up and sat down on the pavement. Then, they
saw five men walking leisurely down the road towards them.
`Holy shit! That's Vinay Sethi!' Rahul was up before Pooja could
complete her sentence.
`Yup, Boss. Camera's rolling.'
Widely regarded as the public face of his party, Sethi was a known
firebrand, and many had commented that he had really masterminded
the riots. The problem was that so far no one had got any proof against
him. In the absence of any proof, the suave and glib Sethi always
sidestepped any accusations. Now that looked about to change.
The four men accompanying him looked like thugs, and Pooja felt that
would be a good guess as to their profession.
`This is where it gets interesting’; Pooja whispered as Sethi opened
the briefcase that he was carrying.
`Focus on the bag, then on Sethi.'
`Yes Boss.'
The five men were standing under the shop's awning, and were fairly
hidden from view of anyone on the road. However, Pooja and Rahul were
in the perfect position to capture them on camera.
Sethi opened the bag to reveal rows of fresh Rupee notes, and four
pistols with several ammunition clips.
Pooja and Rahul were too far away to hear clearly what Sethi was
saying to the men, but what they saw was damning enough.
Sethi handed out two bundles of cash to each man, and then gave each
man a gun and several clips. The five men then disbanded, each walking
off in a different direction.
`Bastard. Just too bad I can't go over and snap that son of a bitch's
neck', Rahul growled as Sethi sauntered off, whistling an old tune.
`Don't worry; he's going to get what he deserves. I'll see to that.'

***

`Sir, sorry to call a meeting at this time- but it's something urgent',
Joshi began addressing the NSC. Khosla, the Service Chiefs, and the
Foreign and Home Secretaries sat around the conference table.
`We've got a rare breakthrough, we've managed to capture a Pakistani
agent- one of their SSG commandos in Calcutta.'
Everyone stopped grumbling about the late hour at once. All eyes
were on Joshi.
`The interrogation is still on. But what we know so far is summarized
on this sheet. Pretty clever- the man was in the SSG for several years, and
recently took voluntary retirement. That means that technically, he is no
longer part of the SSG, and Pakistan can claim he was acting on his own.
But still, its powerful evidence.’
Khosla finally saw what looked like the first piece of good news in the
last week.
`This is exactly what we needed. Now, let's see Illahi talk his nonsense
about genocide. That bastard's killing innocent civilians to further his
madness.’
`This commando, a Lt. Abdul Hamid, doesn't know all the dimensions
of the plan. But what he does know is dynamite. Engineered riots to
create chaos and the impression of genocide against Muslims followed
by some sort of escalated attack in Kashmir by the Mujahideen. He
doesn't know any more than that, but I would be willing to bet that they
would be followed by the regular Pakistani army to support this uprising
against injustice.'
Khosla was beginning to wonder if this was good news after all.
`Hell, Joshi, they don't need to neutralize our nukes. If they can rally
enough opinion against us, even among the major Islamic powers, we
probably won't dare use nukes. Also the likely military support from
Islamic countries would really upset the military balance.'
Khosla got up and walked over to Joshi, `Well, we're not going public
on this- yet. I want to get to the UN as soon as possible. Let's unmask this
monstrosity before the world community. And get all the evidence we
get, if possible, video recordings. What we have so far is very
fragmentary.'
Joshi, who till now had been displaying a rare bout of good humor,
spoke up softly.
`Sir, there might be a complication there- the local police roughed this
guy up pretty badly when they found out who he was. Can't really blame
them after the chaos he's caused. Our guys got to him when he could
barely speak. I wouldn't count on getting too much more out of him.'
The phone rang.
Joshi got off the phone ashen faced. `Sir, it's too late. He just died in
hospital- it seems he had suffered a serious concussion and had huge
internal bleeding.'
Khosla was now sure that he had been too prematurely optimistic
about the whole thing. `No! Well, we'll have to go with what we have. Get
all the transcripts and tapes we have.'

***

There was a hushed silence in the room as Pooja and Rahul reviewed
what they had shot. The station chief was pacing up and down the room.
`Well, what do you think?'
`Guys, this is even bigger than Sharan, much bigger. And dangerous.'
`So, when do we go on air with it?' Pooja asked the question matter of
factly. It never crossed her mind that this footage could be dangerous not
just to Sethi, but to the station as well.
`What do you mean, go on air?'
Pooja got up to face the chief, `But we have to get this out as soon as
possible! People deserve to know what's going on.'
`I understand. But we don't know who those men were....'
`Bullshit!'
All heads turned at this outburst from Rahul.
`That's bullshit, and you know it. You're just scared of pissing
Tarapore off, that's all.'
`And what if I am?'
`Well then, I'll quit and take this to another channel which has the balls
to carry this. You're sitting here in your goddamn air-conditioned office,
wearing those suits of yours. Why the fuck would you be bothered about
some poor fuckers being cut up out in the real world! All you care about
is saving your fat ass. I'm taking this tape to the first channel that comes
to mind.'
`You wouldn't......'
`And who would stop me?'
 Pooja stepped in between the two men. While she shared Rahul's
disgust and anger, she didn't want him to do anything stupid.
`Guys. I have an idea- let's take this to someone in the government. '
`Gimme a break, boss. We'll take this to some stupid bureaucrat or
minister?'
`No. We take it all the way up- to the Prime Minister. Look, I'm
convinced he has nothing to do with this. If we show him this, I'm pretty
sure he'll act against Tarapore and his men. Let's give it a chance. If he
also refuses to act, we go on air. Is that a fair deal?'
`Fair enough, I guess.'
Dasgupta nodded in agreement, relieved that going public with this
news had been delayed. He did not relish the prospect of incurring the
wrath of Sethi's goons. If this crazy girl wanted to run after the Prime
Minister, let her. At least she'd be off his back for a while.

***



SEVEN

The statesman who, seeing war is inevitable, hesitates to strike first is
guilty of a crime against his country.
- Karl Von Clausewitz

Khosla reminded himself that he would have to cut down on his
drinking. The tension of recent days was beginning to get to him, and he
found himself extending his usual one glass of scotch to two or more
much more regularly than he would have liked.
He had been home for over a week now, happy to be away from the
confines of his hospital bed. Things were not looking very good- Illahi's
outburst at the United Nations had led to an outpour of outrage and
condemnation from many Islamic nations. The hit and run attacks in
Kashmir by `outraged Muslim youth' had been continuing, and now it
seemed a matter of time before a more organized and large scale attack
was mounted.
What happened at the United Nations when Khosla presented the
Indian point of view was going to hold the key to what would unfold on
the subcontinent. The revelations from the captured SSG agent were still
top-secret and only a small group knew about them. The whole idea was
to unmask Pakistan's plans at the UN- and press for a resolution
condemning Pakistan. That was the only way to turn world opinion in
favor of India. Otherwise, it looked like Pakistan could attack India and
get away with it- probably even have some Islamic countries join in. The
UAE had already expressed `concern' and there were rumors that a
squadron of Mirage 2000s was being prepared to help Pakistan if the
contingency arose.
For the moment, however he had more immediate concerns on his
mind. The call from the TV Station Chief had taken him by surprise. Even
more surprising had been the request for a meeting with one of his
journalists. Khosla had refused point blank, saying that he had no time
for interviews. However, Dasgupta was an old supporter of his party, and
had been one of the few media personalities to support Khosla's party.
So when he pressed, literally begging, Khosla had grudgingly agreed.
The upcoming meeting intrigued Khosla. The journalist would arrive
any time now, and with Dasgupta refusing to divulge the reasons for his
strange request, Khosla passed time guessing what he might have in
mind.
`Come in', Khosla called out as someone knocked on the door. The
door opened to reveal a very attractive, and somehow familiar face
before him.
`Sir, my name is....'
Khosla suddenly remembered where he had seen her before.
`Pooja Bhatnagar. I know you. So, do you have more misdeeds of my
ministers to place before me?' he said with a grin.
Pooja was caught off balance by Khosla's humor and slightly awed by
the situation she was in, but quickly reminded herself what her mission
was.
`Sir, I don't want to say much. All I want you to do is to see a tape.'
`Okay, come on in. But this better be good, I really have a thousand
other things to do.'
Pooja took out her laptop and played the video of Sethi and his men.
Khosla did not utter a single word for the five minutes that the video ran.

***

Khosla still had not fully recovered from the shock of what the young
journalist had shown him. He had always suspected that Sethi and his
goons were probably involved in the rioting, but to see it with his own
eyes left him feeling sick. With great difficulty he had made Pooja
promise that she would not go public with the story for one more day, as
he was about to announce something which would make her think twice
about doing this. She had hesitated, but when the Prime Minister asks for
a personal favor, it becomes very difficult to refuse.
Now, barely twenty-four hours after his meeting with Pooja, Khosla
was standing before the UN General Assembly, fulfilling his part of the
deal. As he began speaking, a silence fell over the gathering.
He cut a striking figure, with his trim body, which still stood
testimony to a very athletic youth, and his tastefully tailored suit. It was
often said that his mere presence had done more for India's image
abroad than hundreds of resolutions and speeches made by politicians
of years gone by.
`Madam Secretary General, ladies and gentlemen, a few days ago, my
Pakistani counterpart had come here and waxed eloquent about the
genocide my nation was supposedly carrying out against minorities. I
stand before you today to expose a heinous plot- one masterminded by
none other than Illahi Khan of Pakistan'.
Murmurs ran thorough the assembly as Khosla continued speaking.
The Pakistani envoy at the UN was sitting on the edge of his seat. He was
one of Illahi's hand picked officers, and he knew what was about to come.
The Pakistani Inter Services Intelligence network in Calcutta had relayed
news of the capture of the SSG man within twelve hours of the incident.
What he did not know was the full extent of the information the man had
given the Indians.
`Before you are copies of the transcripts of the interrogation of a
Pakistani agent we captured in Calcutta. Please read through it carefully.'
As he paused, all that could be heard in the packed Assembly was the
ruffling of papers as the diplomats and leaders read through the folders
before them.
`Now I will play some select tape recordings of the confession. The full
transcript on tape is already on your tables'.
The Pakistani heaved a small sigh of relief as he grasped all that the
Indians had got. He knew it could have been much, much worse.
`Now, I propose to move a resolution condemning Pakistan for this
breach of international law and asking it to cease and desist immediately
from the attacks in Kashmir. Otherwise my nation will have no option
but to act in self defense'.

***

Several hundred kilometers away in Washington, a middle-aged man
sitting at his desk was studying the same documents very carefully.
`Well, John, what do you make of this?' Jim Lafferty looked up at his
staff.
 `Mr. President, it's a compelling case- but it's not conclusive. As
Pakistan's been saying, the Indians could have just fabricated it. There's
just fragmentary evidence at best and certainly not enough to prove that
the Pakistani government is directly involved in this.'
`Come on, John, you know the shit the Saudis have been giving us. Why
should I trust the Pakistanis', the US President turned on his Secretary of
State.
`Mr. President, the Indians may be right- but unless we're sure,
antagonizing the Pakistanis would not be wise. You know they've been
on the verge of giving nukes to Saudi for years. The only thing holding
them back has been fear of international repercussions. Illahi has been
giving some very broad hints that they may not be so coy about giving a
couple of nukes away now.'
`So, we just get blackmailed by this tinpot dictator'. The big man had
served for over twenty years in the US Marines before entering politics,
and was known to be a man of action, often with a volatile temper.
`No, Mr. President, we be pragmatic. The Indians should be able to
handle this if it comes to a war. Our indications are that the more
moderate Islamic nations are cooling off a bit, and won't jump in if there
is war. I would worry more about undoing all our peace efforts in the
Middle East if that mad Emir gets a nuke. Which scenario are we more
comfortable with- Illahi gobbling up a bit of Kashmir or nukes falling on
Tel Aviv? Also, while I agree with you that a confrontation with the Emir
in some form is probably inevitable, there's no reason for us to
accelerate it. If we side with the Indians now, we just play into the Emir's
hand by vindicating his `Islam versus the West' perception.'
`So what do you recommend for the vote?'
`We abstain and say that this is an internal matter for the two
countries to settle. And we watch the situation very carefully.'
`Bullshit, John- both India and Pakistan have nukes. I don't want them
blasting nukes on each other's soil. It completely messes up all we've
been saying about disarmament.'
`Mr. President, our assessment is that that particular scenario is very
unlikely. The Pakistanis, if at all they are involved to the extent that the
Indians claim, probably just want to grab a bit of Kashmir. I would guess
the Emir's behind it- though to what extent, I really can't say. He's gone
public saying that while the Pakistanis have his blessings, he does not
wish to interfere. So rather than jump the gun and really draw the battle
lines with the Emir and foul up the whole Middle East peace process,
we're probably better off staying in the background. In fact, if the Emir
were involved, he would love for us to step in on India's side- that would
just reinforce his whole Armageddon theory. If anything happens to
dramatically change our perception of the scenario- we can reconsider.'

***

The hotel room at the Ritz was opulent, but Khosla had neither the
time nor the mood to be bothered about it. He had barely slept the
previous night, and with the vote in the Security Council on the Indian
resolution in the afternoon, he doubted he would get much more rest
during the remainder of the day.
The Indian envoy to the UN, a tall and thin South Indian, Rathindran,
walked in with a forlorn look on his face.
`Sir, there's good news and there's bad news.'
Khosla looked at the bureaucrat entering the room, and realized that
with the expression he was wearing, any good news would not be too
different from the supposedly bad news.
`Well, give me the bad news first- I'm kind of getting used to handling
it now.'
`The Americans are going to abstain.'
`Damn. I knew it from Jim's tone. He's just too scared to take any
decisions.'
`Well, the good news is that the British and French are with us. The
images of westerners being killed in Jeddah are a bit too fresh in their
public memories. I think we've done a good job of positioning this by
linking it with the Saudi-Mujahideen nexus.'
`Positioning, for god's sake, Rathindran, that's reality. If we go to war,
we'll be fighting a whole lot more than the Pakistani Army. And the
British and French can't do anything about it. Russia's with us but with
their economy just recovering from complete collapse, they can't do
much. It's good enough if they can keep spares for our weapons coming.'
`Well, the Chinese are abstaining. The bloody nose they got over
Taiwan last year has taken away some of their appetite for fighting. Also,
with the chaos the Emir's men are creating in Sinkiang, they aren't too
keen on openly siding with what they admit in private they believe is a
plan hatched by the Emir. They say that they won't support the
Pakistanis in a war. That should hit them, half their fighters and tanks are
of Chinese origin.'
`Yeah well, that doesn't help us in the UN.'
`Well, these should cheer you up a bit. These just came in from the
UAE and Iranian ambassadors.'
Khosla read through the papers with interest. They were clear- the
UAE and Iran still expressed concern over the deaths of Muslims in India,
but wanted to emphasize that whatever happened was an internal
matter, and that they had no interest in interfering, directly or indirectly.
There was a silver lining to it all, Khosla thought as Rathindran left.
Now he knew exactly what to expect in the afternoon. He looked at his
watch- there were still six hours to go for the meeting. Enough time to
catch up on some sleep.
Later in the evening, as Khosla packed for the flight back to Delhi, he
mused on what had been a mixed day. It had been a partial victory- with
the US and China abstaining, the resolution had not gone through.
However, with the latest news from the UAE and Iran, it did not look
like Pakistan could count on much external help if push came to shove.
The big uncertainty was however Saudi Arabia, and how far the Emir
would go to support Pakistan.
That, Khosla realized, would depend almost entirely on how much the
Emir had to do with this whole mess to begin with.

***

Back in Delhi, one of the first things Khosla did was to call Pooja.
He had to wait only a few seconds before the now familiar voice
appeared at the other end.
`I hope you now understand why I asked you to keep the story under
wraps. If you had gone public, it would just have helped Illahi's cause. As
is, we had a pretty tough time of it. It would been catastrophic if they had
gone to town with footage of Indian leaders involved in the rioting.'
 `I understand that bit, sir. But the fact remains that Sethi and his
goons are still roaming the streets with impunity. What about them?'
`I promise you I'll put an end to it. Now, tell me, what assignments are
you on now?'
Pooja was puzzled by this sudden change in track.
`Why do you ask, sir?'
`Well, if war does break out, I want someone with guts and the
willingness to tell the truth to be out there. We'll be sending out
members of the print and electronic press to several of our armed forces
units. I want you to be on that team. I'll speak to your station chief, if
that's okay with you.'
Pooja did not need to answer. She was thrilled at getting some part of
the real action.
After years of extracting newsworthy stories from the morass that
was Indian politics, this was her first chance to report on something that
actually could make a difference.

***

`Hold fire...wait till 2000 yards!'
The nine other tanks heeded Chauhan’s command instantly with him
in this exercise. For the last week, they had been training almost
incessantly. With the attacks intensifying in Kashmir, and the attack on
the PM, the whole army was on edge. War could break out any time now-
and the army wanted to be as ready as possible.
In the latest exercises, they were trying to simulate what would
happen when Chauhan's Arjuns went up against the Pakistani T-80s.
Pakistan had acquired almost 300 T-80s from the Ukraine in 1998. A
modern Russian tank design, the T-80 was marginally superior to the
upgraded T-72, which formed the backbone of India's armor. Nobody
really gave the Arjun much of a chance against the T-80, the assumption
being that India's six T-90 regiments would do the job. The T-90 was the
superlative tank in the Indian inventory, and all of India's 350 T-90s were
assigned to the XI Corps based at Bhatinda.
Chauhan's regiment was part of the 3rd Armor Division, attached to
the XII Corps in Rajasthan. The division was largely equipped with T-72s,
and a single regiment of Arjun MK2s, which was led by Chauhan.
They won't trust me with a frontline tank, thought Chauhan wryly as
his tanks maneuvered in the desert. Well, here was another chance to
prove himself. The problem was, he was getting sick and tired of proving
himself.
The result of a long and painful indigenous development effort, the
Arjun had several disadvantages versus the T-80, which had a 500-yard
main gun range advantage, and the ability to fire anti tank missiles. The
Indian army had all but rejected the first version, the Arjun MK1, and had
grudgingly inducted a few regiments of the improved MK2. That decision
had as much to do with the desire to save face on a prestigious
indigenous defense project as about inducting a truly state of the art
tank. Many in the Army had rationalized the decision by saying that at
worst, the Arjun was equal to a T-72, so strictly speaking it wasn’t really
that bad a tank. That was little comfort to the men who would ride the
Arjun into battle against the T-80.
The latest mock battle was trying to simulate the Arjun's
shortcomings v/s the T-80 with Chauhan's tanks not firing till they got to
within 2000 yards, while the opposing Arjuns would fire from 2500
yards. `Hits' were being recorded using laser designators that recorded
when a laser beam `fired' from a tank to simulate a shot hit home.
The previous group had learnt the hard way that going against an
enemy with a range advantage in an old-fashioned cavalry charge could
be disastrous. They had `lost' eight tanks, claiming only four of the
enemy.
Chauhan had no such intentions. The Indian army's armor doctrine
was based heavily on the principle of concentration of forces. This called
for probing attacks across the line till a breach was created in the enemy
lines, and then forces would be concentrated at this weak point till a
breakthrough was attained. In theory this worked- especially when
adopted in the Cold War Soviet model because the Soviets had a five-to-
one advantage in tanks over NATO. India's superiority was less than two
to one. Chauhan knew he had to be much more flexible than the rigid
doctrine implied if he wanted to win, especially if he was going up
against T-80s.
To be fair, India had also improvised a lot during its wars- it had
learnt the hard way what did not work, for example the practice of
sending out small armored `penny packets’ in the 1965 war, which were
chewed up by superior Pakistani Patton tanks, and also successful
innovations like using jeep mounted recoilless guns to hit the bulkier
and less maneuverable Pakistani tanks in the same war. Chauhan would
have to come up with his own tricks to help the Arjun fight and win.
The eight enemy tanks came over the sand dunes, looking like some
primeval monsters in the afternoon sun. They were coming in a
horizontal formation, all tanks abreast, so that all could fire at the same
time, thus maximizing the impact of the first salvo. As they closed to
2600 yards, Chauhan bellowed out his command.
`Break formation'
The ten tanks wheeled around, four of them breaking right, four left,
and two including Chauhan's tank backing up slowly.
As the enemy tanks closed to 2500 yards, Chauhan's tanks discharged
their smoke canisters. Almost instantly, the area around them was
obscured in smoke. The enemy Arjuns had thermal imaging systems, and
could still `see' Chauhan's tanks, though this did make the task tougher.
The enemy tanks had now been forced to break ranks, and thus had
already lost the advantage of a massed first salvo. Their tanks were now
seeking out individual targets and they began `firing'. The first salvo hit
just two of Chauhan's tanks that were now almost in firing range. Before
the enemy could `reload' and `fire', Chauhan's tanks had entered firing
range. Now the playing field had been leveled.
By the time it was called off, the overall scorecard read five losses for
Chauhan's tanks versus seven kills. It was an outstanding performance.
Will this be enough?

***

Khosla turned to his service chiefs, `You guys have been itching to get
at the terrorist camps in Pakistan Occupied Kashmir for years. Now's
your chance. Give it a day. We'll make a last ditch effort to talk to Illahi, If
things don't work out- we take out the bases in PoK. I don't want to wait
around for them to attack us. Also, let's put our forces on war alert- let's
not be caught by surprise now. We've been lucky to get the kind of
advance warning we've got. This is bad- but its probably a bad plan on
his part- he can't use nukes against our cities either now that he's
internationalized it all, and you guys have been telling me that in a
conventional war, we won't have to sweat much, right? '
It was the Army Chief, Baldev Randhawa, who spoke. A known hawk,
he had played a key role in the recent modernization efforts of the Indian
forces, in his capacity as Chief of Defense Staff. This was something
pioneered in 2002 to bring all services under one command, to better
facilitate joint operations and resource allocation. `It's not that simple.
First, a lot of our reserves are getting tied up in controlling the riots- our
police forces just aren't trained or equipped to handle this kind of mess.
So on the ground, our sheer edge in numbers will not be as big as it may
look on paper. Also the whole equation could be upset if the Saudis come
in, as our intelligence reports have been suggesting. A couple of
squadrons of F-15s, a couple of AWACS and a few regiments of M1s and
we're not looking at anything like a decisive qualitative edge either.'
`We’ll also need to be very careful about which camps we hit. A lot of
these are being used as fucking `refugee camps’. One dead civilian and
Ilahi will be shitting all over us again’.
Once again, Khosla was glad he had chosen the straight talking
Punjabi to this top post.
`Joshi, what's the analysis of the Saudi involvement?'
`Sir, it's a bit hazy. We know PAF pilots have been flying with the
Saudis for years. But there's no evidence of any direct involvement. Of
course, that could change with a war. The good news is that the Saudis
don't have the airlift capability to get much material into Pakistan- so
they'll probably have to come by sea. And we've got the Vikramaditya
waiting off Karachi.'
`The Pakis have been training a lot on Saudi F-15s. Our Israeli friends
tell us they've eyeballed several F-15s with Pakistani pilots running
interference over Gaza. The M1s and anything else would have to come
by sea, but the F-15s could just fly over' The Air Chief surmised.
While the emergence of the Emir meant the immediate removal of US
bases and a stoppage of Western arms supplies, the Saudis retained an
impressive arsenal, F-15s, Tornadoes and E-3 AWACS, largely
maintained and often flown by PAF personnel. The new regime had taken
a hard line on Israel and its fighters had flown several missions in
support of the Hamas and Hizbollah militants against Israeli targets. The
Israeli Air Force had quickly asserted itself, and the Israeli threat of
nuclear retaliation had restored an uneasy peace. But the West Bank
remained a powder keg, waiting to explode.
Most disturbingly, the new Saudi regime had aligned strongly with
Pakistan’s cause in Kashmir, and there were reports of financial support
to the terrorists in Kashmir. The Emir had often spoken of supporting
fellow Muslims in any armed struggle, and now India was faced with the
real possibility of Saudi armed intervention.
When the others left, Khosla turned to Joshi.
`Your friend the Patriot is awfully quiet.'
Joshi wiped his forehead before answering. Khosla had initially found
this mannerism very disconcerting, but over time had come to accept it
as another of Joshi's idiosyncrasies.
`Sir, I think he's close to finding out something concrete. His last
transmission indicates that he may be on the verge of getting some solid
info. I'll keep you posted.'
`Joshi, he better deliver now. We’re literally walking blind. Illahi has
already sprung several surprises on us, and I’m getting a bit sick of it.’

***



EIGHT

When the flag is unfurled in battle, all reason is in the trumpet.
- Ukrainian proverb

Sonaina was shocked when she entered the dining room. She had
gone out to the shop on the base to buy some things, while Singh had
stayed behind.
The dining table was covered with an embroidered tablecloth and had
a decanter with a bottle of champagne in it. Singh was standing beside
the table, a single red rose in his hand. He had a shy grin on his face. She
knew well that this was about an extravagant show of emotion as he
could have ever mustered.
`Happy anniversary, darling.'
Sonaina began to say something, but then just ran over to him and
hugged him, `Thanks, this is wonderful.' She tried to say something
more, but was stopped by Singh’s kiss.
As they sat down with a glass of champagne each, she sensed that
Singh was unusually tense.
`Nuts, what's wrong, there's going to be war, isn't it?'
`Looks like it, the way things are going.'
Sonaina got up and walked quietly to the window. From there she
could catch a glimpse of a brace of fighters taking off for patrol duty over
the Ambala base.
`What's wrong, Sonaina?'
`Nothing.'
`Look Sonaina, let's not spoil this evening. I'm a fighter pilot- war's
part of the deal. If a war does break out, I will be flying in combat. It's
what I have been trained for all these years- and it's what my duty is.'
`I know it’s just that....'
Singh walked up to his wife and held her shoulders.
`Hey, don't worry- nothing's going to happen to me- I'm the best.'
Sonaina turned around and looked into his eyes. She knew him far too
well not to realize just how tense he really was about the whole thing.
Knowing that she could lose the man she loved so much in a split-second
made her cherish what she had all the more. She wished she could just
hold him like this forever, but part of her remembered what her mother
had told her. Sonaina’s father had been in the Army, and as he left for a
tour of duty in Kashmir, her mother had told her, ‘Every soldier is scared,
but can act despite his fears because he knows others count on him- the
men next to him, and his family back home. You are a part of his unit,
whether you realize it or not. Just as your father’s fellow soldiers
wouldn’t ever show weakness, I can’t either.’
Back then, Sonaina hadn’t thought much of it, but now she wished she
could be as brave as her mother. The phone’s ringing interrupted them.
Singh walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver.
`Yes Sir, I'll be there immediately.'
Singh rushed into the bedroom. Sonaina followed him to see him
taking out his uniform.
`It's begun, hasn't it?'

***

The CNN reporter was standing in front of what could have passed for
a refugee camp anywhere in the world. The same symbols stood out-
lines of hungry men, women and children; broken down shacks; and a
few tents.
`This is Joanne Crewes reporting from just inside Pakistan Occupied
Kashmir from one of the many refugee camps that have sprung up over
the last two weeks since the outbreak of communal violence in India’.
The camera panned to a woman breast-feeding a sickly thin child, and
then to an angry looking man who spoke in Urdu. The subtitles said it all,
`I have lost everything- my home, my land. Will nobody help us poor
Muslims’
`What was an initial trickle quickly grew to at least a thousand
refugees a day crossing into Pakistan Occupied Kashmir, according to
the Red Crescent, which is operating here with participation from the
Pakistani government and other NGOs. As soon as the communal
situation seemed to go out of hand in India, the Pakistan government
had announced that they would take care of any Muslim family that
wanted to cross the border. And many have taken them up on the offer.
Braving rough terrain, trigger-happy Indian security forces, and
communal carnage, many families have been arriving at these hastily set
up refugee camps, hoping for a better life.’
The camera panned again to show several trucks, offloading sacks.
`This is Joanne Crewes signing off from a refugee camp near the
Kashmir border’.
`Miss, your time is up. You must leave.’ The local Pakistani
government official- who could remember his designation anyways- had
come up.
`You know, we never did get a look at the far side of the camp. We
would like to shoot that as well’.
`Not possible, Miss. That is sensitive area- where the women’s
quarters are- many are scared, some have suffered rape in India. I don’t
think it is right time yet for foreigners to intrude. We can go later.’
Joanne did not press the matter. She had gotten what she needed-
some general feel-good stuff to fill in the `human interest’ dimension of
the latest crisis in the subcontinent. Now she needed to go and get some
beer- damn the camp and damn these crazy people.

***

The four Mi-35 attack helicopters swept low over the hillocks. Heavily
armored and packing awesome firepower, the Hinds had for over twenty
years formed the backbone of Russia's helicopter striking might. At this
high altitude, their performance was far from optimal. Indeed, more than
a decade ago, India had not even been able to use them in the rarefied
battlefields of Kargil. The peaks here were not so high- and the IAF had
elected to use the Hinds. These Hinds had since then been
comprehensively updated with Israeli help- resulting in a hybrid that
combined Russian ruggedness and simplicity with advanced Western
avionics and counter-measures.
Their targets were a group of two camps about twenty kilometers
inside Pakistan Occupied Kashmir. Satellite photographs had identified
these as two of the likely staging grounds for any expected Mujahideen
offensive, and MiG-25 recon flights showing a concentration of trucks
and rocket launchers over the past two days had confirmed this
suspicion.
Across the border, Indian helicopters and attack planes were flying
towards over twenty such targets, hugging the ground to avoid radar
detection. Indian fighters flew in lazy circles near the border, ready to
jump into the fray if any PAF fighters attacked the choppers before they
got to their targets.
The four Hinds split into two ship elements, each targeting one camp.
The two camps were barely five kilometers from each other.
`Target now four klicks away'
In the dark, there was very little visible to the naked eye, but the lead
pilot could just make out the tell- tale heat concentrations on his thermal
imaging system, which indicated a large concentration of men and
vehicles. The green light of his instrument panels cast an eerie glow
around the cockpit.
`Fire on three. Go for the defensive guns first.' As they closed in, they
now had a much better view of the camps, and could just make out the
silhouettes of the truck mounted anti-aircraft guns guarding the camps.
Refugee camps, my ass. The lead pilot was now almost within range.
`Three'
`Two'
`Fire'
The night sky was illuminated briefly by streaks of fire as four AT-6
Spiral anti-tank missiles left each Hind, flying at near supersonic speed
towards the camps. The first salvo caught the Mujahideen completely by
surprise and knocked out most of the rudimentary anti-aircraft defenses.
After this, it was like a Turkey shoot.
The Hinds overflew the camps once to identify what looked like the
juiciest targets, and then wheeled around for their second pass. The
second salvo of missiles took out four rocket launchers near the camps.
The bewildered Mujahideen began firing wildly in the sky with their
assault rifles, most of the 7.62mm bullets bouncing harmlessly off the
thickly armored Hinds.
`Now for the dirty part. Red One cover me, I'm going in for my run.'
Many of the older Mujahideen soldiers had literally frozen with fright.
This attack bought back memories of Hind attacks by the Soviets in
Afghanistan. As many of the Mujahideen had said at that time, `We are
not afraid of the Russians, but we are afraid of their helicopters.'
The Mujahideen squad leader picked up his LMG and rushed out, firing
at the fast approaching Indian helicopters. It was a brave but futile
gesture. The lead Hind emptied its rocket pods- firing 256 rockets in a
deadly salvo that could saturate two football fields. By the time the
second Hind came in for its run, there was not much left to kill. With over
a thousand high explosive rockets hitting the two camps, there was not
much place to hide for those on the ground. It was not pretty or fancy,
but it did what the Hind was designed to do- deal out sledgehammer
blows of death.
`Let's go home. The PAF will be up now.'
The four Hinds regrouped for their dangerous flight back to Indian
airspace. They left behind smoldering ruins that marked where the
camps had once been. As they left the target area, they could still hear the
occasional secondary explosion from hits to ammunition dumps and fuel
tanks.
Two Mirage 5s of the PAF had taken off from a nearby base. Lacking
sophisticated night fighting equipment and only rudimentary radar, the
Mirages were not exactly top-of the line fighters, but they were the only
ones around and would have to do.
`Shit, we've got company.' The radar warning receivers on the Hinds
had just lit off.
The lead pilot looked up at the night sky, trying to catch a glimpse of
their attackers when a streak of light off to the port side caught his
attention.
`Missile away, missile away. Evasive maneuvers!'
The bulky Hinds jinked and dove for the ground as an AIM-9
Sidewinder streaked towards them.
`We're dead now!'
The Indian helicopter pilots breathed a collective sigh of relief as the
missile missed and hit the ground. Even the sensitive seeker of the
American designed missile had been fooled by the combination of
defensive flares the Indian Hinds had discharged and interference from
ground clutter.
 The Indian pilots looked up, searching for their attackers and saw two
dagger shaped planes diving after them, belching fire from their cannon.
They braced themselves, cursing the heavy armor and bulky build of the
Hinds, which while offering superlative protection against small arms
fire, meant that the Hind was one of the least maneuverable aircraft
flying.
A split second later, the Mirages were snuffed out of the sky, exploding
in fireballs as if they had been swatted away by a giant unseen hand.
`Red squad, this is Eagle flight, you're clear. Come on home. Good job
on the bases.'
The pilot spoke over the radio to the other Hind pilots, `I don't know
about you, but I'm never going to make any jokes about those fighter
jocks again.'
Eagle was the call sign for a pair of MiG-29 Fulcrums covering the
escape of the Hinds.

***

Khosla was feeling distinctly uneasy about the upcoming meeting.
Though nearly ninety now, Tarapore still wielded considerable influence
and could literally decide the fate of Khosla's government. With several
seats in parliament, Tarapore's party commanded a lot of influence in
Khosla's coalition, with many of Khosla's ministers having started their
political careers with Tarapore.
The aging patriarch walked in with an amused expression on his face.
As usual, he was dressed in a spotless kurta pajama with a red shawl
draped across his frail shoulders.
`So Vivek, why do you have this old man flown down? I hope all is well.'
`Yes, Taraporeji, please have a seat. You may have heard about the
strikes in Kashmir. Looks like we're heading for war again.'
`I read about it- great work. I have been saying for years that we
should throw those dogs out of our land. But why do you want to see
me?'
`As you're probably aware, the riots are doing our cause a whole lot of
damage internationally, and also tying up reserves. If it comes to war,
we'll need all the troops we have at the front, not in our cities. Also the
only real way to ensure many Islamic countries don't side with Illahi is to
convince them that we have things under control.'
`I agree completely. These Muslim terrorists are causing great havoc.'
Khosla's patience snapped, as he got up. The pent up tension of the
past few days and the revulsion he had felt on seeing the tape Pooja had
given him now exploded with a fury.
`Let's cut the crap, okay. You know that only the initial strikes were by
terrorists- they wanted to provoke you and your thugs- and you played
right into their hands.'
Stunned by this outburst, Tarapore took a long time before
composing himself and answering. When he spoke, it was with a calm
assurance and confidence.
`Vivek, you have much to learn yet. You are in power because of us- so
don't bite the hand that feeds you.'
`You really believe that? God, I almost feel sorry for you. How do you
think the people would react if the full extent of your involvement in
these riots became known? I may lose my office- but you would be
finished!'
Tarapore's expression was now even more smug.
`Vivek, everyone cries themselves hoarse about these riots- and our
supposed role in them. How come nobody ever has any concrete proof?'
`You want proof? Here, watch this tape!'
Tarapore sat down, unable to speak, as the tape played out in front of
his eyes.
`Vivek, I....I had no idea that Vinay would go so far..'
`I don't care what you thought. I've had enough of this. Call off your
thugs- or I go public with everything I know.'
`But....I can't...'
Tarapore's confident demeanor had now disappeared. What was left
was the frightened old man that he really was.
Khosla glared down at Tarapore, who was now gripping the arms of
the sofa, as if they could in any way support him.
`I get it. You really are pathetic- you're afraid you won't be able to
control Sethi. Well, then I'll just have a word with him and deal with him
myself. But I want to make my expectation clear, you'll issue a public
statement condemning some of your party members for inciting the
riots, and assure the people that you'll do everything possible to control
the violence now. If I hear of any more of your people being involved in
the riots, I'm sending the army after you and your goons. Those goons
may think they’re tough butchering unarmed women and children. I’d
like to see them react to the business end of an Army commando’s knife.'
`Vivek, you're making a mistake.'
`Just call it off- now.'
As the old man walked out, Khosla sat down quietly. He could hear his
heart beating loudly and waited for a long while to compose himself. It
had been a long time since he had lost his temper like that. He knew that
he had probably destroyed his political career. He knew many in his
party would question his decision and he would have virtually no chance
of leading his party again. Yet, he felt satisfied. As a young man, he had
harbored idealistic visions of what he would do in politics, only to see all
of them shattered over the years. Now was probably his last chance to
make up for all those lost years.

***

Tariq was standing before Illahi, and his expression said it all.
`Well, what's up, Tariq? Why are you standing there as if you've seen a
ghost?'
`Sir, the Indians have hit our bases in Azad Kashmir.'
Illahi winced and put down the cup in his hand.
`The bastards have more balls than I thought. How bad is it?'
`The freedom fighters put up a brave fight, but the Indians
overwhelmed us with their helicopters. We've taken high losses in the
North and South. In the Central zone, we seem to have gotten away
lightly- we got warning from observers on the ground in Kashmir and
our people were able to disperse and take cover.'
`And what was our Air Force doing with its shiny toys?', Illahi glared at
Karim.
Karim bristled at the public rebuke. But one thing he was not going to
stand was to have the competence of his officers and men questioned,
that too in front of a roughneck like Tariq, who was more of a thug than a
professional soldier.
 `Sir, the only fighters around were Mirages and Airguards. Both are
not exactly top of the line fighters now, and they were easy meat for the
Indian MiG-29s and Mirage 2000s. We lost seven fighters, and got two or
maybe three Indian ones. As I had already discussed with you, we
decided not to commit our F-16s given our critical spares situation and
held them back for defense of strategic targets.'
Illahi did not seem to mind Karim's talking back to him. His mind
seemed to be elsewhere. A twisted grin came over his face as he turned
towards Karim.
`Well, that will change soon, Karim. I'm activating Project Skywatch.
That should come as good news to you! Also let's move on the ground-
the Indians may have pre-empted us, but they don't know the full extent
of what we have in store for them. Now the Indians will get a nice
surprise!’

***

Raj Deora got up to stretch and ease the knots in his neck and
shoulders. With the escalating tensions and the recent air strikes, he
expected an upsurge in terrorist attacks in the Kashmir valley. And as the
Director General of Police, he was the one man responsible for civil
authority. The brief given to him had been simple- don’t let the army get
bogged down in civil affairs- we need every man to prepare for a border
conflict. That was easier said than done.
The Indian police was ill equipped to tackle the small bands of heavily
armed and motivated terrorists now striking across the valley. These
had usually seemed to be random attacks, but in the past few days, Deora
could discern a clear and frightening pattern. Suicide squads of two or
three terrorists were striking at rear echelon army units and key
officials- acts that in isolation did not mean much, but when added up,
painted a grim scenario, and reflected a conscious strategy to degrade
India’s ability to mount any meaningful campaign in the valley in case
war did break out. The papers were full of Pakistan lauding these `hot
blooded youth’ for rising up against oppression, but the Pakistani army
had been unusually silent for days now, with the usual cross border firing
slowing to a trickle.
 He looked at the intelligence reports in front of him, and they all told
one story. Militant strikes were intensifying exponentially following the
Indian air strikes, and critically, there were not just strikes aiming to
create terror, but well planned attacks against India’s security forces and
infrastructure.
Deora’s reverie was interrupted by loud shouting just outside his
office, followed almost immediately by the rattle of automatic rifle fire.
He knew something was very wrong, but he would not think of cowering
in his office for a minute, and waiting for the militants to come after him.
He pulled out his service revolver and rushed outside.
He froze on seeing his two guards lying in pools of blood, three
masked men standing over their bodies. He tried to raise his gun to fire,
but before he could do so, several dozen AK-47 shells tore through his
body.

***

The salvos of multi barreled rocket fire shattered the quiet of dawn as
rockets poured down on Indian positions. These Soviet era rocket
launchers had been painstakingly moved to the border, sometimes
under cover of `refugee aid convoys’ and sometime hidden under regular
army deployments. Now they gave the militants unprecedented
firepower against the Indians. The movement of men and small arms had
been much, much easier. Put together, there was now a small army at
Kashmir’s footsteps, a far cry from the small bands of militants India had
been used to fighting.
The Indians had been on a high state of alert, but had been expecting
human-wave type charges by the Mujahideen. They were really not
prepared for the heavy rocket fire the Mujahideen were now bringing to
bear from across the Line of Control. By the time the war was over, they
would learn to be surprised.
It was a picturesque location, and in more peaceful times, would have
been a tourist's paradise, with the clear lake and surrounding hills. Now
however, the only people around were a reinforced infantry platoon of
the Indian Army- about forty men.
Their mission was to report on Mujahideen movement across the
Jhangar bridge, which connected the narrow, rough road on the far side
of the lake to a concrete road which led straight to the town of Uri, less
than 10 kilometers from the Line of Control in Kashmir.
The Indians were lightly armed with assault rifles and one LMG.
Following the initial air strikes, the Indians did expect a counter-attack,
but believed these would be concentrated farther south, near Poonch,
which had been the scene of heavy fighting during the earlier India-
Pakistan wars or further north, nearer Kargil, which had been the scene
of vicious fighting in 1999. Reinforcements were on their way to the
bridge, but were still two days away, having been held up by a terrorist
attack that had destroyed two connecting bridges.
That was pretty much the story across Kashmir. Many frontline Indian
units had witnessed vicious, usually suicidal, strikes by small terrorist
groups. While the material damage caused, was in the larger scheme of
things, minimal, these tied up and distracted many units. The story was
even worse with the reserves and police units. The Police Headquarters
in Srinagar had been gutted in a rocket attack the day before, and many
senior officials assassinated in surgical strikes.
The Indian platoon could call upon artillery fire from a firebase twenty
kilometers away. However, this close to the border and given the heavily
forested terrain, it was doubtful whether they would get enough of an
advance warning to call upon any meaningful artillery support.
A whistling noise overhead alerted the Indian commander to the
attack and they had barely hunkered down in their bunkers as the
rockets exploded all around them. Within seconds of the salvo stopping,
nearly two hundred Mujahideen ran across the border towards the
Indian positions. About half of them went for the bridge; the others
engaged the Indian defenders.
It was an old fashioned infantry slugging match and the superior
training and discipline of the Indian Army soldiers was evident. The
Indians knew they were outnumbered badly, but instead of making a
stand at one place, began trading space for kills, moving from bush to
bush, one cover to another, inflicting casualties on the approaching
enemy.
The momentum of the attack had almost been broken when another
squad of Mujahideen appeared.
 The young Indian Lieutenant in charge had a clear choice, to retreat
and lose the bridge or to die trying to stop the attackers. A member of
the proud Jat regiment, the choice was simple. He ordered his men to fire
the last of their ammunition and then to follow him. He affixed his
bayonet and charged screaming his regimental war cry, followed by the
twenty surviving members of his platoon.
The Mujahideen were temporarily caught off guard and a half dozen
were killed at the ends of Indian bayonets, before their comrades
recovered and began fighting back.
The fierce hand-to-hand fighting lasted for all of five minutes, but the
outcome was obvious. Only in the movies do twenty men win against a
hundred.
By afternoon, a dozen trucks were crossing the bridge, each filled with
Mujahideen. The attack had happened so suddenly that the Indians could
not report the loss of the bridge and as the Indian artillery swung into
action, engaging other incursions across the valley, this critical opening
went unnoticed.
It was a brilliant tactic, as the Indians had never expected it. The past
conflict in Kargil had led the Indians to believe that any future incursion
would occur only in isolated mountain posts. But the near paralysis of
rear echelon units by superbly planned terrorist strikes, and the sudden
and brilliantly planned attack on the platoon had given the Mujahideen
an opening in much flatter terrain- and a road straight to a major town-
Uri.

***

It was an impressive fly past, and locals gathered around the base to
watch the procession of jets. One by one, the twin turbofan engines of the
jet fighters roared to life and lifted the fighters into the clear morning
sky. The silver darts flew due East.
By the end of the day, twenty-four F-15 Eagles and two E-3 AWACS
were ready for combat at Pakistani airfields.
At about the same time, a convoy of seven large container ships left
Jeddah, each carrying a large cargo, hidden under huge canvas sheets.

 ***

The WNS office was unusually quiet today, Pooja mused as she walked
in. Coming to office was not a phrase she would use, because for the last
one week, she had virtually been living out of office. Dasgupta had been
unusually nice, insisting that she go home the previous night to get some
sleep. Pooja figured he was just being grateful to her for not blowing the
Sethi story and also trying to be especially nice after Khosla had called
him, asking for Pooja's new appointment.
No sooner had she entered her cubicle that Rahul shouted out from
his desk, holding the newspaper up in the air.
`Boss, have you read the papers!'
Pooja did not have to even guess what he was talking about. Every
Indian newspaper was plastered with editorials raving about the Indian
government’s bold decision to launch air strikes across the Line of
Control, and a few articles talking about the vicious retaliation Indian
forces were facing across the LOC.
`Yeah, Rahul- war's happening. And guess what, we're going to be in
the middle of it.'
Rahul jumped over his desk to walk over to Pooja's cubicle, `What
does that mean?'
`This', Pooja handed over a print out.
`Wow! This is big. Part of the press corps accompanying the army!'
`Relax; we're not going to Kashmir. We're slotted with the 3rd
armored division in Rajasthan. I'm not too sure we'll see much action
down there.'
The last time things had gotten this hot- in Kargil- both sides had
balked at escalating the conflict to the plains- for fear of a nuclear
escalation. Pooja had a feeling it would be more of the same this time
around as well.
`Wow, man, tanks!'
Pooja looked up at Rahul and broke out laughing. Sometimes Rahul
really seemed like a ten year old kid.
`So, Boss, when do we leave?'
`Tomorrow.'

 ***



NINE

He will win, who prepared himself, takes the enemy unprepared.
- Sun Tzu

`How's it going?' It was a rhetorical question. Khosla knew the answer
well enough.
`We've badly underestimated the numbers of Mujahideen we could be
dealing with. Our latest estimates show at least forty thousand
mercenaries attacking the valley.'
Joshi did not look up from the intelligence report he held, knowing
that this failure was his. The Pakistanis had used a very clever plan of
bringing in Mujahideen to various villages in PoK over a period of at least
six months, so that the impression of a large-scale mobilization was
never created. Most of the Mujahideen were hardened soldiers, many
having fought the Soviets in the hills of Afghanistan over twenty years
ago, and more recently against the Americans. When it came time to
attack, it was relatively simple to gather these forces at short notice.
What they lacked in formal military training and discipline, they made up
in fanaticism and ruthlessness. Most of them actually believed they were
fighting a Holy War to liberate their brethren, and as any soldier would
confess- the most difficult man to defeat is the one who believes in his
cause. Added to that, the terrorist strikes in the valley itself were playing
havoc with Indian mobilization plans and rear echelon units.
The air chief spoke up, `Well sir, our attack aircraft are flying round
the clock- and the PAF hasn't really stepped in so far. Their Mirages and
Airguards took quite a beating in the first attacks on PoK. With this kind
of air superiority, I'm confident we can hold the Mujahideen. Its just a
matter of time before we can break the back of their offensive.'
`Also, there's no sign that the Pakistanis are planning to move their
regular forces in- they're mobilized and at a high state of alert- but are
showing no signs of crossing the border to help the Mujahideen. They
might be testing the waters with the Mujahideen- if these thugs do get a
breakthrough- regular troops may step in. On the other hand, if we can
really give the Mujahideen a bloody nose, the Pakistanis may just stay
out- saying these were youth who had raised the banner of revolt against
us.' Joshi did not have much confidence in his own intelligence
assessment, and it showed.
`I hope so, I just hope we do.'
What was left carefully unsaid was the fact that the Indians had
absolutely no forewarning of the kind of retaliation they were facing
both across the LOC and in the form of guerilla attacks within its own
territory.
Khosla took Joshi aside as the meeting got over.
`Well, what the hell is this Patriot up to? All we do is keep getting
surprised.'
`Sir, I really don't know- but my guess is information on the full
operation is restricted to only a small group- so he's taking longer to get
a lead. Also, remember Sir, now the stakes are much higher- its that
much easier for him to be exposed now. I would just give him some time.
We're passing on an urgent message for him detailing what we want-
let's hope that helps direct his efforts.'
`You know, Joshi- maybe I'm being too harsh on the poor guy. His life
must be one living hell- deep in their territory, forever in great danger.
What say we get him out sometime?'
`Its too late for that, Sir. He's too deeply entrenched- he'll just have to
stay there. It's a miracle he retained his loyalty after all these years.'

***

The room was sparsely furnished, with a small desk and chair and a
termite-ridden bookshelf. There were only a few dog-eared books on the
shelf, and an old fan creaked overhead, doing precious little to cool the
room. The board outside read `A.M.Malik and Company, Solicitors'. The
office had not been used for anything approaching the line of business
advertised, and indeed the firm made no efforts whatsoever to attract
any clients.
The man was sitting at the desk, hunched over a book, a magnifying
glass in hand. On closer inspection, the book looked like an ordinary
diary, with a page for each day, and indeed there were appointments and
reminders scribbled all over it. The only aberration was a small box at
the bottom of each page, which seemed to have a completely random
matrix of numbers and alphabets.
As the man looked at the matrix, he made notes on a separate page.
When he was through, he consulted his notes and wrote on a blank piece
of paper what would seem to be utter gibberish to a layman.
To the Patriot, however, this was a regular chore. Over the years, he
had repeated it every alternate day, without fail. It was a simple matter,
and after so many years, one would have thought that it would have
become a matter of little consequence for him. Nothing could be further
from the truth. He knew any carelessness or oversight would mean
death.
After the message was complete, he put the paper in an envelope and
sealed it. The diary went into a locked drawer and the Patriot went
outside.
The method the Patriot was about to use was one that dated back to
the earliest days of modern spy craft, and really reached high levels of
refinement during the Cold War. In this modern age of computers and
satellite communication, it seemed anachronistic, but it was probably
still the most secure means of communication. Each day brought a
different drop zone, along with a completely different code. All he had to
do was to use the code for that day to encode his message. Similarly, any
message to him would also come encoded using the same code. If there
were a change in the code or drop locations, the Patriot would find a new
diary in the mail. His employers believed in taking no chances
The Patriot got into his car and drove out of the ramshackle office
complex. As he drove, he kept looking at the rear view mirror. A layman
would have thought this unnecessary paranoia- but he knew better. He
was especially careful to stay within speed limits and obey all traffic
rules- the last thing a spy wants is to draw attention to himself. Unlike
their celluloid counterparts, who seemed to thrive on flashy cars, real life
spies usually presented a most mundane appearance. In the real world, it
is best to melt into the crowd.
The Patriot drove for about fifteen minutes, till he reached a small
cafe.
 He entered the place and sat down at a table, ordering a coffee. He
sipped on the cup while waiting for the designated time. There were a
dozen or so other people in the cafe. He scanned their faces- a young
mother with a child, two teenagers arguing over a cricket match, an old
man slurping his tea. It could be any one of them. Initially he had been
curious, but experience had taught him to ignore this- he did not need to
know who his contact would be.
At exactly ten-o clock, he got up and went to the restroom. Once
inside, he took the envelope out of his pocket and left it in the garbage
can. He looked around inside the can for a couple of seconds- there was
no message today.
He walked out, and left after paying the bill. As usual, he would have no
clue as to who would pick up his envelope.

***

The Indian Mi-35 had exhausted all its rockets and was now using its
machine guns to hunt the Mujahideen. Here, as in many other sectors in
the Central and Southern part of the valley, the insurgents had made
initial gains and it was taking considerable effort to hold them. Indian
artillery and air power were taking their toll, but in this mountainous
area, it was relatively easy to take cover from air attacks. To make life
worse, some of the Mujahideen were carrying Stinger missiles, part of a
small stockpile left over from the Afghan war. Old and badly maintained,
they were not a great threat, but still made low level flying that much
more dangerous, as another Hind had found out earlier in the day.
The PAF had still not made its presence felt in a big way, much to the
surprise of the Indians, and the IAF had a relatively unchallenged control
of the skies over Kashmir.
`Thunderbolt, I'm out of here. You guys take over.' The Hind pilot
turned his machine around and headed home, knowing he'd be up again
soon.
`Thunderbolt' was a flight of four Indian Jaguar strike aircraft. Flying
low from the North, they passed the Hind and headed for a large
concentration of Mujahideen. Here the Mujahideen had set up their
rocket launchers and were using them to support incursions further to
the North. The Thunderbolts’ mission was to take these launchers out.
Each Jaguar carried two rocket pods and two 500lb bombs- enough
firepower to easily knock the Mujahideen launchers out, and have some
left over for any Mujahideen left in the open. They were operating
without fighter escort, as each carried two Magic AAMs for self-defense
and the Jaguar's low-level performance was judged enough to enable it to
evade most Pakistani fighters, except the F-16. And there were no F-16s
to be seen over Kashmir.
The Jaguars represented the cutting edge of India’s strike aircraft,
along with the MiG-27. Jointly designed by the United Kingdom and
France, more than 100 Jaguars had come to be license produced in India.
Armed with relatively advanced sensors and a respectable weapons load,
the Jaguar was ideally suited for the mission being currently tasked to
the `Thunderbolts’.
`Thunderbolts, I have three bandits closing in you at 800, bearing one-
nine-zero, range fifty'.
The warning came from the Indian early warning platform- a
converted Il-76 transport acquired from Russia almost eight years ago
and subsequently modified greatly with Israeli avionics- notably the
Phalcon early warning radar system. Nowhere as capable as the
American E-3, it still gave the Indians an AWACS capability that neither
Pakistan nor China had.
Fifty kilometers was safe, the lead Jaguar pilot judged, doing quick
calculations in his head. The best missile the PAF had, the AIM-9L, had a
range of just about fifteen kilometers, and this close to the target, the
Jaguars could get at least one salvo of rockets off before the PAF fighters
got in range.
They could clearly make out the launchers and were about to go into
their attack dives when their radar warning receivers lit off, indicating
that enemy radars had locked on to their planes. Then the AWACS
controller's voice rang out in their ears.
`Missile away. Repeat missile away. Bandits have fired multiple
missiles. Range twenty-four.'
Twenty-four kilometers! What the hell was going on here! The IAF
planes were dedicated strike aircraft, and while loaded with
sophisticated avionics to track and destroy ground targets, they had no
air-to-air radar. They would just have to rely on the AWACS to judge
where the missiles would come from and then their limited
countermeasures to evade the missiles.
The nine AMRAAM missiles streaked towards the Indian fighters at
over twice the speed of sound. Highly advanced radar homing weapons,
they were among the best air to air missiles in the world. The Saudis had
used their oil money to buy several hundred before the coup and now
they were being put to the test.
The Indians turned and dove to avoid the missiles, releasing chaff-
strips of aluminum that would give off a radar return- to distract the
missiles. At such low altitudes, some of the AMRAAMs got distracted by
ground clutter and lost their locks, exploding harmlessly into the ground
and a couple went after the chaff. But others went on towards their
targets. Two Indian Jaguars fell to the first salvo. The attackers closed in
to engage the remaining Indian fighters with their shorter ranged
Sidewinders and cannon.
The lead Indian pilot was no stranger to air combat, having flown in
MiG-23s before this assignment, and he knew the dice were loaded
against them. Clearly the PAF had got longer ranged missiles for their
planes, probably F-16s, from somewhere. Well, now was his chance to
find out if the F-16 was as good as people said it was. He wished he were
back in his old MiG-23. Then he would take on the PAF fighters on more
equal terms, with long-range missiles of his own. But he just had to make
do with what he had- which did not seem too much right about now.
The five fighters crisscrossed the sky, jockeying for position to fire
their missiles or cannon, in a ritual going back to World War One. Only
now the speed was many times faster, as was the death.
The lead Jaguar pilot managed to turn his fighter inside one of the
attackers and would not have missed had he not nearly jumped out of his
seat in surprise. He was looking at an F-15 Eagle painted in PAF colors!
The second Jaguar was not so lucky. An F-15 got on its tail and fired a
Sidewinder that exploded the Jaguar in a fireball. Three to one and
against F-15s were odds only the bravest and craziest Jaguar pilot would
take on. The Indian pilot dove for the ground and sped towards his base,
his engines on full afterburners. He got back with a nearly empty fuel
tank and an incredible story to tell.

***

Singh walked to his bedroom to see Sonaina indulging in her favorite
pastime, surfing the Internet.
He had just come back from a briefing on the sudden appearance of F-
15s over Kashmir. IAF planners had always considered Saudi
intervention a possibility, and now their worst-case scenarios were
being played out in real life. There was no plane in the Indian inventory
which had a more than fair chance of taking on well flown F-15s other
than the Sukhoi-30s, and the task of neutralizing this clear and present
danger had fallen to Singh’s squadron. Singh sat down on the bed behind
Sonaina. He knew the tension and fear she felt, and wanted to make it as
easy as possible for her.
`Sonaina, I'll be gone for a few days.'
`Where?'
`Srinagar. The squadron’s being moved there.'
`When do you go?'
`This evening. Just pack some stuff for me, will you?'
`So soon?'
She said nothing more, but her moist eyes said it all.
`Take care, Nuts.'
Singh took her in his arms.
`I will, you know me.'

***

The first thing that hit Pooja as she stepped out of the train was the
heat. Even in the evening, Bikaner was like a furnace compared to
Mumbai. She was dressed in what Rahul had mockingly referred to as the
`war correspondent's uniform'- khaki shorts and a white blouse with her
rucksack on her back. The two of them looked around for a few minutes
till they saw a tall and stocky man in uniform with a placard bearing their
names.
`Hello, I'm Pooja Bhatnagar and this is Rahul Asthana.'
`Good evening, I'm Naik Vijay Tonk. Please come with me.'
 They set off in a battered army jeep, with Pooja sitting in the front
with the Naik at the wheels. In the bumpy two-hour trip to the base, the
army man did not utter more than one sentence, completely frustrating
Rahul's attempts at conversation. Pooja did all she could to prevent
herself from laughing at Rahul's discomfiture.
Pooja marveled at the raw, seemingly unspoilt beauty of the desert
that they were driving through. As far as the eye could see, the desert
sands stretched out like a never-ending sea.
Her reverie was interrupted by a thundering noise overhead. Caught
off guard, she looked to her right to see a gigantic helicopter, carrying
what looked like a big cannon hung from a harness underneath it. The
chopper soon disappeared over the horizon. Pooja observed that Tonk
was also headed in the same general direction.
The first signs that they were approaching their destination came in
the form of a few armored vehicles by the side of the road. One had
apparently broken down, and men were gathered around it. Tonk
stopped the jeep to offer them a lift, but they insisted that the vehicle
would be up and running soon.
They arrived at a rather forbidding compound. The total area must
have been over a hundred acres with a huge gate manned by armed
guards and brick walls and barbed wire all around. They entered the
compound and drove for nearly a kilometer on what seemed to be a road
laid in the middle of the desert.
Their journey ended at a group of buildings, one of which had a
regimental crest on it.
`Wow, you could have a football stadium, a cricket field, and still have
some space left over in here', Rahul remarked as they got out of the jeep.
They were met by a young officer at the entrance to a building labeled
`Officer's Mess'.
The officer was not very tall or particularly good-looking, but there
was something about his eyes that spoke of a sharpness which he
displayed when he wanted to. He had a thin moustache and stood
ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back.
`Good evening, my name is Colonel Dev Chauhan. Welcome to our
home. Tonk will show you to your room, please freshen up and join me
and our division's commanding officer, Brigadier Sidhu, for dinner in the
mess at twenty one hundred.'
`God, he talks like a guy out of a bad war movie', Rahul commented
laconically as they were led down the hall by the ever-silent Tonk.

***

The war was not going too well for India. While the air strikes in PoK
had made an impact on the extent to which the Mujahideen could sustain
an offensive, a major breakthrough had been achieved by the Mujahideen
with the capture of the bridge leading to Uri. Once Uri fell, the raiders
would have a clear path to the major towns of Baramula and the Sopore.
If they managed to get as far as Baramula, Srinagar would be just about
fifty kilometers away.
They were now less than ten kilometers away from the town, with
only an Indian battalion between them. They seemed to have stopped
momentarily without really crossing the LOC substantially to regroup
and reinforce their positions before launching any attack. Word was that
their initial attack against a single platoon had met with extremely heavy
casualties. The Indian officer in charge of the platoon was already being
recommended for a Param Vir Chakra, the highest gallantry award. Only
one Indian soldier, a badly wounded rifleman, had escaped the carnage,
and on his discovery by some sympathetic villagers, had revealed the
story of the platoon’s last stand. Heroic as their stand had been, it was
only a matter of time before the mujahideen felt confident enough to
march onto Uri. A few rockets had already landed in the town, sending
panicked townsfolk streaming out for the perceived safety of Baramula.
This had in fact unintentionally slowed down Indian reinforcements by
clogging the poor roads leading to the town.
While regular Pakistani troops were yet to enter Kashmir, they were
providing reconnaissance and artillery support. And of course, the entry
of the F-15s had evened the balance in the air over Kashmir. The F-15s
had made an immediate impact on the air war over Kashmir. On the first
day, six Indian attack aircraft were shot down, with not a single F-15 loss.
The F-15 had been for almost three decades the unquestioned king of the
skies, till the even more sophisticated F-22 supplanted it in American
service, and late model Russian Sukhois began to approach it in terms of
combat capability.
`So what now, gentlemen? What is our assessment of the situation in
Kashmir?'
`Sir, we're holding in all areas except in the Uri sector.'
`Well, what about Uri?', the Prime Minister growled at his Chief of
Defense Staff.
`The town is pretty exposed, and if the Mujahideen capture it, it would
provide an ideal staging ground for a large scale offensive by regular
Pakistani troops as it would give them a reasonably secure bridgehead
for a push on to Srinagar. Our reserves are not mobilizing nearly as fast
as we had hoped- all across Kashmir, terrorists are carrying out hit and
run attacks, which are tying down our reserve units. 1st Battalion, 4th
Infantry Division, currently occupies Uri. Major Rahman, a highly
decorated soldier with lots of experience in Siachen, heads it. But they'll
be up against dreadful odds.'
`Well, they'll just have to hold till we can get more people up there.
What about the Air Force- why don't we just bomb the Mujahideen
before they get to Uri?'
`It's not that simple. We estimate a full squadron plus of Saudi F-15s
taking part in the air war- we should thin them down- we've committed
our Su-30s to the air battle- but I'm not sure we'll regain air superiority
in time. To add to the problems, the PAF seems to have also got some
AWACS- that has more than neutralized the advantage our own AWACS
gave us. To add to the issue, the Mujahideen are just a day or less away
from Uri, and we'll never get ground reinforcements in time- the only
way is to air-drop supplies and troops. And there's not much chance of
that with the F-15s around', the Air Chief was clearly not having one of
his best days.
`But Sir, maybe we can leave Uri and pull back and defend Baramula.
By that time, we would have enough forces to make a stand’.
`What the HELL!’
Everyone in the room, most of all the quiet Chief of Air Staff who had
ventured the suggestion, was taken totally aback by this uncharacteristic
outburst by Khosla.
`Look guys, things may not be looking too great now. But one thing we
cannot afford to do is lose confidence. If we give up on Uri today,
tomorrow we’ll rationalize the surrender of Baramula, and the day after
that, Srinagar. We have to take a stand somewhere, and Uri is as good a
place as any. I don’t want us to focus our energies on plans for surrender-
lets all commit to holding Uri and do everything we damn well can to
make it happen. This is not just moving chess pieces on a board- this is
also about the signals we send to the enemy. If we embolden them now
by letting Uri fall, we will enter a downward spiral we may never get out
of. Now Joshi, damn the Saudis- are they getting involved in any other
way?'
`Sir, satellite photos show a convoy of 7-8 ships in the Gulf- we're not
sure where they're headed, or what they're carrying- but we'll keep an
eye on them.'
`Well, sink those bastards if they so much as get near Karachi- and I
want those F-15s out of the air- commit all our Sukhois if you need to-
but do it. The only way I see our saving Uri is if the IAF can get some
semblance of air superiority over the area again so that we can air-drop
reinforcements and supplies.'
`What's happening on the internal scenario?', this time Khosla, his
hand still in a cast, addressed the Home Minister.
`The riots have more or less ended. But the loss of life is catastrophic-
we estimate over 3000 dead. It's hard to gauge public opinion- things are
just moving too fast. But in a way, the attacks in Kashmir are good- it
should make people pull together, which would help in healing the
wounds of the violence. What’s more worrying now is the spate of
terrorist attacks in Kashmir- we never imagined it could get so bad. It
seems they have been infiltrating small groups of fighters over the last
six months to a year, and have now built up to a total of at least five
thousand foreign mercenaries in the valley. That’s more than twice the
average number in the nineties.'
Khosla grimaced. He had no idea that the death toll would be so high.
`What are we doing about Sethi?'
`Sir, he's been arrested on charges of incitement, but will get bail
soon.'
Khosla paused for a while and then quickly made up his mind. To hell
with it- the bastard takes part in a massacre like this and thinks he can
get away.
 `Meet me after this meeting- I have something that should ensure he
stays in jail.'
`Okay. In the meanwhile- let's give our friends in Pakistan something
to think about- if we look like we're going to lose Uri or if regular Pak
troops enter Kashmir, I want an attack in the plains. Can we do it?'
`I was waiting for when you would say that, Sir. I have a plan', and the
Army Chief took out a thick wad of slides.

***

Dinner in the Army mess had been a formal affair, and the two
journalists had been introduced to the officers. This was followed by a
sumptuous meal, which Rahul had dug into with gusto. There was a lot of
liquor flowing as well, and Rahul found his match in the Brigadier.
Pooja had been trying to talk to the young Colonel who had greeted
them, but found herself getting turned off by his aloof, and almost rude
behavior. The garrulous Sikh Brigadier more than made up for Chauhan's
lack of conversation, and when he finally left, it seemed that an unnatural
quiet had descended on the room. Rahul did not notice it too much, as he
figured he now had all the alcohol at the table to himself. Pooja, by far the
more extroverted of the two, felt extremely awkward just sitting there,
watching the man eat. She made a few more attempts at small talk, but
the Colonel kept sitting, stabbing at his food, and rarely saying anything.
Rahul had long given up attempts at conversation, but Pooja had been
more persistent. Finally she did get him to open up, but after a few
minutes of talking, she realized she liked the Colonel far better when he
kept his trap shut.
Rahul had been watching the exchange for ten minutes now. What had
started as a general discussion on the role of the press was now taking a
most personal turn. The Colonel, who had been the epitome of civility,
had taken on a more hostile air after Pooja had implied that government
agencies, including the army, were always afraid of the press coming
close to them, as they feared their misdemeanors would be exposed.
`Look, Miss Bhatnagar, I did not ask for you to be here. If there is war,
it's a job for soldiers and having you people around will just hinder us....'
`Wait a minute, what you're trying to say is that you don't want a
woman around when you men go out to play with your big guns.'
`Miss Bhatnagar, I'll be civil and polite because I've been ordered to
have you around. Things are going to get very dangerous, and I just want
you two to stick close to me. I hope that's clear. Now, if you'll excuse me,
I'll take leave of you.'
Chauhan got up and walked out of the mess room, leaving a fuming
Pooja and a bemused Rahul behind.
`Jerk. MCP jerk!'
`Cool it, Boss. He seems kind of okay to me. Probably never stepped
out of a tank, so doesn't know much how to interact with humans. Plus
you weren't exactly all grace and charm yourself.'
`I still think he's a jerk.'
`Yeah, he's the first guy I've seen who didn't start drooling the
moment he saw you', Rahul said, grinning from ear to ear.
As Pooja left for her room, she wondered just how much truth there
was in what Rahul had just said.

***



TEN

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A
lonely impulse of delight, Drove to this tumult in the clouds.
- W.B.Yeats, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

Singh leveled his Sukhoi at 14,000 feet. He and his wingman were
flying top cover for a flight of MiG-27s on an attack mission against
Mujahideen positions.
So far the air war over Kashmir had been a seesaw battle. The F-15s
had ensured that Indian attack aircraft could no longer attack targets at
will. However, the advent of Indian Sukhois and MiG-29s had evened the
balance in the air. Now it was a matter of who won mastery over the
skies. Two pilots from Singh's squadron had already seen combat
against F-15s, and one had scored a kill. In the early combats, the relative
merits of the different aircraft involved were becoming apparent. At low
speed dogfights, the MiG-29 was more maneuverable than either the Su-
30 or F-15. The two larger aircraft scored over the MiG in terms of their
longer endurance and longer ranged radar. Overall, the numbers were so
similar that in air combat, it really boiled down to pilot skill and tactics
more than anything else.
Singh had his powerful Zhuk intercept radar off- he was relying on his
radar warning receivers and the AWACS flying a hundred kilometers
behind his flight to warn him of any attacking aircraft. Lighting off his
powerful radar would be like shining a flashlight in the dark to find a
burglar. You may see him eventually, but the light from your torch would
be seen first. Plus his fighter was equipped with a fairly decent Infra-Red
Search and Tracking Set, which would enable him to `passively’ pick up
heat emissions from enemy aircraft without turning his own `lights’ on.
`Two bandits- forty kilos out, bearing one-seven-eight, speed five
hundred'. The AWACS radar operator's voice crackled through Singh's
headset. Singh's navigator and weapon's officer- Flt. Lt. Nitin Goel,
sitting behind Singh, spoke up, `Time to play, boss'.
 `Yeah, turn on the lights'.
Singh and Goel were a study in contrasts and complemented each
other beautifully. Singh was, for a fighter pilot, quite introverted. He
believed in being thoughtful and systematic about everything he did.
Many of his friends wondered how he had ever managed to get Sonaina,
who had broken many a young pilot's heart. He felt really at home only in
the air- and he was acknowledged as one of the best pilots in the IAF in
air combat. As a purely `stick and rudder’ man, there were probably
others in the air force as gifted as Singh, but few had his tactical sense,
and that unique killer instinct that sets a great pilot apart from the other.
Goel, four years younger than Singh, was a maverick- who believed in
living life as he wanted. He was the one to hit the bars first, and the last
to leave- usually helped along by Singh. As a teenager, he had often got
into trouble by hacking into computer systems. But his brash and
maverick behavior hid a genius in electronics. It was said he never
stayed with one girlfriend for too long, as they could never match up to
his computer. Sitting in front of the Flanker's sophisticated radar and
weapons control computer, Goel was an ideal complement to Singh.
Goel turned on the Flanker's radar on air intercept mode and the
targets showed up immediately- closing rapidly at the two Indian
Sukhois. These were represented on the glass Heads Up Display in front
of Singh’s eyes as green boxes slightly to his left. Singh looked at the
numbers on his HUD- the lead PAF plane was now about fifty kilometers
out, flying at around 8,000 feet.
`No radar yet, boss. They're probably not F-15s. They're coming in
dumb- and those F-15 jocks have not been very dumb so far.'
`Probably. Falcon 2, I'm going for the lead- take his wingman. '
`Goel, R-27'.
Goel punched a button on the console in front of him to arm an R-27
Alamo air-to-air missile under the Flanker's wing. Singh had an identical
console in front of him and in case of an emergency could operate the
controls himself. Similarly, Goel also had in front of him all the controls
the pilot did, and was expected to fly the plane home in case the pilot was
incapacitated.
`Boss, they're turning away- their RWR must have lit up!'
Singh revved the big plane into a punishing 9g turn and swooped
down at the PAF fighters, accelerating to over 700 knots.
The range to the enemy fighters kept counting down on his HUD- 40,
35, 28....
At a range of twenty-five kilometers, a box on the HUD appeared
indicating that the R-27 had locked on. But Singh pressed on- he would
probably get only one shot at the fleeing PAF fighters and wanted to
make it count.
The two PAF fighters had now dropped lower, to less than 2000 feet,
hoping to lose themselves in the ground clutter. This tactic may have
worked with older radars on fighters like the MiG-23, but did not affect
the Sukhoi a bit. The powerful radar had a firm lock on the PAF fighter,
and with a speed advantage of almost 200 knots, the Sukhoi was closing
in fast for the kill.
`15 kilos, Boss. And he's low and turning like a mad dog. It'll be a tough
shot.'
Singh was now at 7500 feet, flying at 750 knots. His HUD showed
range to the PAF fighter at just 14 kilometers. A high angle shot in look
down mode was a tough shot under any circumstances. Singh waited a
second and fired. A couple of seconds later, his wingman fired at the
other PAF plane.
The R-27 accelerated to over 2000 knots, covering the distance in
seconds. The PAF pilot tried to evade, but the missile slammed into his
port wing, ripping off nearly half his fuselage as he ejected from the
stricken fighter. The other R-27 missed and the PAF fighter ran for home
with all the power he had.
`Beautiful, Boss. We've got a kill!'
`Yeah- but it was a Mirage'. At this range, Singh could make out the
delta wings of the remaining Mirage as it sped away over the border.
`Boss, let's go after the other one.'
`Negative, we'll run short on gas. Our mission is to cover those MiGs,
not play cowboy with some Mirages.'
The two Sukhois regrouped and were guided back to their original
bearing by the AWACS.
Singh's calm demeanor could not hide the excitement he felt. His first
air to air kill! What every fighter pilot trains and hopes for. He could feel
his hands shaking as if from the exertion of a hand-to-hand combat, not
the almost impersonal hi-tech nature of his combat victory. He had read
about pilots who later had trouble recovering from the fact that they had
actually killed a man not very different from themselves. But for now, all
he could feel was the adrenaline pumping in his system. Plus, the bugger
had managed to eject, hadn’t he? And then, another troubling thought
came into his mind…
Goel must have read his mind.
`Don't sweat, Boss. Next time, I'll find an F-15 for you to chew up.'

***

Major Danish Rahman could now clearly make out smoke rising from
villages the Mujahideen had torched. It was history repeating itself- in
1948, the advance of Pakistani raiders had been slowed down by their
insistence on stopping to rape and plunder villages on the way. It was
happening again- the Mujahideen were not disciplined soldiers and
would think nothing of attacking civilian villages, especially those with a
Hindu population. In their zeal, they often ignored religious differences
and attacked the nearest village. Ironically, the `liberators of Islam' as
Illahi had described them, were now turning on members of their own
faith. While Pakistan wanted Kashmir for itself, for several years, the
Kashmiri people had virtually refused to side with Pakistan, especially
after their bitter experiences with foreign mercenaries in the 1990s.
While many still wanted an independent state, armed terrorism had
greatly subsided, and while some pockets of terrorism had emerged to
support the Mujahideen offensive and the devastating attacks by foreign
mercenaries on Indian forces in the valley, most Kashmiri civilians
remained neutral.
Rahman felt sorry for the hapless villagers, but there was nothing he
could do to help them. However, he was determined not to let their
sacrifices go in vain. Their deaths had given him invaluable time to
prepare his defenses, so that he could avenge them manifold when the
time came.
He had almost four hundred men with him, along with five mortars
and three anti-tank launchers. His first line of defense was a small hillock
a kilometer outside the outskirts of Uri, where he had positioned all his
mortars and launchers, along with a hundred men. Their job was to get
the first shot away at the enemy, and try to inflict as many casualties as
possible. However, they would not fight to hold the hill- when the
Mujahideen approached, they would retreat into the city. It was in the
city that the Indians would make their stand. Most of the civilians had
already been evacuated, but around a hundred youth had stayed behind,
to fight for their city with the Indians. They had been given rifles and
rudimentary training, but their most valuable role would be as scouts in
the house to house fighting that was now looking inevitable.
Rahman considered himself lucky that the Mujahideen had no
artillery- most of their guns having been destroyed in the initial air
strikes. However, they were reported to number over two thousand- and
with those kinds of odds, they did not need artillery. Rahman and his
men had been staying near the city for over a year- and he had forged a
strong bond with the locals. Many of his men had helped in local matters,
and Rahman himself had taught at the small municipal school on some
weekends.
He still remembered the words of the old school principal before he
was evacuated `Sir, destroy the city if you have to, but don't let those
robbers through'.
For Rahman, the defense of Uri was much more than a job or his duty.
It was personal. Born into a middle-class Muslim family in Baroda in
Western India, Rahman had spent much of his formative years moving
around Army cantonments in India, accompanying his father, a Jawan in
the Indian infantry. Life had not always been easy, with a Jawan’s meager
pay, but Rahman had picked up something growing up which no amount
of money could buy- the camaraderie and traditions of the Indian Army.
He had learnt from his father that the only thing that really drove a man
to feats of valor was the desire to protect his buddies, irrespective of
religion or caste. And he had learnt just how meaningless attempts to
divide people on the basis of religion were, growing up in an
environment where men of all faiths prayed together. He could still
remember his father’s tears of joy when Rahman had become an officer
in the Indian Army. The old man had saluted his own son, saying just a
few words- `Always remember, you’re a Jawan first, Hindu or Muslim
second.’
 Seeing the mercenaries stream in from across the border in the name
of Islam made his blood boil. Rahman had always considered himself a
pious Muslim, and he had absolutely nothing in common with the
cutthroats now pillaging villages in Kashmir. Rahman would die but he
would never let Uri suffer the same fate.
Looking at his men around him, Rahman was sure he wasn't going to
let the Mujahideen through cheaply. As he walked to inspect the
defenses, he kept talking words of encouragement to his men.
He did not make any extravagant speeches or give any lofty
platitudes. His was the demeanor of one who has led men into combat
for a large part of his life. A small joke here, a pat on the shoulder there,
just merely referring to each and every man by his first name. The small,
yet critical qualities that have set outstanding combat leaders apart from
the time man first wielded a sword and shield into combat thousands of
years ago.
His soldiers prepared themselves for what they each knew would be
the most desperate struggle they would have ever faced. To a man, they
would have died for the tall, bearded officer, a Maha Vir Chakra winner in
the snowy wastelands of Siachen.

***

The roar of the powerful twin engines could be heard for a long
distance in the small town. The MiG-25 reconnaissance plane had flown
down to Barmer from its home base in Bareilly the previous day, and it
was now taking off from the small forward base near the Indo-Pak
border.
Derived from the powerful interceptor of the 1970s, the MiG-25R
retained the awesome speed and altitude capabilities of the fighter, but
instead of intercept radar and weapons, was laden with cameras. India
had bought a squadron in the early 1980s, and they still formed the
backbone of India's reconnaissance assets. In 2006, they were officially
phased out, but with many delays in the satellite based system that was
supposed to replace them, a couple stayed on in service.
The pilot swung the big plane into a southwesterly course that would
take it over the Arabian Sea and then towards his target- five hundred
kilometers off Karachi, just over the 24th parallel.
Laden with four fuel tanks and no weapons, the MiG may have looked
vulnerable, but flying at 75,000 feet, there was nothing in the PAF
inventory that could intercept it.
It was a fairly boring flight. At this altitude, there was not much for the
pilot to do, except ensure that his plane was headed in the right
direction. That sounds much simpler than it actually is. For an aircraft
that routinely flies well over the speed of sound, a slight change in
direction could send the plane dozens of kilometers off course in a
matter of seconds.
As he neared his target, he put the MiG in a slow dive to get out of the
thick cloud cover below him. Stabilizing the plane at 50,000 feet, he
turned on the five cameras embedded in the plane's nose. He had enough
fuel only for two passes, and that was all he would require.
His radar warning receiver lit off for a moment, as a ship based radar
swept past him. Well, they would have to be very lucky to get him- his
plane could run faster than most missiles.
His second run over, he turned for home. The Sirena 3 warning system
in his tail warned of a SAM launch. He fought the instinct to turn away
from the missiles and abort his pass. For a split second, he felt the fear of
impending death, as any man would. But then training took over- he
looked at his instruments and prepared to meet the threat. The Indian
modified warning computer on board indicated that the missile was a
French built Crotale. He punched a few strips of chaff to hopefully
confuse the missiles and then engaged the most powerful weapon he
possessed- his plane’s awesome speed. The big plane accelerated to over
Mach 2 and climbed to over 60,000 feet as the two missiles haplessly
tried to catch up.

***

`Sir, I can see them. They're about two kilometers away. I can see
three tanks'
`Wait for 1000 meters and then take the tanks out. Open fire with your
mortars only when they're 500 meters away'. Rahman knew this wasn't
going to be easy, but the young Lieutenant who had reported in was a
tough soldier. However, this was his first taste of combat- and the
biggest thing was to keep your nerve, as Rahman knew from his own
experiences.
Lieutenant Umesh Phadke could now clearly see the T-55 tanks
advancing towards his position. He had the advantage of surprise and
would get the first shot. But he would have to make it count- for the
Mujahideen outnumbered his force by almost ten to one.
He had set up a classic perimeter defense, with the three Nag anti-
tank launchers at the flanks- two on the right and one on the left. All
mortars were at the center to provide concentrated fire and his four
LMGs had been positioned ten meters ahead of the rest of his force,
forming an arc over a clear field of fire, and also hopefully covering the
missile-men from enemy counter attack.
There were more enemy vehicles than he had estimated- he could
now see four tanks and a dozen trucks loaded with Mujahideen.
He ran over to each missile team with the same instructions, `Go for
the trucks'. The tanks made for more glamorous targets, but each truck
laden with men or ammo knocked out would reduce the odds he faced-
and this battle was not going to be decided by the tanks, but how many
men the Mujahideen could bring to bear on his force.
`Range now 900 meters, Sir.'
`Fire- and make each shot count.'
With the advantage of complete surprise, his missile teams did not
fail him. The three Nag missiles streaked towards their targets and
destroyed three trucks, over twenty Mujahideen dying in this first salvo.
The Mujahideen were quick learners, and the remaining soldiers jumped
out of their trucks, so that they would be less conspicuous targets. The
four tanks opened up with their 105mm cannon.
`Take cover, we've got shells coming in'
Phadke's men emerged relatively unscathed from the first salvo- the
aging T-55s firing from the outer limits of their range. However, Rahman
did not fail to notice the impact tank shells bursting nearby had on some
of the younger troops. Don’t fail me boys, please don’t.
`Mortars at 500 yards. Missile teams, fire at will.'
The five mortars opened up within seconds of each other and the
shells fell in among the Mujahideen, kicking up dust and smoke as they
exploded. The Mujahideen ran on, firing wildly from their AK-47s. The
Mujahideen had never really taken on a professional army in head on
combat, their tactics having evolved in hit and run attacks against the
Russians and later similar attacks against the Americans in Iraq. Their
experience against the Indian Army was reinforcing the age-old maxim
that guerilla warfare and head on conventional battle are two very
different things.
Five hundred meters away, the Mujahideen commander, Major Mast
Gul cursed his lack of artillery or rockets and his ill-disciplined soldiers
for running in blind.
`Tell those fools to take cover- the Koran won't stop Indian bullets.
And those tanks must think they're invisible!'
Such irreverence would have cost Gul his life in Afghanistan. But here,
in the heat of battle, his experience and skill as a commander was worth
more than his religious fervor.
The Indian missile teams fired again, hitting two tanks. One exploded
in a spectacular fireball, the other produced no such pyrotechnics, but
stopped dead in its tracks with black smoke coming out its hatches. But
the sheer weight of numbers was with the Mujahideen- who had now
closed to within 200 yards.
Phadke realized that staying on any longer would mean getting in a
close quarters slugging match- which he was bound to lose.
`LMGs fire two magazines and then pull back to the city. Mortars cover
their retreat. Missile teams, one more salvo and you're out.'
The Mujahideen pressed on- at this short range, their tank guns were
beginning to tell- having knocked out at least one Indian LMG post. The
last Indian missile salvo was nowhere as accurate- the gunners being
distracted by Mujahideen tank fire- and hit only one truck.
`Retreat, retreat.'
The Indians sprinted back towards the city, leaving the hill to the
Mujahideen.
The Mujahideen swarmed over the hill, exulting in this easy victory.
But Gul was more circumspect. He knew there would be bloody fighting
ahead. He knew that the Pakistanis had promised to come in only if the
Mujahideen could produce a genuine breakthrough, otherwise they
would probably call it a `citizen's uprising' and stay away from all out
war. The capture of Uri was the only real hope the Mujahideen had. In the
rest of Kashmir, the pre-emptive Indian strikes had blunted much of the
Mujahideen offensive. He resented what he and many other field
commanders saw as Pakistan's using the Mujahideen as pawns, shedding
blood to get the initial breaks which Pakistan would exploit. But now he
had little time for such thoughts- the capture of Uri was not going to be
an easy task. He had already developed a healthy respect for the fighting
abilities of the Indian Army, and was not given to the bluster of some of
his more fundamentalist colleagues who believed they would `sweep the
infidels in one stroke'. A former Major in the Afghan Army, he knew that
religious fervor and military tactics were two very different things.
The first skirmish had mixed results. The Indians lost twenty men and
two of their LMGs, but had knocked out three tanks and accounted for
nearly a hundred Mujahideen killed. But the odds were still heavily in
favor of the Mujahideen- and with the Indians hunkering down in the
city; there was nowhere to run.

***

`Sir, this just came in- looks like very interesting stuff.'
Khosla looked at the five black and white photographs on the table in
front of him. Taken from an altitude of over 50,000 feet, they were
remarkably clear- yet it would take a professional to really decipher
them.
`So, what do you guys make of it?'
The Air Chief got up to address the NSC.
`Sir, the photographs in front of you are from a MiG-25 pass over the
Saudi convoy. It's currently about four hundred kilometers off Karachi,
moving at around 10 knots.'
He turned the projector on, and a magnified version of the first
photograph appeared on the screen in front of the long conference table.
`In this, we can clearly make out trails associated with seven large
ships and four smaller ships.'
Now was the turn of the Naval Chief, whose intelligence officers had
spent hours analyzing the photographs.
`All seven transport ships seem to be converted cargo ships. Each is
about 200 meters long- so I'd call it about a 25,000 tons displacement.
That's not too big by transport standards, but between them they could
carry a fair deal of cargo. The smaller ships include three Saudi Al
Madinah class frigates. Pretty modern French designs, with a fair anti-
surface and anti-air capability. One of them set a couple of Crotales after
Sen's MiG. The fourth is a smaller, unidentified corvette'
The Air Chief smiled and continued, `This is a magnification of one of
the transports. If you notice, much of what's on board is covered in
canvas, but this is a give-away- its a simple case of someone slipping up.'
`What is it, Sen?', Khosla asked as Sen pointed a long black tube
protruding from under one of the covers. The Army Chief answered for
him, `That's a goddamn tank barrel, and I'll bet my salary that's going to
be an M-1. Illahi wouldn’t go through so much trouble to get junk from
our Saudi friends. Hey, Raman, how many tanks can each ship hold?'
The Naval Chief could see his Army counterpart beginning to get
worried, `I would say 10-15 big tanks like the M-1, with supporting
equipment and all.'
`Two goddamn regiments! They'll be at the front in three days at the
rate they're going!'
`Well, Randhawa, can we handle it?', Khosla turned to the Army Chief.
`Sir, this will be bad. Really bad. These M-1s are probably going to be
manned by Paki troops who've already trained on them, and it's a great
tank- every bit a match and then some for our T-90s. Two regiments
would rule out any decisive edge in armor.'
`So let's take the convoy out. Let's warn them and if they don't turn
back, we sink the bastards.'
Raman had been waiting for that one. `Sir, if this is two regiments of
M-1s we are talking about, the Pakistanis will be taking it very seriously.
They'll probably have tons of land-based air cover. We'll need some help
to suppress those while we hit the convoy.'
`I think I can work something out for that when the time comes', Sen
concluded.


***

 Karim's joints were still a bit creaky from the long drive to Air
Headquarters at Rawalpindi from Islamabad, where he'd had another
frustrating meeting with Illahi.
As was his habit, Karim avoided the lift and climbed the two floors,
two steps at a time. The day I can't do that will be the one when I know I'm
getting old.
He walked into his office to find Arif waiting for him.
`Why, this is a pleasant surprise, Arif!'
`Good morning, Karim. I was driving by on the way to the base and
thought I'd say hi.'
`Well, good you did. Anything specific in mind?'
Arif seemed to hesitate a little and then spoke. `Listen, can we go out
for a walk. I need to talk about some personal things.'
`Why, of course.'
Karim and Arif walked out into the sprawling lawns in front of the
gray colored building.
`Arif, what's troubling you? Come on, be frank now- there's nobody
else here.'
`Karim, its the whole Saudi angle. They send us F-15s and AWACS,
now tanks- why? They must have some interest in all this. There are a lot
of rumors that that mad Emir hatched this whole thing in the first place.'
`Arif- I told you not to both....'
Arif now lost his cool, turning around sharply to face Karim.
`Give me a break! The Emir's using our country to further his
madness, don't you see it! We are shedding out blood for his madness!
We need to focus on building our economy and giving basic amenities to
our people- not fighting wars. And what if it comes to a nuclear
exchange- then we all die- for what?'
Karim sat down on a nearby bench, deflated. He knew just how little
conviction he himself had in what he was saying to his old friend. He
tried to say something more, but then stopped, realizing just how hollow
any statement he could make now would be. Instead he just looked up at
Arif. He had half expected Arif to be angry, instead he saw a look of
sadness, almost pity, cloud over the face of his oldest friend.
`Listen, you're one of the few who can make a difference. I'm just an
ordinary desk jockey- but you're at the top- you're the one who needs to
rock the boat. There's a lot of talk going around- there are many guys
who think like me. Just take a stand- there'll be many to support you.
Think about it.' Arif walked off, leaving Karim alone on the lawns.

***

Karim walked back to his office to review the progress of the war over
Kashmir.
The air war over Kashmir was now in its fifth day- and had produced
no clear winner.
The superior numbers of the IAF was telling, but the F-15s had
ensured that neither side had a decisive qualitative edge. The Pakistanis
had only around 25 F-16s left in flying condition, and these had not been
committed to battle yet, being reserved for the big battle that everyone
expected in the plains once the Indians counter-attacked. Also, they were
the only fighters to have a ghost of a chance against the Indian Su-30s,
and a full squadron was being kept at Karachi to protect the Saudi
convoy. The remaining 150 Mirage IIIs and Airguards in the PAF
inventory were a poor match for the Indian Mirage 2000s and MiG-29s.
After the sanctions imposed post nuclearization, the PAF had found it
difficult to obtain spares for its F-16s and the Chinese debacle in Taiwan
a year ago had also led to a slowdown in spares and support from China.
Emboldened by a reduction in the US forces in the South China Sea to
support a build up against Iran, China had the previous year launched an
air and naval attack on Taiwan- to teach the `rebellious province' a
lesson. The West really had no moral locus standi to oppose this
unilateral action, given their attacks on Yugoslavia and Iraq in the closing
years of the previous millennium.
However, what the PLAF had not bargained for was the tenacity of the
Taiwanese and their much better training. Flying in their Mirage 2000s
and F-16s, the Taiwanese had given the PLAF a drubbing. Escalation was
prevented by the arrival of an US Carrier Battle Group. As a result, the
much-awaited reverse engineered Su-27 from China still had not arrived.
In contrast, India had a fairly well advanced indigenous base, and had
modernized its fleet with Israeli and Russian help when local expertise
proved inadequate. The much awaited Light Combat Aircraft was still
nowhere in sight, and had only just completed initial squadron trials
when the war had broken out.
Reports said that up to two squadrons were converting to the LCA
from aging MiG-21s as of early 2008, but obviously these were not yet
combat ready enough for the Indians to commit them to battle.
However, the mix of modern Su-30s, MiG-29s and Mirage 2000s
complemented by older but still capable upgraded MiG-21s, MiG-23s,
MiG-27s and Jaguars gave the IAF a fairly decisive edge on paper. What
the PAF had going for it was superb training, and a dogged
determination to give as good as they got in the air. The rank and file of
the PAF actually believed this war had been sparked off by the Indian
communal holocaust, and they were flying to defend their nation and
faith, little realizing that they were but pawns in a much larger game.
All in all, Karim mused, his boys were doing a fine job. He only
wondered whether he was the one letting them all down.
He sat quietly at his desk for what seemed like a very long time.
Till a few months ago, things in his life had seemed so clear. He loved
his country, he loved the Air Force, and he loved his family. Everything
had been so black and white for Karim. Now he found himself asking
increasingly uncomfortable questions about whether the path he was
going down was really what he wanted to do.
He had never been much of a rebel in his life, for the simple reason
that he had led his life with the blind conviction that he had always been
of the side of what was right. All he needed to do was channelize his
talents and energy towards serving that greater good.
For the first time in his life, he began to consider whether he had,
somewhere along the way, failed to question what purpose he was truly
serving.

***



ELEVEN

That general is skilled in attack whose opponent does not know what to
defend.
- Sun Tzu

The tankers literally stopped dead in their tracks. Having been away
from all civilization for nearly a month, they were just not prepared for
what they saw before them. They had been told to expect reporters, but
had not really expected a young, good-looking woman.
Pooja had long gotten used to having men stare at her, and thought
little of it as she walked past the rows of tanks.
`Hey, are you here to shoot us in our exercises or have yourself shot
for some fashion show?'
Pooja turned around angrily to face Chauhan.
`It's no business of yours what I wear.'
She half-regretted her rather hasty and angry response, as she saw a
wry grin on his face. So G.I.Joe can crack a joke.
`That it isn't, but those shorts will get to be a pain with all the sand out
there. Don't say I didn't warn you.' With that parting shot, Chauhan
walked over to his tank.
Rahul had by now caught up with Pooja. He had fallen behind as he
stopped to take in the rows of tanks arrayed all around them.
`Another tiff with our Colonel?'
`No, forget it.'
Chauhan was now standing at the turret of his tank, and shouted out
to them, `Hey come on, what are you waiting for, an invitation?'
Pooja and Rahul ran towards Chauhan's tank.
Rahul jumped onto the tanks back and clambered in. Pooja hesitated,
and then saw Chauhan extend his hand, a wide grin on his face. She
thought a minute and then took his hand as he pulled her up.
`Welcome aboard!'

 ***

Captain Rana walked over to the sonar screen as the sonar operator
called out a contact.
`4000 yards, twelve knots'
Rana studied the contact for a minute before relaxing.
`Bogey. That's a small patrol boat. Hunker down. No noise anybody.'
Rana's Kilo class submarine, the Sindhughosh, had been lurking just
thirty kilometers off the Karachi coast for nearly ten days now, along
with its sister ship, the Sindhudhwaj. Though now over a twenty-year-
old design, the Kilo remained one of the world's best diesel submarine
designs, and was nearly undetectable at fewer than five knots. Rana was
exploiting this to the hilt- barely moving- surfacing only once a day to
receive radio transmissions. It was tedious, and deadly work. This was
the fifth time in the last two days that Pakistani patrol boats had sortied
out, looking for the Indian subs they knew would be there. This
heightened activity was a sure sign that the waiting was going to be over
soon.
The Pakistani Navy doctrine called for an avoidance of a head on fight
with the much larger Indian Navy. Instead, the surface fleet was to
ensure a free passage into Karachi of supplies from the Gulf, relying on
land based air cover to protect them from Indian carrier based strikes.
The only real offensive weapon the Pakistani Navy hoped to use was its
fleet of six French made Agosta submarines. As capable as the Indian
Kilos, the Agostas had been refitted to carry Exocet anti-ship missiles,
thus giving them a powerful anti-ship punch.
As the patrol boat passed, a mere 2000 yards away, the crew of the
Sindhughosh literally held it’s breath. In a submarine, silence is often the
best way to save your life, with the slightest noise being potentially
captured by enemy sensors.
`Sir, it's happening. The entire bloody Pak Navy just came out to
party.'
The Kilo was armed with Russian made Klub cruise missiles- that had
a theoretical maximum range of over a hundred kilometers. However,
firing the missiles at such extreme range against a moving target like a
warship dramatically lowered the probability of a hit to the extent that it
virtually became meaningless. To ensure a hit would require mid course
guidance which could not be provided at that range by the submarine-
unless it surfaced- a sure way for a submarine to get itself killed in a
combat situation; or if there were friendly aircraft or helicopters to do
so- again something one could not take for granted in combat. For a
mission like the one Rana was on- close to enemy shores, with the
primary target being surface vessels, and with no likelihood of friendly
air support, the Indian Navy doctrine was clear on the matter- the Klubs
would be used at long range only for attacking static targets like shore
installations, oil platforms etc. For fast surface warships, the
recommended mode of attack was still the old fashioned torpedo. Once
within torpedo range, Klubs could be fired to add to the confusion, as the
enemy would have two very different threats to deal with- one
screaming down at supersonic speed from the skies above, and another
from beneath the waves.
The Kilo's active sonar was off, but its passive sonar showed
numerous surface radar emissions emerging out of Karachi harbor. The
operator could identify specific warship types by their distinct
`signatures’ as their blades churned through the water, which would
signify the likely size of the contact, and from their radar and other
electronic emissions. In peacetime, submariners of both sides had spent
countless hours chronicling the signatures of their likely opponents. This
knowledge would now be distilled in a few seconds of frenzied decision
making in combat.
`Blade count shows four large contacts, five small contacts. Bearing
one-nine-five.'
Rana would have loved to wade into the Pakistani ships and get the
first shot, but he wanted to be sure he was not going to give away his
position to sink some fishing boats or trawlers. His mission was to take
out the capital ships, and that's exactly what he planned to do.
`Got a fix on the radar?'
`Yeah- three Gearing class destroyers, two FRAM frigates and five
Hainan class missile boats.'
`The whole damn Navy. Wait until they're within 2000 yards- lock on
to the four largest screws and then fire point blank.'
`Aye, aye sir.'
 Rana could almost feel the tension in the cramped confines of the
submarine. He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, sending up a silent
prayer, and then he gripped the edge of the console as his crew prepared
to go to war.

***

Captain Khan studied his radar and sonar screens with interest.
Nothing, yet he knew Indian Kilos would be out there. Well, he wasn't
going to make it any easier- two land based Atlantic anti-submarine
aircraft were overhead, dropping sonobouys in front of his small fleet to
smoke out the Indian subs. So far, there had been no luck.
Khan's mission was a dangerous one- and he was proud he and his
ship, the PNS Taimur, had been chosen for it. They were to link up with a
Saudi convoy carrying critical war material and escort them to Karachi-
while fighting off any Indian ships or subs. The Air Force had promised
to provide air cover with F-16s from Karachi to ward off any Indian air
strikes.
His ship was an old ex-US Navy destroyer. Modestly armed compared
to the best ships in the Indian Navy, it's six Harpoons nevertheless made
it the most powerful surface combatant of the PNS. More importantly,
it's Sea King helicopter gave it a decent anti-sub capability, which it
would need for this mission above all else.
He silently cursed the Kilos and hoped the much-pampered Agostas
would do their job. Five Agostas were now patrolling the vast expanse of
the Arabian Sea- hoping to catch the Indian carrier group by surprise.
Like most surface ship skippers, he had a healthy distaste for
submarines and those who rode in them. On the surface, it was a fair
fight, but with submarines it was all about hiding and striking when the
enemy could not see you.

***

`Mortar shell coming in.'
Phadke shouted his warning as four shells exploded around his
position. He and five men were occupying an LMG post near the city
school. The Mujahideen had by now entered the city in force, but the
Indians, using their superior knowledge of the local geography, aided in
no small measure by their local guides, were luring the Mujahideen into
ambush after ambush.
Phadke jumped behind a building to take cover from the shrapnel, but
a soldier to his left was not so lucky. Phadke saw him going down,
apparently hit in the face. Phadke knew what would come next- a charge
by the Mujahideen.
`Four dogs coming in', a young JCO shouted out, confirming his guess.
`Relax- don't jump the gun.' Phadke had only four men and an LMG. He
wanted to make each shot count and retreat to a new covering position
before the Mujahideen could overwhelm him and his men through sheer
numbers.
As the four Mujahideen came into range, the Indians opened up with
the LMG. Three of the Mujahideen fell dead, hit by the first burst and the
other dived for cover.
`More around the corner, Sir!'
Phadke saw a dozen men rushing his position. He aimed and fired a
burst from his rifle at the oncoming Mujahideen, seeing one fall as the
others took cover and returned fire. Their fire was both accurate and
concentrated. Phadke saw another Indian clutch his hand and go down
with a shout of pain.
The exchange of fire continued for several minutes. The Indians were
greatly outgunned, and with more than a dozen weapons firing at them,
often Phadke could not even get time to aim. He would just turn the
corner, fire off a burst, and then retreat to the cover the building afforded
him. He had no idea whether he hit anything or anybody.
As he swung out to fire again, he saw two black objects flying through
the air at his position. He did not need to be told what those would be.
`Grenade!'
The Indians scrambled for cover as the two grenades skittered across
the ground and exploded near their position. The LMG wrecked and two
men dead, the Indians retreated to the next building.
Further to the East, Rahman was directing the battle from a makeshift
bunker. The Indians had split up into small squads, four to eight strong
and were making maximum use of the terrain to keep the Mujahideen at
bay. The battle was now raging throughout the city and while the Indians
were inflicting heavy casualties, they were being forced into a tight
corner near the school.
`How many men do we have left?'
`Not sure, Sir, but from the reports from the squad leaders, we're
probably down to two hundred or so who are still totally fit to fight,
maybe another fifty or more who are walking wounded.' Rahman knew
that his unit had suffered devastating casualties. In a `normal’ scenario,
such losses would have crippled any unit, but Rahman was under strict
orders to old out at any cost. Like most soldiers, he was proud to a fault,
and had uttered some bullshit about fighting to the last man and round.
That seemed like nonsense now that he saw his boys being killed all
around. That infuriated him- and he was channeling that fury to lash out
at the enemy. He knew his boys were making the Mujahideen pay a steep
price in blood, but without further support, he would literally be down to
the last fucking man. He just hoped all this sacrifice would not be in vain,
and that the top brass would not just forget about what they were
enduring in the narrow streets of the small town.
`Dammit. Where the hell is the fucking air force. A couple of damn
choppers and we could have murdered these bastards?'
Nearly a hundred kilometers from Rahman, a young Lieutenant was
peering intently at a TV screen. Bespectacled and barely out of college, he
seemed completely out of place in the middle of this war, sitting in front
of a screen with a joystick in his hand. However, he was playing no video
games. Through his joystick, he was controlling an Israeli-made Searcher
unmanned reconnaissance vehicle flying over Uri. India had bought a half
dozen of these versatile vehicles from Israel in the late 1990s. Capable of
staying airborne for over 12 hours flying at a leisurely 150 knots, they
were loaded with cameras which relayed back real time TV images like
the one the Lieutenant was looking at. Their small size ensured that they
would be invisible to most enemy radar and their cameras provided
valuable battlefield intelligence.
Rahman was about to let out some choice expletives about the boys in
blue, when he nearly jumped when his radio crackled to life, `Fox 1, this
is Hawk. Do you read me?'
Rahman quickly checked his codebook and realized that Fox 1 was
indeed one of the authorized codes, but he had never heard of Hawk. For
all he knew this was some Pakistani playing tricks on him.
`Fox 1 here. Identify yourself.'
`Fox 1, I don't have time for games, and neither do you- look up in five
minutes, then I'll call you again.'
Rahman winced as a Mujahideen grenade exploded somewhere
nearby.
`I want one LMG on that side- quick.' Rahman was now up again,
irritated at the unnecessary interruption on the radio. The Mujahideen
were fast tightening the noose around the Indians, and he knew he was
in a tight spot.
He had picked up his rifle and was about to go over to the new LMG
position when one of the soldiers shouted out.
`Sir, look up.'
Rahman restrained an urge to shoot at the strange object when he
saw the IAF colors.
`I'll be damned. We’re fighting like mad dogs down here, and these
fuckers are flying kites.’
The radio buzzed with life again, `Fox 1, Hawk here, That's my little
bird up there.'
`Okay, Hawk, I like your damn bird. Now did you call me for an air
show or do you want me to feed your fucking bird some bullets?'
A couple of his men chuckled nearby at Rahman’s trademark
bluntness.
`Fox 1, our friends are gathering for a two pronged attack on the
school- around 200 men from the north-east and about the same from
the south. Their HQ seems to be set up in a building next to the central
park. Seems like a nice party to gatecrash. You may want to have a look.'
`Thanks, Hawk, keep in touch.'
`By the way, COAS says, hang in there. Help is on the way.'
Rahman gathered his men around him as he pulled out a map of the
town. By now, Phadke had returned, panting and covered with dust.
`Phadke, I want you to check the park out- have a small recon team out
there. If what this Hawk says is true, I think we can give these
motherfuckers something to think about'

 ***

Rana braced himself as the hull of his submarine shook from the
impact of a depth charge exploding nearby. About five minutes ago, a
Pakistani helicopter seemed to have detected the Sindhughosh and had
laid out a pattern of sonobouys, hoping to get a firmer lock. Rana had
kept his nerve, and continued at his current two knots. But then, the
Pakistanis had changed tactics, releasing depth charges all around. They
clearly did not have a firm fix on the Indian sub, but were hoping to
unnerve it into changing course or speed suddenly- and expose its
position. Rana was an experienced sub driver and kept his cool. His
young crew was beginning to get nervous, but their skipper's calm kept
them going.
`Range to nearest destroyer?'
`1500 yards. Target moving at 15 knots.'
`Weapons?'
`I have good firing solutions on four targets. Ready to fire when you
want, Sir.'
`No. Hold on- let them get within a 1000. And ignore the choppers- if
they haven't got us yet, they don't know where we are. Don't flood the
tubes till I order it- the moment we do it, they'll have us on sonar and will
be on us like vultures.'
The young weapons officer was getting a refresher course in
submarine warfare- and he was soaking every word in. Rana was taking a
risk- but if it worked, he could really score big.
To Rana's relief, the Pakistanis seemed to have called off their search.
He hoped that they had not gone after the Sindhudhwaj, commanded by
his best friend, but now it was every man for himself.
`Target range and bearing.'
`950 yards, one-seven-one, six knots for lead destroyer.'
`Weapons?'
`Good locks on all four tubes.'
`Flood tubes and fire at will.'
Seconds later, four Russian-made E-53 torpedoes left the
Sindhughosh, quickly accelerating to 40 knots, as they homed in on the
Pakistani ships.

***

`Sir, torpedoes in the water. I see four trails!'
Khan jumped at the warning. He knew this had to happen, but when it
did, it took him completely by surprise.
`Evasive action, activate decoy.'
`Its too late, Sir.'
Khan looked helplessly at the torpedo home in on his ship. There was
very little he could do now except pray that he did not lose many of his
men. He grabbed his chair and shouted out to the others on the bridge.
`Brace yourself!'
The torpedo slammed into the side of the Taimur, throwing Khan
across the bridge and crippling the Pakistani destroyer. Two more hit
the destroyer Badr, breaking her in half. The fourth hit the large missile
boat Baluchistan, which disintegrated on impact.
Khan looked up to see a scene of total devastation. The bridge was full
of shattered glass, and his face stung as if someone had put a thousand
needles into it. He could see several men down in the bridge, many
moaning in pain. As he struggled to get up, he realized in shock that there
was only a bloody stump where his right foot had been. Suddenly the
Taimur began to list to port. A feeling of infinite sadness came upon him
as he realized it was all over. He pulled himself up to try and get as many
of his men off the stricken ship as possible. He also decided he would go
down with his ship.

***

`Three hits, Sir! I hear breaking noises on two contacts!'
`Okay. Count that two kills and a damaged one. Towards the nearest
wreck. Ten knots.'
Rana was using an old tactic of the Russian Navy, which had first used
the Kilo. This tactic had evolved to enable Russian subs to sneak into the
heart of American carrier groups and have a decent chance of escape. It
was simple- and dangerous. The attacking sub would simply dive under
the wreck of one of her victims, trying to mask her own noise by the
breaking noises of the destroyed ship, and then use this chaos to get out
of harm's way, or get another shot at the enemy.
`Looks clear. Let's get out of here.'
`Sir, they're all going after the Sindhudhwaj.'
Rana sent up a silent prayer for his friend. With their ships hit, the
Pakistanis would relentlessly go after any Indian sub contact.
`Well, we can't do much. Let's go.'
The Pakistanis now had a firm fix on the Sindhudhwaj. Unlike Rana,
the Indian Captain had been trapped in a pattern of sonobuoys and the
only way out was to make a break for it. His sub was now running at 15
knots, but with two Sea Kings after him, it was a race he could never win.
Realizing the futility of his attempted escape, the Indian Captain
turned his sub around and made for the remaining Pakistani ships. There
were now six Pakistani ships in the battle zone- two destroyers and four
missile boats. The crippled Taimur was out of range.
At a range of 2000 yards, the Indian sub fired four homing torpedoes
and banked steeply, hoping to escape the Sea Kings. But it was too late.
Each Sea King fired one Mark 46 torpedo, which homed in on the Kilo at
nearly 40 knots. The Indian skipper activated countermeasures, which
fooled one torpedo but the other struck home- sending the Kilo and its
crew to a watery grave.
For Rana, the death of his friend on board the Sindhudhwaj was as real
as if he had been shot next to him. He could hear the breaking noise of
the stricken Indian sub, and imagined what it would be like for the men
trapped in a metal coffin that till a few minutes ago had been their home.
The Sindhudhwaj's death was however not in vain. It's four torpedoes
homed in on the Pakistani ships- two missed their target and ran on- but
the others hit home. The destroyer Noor Jehan was hit by the two
torpedoes and sank immediately.

***

Admiral Shoaib Ahmed was cringing under the tirade Illahi had just
launched into.
`What the hell have you come here for- to show your shameless face?
While our brave mujahideen are shedding blood in Kashmir and are on
the verge of capturing our first major town, and our brave airmen are
battling it out- what have you come to show me- the wrecks of your
sunken ships?'
Ahmed had given thirty years of his life to the Armed Forces, and for
once, lost his cool. `Sir, I told you what we are up against- the Indians
have a far superior Navy- asking our men to sail out to escort the convoy
is not tactically sound- the bloody Air Force should be doing it!'
Illahi turned sharply at this insubordination.
`Maybe your people just cannot do their job.'
Ahmed realized that he had overreached himself.
`Sir, I did not mean to raise my voice. Man to man, our boys are every
bit as good as the Indians. Its just that the Navy has been completely
neglected- our ships are getting old, and while the Indians have moved
far ahead in submarine and missile technology, we're still where we
were a decade ago. I consider it a great achievement that we sank a Kilo
in the battle.'
Illahi had to control himself, knowing that what Ahmed said had a lot
of truth in it. Illahi really had no understanding of the Navy, and had
focused on modernizing the Army. This was only compounded by the
fact that Navy depended almost exclusively on western equipment, and
these had been hard to come by after the sanctions imposed after the
coup. The Air Force had fared only slightly better, but even that had been
largely due to Karim's leadership.
`Very well. Let's just not have any such debacles again.'
Ahmed walked out fuming, hoping one of his sub skippers got lucky. It
would at least shut this arrogant and ignorant fool up.
Illahi dismissed his secretary and sat fuming at his desk, toying
absent-mindedly with his beard. Fools, all of them. Weak fools. At least
the news in Kashmir was not so bad.
Suddenly, without warning, it was back. He clutched his head and
rocked back in his chair. The throbbing headache was back to torment
him. It had been nearly a week since his last attack- and he was
beginning to get used to life without this unbearable pain.
It felt as if his head would explode and he found it difficult to see
clearly- Illahi staggered to the cabinet and pulled out a box of tablets,
knocking a vase off and sending it crashing to the ground where it
shattered into a dozen pieces. He twisted open the bottle cap and
popped two of the tablets into his mouth. He managed to reach his chair
and sat down, his breath coming in jagged gasps.
As the doctor had advised, he sat still, his head resting on his hands.
For some time, the pain did not recede and he contemplated calling the
doctor. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain went away.
Illahi got up, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew what this had
been- a signal from Allah that he had precious little time to waste.

***

Pooja was beginning to wish she had heeded the Colonel's advice.
After reaching the exercise area, Pooja, Rahul and Chauhan had shifted to
an open jeep, driven by the familiar Tonk. Chauhan sat in the front as
Pooja and Rahul were tossed around in the back, as Tonk tried to do what
Rahul referred to as his `Michael Schumacher routine' trying to keep up
with the huge tanks maneuvering in the open desert. The sand was
whipped into their faces at over fifty kilometers an hour and Pooja’s
exposed legs were hurting so much that she crouched in the back.
Chauhan from time to time kept mumbling what he thought would be
an explanation of the tactics, but it sounded like mumbo-jumbo to the
two passengers, especially Rahul, who literally had his hands full trying
to capture the exercises on his camera.
Pooja was seeing a very different side to Chauhan. He was completely
engrossed in the exercise and seemed to hear almost none of the many
questions they asked. His face was a mask of intense concentration, and
he seemed to be completely on edge.
Abruptly, he ordered the jeep to stop and shouted into his radio.
`Stop everyone. Fox 2, why did you go ahead when Fox 3 was clearly
headed into the enemy line of fire? Couldn't you see he was a sitting
duck? Why didn't you stay back to help him?'
For the first time, Pooja thought she saw real emotion on Chauhan's
face. His face was flushed and he was fuming.
The voice at the other end of the radio was shaky, `Sir, we were
outnumbered five to two- staying would have meant my tank getting
killed as well- I thought it would serve the mission objectives better if at
least one of us got out....'
Chauhan did not give the man a chance to finish, `Bullshit. Pure
bullshit, Vohra. Your mission is not to protect your pathetic ass. Leaving
behind a comrade to die is the worst crime you can commit. Do that in
combat and I'll take out your tank myself. Do I make myself clear?'
`Yes, Sir.'
Chauhan seemed to have calmed down by now. Even the usually
placid Tonk seemed to have been taken aback at his outburst.
`Okay, guys, let's do it again.'
As they drove on, Pooja continued to look at the inscrutable Colonel.
His face now again an emotionless mask.

***

It was almost two in the morning, and as had become his habit, Illahi
was staying awake well into the night, poring over reports of the day's
happenings in Kashmir. The quiet of the night was shattered by the
ringing of a telephone next to him- normally his secretary would screen
any calls- but this was not just any telephone- this was a hotline directly
to the Emir. Abdul had got it installed once planning for the operation
began- so that it would be easier for the Emir to keep in touch. `Hello,
this is Illahi here.' Illahi had not heard the Emir's deep voice for several
months.
`Hello Illahi, I have been hearing good reports. The first phase seems
to have gone off flawlessly, and progress in Kashmir is good. I am happy
with the way things are panning out. Just wanted to check if there's
anything else to be done.'
`No, your Holiness. All that we need now is for the convoy to get in
safely- then we are in a real position of strength and, Inshallah, then we
can really activate the second phase without too much risk.'
`That is good, Illahi. But something's worrying you, is it not? What is
it?'
Even over the phone, and thousands of miles away, it was as if the
Emir could see right through him. Illahi remembered his first meeting
with the man, shortly after he came to power in Pakistan. The first thing
that had struck him then were the Emir's sharp and penetrating eyes.
 `The Indians have hit our navy pretty badly. I'm just concerned about
the convoy getting through. It is critical to our plans.'
`Illahi, as long as you have faith in Allah and belief in yourself, do not
worry too much. As it says in the Holy Koran- and when the misbelievers
plotted to keep you a prisoner, or kill you, or drive you away, they plotted
well; but God plotted too. And God is the best of plotters.'

***



TWELVE

The enemy advances, we retreat. The enemy camps, we harass. The enemy
tires, we attack.
- Mao Tse Tung

Singh's Sukhoi was now alone. His wingman had developed an engine
glitch and returned to Srinagar five minutes ago. This was just the
mission Singh and Goel were looking for- an offensive air combat sweep
in an area known to be frequented by PAF F-15s. They had been flying in
lazy circles for over half an hour, hoping to lure PAF fighters into combat.
So far, they'd had no luck. Now that they were alone, Singh had no
intention of hanging around. He was about to turn his fighter around,
when Goel's voice rang out, `Boss, bandit at eighty kilos, bearing six-one'.
`Roger, its coming in hard. 680...make that 700 knots.'
`Boss, I think we finally got ourselves an Eagle.'
`Yup. Now we get to dance with the prima donnas.'
The Sukhoi wheeled around to face its adversary as Goel armed an R-
27.
Flight Lt Hamid had the IAF fighter on his radar now. And instead of
running, which most Indian attack planes did when their RWRs lit off at
this range, this one was coming straight at him. That meant a Flanker or
a Fulcrum. Hamid armed one of his AMRAAMS as he kept his eyes glued
to his HUD.
Hamid had shifted to F-15s from his old F-16 when the Saudi fighters
arrived. He had flown F-15s during his stint in the Gulf as an instructor-
and no matter how many times he flew the monster; he never failed to
marvel at its power. He had already tasted blood- splashing an Indian
MiG-27 on his third sortie. But that had been an easy kill. He had jumped
the heavily bomb laden and unescorted attack plane and had killed it at
short range with a Sidewinder. This was going to be a different ball game
altogether.
Singh had locked on with his R-27 at a range of fifty kilometers, with
the two planes racing at each other at a closure rate of well over a
thousand knots. As Singh fired his missile, Hamid responded with an
AMRAAM. The AMRAAM and late model R-27 are similar weapons, they
require the firing aircraft to maintain radar lock on the target for the
initial stages, and then at a range of about twenty kilometers, the
missile's own radar switches on, and guides it to the target. This was a
major breakthrough over earlier radar guided weapons like the AIM-7
Sparrow and the R-23, which required the attacking plane to maintain
lock till the missile hit the target. Both missiles entered service at about
the same time, and the AMRAAM had enjoyed significant advantages
over the early R-27. The later model missile carried by the Indian
Sukhois had greatly improved capabilities, and were now almost as good
as the AMRAAM. The IAF had small stocks of the much better R-77,
popularly known as the AMRAAMSki for its resemblance to the American
missile, but continued problems in securing assured supplies from
Russia’s troubled defense sector had meant most fighters still carried
the R-27 into combat. India had its own ambitious air-to-air missile
project, called the Astra, but like many indigenous efforts, it was still
nowhere near regular service.
`Boss, missile in the air. Range thirty kilos.'
Goel was using all the electronic countermeasures at his disposal to
fool the missile. As the missile closed, he would activate decoys, which
would give off a large radar `signature', hoping to lure the missile away.
`Missile's still closing. Range twenty one.'
On his radar screen, Singh saw his own missile closing in on the F-15.
It was going to be touch and go.
Singh's eyes were riveted to his HUD. As the missile passed ten
kilometers, Singh swung his fighter into a slight turn, heading straight
for the missile.
`Boss!'
Singh barely heard Goel as he concentrated on the growing speck
ahead of him, which in seconds could turn his fighter into a burning
wreck.
Goel activated two decoys as the missile continued to home in.
As the missile passed five kilometers, Singh swerved the big fighter
around in a punishing turn which slammed him into the back of his seat,
blood draining from his head. For a split second, everything went black-
what is known as a `blackout’ before Singh recovered from the effects of
the extreme G-forces he was subjecting his body to. The missile sped
past the Sukhoi, seduced away by a decoy.
`You awake back there?'
`Damn you, Boss, I nearly died there! Our friend's still around. Three o
clock.'
Singh grinned under his mask- it was good to know he was up against
someone who knew the ropes. What he did not know was that the PAF
pilot had had a comparatively easier time evading his R-27. Though it
was close to the AMRAAM in capability, there was still a perceptible gap.
As a result, the PAF had a split second advantage over him in getting into
a killing position.
`Goel, arm the R-73s. This is going to be close in work.'
The two fighters circled each other, looking for an opening. The F-15
made the first move- coming in with a slashing attack, firing a burst from
its 20mm cannon at the Sukhoi's flank. But Singh was ready for him- he
rolled to avoid the stream of bullets and dove towards the ground. He felt
a slight shudder as the Sukhoi rolled away, and wondered how many
shells had hit his plane. Hamid could feel that a few shells may have
grazed the Indian plane, but it was clearly not enough to down the
Sukhoi. He pressed on his attack as he turned for another pass, but by the
time he could get the Sukhoi in his sights, Singh had cut his engine
power, and his fighter violently pitched nose up as its air speed fell to
less than a hundred knots. At such speeds, other fighters would have
stalled, but the Sukhoi held, as the F-15 sped by. This maneuver, first
perfected on the MiG-29, had come to be known as Pugachev's Cobra,
after the first test pilot to try it. Since then, it had become a standard part
of the repertoire of MiG-29 and Su-27 pilots.
As the F-15 turned and jinked to shake off the Sukhoi, Singh turned
with it, keeping it in front of him. Singh knew that the superior agility of
the Russian fighter was going to be a critical factor in his favor, and he
had to use it to maximum advantage. The other advantage he had was
the helmet mounted cueing system he could use with the R-73. What this
meant was that he could literally fire a missile at any target by just
looking at it. While this of course had limitations, it offered the pilot a
much broader envelope of engagement than with conventional systems.
Hamid of course knew this and was trying to get out of what he guessed
the envelope would be.
Singh now had the F-15 clearly in his sights, and he turned with the
PAF jet to ensure it did not get out of the R-73’s deadly envelope. He
heard the growling noise in his ears indicating that an R-73 had locked
on and fired a missile at a range of two kilometers.
Hamid's RWR screamed out the warning, the shrill sound echoing in
his ears as he put his F-15 through a series of tight turns, hoping the lose
the missile. The sensitive seeker in the R-73's head ignored the flares
Hamid had released and homed in on the F-15's engine. Hamid released
another round of flares, and was lucky to escape alive as the R-73 hit the
flares barely twenty meters behind his plane. The small warhead on the
R-73's nose exploded as it hit the flares, spreading a deadly cloud of
burning fragments which engulfed the F-15.
Hamid's fighter shook violently as fragments of the missile sliced
through his plane. His tail fins were badly damaged, and one of his
engines was now running at less than half power.
Singh turned his fighter hard to the right to avoid flying into the
debris from the F-15 and saw the F-15 roll away, trailing black smoke.
Singh revved the Sukhoi in a hard turn and pressed in for the kill.
Hamid knew the battle was lost. The best he could hope for was to
escape alive. He knew the Indian pilot would be closing for the kill. He
would have, if the tables had been reversed.
Singh now had the F-15 dead in his sights.
`Boss, another R-73?'
`No. He's done for anyway. Let's just bring him down.' What he left
unsaid was that, in this age of long-range radar and missiles, a gun kill
remained every fighter pilot’s wet dream.
Singh fired two bursts from the Sukhoi's 30mm cannon, which hit the
F-15 on its starboard wing and fuselage.
Hamid's fire alarms were now ringing, and he could barely keep the
plane in level flight. Well, this was it. He pulled the handle on his ejection
seat, which propelled him to safety as the stricken fighter fell to the
ground.
`Boss, check that out!'
 Singh whooped and did an impromptu victory roll. Unknown to him,
his and Goel’s cheers were joined by those of a hundred or more Indian
soldiers who had been watching the dogfight from the ground below.
`Goel, ask the AWACS to contact the nearest army guys- tell them to
pick up the guest. Also, I think he got a hit in- we need to make sure we
figure out how serious that was. Let’s head home.'

***

Chauhan was sitting all by himself in a corner of the mess, when Pooja
walked in. She got her breakfast and walked over to him.
`Good morning.’
Pooja had long been the butt of sarcastic and cynical comments about
how chirpy she could be in the morning, when everyone else was still
cursing the fact that they had to get out of bed. She could see her efforts
at cheering things up were having no effect on the Colonel, but she was
not going to change her natural style for this clown.
`Mind if I join you?'
`No, not at all. So, what's your experience with army food been like?'
Pooja sat down with her plate of fruits.
`Pretty good, actually.'
She saw that Chauhan as usual was picking at his food, lost in thought.
Her past experience with him also told her that the two sentences he had
just spoken were likely to be only conversation she would get out of him
unless she started talking.
`Well, Colonel, the exercises yesterday were really great- it was a
completely new experience for us.'
`Good.'
Then silence.
Great, talk about a brilliant conversationalist.
Pooja continued watching Chauhan eat in utter silence. She wondered
why it bothered her so much that he did not notice her. Perhaps it was
just that he was so unlike any man she had met before. Also, if she were
honest with herself, the fact that he showed no interest in her
whatsoever was intriguing.
Chauhan abruptly got up and began to walk away.
 `Miss Bhatnagar, we're doing our daily maintenance of the tanks. If
you would like to watch, please come to the ground behind the firing
range.'
Romantic guy, isn't he, mused Pooja as he walked away.

***

Phadke had ten men with him. Three of them had rocket launchers
slung over their shoulders; the others carried assault rifles with night
vision scopes. The Indians had put in all such rifles they had remaining
into this one attack. It was a desperate mission- another night of fierce
fighting in Uri had left the Indians with a further dozen dead and much of
their ammunition depleted. The Mujahideen had suffered terrible losses,
over fifty killed, but were now closing in with a pincer grip around the
Indians cornered near the school.
The eleven men moved silently in the early hours of dawn- and
stopped just outside the sprawling central park. In front of them was the
Mujahideen command post- just as the enigmatic Hawk had promised.
Phadke guesstimated that there were close to three hundred men
sleeping in the open, rifles near their heads, and off to a side about a
hundred meters away, two tanks and a dozen trucks- the primary targets
for this raid.
The Hawk on his second transmission had informed Rahman that the
Mujahideen had their spare ammunition stocked in five of these trucks.
Amazingly, he had also reeled off their license plate numbers. Phadke
used his night vision binoculars to identify the vehicles. Thankfully, they
were the ones closest to the Indian raiders.
The Indians split up into two groups. The first group of five crept
towards the trucks. The second, led by Phadke took up firing positions
just outside the park.
The five Indian soldiers were now just a dozen meters from the trucks,
using the darkness and cover of trees to hide themselves. They could see
two men guarding the trucks- once again; Hawk had not failed them with
its information.
Two of the Indians went forward, having discarded their rifles,
commando knives in hand. The Mujahideen guards, who of all things
never expected an Indian attack, were taken completely by surprise. Both
died without being able to raise an alarm.
Phadke aimed his rifle at the sleeping Mujahideen closest to the
trucks.
`Okay, men, choose your targets.'
Three other Indian soldiers aimed their rifles in the same direction as
Phadke. Any Mujahideen soldier who attempted to get to the trucks
would have a very short, and exciting, life.
`Anytime now.'
The Indians were almost at the trucks- one man to a truck.
As the first soldier got in, Phadke raised his rifle to his shoulder.
To Phadke's immense relief, all the men got inside the trucks without
incident. Now was where the crunch happened. Three of the trucks had
their keys inside and the Indians turned the keys to start the trucks. The
two others were not as lucky and fumbled in the dark to jump-start the
vehicles. Phadke mused that this was Hawk's first failure- it had reported
that the Mujahideen routine was to leave the keys inside.
As soon as the engines revved to life, Mujahideen around the park
woke up with a start- groping around for their weapons. The Indian
drivers turned on the headlights to disorient the enemy. As was usual,
nothing went perfectly in real life war- only two trucks had functioning
lights. As the three trucks turned away and began picking up speed, the
Mujahideen began firing- bullets slammed into the cabs of the remaining
two trucks, killing both Indian soldiers.
`Get them!'
Phadke and his men opened fire, taking the Mujahideen by surprise.
The first volley sent four men down as the Mujahideen wheeled to face
this new threat.
Gunfire criss-crossed the night sky as the Indians and Mujahideen
exchanged rifle fire. The Mujahideen were exposed in the open and two
more fell before the others began scrambling for cover.
The soldier next to Phadke shouted over the din of gunfire.
`Sir, the trucks are clear!'
`Blow the rest.'
The three Indians with the anti-tank launchers aimed at the
remaining trucks and fired. The sky was lit up with a huge orange flame
as the two ammunition filled trucks exploded. The huge fireballs they
produced engulfed dozens of Mujahideen near the trucks, as others ran
for safety.
Phadke felt himself being literally lifted off the ground by the force of
the explosion.
As the initial shock wave subsided, he shouted out to his men.
`Let's get out of here, guys!'
The Indians ran off into the night as secondary explosions continued
in the park behind them.
Mast Gul was horrified at what he saw. He had never expected
something like this. He had been dreaming of his home back in Jalalabad
when he had been jolted awake by the sound of gunfire. He had rushed
outside to find his men firing at the trucks.
`Fools, what are you doing?'
He had scarcely completed his sentence when the truth dawned on
him.
`Stop the trucks!'
He had rushed out; rifle in hand- when the two trucks exploded and
Gul was thrown back by the impact, a sheet of heat billowing across the
field.
When he got up, he saw absolute carnage around him. His face was
bleeding from flying glass splinters and as looked around, he saw at least
fifty Mujahideen lying dead around the park- with at least double that
number wounded, crying for help.
To add to his misery, three of the trucks were gone.
Gul sat down, flinging his rifle angrily to one side. With almost seventy
per cent of his ammunition stolen or destroyed and at least one-fifth of
his remaining force of around 500 out of action, there was no question of
pressing home the attack.
He radioed the Pakistani command base with the news.
By morning, the word had spread. The tide had turned in Uri.

***

Illahi was fuming when everyone walked in. He looked straight at his
Army Chief.
 `What the hell is going on? Shamsher, I thought we were supposed to
have got Uri by now!'
`Sir, there always was a risk in using the Mujahideen. They're not
professional soldiers like the Indians. Also, we did not have much to do
with their battlefield tactics. You insisted we leave that to Tariq's bunch.'
The big soldier bristled and was about to retort, when Illahi cut him
off.
`Shamsher, there's no point in blaming each other now. What are our
plans for moving in to take Uri?'
`I don't understand- why would we move in?', the surprise in
Shamsher's voice said it all.
`Well, we need to secure Uri and move on in the valley.'
`But Sir, the plan was that the Mujahideen capture at least one town,
we say that it was an internal uprising helped by Muslim volunteers from
POK, and we send in limited ground and air support under the pretext of
helping them- and then move ahead from there. Sending our troops in
now would be an obvious and open act of aggression.'
What he did not need to say was the simple fact that if things got too
hot for India in Kashmir, it would retaliate in the plains, striking at the
heart of Pakistan. That had been the widely accepted doctrine ever since
the two nations began trading blows over Kashmir. And Shamsher
Ahmed also did not need to reiterate that the correlation of forces was
nowhere as favorable in the plains as it was in Kashmir.
`Well, Shamsher, then the plan just changed. We can't just back off
now- we are now committed, and need to push ahead. If we need to raise
the stakes, so be it. We will not have another chance- so let's go ahead.'
Karim had been watching the exchange in silence, but now spoke up.
`Sir. I would look at it differently. We're still not committed as deeply
as we could be- we have no ground troops on Indian soil. We can still
back out if we want- and do it with honor intact. On the other hand, if we
go in on the ground- there's no going back. The Indians are bound to
retaliate in kind- and then we get into a spiral where the use of nuclear
weapons is a real possibility.'
`Karim, I understand your concern- but you're wrong. We cannot look
back now. Shamsher, have your troops ready to move.'
Shamsher had known Ilahi long enough to know when arguing with
him was futile, but on something as important as this, he decided to give
it one more attempt.
`But sir, the M1s aren't in yet. They're still a couple of days away from
being at the front. If the Indians counter-attack in the plains, we won't
have the M-1s, as was the original plan.'
`Well, then we'll just to make do with what we have', Illahi waved his
hand and went into his study, indicating that the meeting was over.
Shamsher looked at Karim, and their eyes met for a minute. As
Shamsher walked out, Karim thought he could see something in the old
soldier's eyes- something he had seen in Arif's eyes.
That reminded him- Arif would be in town tomorrow and he had a
dinner appointment with him. It would be good to share a couple of
beers with him, remember the old times and get some of his frustration
out of his system.

***

Ramnath was living a task force commander's nightmare. A Sea King
had got a sub contact ten minutes ago, and now five helicopters were
searching the waters around the Indian task force for the Pakistani
submarine.
The formation of the task force was meant to provide maximum
security to the Vikramaditya. The Vikramaditya was roughly at the
center of the group that spanned an area of nearly twenty-five square
kilometers. In front were the INS Delhi and the INS Godavari, with the
rear being protected by the Godavari's sister ship, the INS Ganga. The
INS Delhi was the most powerful surface combatant in the Indian Navy,
packing a powerful anti-ship punch with 16 SS-N-25 missiles, a battery
of Trishul SAMs and a powerful anti-submarine capability with mortars,
torpedoes and two Sea King helicopters. The Godavari class ships- the
Godavari and the Ganga, were nearly a decade older, and carried only
four SSMs, but each carried two Sea Kings to give a powerful anti-sub
standoff capability. The flanks were guarded by Indian designed Khukri
class frigates, which for their size carried a sizable anti-ship punch with
SS-N-25 missiles. To get to the Vikramaditya, any Pakistani submarine
would have to run the deadly gauntlet thrown by the Indian ships.
 The Indians knew that, equipped with four Exocets each, the Agostas
could launch an attack from about fifty kilometers away, and to guard
against this, had a pair of Sea Kings sweeping the sea around the task
force.
Ramnath's group had two key missions- interdict the Saudi convoy
when the order came, and to destroy the remnants of the Pakistani fleet
left after the Kilo attack. His immediate concern however, was dealing
with the Pakistani submarines stalking his force.
`Missiles in the air- twenty kilometers, bearing one-six-four!'
Ramnath looked at the radar screen to see the two Exocets closing in
on the group.
`Air defenses, engage incomings. All ships activate countermeasures.
Get the Sea Kings on that bastard!'
The two missiles were now barely skimming the sea- closing in at
over 500 knots. The Pakistani captain had fired at the largest target, and
one missile was homing on the Vikramaditya. The other had locked on to
the Delhi. The Delhi was equipped with 36 Indian designed Trishul
missiles just for this eventuality. In testing, the Trishul had scored a 60%
one-shot success rate against subsonic sea-skimmers. Now Ramnath
would find out if it worked nearly as well in real life.
At a range of fifteen kilometers, the INS Delhi fired a salvo of four
Trishuls, two aimed at each Exocet. The smoke trails of the Trishuls
stood out against the blue sky as they streaked towards the Pakistani
missile. Three of them missed, causing Ramnath to muse that if things
worked as well in real war as they were claimed to in tests- there would
be no casualties- as everyone would be knocking the other side's
missiles out of the sky.
The fourth Indian SAM however locked on to one of the Exocets and
exploded near it, destroying it a safe distance from the Indian ships. The
other however kept coming in at the Vikramaditya.
`Barak, CIWS!' Ramnath cried out to his weapons officer to activate
the carrier’s Close in Weapons Systems.
The Vikramaditya was equipped with four multi-barreled Gatling guns
to deal with such close in threats. Controlled by the ship's main radar,
these guns would spew out bullets at any incoming threat at over 3000
rounds a minute. In addition, it had a battery of Israeli designed Barak
short-range missiles, specifically designed to deal with threats like the
Exocet.
Two Baraks were fired at a range of just over five kilometers. To
Ramnath’s dismay, both missed the Exocet and flew on. The two port
guns opened up, laying a barrier of metal in the path of the missile. The
first burst missed, and the missile was now just a kilometer away. The
guns readjusted and fired a second burst, which exploded the Exocet just
a couple of hundred meters from the Vikramaditya. The fragments from
the destroyed missile hit the side of the Indian carrier. There was no
serious damage to the ship, just a few dents that would not impair
operations. However, some of the fragments hit a group of seamen who,
rather foolishly, were watching the missile home in. Four of them
received fairly serious cuts and were sent to the ship's hospital.
`Sir, we've got a fix on him. Ten kilometers out, doing ten knots,
coming straight in.'
`Well, he's got balls. Hasn't given up yet.'
Ramnath watched his ASW plot as the Indian Sea King dropped a
torpedo into the water. The torpedo tracked in on the Agosta, and
Ramnath watched it merge with the submarine icon on his screen.
`Negative- he's still there. I think we just blew up a decoy.'
`Sir, sixteen kilometers and closing.'
This was one tough guy, Ramnath thought. But probably a bit too
aggressive for his own good. The Pakistani skipper had most probably
been frustrated in his attempts to get in close to the Indian carrier due to
the gauntlet thrown up by the Indian choppers and escort ships. That
was probably why he had taken the risky gamble of firing Exocets and
giving away his position at pretty long range. What Ramnath did not
know was the tremendous pressure Pakistan’s submariners were under
to show some results. So far the war at sea had gone almost all India’s
way. That was in large measure responsible for the Pakistani skipper’s
one error in an otherwise flawlessly executed engagement. Now
Ramnath would make him pay dearly for that mistake.
The Sea King dropped another torpedo from point blank range.
`That's a kill. Confirm, sub destroyed.'
To his surprise, the exultant cheers on the bridge of the Vikramaditya
soon gave way to groans. That’s when Ramnath looked at the message
being flashed by the Delhi.
`Need to be a bit faster, big guy. Missiles aren't for staring at.'
The Delhi crew would be insufferable now, their ship having claimed
all the honors in this engagement- shooting down an Exocet and then
one of its choppers claiming the sub kill. In contrast, the Vikramaditya
had ended up looking a bit foolish.
Well, that would have to change. Ramnath knew this had been a very
close call- next time; the INS Delhi's jibes would be least of his worries if
a missile got through.

***

`Hey, where do you think you're going?'
The Patriot turned around at the guard's challenge. He knew it was
dumb of him to be here, but the last transmission had been explicit. They
wanted more detailed information. What they did not seem to
understand was that he did not have first hand access to everything, and
getting information carried its own risks. Which was why he was
hanging around outside the Boat Club at Karachi on a Sunday afternoon.
He spoke as the guard, a young boy barely out of his teens,
approached him.
`Yes, what is it?'
`Don't you know that area is only for those who have rented boats.
With the war, no boats are being rented out.'
`Sorry, I didn't see the sign.'
The Patriot quietly walked back and sat at a bench. Typically he
operated through informants, often on a one-time basis, so that they
would not know anything more than their one assignment. Some
informants had, of course been cultivated over a period of time, through
money, and sometimes, blackmail. They of course, never met him. To
them, he was a faceless Dr Dastur, who would call and ask for packages to
be delivered at a specified location.
So far the system had worked well. Only one of his operatives had
been arrested so far- a clerk in the army whom he had bribed Rupees
fifty thousand to get a confidential file. The investigation never got too
far, since the poor clerk simply did not know who had asked him to do
the job. And The Patriot never got caught as he realized a trap was being
set the moment he entered the drop area, and just walked on. But there
was a real risk that one day he would be compromised. Which was why
he took precautions as he was doing today. The drop was at five-o clock,
but he was waiting from four thirty. He had scanned the area and judged
it to be clear. Now all he had to do was to wait for his operative. Today's
information was relatively easy- the Indians wanted to know the
operational deployment areas of Pakistan's Agostas. For this, the Patriot
was using a leverage in the Navy that he had not used as yet- an
Operations Officer on whom he had evidence of corruption- which in
turn he had paid one hundred thousand Rupees for.
At five o’clock, a man entered the park next to the boat club. The
Patriot had a clear view of the area, and watched the man furtively look
around before taking out a small envelope from his jacket and place it in
the garbage can, as had been agreed.
The Patriot made no attempt to move towards the bin. He calmly
walked over to the adjacent cafe and sat down, ordering supper. He
would watch the bin for the next two hours, when it would be dark
enough for him to quickly reach into the garbage can without anyone
observing him. Only then would he approach it. In his profession,
patience was a virtue that kept you alive

***



THIRTEEN

If fighting will not result in victory, then you must not fight, even at the
ruler's bidding.
- Sun Tzu

`This is wonderful news! God, I'd like to meet that Major and
congratulate him myself', Khosla was in a good mood after several days.
The news of the Uri raid had spread fast, and the newspapers were full of
it. Public morale, which had been sagging after news of the steady
progress of the raiders and the IAF's inability to get quick air superiority,
had received a double boost with the news of the Navy success off
Karachi, and now the Uri counter-attack.
Khosla could see tired, smiling faces all around. His service chiefs,
Randhawa, Raman and Sen had been living with great stress ever since
the whole thing began. The last two days had given them something to
cheer about. Joshi was the only one with a frown on his face.
`Well, Joshi, anything we should know about?'
Joshi was scratching his nearly bald pate, an action that Khosla had
long come to recognize as a sign of nervousness.
`Sir, there's some intelligence.'
`Yes, go on.'
`But it’s from the Patriot.'
`I understand- but at least tell us what the intelligence is. These are
the guys who will have to act on this intelligence.'
Joshi began speaking reluctantly, `Sir, the Patriot says that Pakistan is
about to launch a ground offensive in Kashmir to take Uri. The offensive
should begin in a day or two.'
`Well, so our friend finally proves his worth. So, Randhawa, what are
we doing about reinforcing our boys in Uri.'
The Army Chief lost much of his cheer, `Sir there's no way we'll get
substantial ground reinforcements there in time. As you know, terrorists
had triggered a landslide on the main highway with explosives. We're
still struggling to clear it- but we need at least two days more. The only
way to get forces there is to airdrop them, and Sen had an issue on that.
We've discussed this before.'
`Sen, what's the issue?'
`Sir, we don't have decisive air superiority yet- we estimate around
ten to twelve F-15s left, plus the AWACS are around- if they make a
concerted effort, they could really chew up any airdrop effort. With those
E-3s, they'll know we're coming as soon as our planes take off.'
Khosla was going to have none of it.
`Those boys have shed their blood and sweat, holding out against
impossible odds. I'll be damned if I let them die. We're going in! Put as
much fighter cover as you want, but we'll not lose Uri.'
He turned to Randhawa again, `Now that we know the bastards are
moving, lets kick off our attack in the plains and Raman, let's sink that
damn convoy if they refuse to turn around.'
Joshi spoke up again, `Sir, actually the Patriot has another piece of
news, the 45th fighter squadron, their top F-16 squadron, has been
moved to Karachi to protect the convoy.'
Raman looked at Sen, `Sen, the Vikramaditya alone can't handle the
convoy and a squadron of F-16s- she has only sixteen fighters. Your boys
will have to suppress Karachi while the convoy is hit.'
As the Services Chiefs walked out, Sen looked quizzically at Randhawa,
`Who's this Patriot?'
`Don't know guys. He's a mole we have in Pakistan. The grapevine
says that he's been there for many years. Only the PM and the top
Intelligence guys know who he is.'
`Well, whoever he is, I think he's saving a lot of lives.'

***

There was complete silence in the large briefing room as Lt. General
Manoj Shetty stepped up to the podium. Behind him on the wall was a
large computer projected map of India's western border.
Shetty commanded the XII Corps of the Indian Army, based in
Rajasthan. A powerful force, the XII Corps had at its disposal three
infantry divisions, four artillery regiments, two T-72 tank brigades, and
Chauhan’s Arjun regiment. In all, a force of over 35,000 men with 250
tanks, 200 artillery and rocket pieces and five hundred other vehicles
including the missile equipped BMP armored personnel carrier. It was a
powerful striking force, and Shetty was laying out its objectives.
As Shetty spoke, Chauhan could sense the buzz of anticipation in the
room. This was it- the real thing. He knew that further to the North, Lt.
Gen Parvindar Sandhu, commanding officer of the XI Corps in Punjab,
was carrying out a similar briefing. The XI Corps would be the spearhead
of the Indian offensive, and its primary objective was to rush to Lahore.
The XI Corps was the single most powerful unit in the Indian Army, with
four infantry and one armor division- equipped entirely with the T-90.
As the plans were laid out, Chauhan felt a bit disappointed. It was
really going to be the XI Corps' show. The XII Corps was going to make a
diversionary attack in the South, making Pakistan divert resources to
stop what looked like a thrust at its heartland, while the XIth would push
on to Lahore. He had half expected it- the cream of India’s armor was
with the XIth Corps, and it was no surprise that they would spearhead
the attack in the plains.
As the briefing ended, Chauhan walked out. Most of his fellow officers
were excitedly discussing the briefing, but Chauhan stood to one side. As
the group dispersed, he started walking in the direction of his bunk.
He had walked only a few feet when he stopped. To the right, in the
corridor that connected the Briefing Room to the Mess, was Pooja. She
was writing something, sitting on the low wall. Chauhan had never
thought of himself as very poetic, but for once he wished he could think
of words more poetic than `beautiful'. Pooja's face was showcased
beautifully by the afternoon sun behind her, her black hair blowing in the
gentle breeze. Her eyes were glued to the piece of paper on which she
was scribbling furiously.
Chauhan walked up to her slowly, wondering every few seconds
whether he shouldn't just turn and run for his bunk. Grow up, Chauhan,
you're acting like a love struck sixteen-year-old. He had been bowled over
by the young journalist the moment he saw her- but he wouldn't think of
making any advances.
He had never considered himself particularly good around women,
and seemed to have a natural talent for saying the wrong things at the
right time. This, combined with a particularly bad experience just after
he had joined the Army, when a girl he had fallen quite madly in love with
had walked out on him, had made him even more diffident while
approaching women. As he had said to one of his closest friends, if you're
introverted, it takes a lot of effort to really open up, to wear your heart on
your sleeve. If then it doesn't work out, you just retreat into your shell
with renewed fury- and it's even tougher to come out again. At that
moment, he realized just how abrupt he had been in dealing with her.
Little did she know the thousand things that were plaguing his mind.
`Oh, hi Colonel. What's up?'
Chauhan thought her smile could light up a darkened room.
`Well, I was just coming from the briefing.....'
`Yeah- I heard, we're moving tomorrow, right?'
`Yes. Well, I'll go now. I want to check on the tank's ammunition.'
With that, Chauhan walked past Pooja. Ammunition, Chauhan mentally
kicked himself as he entered his bunk.
Pooja was beginning to understand the silent Colonel after all. After
the first few meetings, she had caught him staring at her on several
occasions. He would, of course, avert his eyes whenever she turned to
look at him. But I wonder why he's always so psyched up?

***

Singh walked towards the briefing room to meet his pilots. He was
thrilled at the fact that his squadron was so far doing a splendid job. It
had claimed nine kills, including four F-15s and had lost only four aircraft
in air combat. The MiG-29 squadron also based at Srinagar had done
almost as well- six kills, including three F-15s, for four losses.
He had been asked to select six crews for the mission, and he saw all
eleven men in front of him. They were the cream of his squadron, and
each crew had claimed at least one kill in the fighting over Kashmir. They
represented the cutting edge of the Indian Air Force’s fighter crews and
had been handpicked for this particular mission. This represented not so
much the fact that the job in Kashmir was finished, but the simple fact
that in the judgment of the Air Force, only these pilots, and these planes,
had any realistic chance of pulling off the mission before them.
 `Well, guys, I know Kashmir's picturesque and all- but we're being
moved temporarily to Jaisalmer for a special mission.'
As he could have expected, Goel was the first to speak up.
`But Boss, we were just beginning to enjoy ourselves. A week more,
and we may just have made those Pakis sorry they messed with us.'
`Guys, you're doing a terrific job- so this has nothing to do with
performance. It's a mission you'll want to go along on. The Navy wants to
hit some ships and being the Navy, they just pretend they can fly those
fighters on their carriers. They're much more comfortable on the sea, not
above it. Give them a chance, and they'll be sailing their fighters in some
bloody regatta.'
This drew amused laughter from the crew. It was a long-standing joke
in the IAF about Navy fighter pilots, despite the fact that the Navy pilots
in fact trained along with the Air Force.
`So they want us to go and help them out. Look at it this way- you've
whipped the F-15s, now's your chance to go and kick some F-16 ass-
right in their backyard.'
As Singh briefed his men on the upcoming mission, he could sense a
palpable change in mood. They were every bit as excited as he was. Now
was a chance to hit the Pakistanis where it really hurt.

***

Karim ordered yet another beer as he looked at Shoaib and Shamsher
sitting across the table. They were sitting in the Officer's Club in the
heart of Islamabad, and were glad that they had finally got some privacy
after they asked for a private booth.
The three did not know each other well, despite having worked
together as a team now for over four years. Karim had figured that now
was as good a time as any to make a beginning. His latest conversation
with Arif was still fresh in his mind. He thanked God for giving him such a
friend, with whom he could discuss anything. He had not even discussed
the latest goings on with Meher, as he did not wish to alarm her. It was
on Arif's suggestion that he had called this meeting. He had only a vague
idea of what he wanted to say- nothing that would remotely qualify as a
`plan’, but he knew that there were certain paths down which his
conscience would no longer allow him to walk. Also, if he really wanted to
influence things around him, he desperately needed the two men around
the table with him on his side, or neutral at worst.
All three men were getting slightly tipsy- each trying to get an escape,
no matter how temporary, from the tensions and frustrations of their
jobs. Shamsher and Shoaib did not know that Karim had any specific
agenda, but were just glad to get a much-needed break from the daily
grind.
`So, Shamsher, what do you think of the ground offensive?'
Shamsher looked up, his broad shoulders sagging, `You know how I
feel, Karim. You both know- and I imagine neither of you feels any
differently.'
The normally reticent Shoaib now spoke up with more emotion than
Karim could ever recall seeing in him before, `But we're bloody
professional soldiers- ours not to question why and all that crap- so we
just march to the tune the politicians play.'
Shoaib almost spat out the words, and Karim could see tears well up
in the Admiral's eyes. The oldest of the three, Shoaib normally was the
least given to open displays of emotion. But this time, Karim knew the
reason. His eldest son had died on board the Taimur.
Karim decided to lay his cards on the table.
`And what if we don't like that tune?'
The question was asked softly, and both Shamsher and Shoaib started,
looking up to see if Karim was joking. Karim's expression indicated that
he was indeed dead serious.
Both Shamsher and Shoaib were completely taken by surprise at this
question. Shoaib answered for both of them. `We quit. Anything else
would be mutiny and treason.'
`Treason against what? The people? Do you really believe that? What
do you think the people of Pakistan would say to what's happening- they
don't know anything because of the way Tariq and his goons have the
papers terrified. Our duty is to Pakistan and its people- not Illahi.'
`So what do you suggest- a coup? Come on, for better or for worse,
we're in the middle of a war. Any chaos here and we just weaken
ourselves further for India.'
`Shamsher, you'll be surprised how many officers think like us. And
I'm not suggesting doing anything that would give the Indians an
advantage. I don't like them any more than either of you. But we need to
be pragmatic. A war like this serves no purpose, except the Emir's and
Illahi's. Remember, there's a very thin line between mutiny and doing
what is in the country's interest.'
`And Karim, how do we decide where to draw that line.'
`That's for us to decide, Shoaib. Personally, for me that line is when we
step towards using nuclear weapons. Frankly the way things are going,
that's just a when, not an if.'
The other two men were silent for a while, and then Shamsher spoke,
and Shoaib nodded along, to indicate his agreement.
`Karim, on that, I'm with you- that line can be the one we choose. Till
then however, we do not flinch a bit in carrying out our professional
duties in prosecuting this war. Any weakness on our part now would
weaken the nation, and we would just have given the Indians an
opportunity to hurt us.'
`Yeah, let's finish quickly and catch some sleep- we all have a war to
fight.'

***

Jim Lafferty was getting impatient with his advisors.
`Listen, guys- you've been sitting here day after day, all week, telling
me what's happening in the Indian subcontinent- but not what we should
be doing. I don't want a goddamn live commentary- I want some real
advice.'
The Secretary of Defense, John Whitewater, answered. A career
military officer, he shared his President's disdain for what he too
perceived as America not doing its rightful bit.
`Mr. President, the way things are going- I see one side or the other
escalating to nukes. We need to do something now.'
`Come on, John, we've been through that before. We do anything and
the Emir just ends up being even more popular than before- and we just
have a few more fanatics at our throats', Bill Winters, the Secretary of
State countered.
`Come on, Bill, we all know that sooner or later, we've got to take the
Emir out, if not now, then within the next ten years. He's just waiting to
hit us, probably by choking oil supplies. My guess is, he'll grab a few
nukes first- that's probably all he's waiting for. Doing it now just makes
him look like a rogue and the whole West, not to mention Japan and
Russia, will step on him. He's building up his support base. He talks of
another Crusade, and I believe that's what he actually is leading up to.
You guys know we've tried taking him out before- missile strikes, even a
few failed covert missions. That bastard's just too smart. Never moves
by day, always changes locations and so on. If we have a chance now, let's
hurt him bad.'
`That's exactly my point too. We do anything and Illahi gives him a few
nukes, and we just precipitate the whole thing.'
Lafferty was watching his two senior advisors spar. He knew they
were the best guys on his team, and each had a point, but he also knew
that the US could no longer just keep sitting on the sidelines.
`Guys, this is all great debate, but the fact is our satellites show
Pakistani troops massing for a ground attack in Kashmir. With the
highway closed, the Indians are bound to try and air-drop
reinforcements to their troops in, what's that place called again?'
`Uri', Bill helped him out.
`Yeah,Uri. And with those F-15s and AWACS around, they'll have a
bitch of a time', Whitewater completed the sentence as he saw an
opportunity to get the President on his side.
That seemed to set off a spark in the President's head, `You know,
John, it doesn't make for very good press either- American planes being
used against a democracy by forces working for the Emir.'
`Sir, what do you suggest? We can't just start lobbing Tomahawks into
Islamabad?’ Winters wasn't going to give up so easily.
`I have an idea. We don't need to fire a single shot.'
Everyone turned to look at Whitewater.
`Sir, all our E-3s that we sell to foreign nations can be, uh, made to fail.
Given their awesome potential, we've always been wary of what would
happen if one fell into the wrong hands.'
That got Lafferty’s attention immediately.
`Tell me more.’
`Sir, the E-3 is just a slow converted passenger plane except for its
electronics. And those depend on computer chips. Over the years, we
have tried various means of inserting what we call `Trojan Horse’
viruses- which we can set off if need be. These would effectively shut
down all processing power on the plane’s computers. Of late, we have
gotten more developed versions where we can actually create false data,
but the Saudi AWACS have the first generation systems- still, should be
good enough if we need to use them.’
`Well, what do you guys think?’ Lafferty’s body language said that he
had pretty much already made up his mind, but he still wanted his inner
circle to back him up on such a big move.
` Saudi Arabia was an ally, its not one anymore. We just didn’t believe
we would have to do this. Let’s just do it. Just make sure our involvement
is not obvious.'
`And another thing, I want a contingency plan in place if Pakistan tries
to use its nukes. I hate to step in and mess up the already delicate
balance in the region, but we cannot sit around when people start
lobbing nukes around.’
`With pleasure, Sir.'

***

`There he goes again. Sir, I swear I got him.'
Ramnath smiled down at the young sonar operator. He knew the kid
was doing a fabulous job of tracking what was probably one of the
Pakistani's best sub skippers. He had been stalking the Indian fleet for
over ten minutes, and the Indians had not been able to get a firm fix on
his position.
`Send another bird up. This guy's in a real mood to play hide and seek.'
A Sea King helicopter took off from the flight deck of the Vikramaditya
to join the two helicopters already on the hunt. The Indian choppers had
deployed dipping sonar, skipping from position to position to try and get
a firmer fix on the sub.
`There! I've got him!'
Ramnath ran over to the sonar operator, `Calm down, son. Now's
when you've got to keep your calm. Yeah, we've got him all right. Range?'
Ramnath looked at the screen, which besides indicating data from the
ship's own hull mounted sonar, was also down linking data from the Sea
King's sonar.
`Thirty kilometers, Sir.'
`Close enough to launch. Probably wants to be sure of a kill.'
`Sir, he's turning around to the far end of the convoy!'
Ramnath grimaced. This was one tough bastard. He had probably
realized that he had been detected, and was making for the far end of the
task force, which was the least defended. He had done a good job of
figuring out the task force's defenses. The near end had the
Vikramaditya, defended by fewer, but more capable ships, the Delhi and
the Godavari. The far end had more ships, but they were considerably
less capable. The Pakistani captain now wanted a sure kill, and was
making for the area where he would have the most targets, and the
easiest ones to hit. Ramnath knew that he was dealing with a thinking
soldier- not just one who would blindly wade in at the Indian carrier, as
several other subs had done, but would carefully evaluate where to
strike.
The Sea Kings were now on top of him, dropping sonobouys and
depth charges hoping to force him to the surface. But he held his course.
At a range of twenty kilometers, the Pakistani submarine fired four
Exocets.
One of the Vikramaditya's Sea Kings noticed the exact spot of the
launch and dropped two depth charges. The charges exploded just
meters from the submarine's hull. The Agosta sank with no survivors.
Later Ramnath would wonder just how desperate the Pakistanis were
that they were willing to sacrifice their best assets on such attacks
which, even if successful, gave the attacking platform a low probability of
escape. Such desperation was dangerous, especially when the adversary
in question had close to a hundred nuclear warheads.
The four Exocets were now less than ten kilometers away and homing
in on the Indian ships. The Delhi had fired a salvo of Trishuls, and the
Godavari fired a brace of older and less capable SA-N-4 missiles. Two of
the Exocets were hit but the others homed in on the light frigate Kuthar.
The Kuthar had anti-aircraft defenses puny in comparison to the Delhi
but got off two Trishuls before the missiles hit. One Exocet was hit a
hundred yards out and exploded without causing much damage. The
other, however, hit the Kuthar just below the bridge. The missile
penetrated several feet into the ship's hull before the warhead exploded.
Ramnath cringed at the explosion and when the smoke had cleared, he
raised his binoculars to see a gaping hole in the side of the Kuthar. The
ship was listing slightly to port and he could see several sailors in the
sea.
`Get some choppers out there to pick up the guys in the water! And try
and raise the Kuthar on radio.'
`Sir, the Captain's dead. So is half the crew. A petty radio officer is on
the radio- and he's nearly hysterical.'
Ramnath took the radio.
`Son, what's your name?'
`K....Kishore, Sir. Sir, everyone's gone- the captain....'
`Relax, son. We'll get someone there immediately.'
Two Sea Kings left the Vikramaditya, filled with medical personnel
and a crew to handle the stricken ship.
The ship could probably just make it back to the nearest port, but had
suffered over 50 dead. The remaining 30 odd crewmen were all wounded
or in shock. A ten man emergency crew from the Vikramaditya flew over
to nurse the ship back to port.
Ramnath retired to his cabin, drained. He knew casualties in war were
inevitable, but it was always tough when they actually happened.

***



FOURTEEN

If the enemy leaves a door open, you must rush in.
- Sun Tzu

The Flight Lieutenant in charge of the E-3 was beginning to get bored.
The inside of the converted Boeing 707 resembled something out of a
science fiction movie, with computer screens and sensors all around.
The E-3 needed a full crew of 16 to man and monitor all its equipment.
Two Saudi E-3s had flown in to help the PAF, and at any given time, one
was aloft in the skies over Kashmir. With its powerful radar, the E-3
could detect any Indian aircraft well over three hundred kilometers
away.
So far this had been a relatively quiet day. Only two Indian aircraft had
been detected flying towards the border but had turned back when the
AWACS had directed PAF fighters towards them. Though he had now
been flying on the E-3 for over two years, the young officer never ceased
to marvel at the power of its technology. A single AWACS could control an
air battle involving hundreds of fighters over an area of over a thousand
square kilometers. In addition, its powerful jammers and ECM
equipment could defeat most enemy radars. He could just about `see' the
Indian AWACS, two hundred kilometers away and flanked by four
fighters.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down. Three more
hours to go before he could get some much needed shut-eye while the
other AWACS took over control of the air battle.
`Sir, multiple contacts!'
He rushed to the radar operator’s chair and stared in fascination at
the screen that was fast filling with contacts.
`Twenty two, twenty three, twenty five!' the excited radar operator
was counting at the top of his voice. The officer snapped at the operator,
`I can count! Give me their likely heading.'
Suitably chastened, he made a few quick calculations, `Sir, they're
doing three hundred knots, bearing one six four. No radar emissions as
of now. They'll be bang over Uri in twenty minutes.'
`Three hundred knots. Doesn't sound like they're attack aircraft....'.
Before he could complete his sentence, realization dawned on the PAF
officer.
`What are the nearest assets we have aloft?'
`Sir, we have four F-15s on CAP just east of Uri. They just took off, so
they're fully loaded. We also have four Airguards at Abbotabad on ready.'
`Vector the Eagles to an intercept solution, and get those Airguards up
immediately!'

***

Colonel Rang Singh Thapa hated flying- it always made him feel
powerless. On the ground, things were much more under his control. He
had his rifle and knife to fight, and if need be, his legs to run. Up here, he
was completely at the mercy of these bloody pilots. But he had long
gotten used to it. As the commanding officer of the 5th Battalion of the
Indian Paracommandos, he had come to accept aircraft as a means to get
him to the enemy faster. It was an uneasy truce that had worked for five
years. He and his four hundred and fifty commandos were being flown to
be dropped over Uri by twelve An-32 transports.
The Paras were the closest equivalent the Indian Army had to Special
Operations Forces in the way the US Army had its Rangers. The Indians
had small special units like the National Security Guard for dealing with
hostage rescues etc, but for large-scale infantry operations, the Paras
were the cutting edge.
Clearly the Air Force isn't taking any chances with this one, thought
Thapa as he caught occasional glimpses of the escorting fighters. Twelve
MiG-29s and Su-30s were hovering nearby, to tangle with any PAF
fighters that got in the way.
Thapa looked at his watch. Five more minutes. Looking around at the
forty troops in his plane, Thapa saw a couple of the younger soldiers
trying to crack jokes, following them with their own nervous laughter.
The more experienced troops were still and quiet, occasionally checking
their weapons and equipment.

***

`Sir, the F-15s are now only eighty kilometers away from the Indian
planes. Their RWRs indicate that the Indian fighters are tracking them.
The Airguards are twenty kilometers behind. We've scanned the radar
transmissions- those twelve bandits are the transports', the radar
operator indicated by jabbing at the screen with his fingers.
The Flight Lieutenant was always reminded of the video games that
he played as a child whenever he looked at the screens on the E-3. The
Indians were approaching at a steady 300 knots, and were represented
by twelve arrow-like symbols on the top right hand corner of his display.
Uri was marked by a dot in the center. Rapidly approaching from the left
were the PAF fighters.
`What kind of fighters?'
`Eight Fulcrums, four Flankers.'
`Whoa, those fighter jocks are going to have their hands full. Let's do
them a favor. Begin jamming the Indian radars and give our friends in the
Eagles the best vector to get at the transports.'
`Jamming initiated, Sir.'
With odds of twelve to eight, the Indian fighters had an edge, even
though four of the Pakistani fighters were AMRAAM equipped F-15s.
However, with their radars scrambled by the E-3s powerful jamming
suite, the balance would shift rapidly in favor of the PAF fighters.
The PAF officer commanding the AWACS was intently watching the
two groups of planes merge on his radar screen. Any moment now, the F-
15s would let loose with their AMRAAMs. It had already been agreed that
the first targets were to be the transports.
Then without warning, the radar screen went blank.
`What the hell is going on!!'
The radar operator was fiddling madly with all the controls in front of
him. He had no idea what had just happened.
The officer looked at the others. It was the same story at all the
consoles. The radar, ECM and jamming systems were all not working.
Now the E-3 was just another big transport aircraft- and an easy target
for any fighter pilot worth his salt.
 `Get us out of here! The fighters will have to fend for themselves.'

***

The IAF fighters were temporarily disoriented with the powerful
jamming, but then something miraculous seemed to happen. The E-3
seemed to have turned it's radar off and was turning away.
Now it was the Indian AWACS turn. Not as sophisticated as the E-3, it
could still make a big difference on the battlefield. It began to vector the
IAF fighters into positions where they would have the best chances of
scoring kills. Two MiG-29s went straight after the E-3 while, except for
two that stayed behind with the transports, the others peeled away to
attack the PAF fighters.
The PAF F-15s had been counting on the E-3 to guide them in, and
were uplinking the E-3 radar display onto their screens, when the
screens suddenly went blank. The ECM cover of the E-3 gone, their RWRs
began screaming out warnings of IAF radars locking on as they turned
their own radars on. The four Airguards really had no idea on what was
going on, and with their own short-ranged radar, they could still not see
the IAF fighters screaming towards them.

***

Thapa and his men were now standing, watching as the ramp behind
the transport was lowered. Thapa had done over a hundred jumps, but
this was the first time he was going into real combat.
Each man checked his gun and ammunition one more time. Thapa's
eyes were glued to the light near the ramp, which was currently glowing
red. As soon as it turned green, Thapa and his men would begin jumping.
To avoid falling behind enemy lines, their drop zone began three
kilometers to the southeast of Uri.
As the light turned green, Thapa was the first to jump, wondering
what he was getting into as he floated into the blackness of the night.

***

 Two MiGs caught the AWACS fifteen kilometers from its destination,
the PAF base at Sargodha. The E-3 pilot made a desperate attempt to get
away, but he never had a chance. Two R-73s hit the big plane, destroying
both its port engines, as the E-3 plummeted to the ground. The MiGs
turned around to rejoin the air battle.
For the Airguards, the first salvo proved decisive. Four Sukhois had
swept in at them from behind, guided by the Indian AWACS, catching
them unawares. Six R-27s rocketed through the sky, exploding three of
the PAF fighters. The fourth turned for home, trailing smoke from a near
miss.
The F-15s were mixing it up with the MiG-29s. With four versus six,
the odds were against the PAF pilots, but they put up a brave stand. An F-
15 pilot scored the first kill, turning inside a MiG and shredding its
cockpit with cannon fire. The Indians got back as a Fulcrum fired two R-
73s at point blank range. One missed, but the other tracked in,
destroying the Eagle. Another MiG fired a long burst from its 30mm
cannon and a dozen shells ripped apart an Eagle's wing, as the pilot
ejected. Then the Eagles struck back as one of the PAF fighters scored a
direct hit with a Sidewinder missile. But within a second, another Eagle
fell to an R-73 fired by one of the Sukhois that had rejoined the battle,
before the last remaining F-15 turned for home.
As the Indian fighters regrouped to take stock of their losses, they
knew the balance in the air over Kashmir had just tilted dramatically in
their favor.

***

Thapa rolled and came up in a crouch as he hit the ground. He
immediately unharnessed and packed his chute and began looking for
his men. The designated meeting point was a meadow three kilometers
from Uri. He set out at a fairly brisk trot, and when Thapa got there, he
found his men waiting for him.
`Everyone accounted for?'
The burly Subedar saluted formally.
`Yes sir. All except Tej and Nar Bahadur. We're trying to cut them
down from the tree, sir. They thought playing Tarzan may scare away the
Pakis faster.'
All the men around broke out in laughter, and Thapa joined in. A bit of
humor wasn't a bad thing- it showed his men still had the nerve to go
into battle.
`Okay, men, gather around.'
He drew a rectangle on the ground with his bayonet.
`This is Uri. Company A and B go to the North West of the city and
secure the outskirts- that's where the Mujahideen are reported to be re-
grouping to wait for their Pakistani fathers. You will set up a defensive
perimeter here and here. Company B will follow and Company C, block
the Southwest so those bastards can't get back in. Company D will come
with me. We'll link up with our boys and start mopping up inside.'
The men grunted agreement, and then set out, weapons at the ready.

***

Khosla thought Sen looked as excited as a small child who has just got
some gift he long craved for.
`Sir, it's unbelievable! We knocked out an AWACS and seven PAF
fighters for the loss of only three MiGs. It's the biggest victory in the air
so far.'
Khosla had read the report and was ready with his question, `Sen,
that's great. But what happened? Those PAF guys haven't been so dumb
so far.'
Sen looked positively sheepish, `Actually, Sir, I have no idea. It seems
their AWACS turned off all her systems and ran for home.'
`And the second?'
`No sign of it, Sir. I'd guess they might have malfunctioned.'
Khosla had always been one never to believe in too many
coincidences, and he wasn't about to start now.
`Maybe, Sen, maybe. But I find it hard to believe that both AWACS
could have just konked off at the same time. Anyway, are our boys in?'
`Yes, Sir. The Pakistanis are on the verge of reaching Uri. We should be
ready for them.'
Sen got up to leave. As he opened the door, he found Joshi about to
enter. The two men exchanged greetings and Joshi shut the door behind
him when he came in.
Khosla looked up to see his Intelligence Chief with his trademark
worried expression. It was joked that his expression never changed, no
matter what happened.
`Joshi, so finally we have some good news in Kashmir.'
`Sir, I don't know if it's good or not.'
`What do..'
`Sir, this just came in from the Patriot. Basically, the PAF has no idea
what happened. Literally, the radars just shut off in mid air, as if
someone had just turned them off. They think we've got some means of
jamming the AWACS.'
`Which we don't. I don't think anyone could do such a thing.'
`Except the Americans.'
Khosla nearly jumped in his chair.
`What are you saying. How could they do this?'
`Most likely they would have put a bug in the systems before selling
the planes. These are, think of them as time bomb viruses. Like other
computer viruses, except that they are activated on command, for
example from a satellite. We know the French and Americans do this on
their advanced weapon systems.'
`But why would the Americans help us after remaining silent for so
long?'
`Sir, they hate that Emir much more than us- and frankly, he can
develop into a major threat for them. They probably wanted to ensure he
isn't strengthened too much.'
`Joshi, that's fine. But there is no such thing as a free lunch. If they did
do this, I wonder what they'll want from us.'

***

Lieutenant General Sandhu was sitting calmly on a small folding chair,
sipping a cup of tea, almost oblivious to the bustle around him. He got up
slowly and walked to his command vehicle, a converted armored
personnel carrier. A dozen things were going through his mind. On his
command, the XIth Corps would launch the largest armored attack in the
subcontinent's history, and he had to be sure he had everything worked
out.
He was less than ten kilometers from the frontline. Sandhu would not
have entertained any notion of staying back and directing the battle from
some room in Delhi. He would, of course, not take part in combat
directly, but he wanted to be as close as possible.
He looked at his aide and nodded. `Okay, let's begin Operation
Payback.'
Those who had fought in earlier Indo-Pakistani wars would have
found it hard to relate to the way this war was going to be conducted.
The first to cross over the border were not tanks, or even IAF strike
planes. They were six unmanned Searcher planes. The six craft flew over
the border at a leisurely 200 knots, their cameras sending back details of
Pakistani artillery batteries and defensive emplacements. They were too
small to be picked up on any Pakistani radar. The E-3s may have had a
chance, but they were no longer in the picture. Also, at just over two
meters long and powered by two turbo-props, they did not give off
enough of a heat signature to be a likely victim to heat seeking SAMs. The
only way they could probably be downed was to be hit by a very
accomplished, or lucky, ack-ack gunner. The fact that at 5000 feet, their
small size made them almost invisible, made even this a remote
possibility.
Back at his command center, Sandhu was piecing together the pieces
of an intricate jigsaw puzzle, which when completed, would show him in
precise detail exactly what he was up against. From what he already
knew, he was going to up against tough odds. The Pakistanis seemed to
have at least 250 T-80s facing him, along with two or more infantry
divisions. The T-80s would definitely be a huge headache, and throw in
the Pakistani’s Cobra attack helicopters, and he knew that his tankers
would pay a heavy price for any advance into Pakistan. What he knew he
could count on was that the Indian Air Force was promising heavy
support now that it could divert a lot of assets which had been tied up in
the fighting over Kashmir. Also, a constant worry for the Indians had
been that the Pakistanis would swing one or both AWACS from over
Kashmir to the plains. That would complicate things a bit, as the AWACS
could also help them locate ground targets like artillery concentrations.
The unexpected news that the PAF AWACS were no longer operating, and
one had in fact been shot down, had caused Sandhu to accelerate his
schedule, without some of the painstaking methods he had devised to
camouflage and conceal his artillery concentrations.
Pakistan had UAVs of its own, much like the Indian Searcher, and
some in fact with better cameras and sensors. However, with the PAF
AWACS gone, and the Indian AWACS still very much active over the
battlefield, the Indians had a huge advantage in tracking these PAF UAVs
and directing ground fire towards them. At least three Pakistani UAVs
had already been shot down by concentrated ground fire as they tried to
probe the Indian positions. The Indians had so far lost only one UAV, and
in the critical battle of intelligence, India was beginning with a distinct
advantage. The neutralization of the AWACS was going to have much
wider repercussions than just the Battle for Uri.
Sandhu’s staff had been collating information on Pakistani force
displacements for some days now, and he had a fair idea of where he
could expect the toughest resistance when he did give the order to
advance. But his first target was to be the Pakistani artillery, to prevent
them from hitting his forces when they moved in. And now, as he marked
positions on his map, the Searchers were relaying back exact positions
of Pakistani artillery batteries near Wagah and Atau, both within thirty
kilometers of the border.
Sandhu did not want to wait for perfect knowledge- as soon as he had
a rough idea of the positions, he gave the order to fire.
It sounded like a giant thunderstorm. Men all around stood or
crouched with cotton in their ears, otherwise they would have been
deafened. Over two hundred Indian artillery pieces opened up in a deadly
salvo, raining death on their Pakistani counterparts. The Pakistanis had
two artillery regiments near Atau and at Wagah. The first salvo
destroyed nearly a third of the guns at Atau, and only slightly less at
Wagah.
The stunned Pakistani gunners now began to swing into action, but
their strength had already been depleted. They did not have an exact fix
on the Indian positions, as they had neither UAVs nor AWACS, but they
worked back the trajectories of the Indian shells using their superior
artillery targeting radar, and responded with salvos of their own.
Sandhu knew that he would take serious losses in the initial
exchanges. The Pakistani gunners were superb, and their US made
howitzers the equal of his guns. But he had the element of almost
complete surprise and a far better picture of where the enemy was, and
after the first couple of salvos, the Pakistani artillery had ceased to be a
decisive factor on the battlefield.
The Indian tanks and APCs now swarmed across the border. And for
the first time in over thirty years, the armies of India and Pakistan met in
all out war.

***

Singh looked at the four Su-30s parked on the tarmac, being loaded for
the mission. Two aircraft, including his plane, were being loaded with
two Kh-31P radar homing missiles apiece, along with two 130mm rocket
pods and a battery of six air-to-air missiles- two medium range R-27s
and four short range R-73s. The other two carried the same air-to air
load, but each carried four canisters of anti-runway cluster bombs.
He walked back to his office and went over plans for the mission one
more time. It would be by far, the most challenging and dangerous
mission any of the pilots had ever flown. He considered himself lucky
that the AWACS were not around anymore, but even without them, this
was going to be a real bitch.
Goel walked in at that moment, and for once, saw worry in Singh's
eyes.
`Hey, boss, it's gonna be cool. Don't sweat.'
Singh smiled wanly at him and walked out.
Goel knew he sounded far more confident than he felt inside.

***



FIFTEEN

He who is skilled in attack flashes forth from the topmost heights of
Heaven.
- Sun Tzu

Rahman had taken an instant liking for Thapa- and his men had
welcomed the paras warmly. The night had been a small celebration of
sorts, with the men digging out whatever food and drink they could find.
Bottles of rum had miraculously appeared, and the local guides supplied
meat, which was cooked over an open fire near the school. The
Mujahideen had retreated to the city's outskirts, and Rahman had let his
men indulge themselves, knowing the next day would bring intense
fighting.
The Pakistani regular troops were now only twenty kilometers away
and fast approaching artillery range. Thankfully, in this terrain, it was
difficult to get the bigger artillery pieces up fast, otherwise Pakistani
shells would already have been raining down on Rahman and his men.
As morning broke, Rahman did not have to wait very long for the
message he knew would signal the onset of the day’s fighting.
`Fox 1, heads up. Our friends have begun moving. Expect some help
from our friends in the air.'
Rahman listened to the message on the radio, and began directing his
men. Over the past four days, the mysterious Hawk had been a constant
companion and this UAV had become a symbol of hope for Rahman's
beleaguered men.
As he looked up, he could see six MiG-27s sweeping in over Uri,
heading for the Pakistani artillery. Rahman and Thapa looked up at the
dagger shaped silhouettes as the men cheered the fighters on.
The Pakistanis had made rapid progress, safe in the knowledge that
the IAF could not get at them easily. They did not yet know how
dramatically things had changed in the air.
The Pakistani Colonel in charge of the force that was to link up with
the Mujahideen was caught completely by surprise as the MiGs dove in.
There were hundreds of troops and vehicles in the open, but the Indian
fighters had their targets clearly identified- the dozen 88mm towed
artillery pieces the Pakistanis had bought with them.
The MiGs dove in after the artillery, firing rockets. The first pass
knocked out four of the guns, and the Pakistanis tried to regroup and
return fire. A couple of Stingers were fired at the Indian planes, but the
Pakistanis did not have time to get good locks, and the missiles flew on
harmlessly. The MiGs had circled around and were coming for their
second pass when the PAF appeared.
The PAF Base Commander at Abbotabad knew the odds were stacked
against him, but hearing the Pakistani Army commander’s cries for help,
he decided he would give it one last try. In past conflicts, the PAF had
been severely criticized for not helping out the ground forces much and
instead focusing too much on the more glamorous, but strategically less
critical aspect of pure air to air combat. The Commander at Abbotabad
had been personally ordered by Karim not to let this happen again, at
least in the critical Uri Sector.
Four F-7 Airguards came in after the MiGs, causing them to abort their
runs. As the Indian attack planes dove to evade the PAF fighters, four
Indian MiG-29s joined the battle. The Indian AWACS had detected the F-
7s as soon as they crossed the border and had directed the Fulcrums to
them.
In the short, sharp dogfight that followed, two F-7s were shot down
without loss to the Indian fighters. The two remaining PAF fighters
turned for home. That was the last time the PAF was seen over Uri.

***

Pooja could sense the excitement and anticipation in everyone
around. The XI Corps had launched its offensive just hours ago, and the
XIIth was scheduled to launch its offensive the next morning.
Men seemed to be milling around everywhere, and there was a sense
of disorder, even chaos, as equipment was checked, letters written, and
calls made. So, what is the Colonel up to now? wondered Pooja, looking
around for Chauhan.
 She went to his cabin, and found the door ajar. As she walked in, the
first thing that struck her was the total darkness. Chauhan was sitting in
a corner, his head in his hands.
`Excuse me. Are you feeling all right?'
`Please go away. I want to be alone.'
Pooja began to walk out but something held her back. She walked
towards the Army officer and turned the light on. Chauhan was sitting on
the edge of the bed, his eyes red. On the table in front of him was a half-
empty bottle of rum.
Pooja sat down next to him. `Is everything all right?'
`None of your...', Chauhan turned to retort, but stopped when he
looked into her eyes.
`Listen, Dev, is it okay if I call you that?'
As Chauhan nodded, she continued speaking, `I don't know what's
wrong, or if I can help at all, but sometimes it just helps to talk to
someone, to get the load off your chest. If you'd like to talk about it, I'm
there.'
Chauhan remained silent for a few seconds. As Pooja got up to leave,
Chauhan held her hand.
`Sit down.'
And then he began talking. He told her of the intense pressure to
perform, to make it as an Army officer, of a father who had never reached
the top in the Army and fiercely wanted to live his dreams through his
only son. He talked of that fateful evening two years ago, when
everything had gone up in flames.
It had been a routine training exercise till things began to go horribly
wrong. The main gun on his T-72 jammed and misfired. It was a one in a
million accident and the shell exploded. The tank caught fire within
seconds. Of the four men in the tank, two got out and scampered to
safety. The gunner, Ram Lal, was lying in a pool of blood. Thinking him to
be dead, Chauhan had begun to climb out himself. Then he heard the
screams. Ram Lal was alive and begging Chauhan to help him out.
Chauhan was outside the turret, standing on the burning tank, and from
between the sheet of flames, could just make out Ram Lal, frantically
waving his arms. Chauhan tried to reach in, but only burnt his hands
badly in the attempt. The heat was so strong, merely standing on the
tank made it seem like his feet had caught fire. But he thought that if he
just held on a bit longer, he could have pulled Ram Lal out.
Then it happened.
Chauhan jumped off the tank and ran to safety. An Army Inquiry found
him to be not guilty of any negligence, as in the judgment of the
Commission, he could not have survived himself had he gone back into
the tank.
But Chauhan never forgave himself. A difficult six months later, he was
back, but the scars remained. And the nightmares. And the snide remarks
from fellow officers that he was a coward, and had gotten away only
because his father was a big shot in the Army. And the two years of
constantly trying to prove himself to others, and most importantly, to
himself.
When he finished, there were tears in his eyes, and he had gripped
Pooja's hand tightly, as if seeking support.
`Oh God, I had no idea. But, Dev, you need to let go. The man's death
was not your fault.'
Chauhan's voice took on a bitter edge.
`You know what, it's not whether I could have gone in or not. At that
moment, I wouldn't have- I was terrified. I just froze. I could have at least
tried to get him out...'
The tears were coming freely now.
Pooja put her arm around his shoulder and spoke softly, `Dev, you
can't live with the ghosts of the past forever. You have to put them
behind you. And the best way to do that is to confront your fears head on,
and not try and hide from them. You can't go through life always proving
to yourself that you have it in you. You don't need to prove anything to
anyone. The moment you have convinced yourself, the battle's won.'
Chauhan wiped his eyes and looked at Pooja with an embarrassed
grin.
`Thanks. I feel much lighter. I just hope I haven't made a fool of myself.'
He was trying to return to his usual self, and Pooja did not want to
embarrass him.
`No, oh God, Dev. You haven't made a fool of yourself at all.
Sometimes, you just need to let go. Now get some rest, I guess we'll have
a tough day tomorrow.'
 Pooja got up and walked towards the door, as Chauhan stopped her
with the following words,
`Could you stay for a while.’
As she came closer to him, she could see that he was still sobbing, and
she reached out to comfort him. He buried his head into her shoulder as
he gripped her tightly for support. Things then happened fast- Pooja
wasn’t sure what started it, but their lips seemed to seek each other out
as they kissed, tentatively at first, and then with increasing passion.
Chauhan started to say something, probably realizing that things were
moving far beyond what either of them had planned, but Pooja put a
finger to his lips to silence him as he guided her down onto the bed

***

`Shells coming in!' Phadke shouted and dove for cover. The solitary
shell landed quite some distance away and exploded with an anti-
climactic thud. Phadke got up, grinning sheepishly. Everyone else had
reacted to his shouts and also scampered for cover, and were now
looking as sheepish as him.
`Well, so much for their artillery. Bless those Air Force guys, they've
finally got their act together.'
After the afternoon's air raid, the Pakistanis had only one artillery
piece left, and it was little more than nuisance value for the Indians
holding Uri. But there still was a whole Pakistani Brigade out there,
which together with the Mujahideen, meant an attacking force of close to
1500 men. The Indians, despite the reinforcements numbered only
around 600. The odds were still in favor of the Pakistanis, but with
almost total Indian air superiority, they were paying a terrible price for
every inch they came closer to Uri. The main force was now only six
kilometers outside the town, and advance scouts had reported that the
Pakistanis had six M-113 APCs and four Type 59 tanks. Rahman had
deployed all his anti-tank launchers outside the city on the hill that had
been the site for the first skirmish with the Mujahideen, but for now it
was the Air Force's show.
Phadke was now fiddling around with an LMG, showing off to the
Paras. He had become something of a celebrity after word got around
that he was the one who had led the fateful counterattack on the
Mujahideen camp.
`Look up!'
Rahman turned his head up to see four planes streaking westwards.
Poor bastards, thought Rahman, as he pictured the Pakistanis, advancing
under almost incessant attacks from the air.
A couple of minutes later, the four aircraft flew back over Uri, one of
them trailing smoke. Three columns of black smoke rising in the distance
told Rahman and his men that the IAF fighters had not missed.
Thapa came up to Rahman, assault rifle in hand.
`So, Major, we are ready?'
`Yes, let's begin.'
The Indian plan was simple, and the key to its success was surprise.
Despite their losses, the Pakistanis would have figured that they still had
a fairly large numerical edge, and the last thing they would expect was an
Indian attack.
Phadke was leading a combined force of 100 men, armed only with
assault rifles and grenades. The only heavy weapons the Indians had,
four mortars and three anti-tank launchers, were all on the hill, which the
Pakistanis were rapidly approaching. Thapa and Rahman were both on
the hill with all their remaining men.
Phadke had left just over thirty minutes ago, leading the men in a
grueling march that would take them almost two hours and would place
them behind the Pakistani left flank. To avoid detection, they had
clambered down the side of the small valley to Uri's Northwest. It had
been slow and painful progress down a nearly vertical hill and when they
finally reached their destination, almost every one of the Indians had
bruises and cuts.
Hawk had once again guided them. The regular Pakistani troops were
at the front and the Mujahideen were bringing up the flanks and rear.
These men had been at Uri since the fighting began, and had their
numbers and morale depleted by the fierce fighting and air strikes. This
was the soft underbelly where the Indians were going to strike.

***

 `Goel, are the co-ordinates fed in?'
`Yes, Boss. Now we just sit back and enjoy the view.'
Singh knew it was going to be much harder work than that. The four
Sukhois were flying at an altitude of barely 500 feet, the backseaters
using the terrain following radar to keep the big planes flying at such low
altitudes. The co-ordinates for their flight had already been fed into the
navigation computer. As the crow flies, the distance between Jaisalmer
and Karachi is less than 500 kilometers, but to minimize time spent over
hostile airspace, the planes would fly South over Gujarat and then loop
back North towards their target. This meant a round trip of over 1500
kilometers, and the Sukhoi was the only fighter in the IAF inventory with
the endurance to carry out such a mission.
Singh could see the ground sweep past his plane, which was
maintaining a steady speed of 400 knots. After about a half hour of flying,
they reached their first waypoint- over the Arabian Sea.
`Feet wet. Mum's the word. Happy hunting, boys.'
From now on, till they reached the target, there would be no radar or
radio emissions. The backseaters were using the Sukhoi's passive
systems and RWR to keep track of any likely threats. Now it was a
straight 300-kilometer run to the target, PAF Faisal, the main airbase
just outside Karachi. Singh smiled to himself at the irony. The base had
been named after a Saudi monarch of the dynasty that Abu Sayed had
overthrown, and was now being used to further Sayed's interests.
At a range of a hundred kilometers, Goel armed his two KH-31P
missiles, as did his wingman. While Singh focused on flying the big plane
at such a low altitude, Goel was hunched over the computer, analyzing
radar signals from the PAF base. He had already identified the SAM
radars at the base, and at a range of 60 kilometers, he would lock on and
fire the missiles. The KH-31P was a specialized anti-radar weapon. It
would lock onto radar emissions and home in. The Indians were using a
tactic pioneered by the United States. After suffering heavy initial losses
over Vietnam to Russian supplied SAMs, the USAF had evolved
specialized SAM-hunting missions. Usually converted F-105 fighterd,
these `Wild Weasel' aircraft, as they were known, would go ahead of
strike aircraft to defeat enemy SAMs. The early missiles they carried
could be evaded by simply switching off the radar, but later missiles,
such as the US HARM and the KH-31P would `remember' where the radar
had been, and would home in even if it had been shut off.
Singh and his wingman, Bhatia, were flying fifty kilometers in front of
the two other Sukhois. They would be the first to draw blood, and the
first to get shot at. They were flying low and slow to evade radar
detection. Without the AWACS, the PAF would have a tough time
detecting them. Normally, the PAF had a couple of F-16s flying CAP over
the base at any given time, but the Indian mission had been timed to
maximize chances that they would arrive over target at a changeover
time when there would be no F-16s in the air. That window of
opportunity was just four minutes long, and Singh knew the IAF planners
had spent hours ensuring the mission was planned to put the Sukhois on
target in that precise window. Singh had wondered where the IAF had
gotten such precise intelligence, but for now, he just hoped it was right.
`Boss, I have three Hawk batteries and one Crotale.'
Goel was using his weapons computer and passive systems to identify
the threat they faced. The circle in the center of Goel’s HUD glowed red
indicating that he had a good lock-on. He pressed the trigger on his flight
stick. A second later, he locked on to another Hawk radar and fired his
second missile. The two KH-31 missiles left the Sukhoi's wing in a flash
of flame and smoke and Singh looked on at the smoke trails they left as
the flew on towards their targets. To his right, he could see Bhatia's
missiles flying through the early morning sky.
`This is it, Goel. We're going in. Turn on the lights.'

***

`So, how does it look, Shah Nawaz?'
Shamsher Ahmed was in his office at Islamabad, personally directing
the Battle for Lahore, as it had come to be known in the Press. While it
was unconventional to have the Chief of Army Staff personally involved
in tactical operations, this was probably the most crucial battle the
Pakistani army had ever fought.
Major General Shah Nawaz's loud voice boomed over the phone. His
normal exuberance had been replaced by a more somber tone. In the
background, Ahmed could hear the sound of artillery.
 `Sir, it’s not looking very good.'
`Hang in there, Nawaz.'
Ahmed looked at the large map on the wall. The Indian units were
depicted by red markers and the Pakistanis by blue. The main Indian
thrust had struck a hammer blow. The initial artillery barrage and the
non-stop air strikes that followed were bleeding his forces dry. The PAF
had tried to contest the skies, but Ahmed knew there was only so much
that they could do. Without the AWACS and F-15s, and with a whole
squadron of F-16s tied up at Karachi, the PAF was badly outnumbered
and outgunned. The artillery and air strikes were meant to soften up the
Pakistani defenses, and these had been followed by a massive armored
thrust.
The Pakistanis were fighting desperately for every inch, but were
giving way before the Indian juggernaut. The Indians were already inside
Pakistani territory, and if things continued this way, they would be
within mobile artillery range of Lahore within six to ten hours.
Ahmed had to do something. The Indian attack in the plains had taken
the Pakistanis by surprise. While they had expected the Indians to attack
once Pakistani regular troops entered Kashmir, the Indians seemed to
have almost got advance warning of the move into Kashmir. There was
increasing talk of the Indians having infiltrated the Pakistani intelligence
or military network, but there had been no concrete evidence so far. In
any case, he knew that in a slugfest, the Indians were bound to prevail,
and with the M-1s still a day away from the front, he had to hold the
Indians at least that long. The convoy was now less than a hundred
kilometers from Karachi and was expected to begin unloading in four
hours. From there, it was still a thousand-kilometer journey to the front
in Punjab. The PAF had nothing that could lift the fifty-ton monsters, and
the tanks would be loaded onto a specially arranged express train. The
Pakistani army crews that would man the tanks were with them on the
ships, and had been training extensively on their new mounts for a
couple of months. They would be ready to fight as soon as they reached
the front. The train was expected to deliver them near Islamabad in
about twelve hours. That was about six hours more than Ahmed
currently had.
He looked again at the map for a long time, hoping for some idea. And
then it came to him. He walked up to the map and drew two dark circles-
the first was at Kasur, a small town just ten kilometers from the border,
and where the Pakistanis were backing into- he knew Shah Nawaz
planned to make a stand there. The second was a point ten kilometers to
the northwest of Kasur, just twenty kilometers from Lahore. Ahmed
drew an arrow from Kasur to the second point. He scribbled away
furiously on his pad, and when he had fleshed out his idea, he made two
calls. The first was to Shah Nawaz, and the second was to Karim.

***

Phadke was lying on his belly, with his men in a long line beside him,
lining the edge of the ravine. The Indians had gone behind the Pakistani
advance and were now arrayed along the ravine beside which the
Pakistanis were approaching Uri. Phadke could now see Mujahideen
soldiers, just a hundred yards away. They had no inkling yet of the
ambush they were walking into.
At Phadke's signal, the Indians fixed bayonets on their rifles. Phadke
closed his eyes for a second, praying for luck. Then with an ear splitting
battle cry, he jumped out, running full steam at the Mujahideen and
Pakistanis ahead.
The Indians fired as they ran, some stopping to kneel and aim, others
firing on the run. Several of them threw grenades at the enemy ahead.
The Mujahideen were taken completely by surprise, and almost a
dozen fell to the first salvo. By the time the others could regroup, the
Indians were upon them.
Phadke was now only ten yards away from the Mujahideen. Counter
fire had felled a few Indian soldiers, but by and large, the Mujahideen had
been taken too much by surprise to put up an organized resistance. The
few Pakistani soldiers at the flanks were trying to fight back, but they too
had been surprised. Phadke saw a burly Mujahideen in front of him and
fired a three round burst, sending the man down. A Pakistani soldier was
upon him, raising his rifle like a club. As the man swung his gun down,
Phadke parried it to the right with his own rifle, and then bought his gun
crashing into the side of the man's head. As he fell, Phadke bayoneted
him in the throat. He had killed men before- but that was at long range,
with his gun. This was the first time he had ever killed a man hand-to-
hand. For a second, he looked at the fallen Pakistani with a mixture of
horror and shock. He had reacted with his training and instinct, but the
end result almost made him want to throw up. A bullet whizzing past his
head quickly snapped him back to reality.
When he looked up, the Mujahideen were in retreat. Seeing their rear
blocked, they ran forward, the Indians in hot pursuit.
The Major leading the Pakistanis was now only two kilometers from
the hill. Knowing that the Indians had anti-tank weapons, he had left his
tanks hidden a kilometer back, along with his M-113s. He would use his
tanks as artillery cover, while he had arrayed a dozen mortars in front of
him. He planned to use the tanks and the mortars in a single salvo to
soften the Indian defenses. Then he would charge. He judged there to be
around four hundred Indian defenders, and knew he would probably
need more than one charge to dislodge them. He still had a three-to-one
advantage, and fully intended to use it.
He was about to order his tanks to begin firing when utter chaos
broke out in the ranks. The Mujahideen were running frantically,
shouting about being attacked from behind by a thousand Indian
soldiers. The Mujahideen leader, Gul, was trying to rally them, but they
were no longer an organized fighting force, they were just a bunch of
scared men running for their lives. Though the Pakistanis were
professional soldiers, the two days of incessant air raids had sapped
their morale, and many of them began to waver.
`Fools, don't listen to them, fire!'
But he knew it was too late.
Phadke and his men had now given up the chase- their mission was to
create panic in the Pakistanis' ranks, not commit suicide by running into
a force ten times their size. They clambered back into the ravine and
made their way back towards Uri.
The Pakistanis Major knew that there was no way he was going to
press home the attack now and ordered a withdrawal. He was seething
with anger at the Mujahideen, but for now just wanted an orderly retreat.
After regrouping five kilometers from the town, he began to take stock
of his losses. The total casualties were not heavy- forty Mujahideen and
twenty-six Pakistanis dead, but they had found only a dozen Indian
bodies. The real damage had not been material, but psychological. His
men knew that the Indians were not cornered, as they had been led to
believe. Despite being outnumbered, the Indians would, and could, take
the initiative.

***

The Pakistani officer manning the mobile Hawk launcher picked up
the Indian aircraft at a range of seventy kilometers. He locked on and
fired two missiles. That was when he saw the Indian missiles on his
scope. There was only one reason the Indians could be firing missiles
from such a range. He shut off his radar, and the Hawks, with no radar
guidance, flew on harmlessly.
Flying at supersonic speeds, the KH-31s reached their targets in less
than two minutes. Two Hawk launchers, on either side of the two main
runways, were destroyed immediately. The third, to the left of the
smaller runway, which bisected the two larger ones, was damaged badly.
The sole Crotale battery near the Control Tower, however, escaped
unscathed, with the KH-31 missing and plummeting into the ground
twenty meters behind the Pakistani battery.
Two F-16s were on Runway Two, nearest to the Control Tower, having
just landed after their CAP duty. They were low on fuel, but were armed,
and still had their pilots in them. As soon as the Indian missiles hit, the
pilots began turning the fighters around to take off and engage the
attackers. Their replacements were still undergoing pre-flight checks on
Runway One, a kilometer to the South, and near the hangars.
Singh came in at over 500 knots at an altitude of 850 feet. At such
speed, he would get just one shot at his target. He homed in on the two F-
16s at the south of the base, which were being fueled by a large oil
tanker.
He aimed at the tanker, and when he had it lined up, fired a long burst
from his 30mm cannon. As he flew over the F-16s, he saw his bullets
track into the tanker. The tanker exploded in a huge fireball, sending
burning oil flying over a radius of a square kilometer. Both F-16s were
destroyed instantly, and an Alouette helicopter to the left also caught fire
and exploded.
 Bhatia had gone after the Crotale battery, and fired both his rocket
pods at the battery. The Pakistanis got off one missile before the battery
was destroyed, but at such low altitudes, the Crotale missed.
The two Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns at the base were swiveling to deal
with the Indian planes, when the two other Sukhois arrived.
One went straight for Runway Two and dropped its four Durandel
clusters and pulled up sharply as tracers from the Oerlikon reached out
at it.
The Durandel is a specialized anti-runway weapon. When dropped, a
parachute is deployed to slow its descent to allow the carrier aircraft to
climb to a safe altitude. Small rockets in the bomb then propel it into the
concrete and the warhead explodes only when the bomb is inside the
runway, thus tearing apart the runway.
The bombs hit as the F-16s were beginning their take-off runs. One of
them exploded just a dozen feet from the fighters, destroying both of
them. The second bomb failed to explode, but the other two Durandels
struck home.
The remaining Sukhoi had hit Runway One, and though peppered by
small arms fire, put two of its four bombs on target and pulled away.
Singh and Bhatia were to cover the retreat of the two other planes,
and Bhatia went after the Oerlikons that were spewing fire at the Indian
planes. He scored hits on one gun, but the other put a dozen shells into
the aft side of the Sukhoi. Singh watched in horror as the big plane tipped
over and crashed into the ground, exploding. There were no parachutes.
At such low altitude and high speed, ejection was not an option any
Indian pilot had seriously considered in case they did get hit.
Singh still had his rocket pods left and went after the Oerlikon,
avenging Bhatia by destroying it with one of his pods. He climbed steeply
and circled around to attack the Control Tower with his remaining
rockets.
One of the Pakistani soldiers had picked up an LMG from the
perimeter guard box and was aiming at the approaching plane.
He emptied the magazine in a desperate attempt as the Indian fighter
shredded the Control Tower with its rockets.
Singh was pulling up from his run when he felt the bullets hit. The
plane shook momentarily from the impact, and then stabilized again.
 `Hey, Goel, how bad are we hit?'
There was no answer from the back seat.
He called out again, but there was no answer. He looked back to see
Goel slumped in his seat, his head tilted to one side. A cold stab of fear
went through his bowels as he tried to concentrate on getting the Sukhoi
away.
He rejoined the remaining two planes fifty kilometers away, and
though the mission had been a resounding success, no one spoke a word
on the flight back. All Singh could think of was getting Goel some help.

***



SIXTEEN

Let us not hear of generals who conquer without bloodshed. If a bloody
slaughter is a horrible sight, then it is ground for paying more respect to
war.
- Karl Von Clausewitz

It was ten at night when the Patriot entered the building. Security was
unusually tight and he knew he had to be extra careful. He knew roughly
where the room was- and would just have to find his way around once he
entered the main complex.
He had heard talk of a Pakistani plan to hold the Indians near Lahore
and the confidence with which it had been talked of had instantly got his
attention. He had not been able to get any more details from his sources,
which was why he was taking the risk of entering the Army Headquarters
himself.
He was patted down twice, and his authorization checked three times.
That was not a good sign- the more he was noticed, the more people
would remember he had been here.
After walking for about five minutes, he came to the room he sought-
the office of the Assistant to the COAS. He had had one of his sources
bribe the sweeper to leave the door open- there was of course no way he
would get directly involved.
He looked up and down the corridor twice to ensure that there was no
one around. Satisfied that he was alone, he pushed the door gently. It did
not open.
His heart in his mouth, he pushed a bit harder. And to his immense
relief, the door swung open.
It was pitch dark inside. The room was briefly illuminated when he
held the door open, and he used the few seconds to orient himself with
the layout before closing the door.
He went straight to the main desk, which was placed against the wall
on the far side of the room. He fumbled in the dark, running his hand
across the top of the desk, and cursed himself as a paperweight fell to the
ground. Thankfully it did not make much noise on the carpeted floor.
He found a thick sheaf of papers in the in-tray and took out the small
flashlight from his pocket to study it better. It was a thin folder with
perhaps a dozen stapled pages inside. The cover page had just two words
printed on it- `Plan A'.
He took out the pages and turned the top page to see a map of the area
adjoining Lahore. This was it! He was about to begin reading when he
heard footsteps outside. He stopped to see if anyone was coming into
the room. To his dismay, the doorknob turned, and now he could hear
two voices- one male, one female. He quickly put the folder back, and not
finding any other place, hid under the large desk, flattening himself
against the wall. He held his breath as the two people came in.
`Shakeel, are you sure we're safe here?'
`Relax, no one's going to come here at this time of night.'
The Patriot recognized the male voice as that of Shakeel Ahmed, the
COAS's secretary. What was intriguing was the identity of the woman
with him. She sounded very young, and Shakeel was over forty and
married with two kids.
He thanked the gods that Shakeel and his companion had a need for
secrecy almost as great as his, and did not turn on the lights. From the
fumbling noises and moans, he guessed that Shakeel had not brought the
young woman in to discuss official matters. He stored this away in the
back of his mind- this could be useful later, and could be good leverage
against Shakeel- but for now it was a nuisance, and was merely
preventing him from completing his task.
He smiled at the absurdity of it all, as the couple lay on the desk,
making love, while he hid under it. Judging by the amount of noise they
were making, they probably would not have heard him if he had been
singing away.
He continued lying in his uncomfortable, crouched position till
Shakeel and the woman finished. By now he had learned three things-
Shakeel was cheating on his wife, which could cost him his job, and under
the Sharia (Islamic law), his life; the woman's name was Hina; and that
he would never again try and play James Bond again.
The couple dressed and Shakeel seemed to shuffle some papers on the
desk.
`Boss wanted to see some stuff. Gotta go.'
As soon as the door slammed shut, the Patriot got out of his hiding
place and groped for the folder where he had left it. He realized with
horror that it was no longer there! He looked for what seemed an
eternity, but there was no sign of the papers. Convinced that Shakeel had
taken them with him, he left the room, dejected. He would not be able to
give the Indians any warning now. They would just have to find out for
themselves what Shamsher and his men had in store for them.

***

Ramnath was looking forward to the operation. While his task force
had killed two Agostas, this had been offset by the loss of the Kuthar. As
far as the Navy was concerned, the submariners had really stolen the
show so far, with six kills for the loss of only one Kilo. Now was the
Vikramaditya's chance to really show her stuff. The news of the IAF raid
on Karachi had been welcomed enthusiastically by everyone on the
Vikramaditya. With PAF Faisal reported to be out of action for at least
the next four hours, the convoy was pretty much a sitting duck. The
convoy was now only 50 kilometers from Karachi, and 150 kilometers
from the Vikramaditya. The Indian task force was maintaining this
distance to keep out of range of the Harpoon missiles that the Saudi and
Pakistani ships carried.
He looked out over the flight deck to see the two MiG-29K fighters taxi
for take off. These were navalized versions of their land-based cousins,
modified to be able to operate from aircraft carriers, but in every way
just as capable. Each carried four KH-31 anti-ship missiles. All four
missiles probably would be needed to sink even one of the large
transports in the convoy, but Ramnath did not want a massacre He just
wanted to scare the Saudi ships away.
The two fighters took off and flew in slow circles over the carrier. At
his order they would attack the largest ship in the convoy. He hoped it
would not come to that.
Before he gave that order, Ramnath had been instructed to give the
convoy a chance. His radio officer raised the lead Saudi frigate, the Al
Madinah, on the radio.
`This is Vice Admiral Ramnath of the Indian Navy. Please identify
yourself.'
A gruff voice answered.
`Hello, Admiral. I am Captain Niazi. What may I do for you today?'
Ramnath was in no mood for pleasantries.
`Captain Niazi, we have reason to believe that you are carrying war
material to be used against India. If you do not turn back, I will have to
treat your convoy as an enemy force, and will have to sink your ships.'
Niazi smiled to himself. With a squadron of F-16s for cover, there was
little chance the Indians would get at his ships easily. He did not know
yet of the Karachi raid, which had taken place a mere fifteen minutes
ago- the Pakistanis were trying their best to limit the terrible damage to
morale news of the raid would bring. The Patriot had however passed on
news of the raid’s success to the Indians even before the Indian planes
had flown out of Pakistani airspace.
`Admiral, these are international waters. You cannot order me to do
anything. If you try and interfere with our progress, we will interpret it as
an act of war and defend ourselves.'
Ramnath almost felt sorry for the arrogant Captain, as he ordered his
planes in. The idea was for the MiGs to fly in low and fast over the convoy
so they could get a good look at the missiles and decide whether going
ahead was still a bright idea. Ramnath’s rules of engagement were
explicit- he was not to fire on any Saudi ship until they fired on the
Indians.
The Al Madinah picked up the fighters on its radar at a range of ninety
kilometers. Just two planes, Niazi thought to himself, as he radioed PAF
Faisal for assistance. There was no reply. He frantically tried to get
through again, but all he got was the hiss of static. The Indian MiGs were
now just thirty kilometers away. Without the F-16s, this would turn into
a turkey shoot unless he did something about it. Niazi ordered his radar
operator to lock onto the lead MiG, and a couple of seconds later, two
Crotale surface to air missiles left launchers on the Al Madinah’s deck.
`Sir, missiles in the air!’
Ramnath had hoped the Saudis would not do this, knowing the odds
they faced. But then, he did not know that the Saudi convoy had not
known about the fate of PAF Faisal. In this fog of war, both sides were
rushing into a shooting match neither wanted. But if it did come to that,
Ramnath wanted to be one to walk away alive. He listened on the radio
as the Indian pilot put the MiG through gut wrenching maneuvers to
evade the Saudi missiles, and then he heard the words he dreaded
hearing most.
`I’m hit. Mayday. Mayday. I’m hit!’
The MiG had been clipped by a near miss and debris from the
exploding missile had destroyed one engine. Luckily for the pilot, the
other engine was working, and he began to nurse the plane back to the
Vikramaditya. Ramnath did not have to think twice about what he
needed to do next.
`Fire at will.’
Niazi frantically shouted over the radio to engage counter-measures
as the four missiles from the second MiG tracked in on his convoy. At a
range of thirty kilometers, he fired a defensive salvo of Crotales, but hit
only one missile. The remaining three were now too close. One hit his
sister ship, Tabha, while the other two slammed into the nearest tanker,
the Badr.
The KH-31 hit the main magazine of the Tabha and there was a
terrible explosion. The ship did not sink, but was burning end to end. The
Badr was almost ten times heavier, and could sustain much more
damage, but the fire on board was unmistakable. Niazi looked on in
impotent rage as the Tabha began to list, water streaming into the
stricken ship.
Ramnath's calm voice sounded over the radio again.
`Captain, I have no wish to sink all your ships. Please turn back now. If
you're waiting for the F-16s, they won't be able to take off for hours. By
then they'll have nothing left to protect.'

***

Pooja was caught up the exhilaration that had possessed all men of
the Vth tank regiment. Just an hour ago, the XIIth Corps had moved. Their
objective was to push as deep as possible towards Multan, in the heart of
Pakistan.
 She looked at Chauhan beside her. His face was glistening with sweat
as he coordinated the movement of the more than fifty tanks in his
regiment. All round them, over a stretch of many miles, armored vehicles
and tanks were streaming into Pakistan.
They did not have much time to talk about the previous night, and
Pooja figured it would only be after the war that she could bring it up.
However, she now knew two things- she was more than certain she was
falling in love, and the inscrutable Indian tanker was nowhere as tough as
he made himself out to be- especially when he was alone with her in bed.
They had talked almost all night, and finally having someone to whom he
could unburden his anxieties, Chauhan had let his defences drop. She had
found herself drawn to him by his disarming honesty and simplicity, and
felt after a long time that she could finally relate to someone.
Rahul had noticed an almost palpable change in the dynamics
between Pooja and Chauhan, but did not have a chance to ask her
anything. He was too busy capturing the men and material of an army on
the move.
`Come up, Pooja!' Chauhan shouted as he climbed on to the
commander's raised platform and stood with his body from the
shoulders up outside the turret. Pooja jumped on. It was a tight fit, but
the view was breathtaking. All around, she could see the dust being
whipped up by the vehicles on the move. To her left, she saw Rahul at the
turret of another tank, his camera running.
As she looked up, she saw a dozen fighters streaking over the border,
their sonic booms following a split second later. As with the XIth Corps,
the sheer force of the Indian attack was pushing the Pakistanis back. So
far, Chauhan's regiment had not seen any combat, but they all knew that
was going to change soon. The regiment of T-72s just six kilometers to
the South had met up with a mixed force of Type 59s and TOW-equipped
M-113s. Reports were still sketchy, but the Pakistanis had retreated with
heavy losses. The Pakistani regiment, or whatever was left of it, was
reported to be in their path.
Chauhan spoke into his radio transmitter, `All wolves, stop till further
orders. Enemy ahead.'
Chauhan had a pair of high power binoculars over his eyes, and had
evidently sighted Pakistani forces ahead.
 `Pooja, go down.'
She went back into the tank, to see the other two crew members, Ram
Singh, the gunner and Pratap, the driver, fidgeting nervously. It was Ram
Singh's job to line up any enemy targets using his gun sight, which would
then feed the data into the Arjun's fire control computer. This would then
automatically adjust for wind speed and elevation and give an optimum
firing solution. All this worked perfectly in practice, but in wartime the
enemy would be moving to avoid being hit, and would also be shooting
back.
Normally, the tank's sighting systems, which allowed for an 8x
magnification up to ranges of over 3000 meters, would have meant that
there really would be no need for the commander to seek out targets
visually, as Chauhan was doing. However, the regiment had just entered
a pretty heavily wooded area, and straight-line visibility was in the
hundreds of meters. There was a small clearing to their right, and it was
a good guess that if the Pakistanis were headed their way, it would be
through that clearing.
`Ram, they're at 310 degrees.'
At Chauhan's comment, the tank's turret swiveled to the right to bring
its 120mm gun to bear on the target.
Singh had been nervous about his first combat experience, but now
training and practice took over, and his mind and hands began working,
almost without his being conscious of it.
`Sir, Type 59 at 1600. Its got its back to us!'
Chauhan smiled to himself. They would have the advantage of
surprise as well.
`Wolves, enemy to the right, 1500 onwards. Happy hunting.'
`Sir, target in sights.'
`Load SABOT.'
Singh selected the required ammunition on the automatic loading
system.
`Fire!'
Pooja felt herself being pushed back by the impact as the big gun
belched fire. She watched in fascination on the main screen as smoke
and fire obscured the silhouette of the enemy tank as the round landed
home.
 `Good shot, Ram. Another one at 285.'
Pratap swung the big tank around to the right so that Singh could get
on target faster. He did not miss.
For over a minute, Pooja could hear nothing but the sound of dull
explosions as the Arjuns fired.
Over the din, she heard Chauhan's deep voice.
`Cease fire. Cease fire.'
It took some seconds for all the Indian tanks to stop firing. After a few
more seconds, Chauhan called her out.
She was shocked at the scene of carnage around her. Rahul had
jumped out, camera at the ready, but when he saw the aftermath of real
war, he blanched, and stood dumbly, the camera at his side.
There were a dozen burning Type 59s littered around them. In the
final stages of the engagement, the Indian tanks had closed to within 300
meters of the enemy, and from this close, Pooja could see not just the
burning tanks, but also smell the sickly sweet stench of death. In a couple
of cases, the Pakistani crew had made a desperate attempt to escape, and
she could see their charred remains just outside the tanks. She felt vomit
rise up in her mouth, and tried her best to control herself.
The Pakistanis had been taken completely by surprise, and only three
or four of them had managed to wheel around to fire back at the Indians.
Two Arjuns had been hit, and had exploded when the 105mm shells
struck home- there were no survivors in either tank.
Rahul walked tentatively towards the nearest Pakistani tank. He
walked unsteadily, he had always thought of war as a heroic contest
where soldiers perform feats of bravery. Now he saw the brutal and
unforgiving reality of war.
He felt Chauhan's firm grip on his right shoulder.
`Rahul, the papers will call this a victory. I've lost six men- men I've
lived and trained with for years. Six families will receive a badly typed
letter informing them that their sons will never come home. I imagine
there will be many such letters on both sides before this ends.'
Pooja had walked up to the two men, and stood watching Chauhan.
Chauhan turned towards her and had a sad smile on his face.
`Now you know why the soldier is the last guy to want war- because
we train to become so damn good at it.'
 Rahul had turned his camera on, catching the devastation around
them, and the young Colonel's words. Within two days, the tape was in
Mumbai. After being cleared by the Army, the segment was aired on all
major news channels, and brought home the horror of war into millions
of living rooms across the subcontinent.

***

Lieutenant General Sandhu could not have asked for more. His forces
were streaming into Pakistan, and making progress he had never
imagined. He was right up there with his men, traveling in his converted
BMP just a few kilometers behind the frontline troops.
After the first few engagements, the Pakistanis seemed to be falling
back. The previous night had seen several fierce tank engagements,
when a regiment of T-80s had attempted a local counter-attack. Sandhu
had lost twenty T-90s and twelve BMPs in the battle that had lasted for
over five hours in a series of turning engagements, culminating in a head
to head battle. Despite his losses, Sandhu was happy with the result. The
Pakistani attack had been smashed with over thirty tanks destroyed in
the tank battle and a further ten knocked out by air strikes on the
retreating Pakistani force.
That had pretty much been the story of the XIth Corp's progress so far.
The Pakistanis had initially put up fierce resistance, but had been forced
on the backfoot, primarily due to the Indians’ virtual control of the air.
Sandhu's immediate concern was getting past the defensive
emplacements at Kasur, where the Pakistanis seemed to be converging.
He had thought of calling in heavy air strikes to soften them up, before he
moved his men forward.
`Sir, the Pakis are breaking up. I think they're retreating!'
Sandhu did not believe the report when it came in. If anything, from
what he had seen so far, the Pakistanis had been willing to stay and fight
to the bitter end.
But as he looked at the pictures being relayed back by the Searchers,
he had to believe his eyes. The Pakistanis seemed to be in disarray and
most of their heavy armor was moving in a disorderly manner to the
Northwest. Only a skeletal force remained at Kasur. Sandhu wondered if
it was a ruse, but dismissed it when he saw that the forces were moving
to a point where they could in no way interfere with his direct attack on
Lahore. Now all he would have to do was to smash through the forces left
at Kasur, and then he would literally be at Lahore's doorstep.

***

`Doctor, will he be okay?'
It was not the first time Singh had asked the doctor at the base that
question, and every time the answer had been non-committal. Goel was
in a critical condition. Two bullet fragments had hit him just below the
neck, and he had lost a lot of blood.
`Son, we're trying our very best. Go and get some rest.'
Singh had been sitting outside the hospital room for the last twenty
hours, having to be dragged away by Sonaina for meals. He had flown
with Goel for just about three years, but he realized now just how close
they had become, and just how big a void would be left in his life if
anything happened to Goel. It is often that way with your closest friends,
you take their presence almost for granted till you are faced with the
prospect of losing them. It’s then that the smallest things come back to
torture you. News of the Karachi raid had spread like wildfire- the press,
with its usual hyperbole, was calling it the `most daring air strike in
history'. Singh knew medals and citations would follow- but right now,
he would have traded it all for news that Goel would be okay.

***



SEVENTEEN

All warfare is based on deception....hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign
disorder, and crush him.
- Sun Tzu

Thank God that bloody Niazi has some sense after all. Ramnath thought
to himself as he got news that the convoy was indeed turning back.
It had been a tense standoff for almost an hour after the first strike on
the convoy. Niazi had probably been waiting for instructions from
Riyadh. The hit on a warship would have rankled, and that was
something that the Saudis would find hard to swallow. But for now there
was little they could do about it. Ramnath knew that the hitting of the
frigate was a mistake. The whole idea had been to hit two tankers- an act
that would cause minimal loss of life. However, the Captain of the Tabha
had taken his duty of protecting the convoy a bit too seriously, and had
maneuvered his ship into the path of the missiles. Brave fool, Ramnath
thought ruefully. The Indian Government had already contacted the
Saudis saying that the loss of life on the Tabha was an error, but the
message was clear- if the Saudis got involved any further in the conflict,
they could expect more such accidents.
The nearest Saudi ship, a missile boat, the Herat, was just a hundred
and forty kilometers from the Indian carrier. Though the Saudis seemed
to be turning back, Ramnath wanted to take no chances- he a had a
couple of Sea Eagle equipped Sea King helicopters hovering just eighty
kilometers from the Saudi ships. The Sea Eagle was an aging British
made anti-ship missile, but still gave the equally venerable Sea King
helicopters an anti-ship punch that greatly multiplied its capability
Then it happened. The Herat turned towards the Indian carrier, and
accelerated to over thirty knots. Ramnath had just a minute or so in
which to order the sinking of the ship before it got within range of
launching its Harpoons. He issued a quick warning to the Saudis, but got
no response. He decided he could not endanger his men any more, and
ordered the sinking of the ship.
The lead Sea King fired its two Sea Eagles when the Herat was eighty
kilometers away. The two sea skimming missiles accelerated to over 600
knots as they homed in on the small ship.
The Saudi Captain on the Herat had made his own decision. A proud
soldier, he had resisted the order to withdraw. Unlike Niazi, who was a
professional sailor, one of the few from the pre-revolution days to
survive the Emir's purges, he was a loyal follower of the Emir. He knew
that Niazi would be punished by the Emir for his cowardice, but he had
no desire to fail his Leader. He armed his four Harpoons and was about
to enter launch range when the Sea Eagles hit. The Herat exploded in a
huge fireball that was visible for miles around, and then sank without a
trace.
Ramnath had read of the fanatical bravery of the Emir's men, now he
had seen it firsthand. He began to appreciate what the troops in Kashmir
were up against.

***

Illahi's fist came crashing down on the table.
Shamsher and Karim kept their calm. Shoaib, however, seemed to
cringe as the man began raving.
`Now what! We are left alone- first you tell me that somehow the
AWACS has malfunctioned, now our Navy cannot bring in that bloody
convoy. You have failed the nation.'
Karim looked up sharply at that remark. The nation, indeed.
Uncharacteristically, Shoaib spoke up first. `Sir, it was the Saudi
commander's decision to turn back. Frankly without air cover, they
would have been decimated. We never though the Indians could hit
Karachi.'
Illahi turned angrily towards Karim, but he pre-empted Illahi by
speaking.
`Sir, without the AWACS, it was almost impossible to stop that attack.
Maybe our friends in Riyadh would like to tell us what happened to the
AWACS?' He shot a meaningful glance at Abdul.
After the AWACS debacle and now the turning back of the convoy, the
Emir's envoy was having a tough time explaining why things were fast
unraveling in what had been promised to be a virtually fool-proof plan.
`First, one thing should be made clear. The turning back of the convoy
is an act of cowardice by the commander, a true believer would have
rushed to a heroic death, like the gallant crew of the Herat.'
`A fat lot of good that would have done. I would have been fishing
those bloody tanks out of the pond.' Shamsher stood a good six inches
taller than Abdul, and now used his physique to tower over the man.
Abdul was not a man used to being cowed down. `Of course, where
was your great air force then. You can't protect your own base- what will
you do to protect our convoy.'
Karim was not going to stand any more bullshit from this raghead.
`Listen here. I don't want any of that crap. Where the fuck were your
AWACS?'
Abdul was deflated. He really had nothing to say. The Emir had of
course attributed it all to the United States, but there was no proof. All
they had was the fact that the memories of all the computers on the E-3
had been wiped out. Shamsher now faced Illahi and looked him straight
in the eye. After his discussions with Karim, he now felt that he was not
alone, and did not hesitate to stand up before what he saw as a hopeless
war.
`Sir, you know already the reservations we all had about this war. The
only chance we had of carrying out a successful offensive action was with
the M-1s and the AWACS. With those gone, we really are back to square
one. Add to that the Indian attack in the plains- and we're not in very
good shape at all. What I promise you as a soldier is that we'll hold the
Indians at Lahore. But, if you want my opinion, please ask for a cease-fire
before this goes out of hand.'
Illahi grimaced at the mention of a cease-fire. `When I want your
opinion, I'll ask for it. Now go and do your duty. Let me figure out how to
handle this thing.' As the men left, Illahi felt the pain coming back.
Nowadays, the pain was a daily occurrence and he had doubled his
medication. Yet it seemed to do nothing to relieve the pain. He grasped
his head and sank back into his chair, trying to wish the blinding pain
away.

 ***


Thirty minutes ago, Sandhu had given the order for the final push onto
Kasur. After a short artillery barrage, the air force swung into action. He
watched six Jaguars come in low and fly back after dropping their bombs.
There was little ground fire. What are the Pakis up to? Sandhu wondered.
This was getting a bit too easy. He had deployed most of his tanks on the
Northern flank. They would be the first to hit the Pakistani positions. His
infantry, carried in by over 150 BMPs, would go in from the center.
Once they had achieved a breakthrough, they were to carry on
towards Lahore, while his remaining ten thousand or so troops came in
to secure the captured areas. Things had been moving so fast that he still
did not have a clear cut political clearance on whether his forces should
enter Lahore if he did manage to get that far. Before the war, he had been
instructed to wait for further orders before moving into the densely
populated city.
Reconnaissance showed there to be barely 50 tanks facing his main
force. The Pakistanis had a few entrenched anti-tank fortifications. But it
would only be a matter of time before they were taken out. The PAF had
not been in sight for a day, and the remaining ground forces had
disappeared northwards. Sandhu had ordered a Searcher to go after
them, but it had been shot down by a hand held SAM.
For now, he could not really be bothered about them. His tanks were
fast approaching shooting distance of the defenses at Kasur.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose.
Twenty AH-1 Cobra attack helicopters, the PAF's entire remaining
fleet, swept in from the North. The Cobra is a powerful attack helicopter,
carrying up to eight TOW anti-tank missiles. So far, the PAF had used
them sparingly, and the Indians had shot down six of them. After that the
Cobras had stayed away, the PAF probably realizing that attack
helicopters could not survive if the enemy had air superiority. But now
they were coming in relentlessly. Even before they could get within
range, the Indian defenses opened up. The tanks were accompanied by
tracked vehicles carrying SA-8 SAMs, and they began engaging the
Cobras. Four Cobras were downed before the other got into range and
began launching TOWs. Several Indian tanks exploded as others
maneuvered to take cover from this unexpected threat. Now the Indian
ZSU-23 tracked anti-aircraft guns opened up, and a few more Cobras fell.
Yet they kept coming on. Sandhu watched, fascinated. The Cobras were
all but committing suicide. He called in for air cover and within minutes
four MiG-23s were over the area.
Then, something even more unexpected happened. A dozen F-7s
appeared over the battlefield and engaged the MiGs. The MiGs were
warned by the AWACS orbiting over the battlefield and got off the first
shot with their long-range missiles, shooting down two Airguards.
Realizing they were heavily outnumbered, they called for help. Four MiG-
29s on standby were over the battlefield before the F-7s could enter
missile range of the Indian MiG-23s. Once more, with their advantage of
long-range missiles, the Indians drew first blood and downed two more
F-7s. But the F-7s kept closing and engaged the Indian fighters in close
combat. With seven F-7s versus eight MiG-23s and 29s, the PAF pilots
were badly outgunned, but they kept at it. Just as the Indians thought
they had had their share of surprises, six F-16s swept in low over the
battlefield and engaged the Indian jets. The Pakistanis had adopted a
brave strategy, sacrificing the less capable F-7 to the Indian long-range
missiles and only then rushing in the F-16s. Now the tables were more
than turned. The Indians had downed two more F-7s for the loss of a
MiG-23, but the arrival of the F-16s put them at a numerical
disadvantage. The first to fall was a MiG-23 hit by a Sidewinder from a
head on shot. Then another exploded as an F-16 turned inside it and
destroyed it with cannon fire. A MiG-29 avenged its comrades by hitting
one of the F-16s with an R-73, and the battle continued.
A dozen MiG-21s sped into the battle area. Not as capable as the F-16s
or MiG-29s, they were the nearest jets, and the IAF had two squadrons at
a nearby base. Six more F-7s appeared to add to the confusion. Sitting on
the ground, the F-7 and MiG-21 would be hard to tell apart- as the F-7
was essentially a Chinese modification of the venerable Russian fighter.
Twisting and turning at 500 knots, it was virtually impossible to tell
them apart.
On the ground, some Indian soldiers paused to watch the colossal air
battle overhead, but most were occupied with trying to keep from
getting killed. The Cobras, now unmolested by enemy fighters, were
wreaking havoc on the Indian forces. Their first pass had knocked out six
tanks, and now they engaged the Indian vehicles, hunting individually.
Two more Cobras were shot down by SA-8s, but the Pakistanis got back
by knocking out over a dozen tanks in less than five minutes. Most of
their missiles exhausted, the Cobras now pressed on, firing short ranged
rockets at the Indian vehicles. This was a dangerous tactic, and several
fell to hand held SA-14s.
In the sky above, the IAF was extracting a terrible toll, but the PAF
kept on coming. Karim had briefed the pilots personally, and they had
vowed that they would return in a coffin, but would not retreat. They
were living up to their words. As more jets from both sides joined the
battle, it rapidly developed into the largest air battle ever seen in the
subcontinent, and the single largest air-to-air engagement since the
Vietnam War. Despite their losses, the PAF pilots were ensuring that the
Indian fighters could not interfere with the battle on the ground.
Now there were only two Cobras left, but Sandhu was painfully aware
of the devastation they had caused. Standing two kilometers away, he
could count over thirty burning Indian vehicles, and he knew the toll
would be much more than that. As the last Cobra was hit by gunfire and
crashed, he thought it was over.
When he looked to his right, he knew how wrong he was. The
`missing' Pakistani tanks had re-appeared from the North and were
engaging the disoriented Indian attackers. The tables had been turned
nicely, and Sandhu mused, he had walked into a clever trap. The Indians
re-organized and fought back, but suffered heavy initial losses to the
Pakistani attack. By the time the Indians had begun taking a toll of the
opposing tanks, the Pakistanis withdrew towards Kasur.
In the air above, the remaining PAF fighters disengaged and flew
homewards.
Later military historians would muse that probably the only way
Pakistan could have saved Kasur was through such a desperate gamble.
Pakistan had lost all twenty Cobras to ground fire. In the air, for sixteen
Indian jets shot down, the PAF had lost twenty fighters, including eight F-
16s. It was a terrible cost, but the Pakistanis had blunted the Indian
offensive.
 Sandhu had lost over a hundred tanks and armored vehicles and
perhaps close to three dozen other vehicles like jeeps and mine-layers in
the battle, and could claim only thirty enemy tanks killed. The balance of
forces at Kasur had shifted dramatically.
He knew that the Pakistanis had all but sacrificed their offensive war
making capability in this one battle. But he also knew that now there was
no question of his pushing on to Lahore.

***

The news of the debacle at Kasur was greeted with disbelief and
despair in Delhi. Khosla called the NSC together for an emergency
meeting.
Joshi walked in first, and saw the crestfallen look on Khosla's face.
`Sir, it my fault. The Patriot failed to give us warning.'
A sad smile crossed Khosla's face.
`No, Joshi. Such things happen in war. We now just need to run the
contingency plan. It's a long shot, but its the best we have.'
By now the Service Chiefs had all entered. Sen, who might have been
expected to be happy at the terrible losses inflicted in the air, looked as
morose as the others. The fact was that the PAF had prevented his
fighters from helping out in the ground battle. Talking of kill to loss
ratios was meaningless unless broader goals were attained. Singh wore a
grim expression. He knew the Pakistanis had outmaneuvered him in the
field.
`Sir, I need your permission to activate the contingency plan. An
armored spearhead of the XIIth Corps will make a northwards run to
attack Kasur from the south. At the same time, the XIth will push ahead.
With this dual attack, we should take the town.'
Sen did not look too hopeful as he spoke, `Its a two hundred kilometer
run- and they'll be fighting a running battle. I'll give all the air support I
can, but it will be a tough ask.'
Singh was silent, but Khosla spoke up, `Guys, its the only chance we
have. Let's do it.'

***

Karim was sitting at home. He had called Arif over, and was waiting
for him. Meher had not seen him this upset for a long time, and
reluctantly went out to a friend's house.
Arif walked into the living room whistling an old tune, but stopped
when he saw the look on Karim's face.
`Karim, what's up?'
`Sit.'
Arif sat down on the couch facing Karim, and watched him, waiting for
him to say something.
When he did, the words seemed to barely come out of his mouth.
`Arif, I have blood on my hands.'
Now there were tears streaming down Karim's cheeks, as he wept
freely before his friend.
Arif caught Karim's shoulders and straightened him up.
`Karim, what are you saying?', his voice was soft, almost inaudible.
`The fucking famous victory at Kasur. I ordered those boys to fight to
the death- and they did. For what? So that Illahi can gloat over it- so that
this madness can continue?'
Arif could see that his friend was almost broken in spirit. He had to
handle things carefully.
`Karim, you did what a good soldier is expected to do. Those young
men died for their country- and for you.'
Karim looked up into his friend’s eyes, as Arif continued.
`Karim, you should not hold yourself responsible for the deaths of
those young men- if anyone is responsible, it is Illahi. He has brought our
country to the brink of a great disaster. If you want to ensure that the
deaths of those young men do not go in vain, you need to put an end to
this.'
Karim wiped the tears from his eyes. The sadness had been replaced
by a look of firm determination.

***

`This is Pooja Bhatnagar in an Arjun tank now racing northwards.'
With the tank running at close to fifty kilometers per hour, Rahul
found it tough to keep his balance while he shot Pooja standing inside
Chauhan's tank. With the two civilians, it was a tight fit, but none of the
soldiers seemed to mind. They had just received orders that had
electrified them. The news of the XIth Corps' defeat had come as a shock,
but this was followed by the order that the Vth tank regiment was to
spearhead a new thrust towards Lahore, from the south.
After the first encounter with the Type 59s, Chauhan's regiment had
had a fairly uneventful war, the only other contact with the enemy being
two M-113s that had stumbled into their path, and had been destroyed
within seconds. Now was their chance to get a share of the glory.
At Pooja's sign, Rahul shut off the camera. When the tanks stopped
again, he would move to another tank to get another view of the advance.
As usual, they would keep the tape in a special pouch which was picked
up by helicopter whenever practicable.
Chauhan seemed completely engrossed in his sights. Pooja found it
hard to understand why, because there was nothing to be seen for miles
around.
Chauhan knew better. There was no way the Pakistanis were going to
let them stroll into Lahore.

***



EIGHTEEN

I believe that anyone can conquer fear by doing the things he fears to do.
- Eleanor Roosevelt

Chauhan's tanks had crossed over a hundred kilometers the previous
day. The Pakistanis, expecting the XIIth Corps to push towards Multan
had withdrawn after suffering in the initial battles. Thus, when
Chauhan's regiment and supporting units began racing northwards, they
were forced to give chase. Chauhan's tanks had withstood the ordeal
quite well, though three had broken down and had to be abandoned. So
far they had not faced very serious opposition. Most Pakistani forces in
the Punjab had concentrated near Lahore, and though they had held the
Indians, they had taken crippling losses themselves. Also with the air
threat largely removed, Chauhan and his men were having fairly
uninterrupted progress so far. They had come to accept Indian MiG-27s
and Jaguars hovering overhead as constant companions. Chauhan had so
far needed their assistance only once so far, when six Pakistani TOW
equipped M-113s had engaged his tanks. He had lost two tanks, before
the Jaguars swept down and destroyed four of the M-113s with rockets.
His tanks had disposed off the remaining two without any further losses.
Pooja was in Chauhan's tank, trying eagerly to understand what was
going on. Rahul was in the tank right next to Chauhan's command tank.
Neither journalist had yet really got over the adrenaline rush of combat.
Chauhan was listening intently to the information being passed on by
the AWACS and Searchers ahead of his regiment. So far there had been
no news of a substantial Pakistani force, but he knew that the closer they
got to Lahore, the higher were the chances that the Pakistanis would
throw whatever they could muster in his way. He had run his tanks and
men mercilessly, which he realized, was both a good and a bad thing.
Good because his tanks had made amazing progress and were now
within three hours of Lahore, and bad because he had gone far ahead of
the rest of the force, and if any serious opposition came up, he would
have to take the brunt of it.
`Guys, we'll have some company soon.'
Chauhan did not move an inch as he spoke, his eyes remaining glued
to his periscope, his radio handset at his ears.
Pooja peered over Ram's shoulders to look at the sights.
Nothing.
Yet Chauhan had clearly picked something up, and by the edge in his
voice, it was something to be worried about.
`Wolf Pack, I have a full regiment of Type 59s headed our way. Enemy
now seven kilometers to the north. Repeat, regiment of Type 59s. Expect
friendly air support, but execute offensive formation on my command.'
Pooja noted that the tank had not slowed down a bit.
`Hey, so we just charge.....'
Chauhan didn't let her continue, barking into the radio.
`NOW!'
To the airborne observer, it would look like a macabre ballet as the big
tanks maneuvered in the desert. Against the Type 59, the Arjun had a
significant range advantage and Chauhan wanted to maximize it. He
knew he was slightly outnumbered- there would probably be 55 enemy
tanks to his forty. So he had to make the first shot count.
`Enemy at 5000 yards. Hold fire till my command.'
The Indian tanks were now racing across the desert, forming a line
nearly a kilometer across.
`Friendly air coming in.'
Four Hinds swept in over the Indian tanks towards the oncoming
Type 59s. After the crippling losses suffered over Kasur the PAF was
conserving its resources and Indian attack planes and helicopters had a
relatively free play over the battlefield.
As the Hinds picked up their targets, the Pakistanis began firing from
their tank mounted anti-aircraft guns. They did not cause any damage,
but distracted the Hinds enough for their accuracy to suffer. This
combined with the fact that the Type 59s were running at full tilt and
maneuvering hard meant that of the sixteen missiles launched by the
Hinds, only eight found their targets.
Chauhan listened to the news on his radio.
He turned to Pooja with a grim expression on his face.
 `Okay, this is it.'
Then he spoke into his radio to his men.
`Wolf Pack. Enemy at 3500 yards. Fire at will. There are forty-seven of
them. Make each shot count. Good luck.'

***

`What do you mean?'
Illahi was glowering at Shamsher. He had never been a man who had
been tolerant of bad news, and over the last couple of days, that was all
he seemed to be getting.
`Sir, we are very thin. I doubt whether we can hold the Indian thrust
upwards towards Lahore. We're outnumbered over two to one, and if
they break through- there's little we can do but retreat into the city and
try and hold them in house to house fighting.'
`Well then, that's what we'll do.'
Karim, who had been listening quietly till now spoke up.
`Sir, we're nearing a critical stage everywhere. In the air, the only way
we can still do anything is a last ditch, almost suicidal attempt. The
defense of Kasur ripped the heart out of our frontline squadrons. Asking
our young men to go up again will mean condemning them to death.'
Illahi looked at Tariq.
`Well, Tariq, what do you say?'
Shamsher and Karim exchanged glances. Tariq and his men had taken
no part in the fighting so far, and in their view, Tariq was little more than
a thug to execute Illahis's whims, not a professional soldier.
`Sir, I feel we are giving up too easily.'
Tariq spoke in his usual, heavy voice. As he spoke, his nervous twitch
was obvious. He had a long, jagged scar running along the side of his
right eye. He had received the wound from an American shell in
Afghanistan. Though it had been several years, a deep scar remained, and
damage to some nerves had left him with the twitch.
Shamsher was not going to brook any advice from the thug.
`Tariq, what would you know about what's going on in the war.
There's no glory in fighting to the death. Not when we can still pull back
to sanity.'
 `Sanity or cowardice, Ahmed.'
Abdul had just walked in, his flowing robe blowing in the wind. Before
Shamsher could respond to his comment, he went up to Illahi and spoke
in hushed tones.
`Illahi, his Holiness wishes to talk to you. He will call again in one hour.
He wishes to give his perspective on the direction we need to take.'
Illahi turned to his Chiefs of Staff and dismissed them. As Shamsher
and Karim walked out, they knew that what they felt or said would have
very little bearing on how things were going to pan out.

***

`Target at 2800 yards.'
Even before Chauhan could finish his sentence, Ram had got a fix on
the Type 59 and fired. The tank lurched from the recoil as the main gun
fired. They were still running at close to forty kilometers per hour, and
had not slowed a bit when they engaged the enemy. One of the Arjun's
quirks was that unlike most tanks, it was more accurate when firing on
the move. This had been a major problem in its initial developmental
years, when stationary accuracy had been quite low. In later years, this
problem was rectified, primarily by the development of a more accurate
fire control system, but it's accuracy on the move remained higher than
when it fired on the move. Chauhan was exploiting this very quirk.
The tanks he faced would, on a tank-to-tank basis, never match up to
the Arjun. The Type 59 was a Chinese reverse engineered version of the
1960s vintage Soviet T-55. Though upgraded in Pakistani service, it was
a generation behind the Arjun in technology. This was all that the
Pakistanis, however, could muster to counter the surprise northwards
thrust. More than half the T-80s were employed further to the north,
protecting Lahore, while the others were to the south, guarding against
the thrust towards Multan that never came.
There was little Pooja could hear as nearly thirty tanks fired within
seconds of each other. They were firing at the outer limits of the Arjun's
main gun range, but they wanted to maximize the first shot advantage
they would get over the older Pakistani tanks.
The Pakistani commander had got intelligence of a much smaller
enemy force, and he was expecting a small, forward force, not a full
regiment of Arjuns. That unpleasant reality came home to him when a
dozen of his tanks exploded in the first Indian salvo. Without the air
support and reconnaissance the Indians had, he realized he had
blundered into a situation he was unprepared for. Well, there was no
turning back now. He ordered his tanks to go ahead and engage the
Indians.
By the time the Type 59s got off their first shot, the Arjuns had fired
again, knocking out six more tanks. By now, it was a close quarters battle,
and it all came down to the skill of individual tank commanders. By now
the Indians outnumbered the Pakistanis by almost two to one, and such
short ranges, the Indians had to be careful that they did not hit one of
their own. To some extent, the tactical initiative shifted to the
Pakistanis, who could maneuver and fire much more freely.
Chauhan's tank had so far claimed three kills and he was about to
engage another, when a shell hit his tank. It was a glancing blow, and the
shell bounced off the sloping hull of the Arjun. Had the shell been one of
the modern reinforced shells fired by tanks like the T-80, Chauhan and
his crew would have been dead.
Chauhan grabbed on the side for support as the big tank shuddered.
Pooja was thrown back, and hit her head on the floor of the tank.
`Dammit! How bad is it, Pratap?'
The driver was ashen-faced, relieved at this narrow escape, and
managed to reply with a strong effort of will.
`Sir, we're okay. Hydraulics seems to be damaged a bit, but no fire. I
don't think she'll lose more than five kmph.'
`Good. Ram, next target.'
Pooja watched amazed, as she rubbed her hand over the sore spot on
the back of her head. She was amazed at still being alive, while Chauhan
was coolly looking for another target.
`Fire!'
The tank shook as the big gun fired, and the target exploded at a range
of less than a thousand yards.
Then as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped.
Chauhan took off his cap. He was perspiring heavily.
`God. I think that's it.'
 He opened the turret and got out. Pooja followed soon after. She saw
what was by now a familiar sight- the aftermath of an armored battle. As
far as she could see, there were burning tanks all around.
Chauhan jumped off and looked around, amazed at the tactics of the
Pakistanis. They had literally fought to the last tank and man. Normally,
after a fighting unit loses more than 50% of its strength, it is expected
that it retreats or at least falls back for reinforcements. But the
Pakistanis here had charged on. One had even rammed an Arjun,
destroying itself and the Indian tank. Chauhan had heard of the
desperate air battle at Kasur, and he wondered just how desperate the
Pakistanis were. And also just how far India should really push them.
With the nuclear sword hanging over the heads of both countries, it was
only a matter of time before such desperation on the battlefield gave way
to recourse to nuclear weapons. He took out his binoculars to take stock
of his losses. He counted fifteen Arjuns destroyed or damaged. The
Pakistanis seemed to have lost close to forty tanks. Add the losses
inflicted by the Hinds, and the whole regiment seemed to have been
decimated.
Pooja looked to her left and saw Rahul at the turret of a tank, his
camera running. He motioned to her to come over, but she had taken
only a couple of steps when out when the soldiers to her right began to
shout.
A Type 59 had suddenly emerged from the right, and was raking the
Indian tanks with its machine gun. The Pakistani tank was on fire and
was moving slowly and unsteadily but was bearing down on the tank
Rahul was perched on. As Rahul saw the advancing Pakistani tank, he was
pulled inside by the tank commander.
Chauhan watched helplessly as the Pakistani tank fired, a shell
ramming into the side of the Indian tank. A second later, three Arjuns
fired at the Type 59, and it exploded in a huge fireball.
Pooja screamed as she saw Rahul's tank get hit. For a second, all was
obscured in smoke, and when that cleared the Indian tank was on fire.
The shell had hit the Arjun on its tracks. If it had hit the main body, the
resultant explosion would have killed everyone inside instantly, but this
still gave those inside a chance.
Pooja was frozen with fear. A couple of soldiers were running towards
the Arjun, fire extinguishers in hand. She thought she heard someone
say, `There can't be anyone alive now.'
Chauhan looked on at the burning tank. Everything seemed to be
happening in slow motion. He tried to call out to his men, but found
himself incapable of saying anything. An old fear- a paralyzing, mind-
numbing fear was back to haunt him. For a moment, reality blurred with
the memories in his head, as he thought he heard someone scream, he
thought he was on top of the burning tank, running from the flames.
Without his even realizing it, Pooja had gripped his hand tightly. She
was saying something, but nothing seemed to register. He thought
bitterly- so this is where it had to end- the same nightmare comes back in
real life and exposes me for the coward I am.
He heard one of his men shout out that someone was alive inside, and
he thought he heard a voice- he could have sworn it was Pooja's voice
saying, you have to face your fear. Suddenly everything became very
clear. The fear was still there, but it had been blanketed with something
much more powerful, a fierce determination not to let it happen again. A
determination to finally clear his head of the demons inside.
Pooja started in surprise as Chauhan let go of her hand and ran
towards the burning tank. He brushed aside two soldiers trying to stop
him, and was soon lost in the thick smoke.
Pooja stumbled ahead, her mind spinning- Rahul, Chauhan, all gone?
She found it difficult to think clearly. Her eyes were now clouded by the
smoke and tears that were now flowing freely as she approached the
burning wreck.

***

Shamsher was unusually quiet. The war effort had taken a big toll on
him, and the big soldier somehow seemed to have almost shrunk
physically. The Service Chiefs had just returned from their daily briefings
to Illahi, and were unwinding at the Officer's Club.
Shamsher looked at the fancy charts and graphs his staff had
prepared. There were tables giving details of attrition, fuel consumption,
munitions expenditure and so on. And all of them pointed in one
direction- that if the Indians chose to press home the offensive, it would
be a matter of days before the Pakistani forces would crumble. The
attack in Kashmir had been stopped dead in its tracks, and while the
Mujahideen retained some ground, an Indian counterattack to drive
them at least back to the pre-war border was inevitable. The battle at
Kasur had been a solitary silver lining in the war so far, but it had bled
the Air Force dry. To Shamsher the only option that presented itself was
a cease-fire. But he knew that ultimately it would not be his data or
judgment that would really decide what would happen.
Karim seemed lost in thought, virtually ignoring the beer mug in front
of him. He looked at Shamsher and spoke aloud what he had been
thinking of all day.
`Shamsher, what if Illahi does not go for a cease-fire, even if the
Indians offer it?'
The Army Chief took a long sip of his whiskey and answered.
`Well, then thousands more of our young men die for nothing. But
what I can't figure out is where does Illahi think this is leading. He
certainly isn't stupid enough not to see the writing on the wall.'
Shoaib had been toying with the French fries in front of him. He
popped one into his mouth and said what was on all three men's minds,
though no one had mentioned it, as if its mere mention was something
to be avoided.
`Do you think he seriously would consider using nukes?'
Karim shivered involuntarily.
`Well, I wouldn't put it beyond him. With that Emir around, anything's
possible.'
All three men knew that Ilahi’s latest public statement had made a
thinly veiled reference to the fact that while India had declared it would
not be the first to use nuclear weapons, Pakistan had made no such
promises. That was however, not aimed as much at the Indians, as at
Islamic states like the United Arab Emirates, whom Ilahi was still trying
to drag into the war on Pakistan’s side. Shamsher moved his chair a few
inches closer to Karim.
`Karim, remember the discussion we had at this place?'
Karim looked at Shamsher and paused for a long time before
speaking.
`Yes, I remember. Do you think its time?'
 `It's as good a time as any. I say if we wait any longer, it may be too
late.'
Shoaib finished his drink and began to gather his things.
`Guys, I've said before I agree with you on this. But, and I do hope you
understand, I don't want any part of the actual action. I've lost my son,
and my family is still trying to pull itself together. I don't want to put
them through any more.'
Shamsher started to get up, as if to restrain Shoaib, but Karim held his
hand.
`Shamsher, let it be. God knows what we ourselves are getting into. I
myself have been thinking hard on this- I don't blame him at all for doing
what he's doing.'
Shoaib got up and walked out the door. Shamsher laid aside the battle
plans his staff had prepared and opened a blank sheet of paper in front of
himself and Karim. They were to spend the next five hours drafting out a
different kind of battle plan.
A plan that would decide the continued existence of Pakistan.

***

Illahi had just taken his daily painkillers when the hotline rang. He
pushed aside the file in front of him and picked up the phone.
The voice was unmistakable.
`Hello, Illahi. I trust that all is going well and we are on track,
Inshallah.'
Illahi was about to give an angry answer, but restrained himself.
Shouting at the Emir would be a sure way to bring a swift end to his
political career.
`Your Holiness, we are frankly in a precarious position. We held the
Indians at Lahore, but they are now attacking from the South. Without
the AWACS and M-1s, I don't think we can hold out much longer.'
There was a little pause. Illahi thought he could hear the tinkling of
jewelry in the background. He knew the Emir was fond of wearing heavy
chains. It was rumored that each was originally an identification tag
belonging to an American soldier. The Emir wore one for each enemy
soldier he had killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. Illahi found that very easy
to believe.
`Illahi, Illahi. Come on, don't tell me that you are losing faith.'
Illahi was instantly on guard. But he found himself talking more freely
than he could have thought possible. Maybe it was due to the strain of
the last few days, combined with the pent up frustration.
`Your Holiness, we are really with our backs to the wall. Initially, many
things went right, but many did not. We do not have other Islamic
brothers rushing to our aid, without the AWACS and M-1s, our forces are
badly outgunned, I just don't....'
`No more.'
The words were spoken softly. The Emir did not even raise his voice,
but the authority in the words made Illahi break off in mid sentence.
`Illahi, let me tell you a story.'
Illahi shuffled uneasily in his chair. He had no idea what was coming.
The Emir continued after a brief pause.
`Many years ago, let's see- more than five hundred yeas ago, if I
remember my history, our faith was engaged in the Crusades. The
greatest victory came with the conquest of Constantinople that really
broke the back of the Holy Roman Empire. Do you know how that came
about?'
Illahi groped around for the answer. He had never liked History in
school.
`Not really, but I think there was a decisive siege of Constantine's
castle by the Islamic king Mahomet.'
`Very good, Illahi. Very good, indeed. But it was no ordinary battle. You
see, for years, our warriors struggled to break through the walls of
Constantinople. But to no avail. Then, something historic happened.'
Illahi had no idea what the Emir was getting at, but listened without
interrupting him.
`You see, after years of breaking logs and hurling stones against the
big walls of Constantinople, Mahomet got a new weapon- an artillery
piece devised by a Hungarian engineer- a huge gun, which was justifiably
called the super-gun. And after just a few hours of bombardment, the
walls came crashing down. Now what does that tell you?'
Illahi thought it over for a minute.
`That means that a decisive weapon or tactic is what can really prove
to be a turning point in war.'
`Very good, Illahi. That's exactly what it means.'
`But your holiness, we do not have any such breakthrough weapon.......'
`No, Illahi. There you are wrong. You have a weapon that is to your
conventional weapons what the super gun was to the musket.'
A chill went down Illahi's spine. He had often contemplated what he
would do if it came to this, but had convinced himself that with Saudi
military assistance, it would never come to this.
`Your Holiness, we cannot use nuc...'
`Illahi, God has given you this opportunity to make a name for yourself
in the history of our faith. Why are you so scared at the prospect of using
these weapons.'
`But these are not just any weapons.'
`Illahi, this is also not just any war. I am not saying you should unleash
a holocaust on your people. It is a limited demonstration I am talking of-
something that would send a very clear signal out to the kafirs. And Illahi,
you will not be seen as the aggressor if you listen to my plan.'
Illahi listened without asking any questions. When the Emir finished,
Illahi had to admit it was a clever plan, but perhaps it was a bit too clever.
It was like playing with fire. And Illahi had no intention of getting burnt.
He said a quiet prayer as he gathered his strength.
`Your Holiness. It is a good plan....'
`But what do you have to lose personally. You have no family and just
six months to live. Why think so much?'
It took a while for the statement to register. It had been uttered so
casually, so without a trace of emotion, that Illahi found it hard to believe
that it had been said at all.
`I'm sorry, I don't...'
The Emir cut him off. His voice was still soft, without a trace of anger
or emotion, and that was what made it even more ominous.
`You know exactly what I am talking about, Illahi. I do not need to
repeat myself.'
Illahi's heart was pounding, his throat had gone dry. He tried to think
of something to say, but was struck speechless.
The Emir continued, almost reveling in his cruelty. `Let me read from
your report. Rare brain tumor. No known cure. Maximum life span two
years. That makes less than six months to go. Need I go on?'
Illahi put down the phone, unwilling to hear any more. He gripped the
sides of his chair, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. Just
then, the door opened and Abdul walked in.
`Illahi, I think you should pick up the phone.'
Illahi picked up the receiver, his hand shaking. He did not even notice
that Abdul had clearly been listening in. The Emir continued speaking as
if nothing had happened.
`All said and done, Illahi, I think it is a good deal. A shot at fame and
immortality- and the downside? Even if you fail, you will not have to live
with it very long. Anyways, if you are still apprehensive about the
consequences, you can fly out with Abdul.'
With that, the Emir hung up. Illahi was still sitting in front of the
phone, staring dumbly at it. He could not think of what to do, of what to
say. Abdul laid a hand gently on his shoulder.
`Illahi, now we need to be fearless and focused. I think we need to
begin work.’

***



NINETEEN

Justice without force is powerless, force without justice is tyrannical.
- Blaise Pascal

Though the fire had largely died down by now, with nearly a dozen
hand held fire extinguishers spraying foam on the tank, the smoke was
still overpowering.
Pooja fell to her knees, unable to walk any closer to the wreck. She
buried her head in her hands, not willing to look at the ghastly sight in
her front of her. Then she heard a familiar voice shout out, and loud
cheers go up from the men around her.
She looked up to see Chauhan staggering down the side of the tank.
His hair was singed, and his face was black from the smoke. He was
carrying Rahul, who was slumped over the army man’s shoulders.
Chauhan walked a few, unsteady steps before collapsing to the ground.
Immediately his men crowded around him.
Pooja pushed two soldiers aside to see Rahul, miraculously unhurt,
sitting up, drinking water offered by one of the soldiers. Rahul looked up
and Pooja and winked.
`Boss, he got me out. I was trapped under another guy- which is why I
probably lived long enough for Chauhan to get in.'
Pooja touched Rahul's cheek and saw that he was only lightly burnt.
`What about the others?'
Rahul just shook his head sadly.
She now looked over at Chauhan, who was lying prone on the ground.
His left hand looked badly burnt, and his breath coming in jagged gasps.
Pooja took a cloth from one of the soldiers, wetting it with water from a
canteen.
She knelt beside Chauhan and began wiping his face clean. Thankfully,
his face was not burnt. By now another soldier had bought the first aid
kit over and was cleaning and dressing the wound on Chauhan's hand.
Chauhan opened his eyes and looked up at Pooja. He spoke with a
visible grimace of pain.
`Is he....'
Pooja now cradled him in her arms, tears flowing down her cheeks.
`Yes, he's fine. Why did you do something crazy like that. What if
something happened to you...'
That question was left hanging as Chauhan took Pooja's hand in his.
`I had to do it. Remember, you're the one who talked about facing
one's fears. Well, I guess I couldn't have got a better chance.’
Without even thinking of the fact that she was surrounded by over a
hundred men, Pooja stopped Chauhan from saying any more by pressing
her lips against his. A second later, she got up, looking visibly
embarrassed as she realized what she had done. As she got up and
Chauhan was helped to his feet, she heard Rahul talking to a tanker,
`Now, that is how you treat burns where we come from.’

***

The mood in the NSC was distinctly upbeat. The news of the tank
battles had come in just hours ago, and it all pointed to some spectacular
progress by the Arjun regiment that was spearheading the charge. But
Khosla wanted to do more than just discuss the progress of the war. He
considered it much more important to discuss which direction India
wanted to take now.
Which was why he had ensured that all the major decision-makers
were present- the Home Minister, Prasad, Joshi- representing the Joint
Intelligence Committee, and the three Service Chiefs. With Khosla
himself holding the foreign portfolio, all relevant departments were
represented.
Khosla began by asking the Service Chiefs for their assessment of the
war and likely Pakistani moves. Randhawa got up to begin the debriefing.
`Sir, I will divide my presentation into three fronts- Kashmir, Lahore
and Multan.'
He clicked the remote in his hand and a map of Kashmir appeared on
the wall.
`We have secured Uri fully now and as we speak, a reinforced infantry
company is being airdropped to supplement the forces already there. In
a day or two we will have enough forces to begin a real counter-attack. As
you can see on the map, the enemy is still some eight kilometers in
Indian territory. But these forces, we estimate them to number about
1500 men- a mixture of Mujahideen and regular troops, are in a bad
state. We are hitting them almost daily from the air and with long range
artillery, and its a matter of time before we can push them back.'
There were satisfied nods all over. Every man knew just how close it
had been. If Uri had fallen, it would have opened up a floodgate.
`Let's push them back and take back all of POK.'
Ram Prasad, the Home Minister, was a man better known for his
political histrionics rather than any strategic understanding. He had
been subdued for several days after the Ram Sharan episode, but of late
had returned to his old bombastic self.
Khosla looked at the fat man wearing his usual dress of a spotless
white dhoti, and shook his head in disapproval. The man thinks
international relations are as simple as rigging elections in his home state.
`Prasad, let Randhawa finish. Then we can get to these matters.'
Randhawa looked at Prasad with obvious distaste and continued after
clearing his throat.
`Now, coming to the Lahore front. The battle at Kasur was a setback,
but on the flip side, in holding our advance, the Pakistanis bled
themselves dry. All their Cobras are gone, and the PAF has suffered a
body blow. If we attack again, they will not hold. Add to that the northern
armored thrust, which is making brilliant progress, and we've got them
in a real tight spot at Lahore. Give us two days and we can break through
to Lahore.'
`Now further south, our feint towards Multan worked. We probably
don't have enough forces to actually push on, but we can hold any
Pakistani counter-attack, which looks doubtful enough. Net, we have
them against the mat.'
Sen and Raman nodded as Randhawa concluded his presentation and
took his seat.
Khosla was happy with the detailed briefing and now it was time for
the tough bit- taking decisions. He asked the orderly to pass around
another round of soft drinks before he began. He wanted everyone to be
fresh when they began.
 `As I see it, we have only two broad options. Really go for their jugular
and break their back or back off and call for a cease-fire.'
While the others nodded, Prasad spoke up animatedly.
`Cease-fire. No way. We have the bastards where we want them. Let's
move for the kill.'
Sen spoke up. Sometimes Khosla thought he was too cautious, but
now he thought some caution was called for.
`Sir, if we press on, we're asking for disaster. If the Pakistanis think
they're cornered, the chances of their using nukes goes up. I think we've
taught them and the Emir a lesson- why overdo it?'
Randhawa also piped up in support of his colleague.
`Plus it will get messy on the ground. We smash their defenses and
press on to Lahore, and we'll be caught in real messy house-to-house
fighting. That's not what we should aim at. I say we go for a cease-fire.
But I'd add that we put terms that work to our advantage.'
As Khosla mulled it over, Prasad made yet another attempt to get his
point across.
`No, no, no. They won't use nukes. Come on, nukes are for deterrence-
that's what the Cold War was all about. They won't dare use them. Let's
teach them a real lesson. Hit Lahore, don't occupy it. Show them we
mean business.'
Khosla thought it over for several seconds and then spoke.
`I've heard all of your opinions and this is where I come out. We offer a
cease-fire, calling for an immediate withdrawal of all enemy forces from
Kashmir, closure of all training camps and opening them to external
confirmation and also ending all support to terrorists in PoK. In return,
we'll withdraw to pre-war lines in the plains and remove our blockade on
Karachi.'
Prasad was about to say something but Khosla cut him off.
`Now to your point, Prasad. You're right that the Cold War was all
about deterrence- simply because the stakes were too high- an exchange
between the Superpowers would wipe out all civilization. Between two
small nuclear powers, the stakes aren't as high. Sure, millions would die,
but the world would not end. This has been an established part of nuclear
doctrine- that an exchange between two small powers is far more likely
than the risk that ever existed of a nuclear war between the US and USSR
during the Cold War. Add to that an unstable leadership in Pakistan, and
we're courting disaster.'
Joshi smiled as the meeting ended. This was vintage Khosla. He would
listen to everyone, would assimilate it, and then make up his own mind.
Well, Joshi knew that his work was going to increase a lot now. He would
need to tap the Patriot more than ever before to figure out what was
going on in Pakistan. Plus the special project the Patriot had been
working on seemed to still not have yielded any conclusive results.

***

Illahi was going to read the Indian letter aloud to the others
assembled in the room. To him, it hardly mattered what the letter said,
as he was already committed to his course of action. But he needed to do
this for the others.
Karim could guess what was coming when Illahi called the meeting
late at night. He fervently hoped the Indians would be sensible in not
pushing too hard, and that Illahi would be sane enough to accept a
reasonable cease-fire offer.
Illahi held the paper up, and began speaking in a loud, almost
theatrical tone.
Uh, oh. Looks like, we're in trouble. Karim thought, as Illahi began. He
had long come to recognize Illahi's theatrics and the fact that these were
usually the prelude to some drastic decisions. `The cowardly infidels
write to us.' Illahi was now really getting into his act.
`Dear Illahi.'
He stopped to sneer and then continued.
`This is a personal request to you to help me put an end to the madness
engulfing our subcontinent. Whatever the initial triggers may have been, it
must be obvious to you and your government that things are not turning
out the way you may have envisaged. Your attack on Kashmir has been
held, and we can evict the intruders any time we want. On the plains, we
are poised to launch a major attack on your key cities. Your air force is
crippled, as is your navy. Prolonging this conflict will only lead to
unnecessary bloodshed.
The Indian government is willing to offer a cease-fire starting with
immediate effect. This would require you to withdraw your forces from
Kashmir, and open up the training camps in PoK for international
inspection. In return, all Indian forces will move to pre-war borders and our
navy will let Karachi port function again.
Once again, I request you to exercise good judgment and put an end to
the fighting.
Hoping that this etcetera etcetera.'
Illahi put the paper aside, as Karim looked closely to see what his
reaction would be. Then to his horror, he began laughing.
`Dog! He thinks we will accept defeat! Tariq, draft a reply saying that
the forces of liberation in Kashmir will not give up so easily and that the
Indians are suing for peace, only because we are on the verge of
liberating Kashmir. Tell them the struggle continues. And release copies
to the world press.'
He kept talking, but Karim was no longer listening. He knew now what
he must do. He looked at Shamsher, who unlike his usual self, was not
opposing Illahi's decision a bit. He leant over towards Karim and said
just three words, `Let’s do it.'

***

Colonel Hanif Mohammed looked at his men sitting around him and
reflected on just how things had changed. He and his troops had marched
into Kashmir thinking that they would just have to give the final push to
occupy Uri, and with the PAF's exploits in the sky above, there was little
cause for worry.
Then things had gone all wrong. The Mujahideen were now in
shambles, and the morale of his own troops was wavering. Every day
brought Indian air strikes and the occasional artillery barrage. Over the
last three days, Mohammed and his men had learnt to use the terrain to
minimize exposure to these attacks, and now casualties from these were
minimal. Yet, the psychological impact was considerable.
He knew that any moment now, the Indians would launch a ground
counter-attack, and he was not very sure his men could hold out. He had
made frantic calls for reinforcements, but all available forces were being
conserved in case the Indians did make a push onto Lahore.
 Mast Gul, the Mujahideen leader strolled up behind Mohammed.
`Colonel, doesn't look too good, does it?'
Mohammed turned to the older man, with a wry grin on his face. Gul
was one of the few professional soldiers among the Mujahideen, and had
acquired quite a reputation during the fighting.
Mohammed took a small sip from his canteen of water, and offered it
to Gul. As he did so, he thought he picked up some movement in the
mountains to his left. He unslung his binoculars and swung them around
in the direction of the movement.
His eyes caught a couple of pack mules and a man climbing the
curving mountain path towards their position.
`Gul, look there. Now that's funny. They're coming in from the
Pakistani side. Must be some stupid farmer who's gotten lost.'
`Yeah, let's shoo him away.'
Mohammed ran towards the man, and as he got closer to the man, he
saw that one of the mules pulled a cart with a fairly large box on its back.
The man himself remained a mystery, his face hidden behind a black
shawl.
Mohammed took a few steps towards the man and shouted out at him.
`Hey you! Go back. There's a bloody war going on over here.'
To his astonishment, the man stood up straight and saluted,
addressing him by name.
`Colonel Mohammed, I come from the SSG Special Unit. It is too
dangerous to travel by road, with the Indians shooting up anything that
moves, so I had to surprise you like this.'
Gul had now caught up with the younger man, and was equally
confused.
`What in devil's name are you doing here, and why should we believe
you?'
The man, his face still obscured, held out a sheet of paper.
It read.
`Soldiers of Pakistan and of the faith. My compliments on your bravery.
Hold on- for help in on the way. In the meanwhile, I ask you to keep the box
with the carrier of this letter. This box contains highly classified material
critical to our nation's security. In time, its contents will be revealed to you
when reinforcements join you. In the meanwhile, do not, I repeat, do not
open the box- or tell anyone about it.
Illahi Khan
Prime Minister'
As far as Mohammed could tell, the letterhead was genuine, and the
signature looked real, as did the SSG man's identification card.
Well, it was only a box, wasn't it?
`Okay, put it over there in that tent.'
He turned to Gul, who had a big grin on his face.
`I tell you, these bloody secret service types. All think they're some
James Bonds. What do you think is in that thing?'
Mohammed hefted the box. `Seems pretty heavy. God knows. Maybe
some communication equipment or something.'
The SSG man left in a hurry, as Gul and Mohammed kept debating
what could be in the box. At least it was a diversion from worrying about
when the next Indian air strike would come.

***

The room was thick with smoke as Karim and Shamsher sat, poring
over maps and scribbled notes. Shamsher had kicked the habit years ago,
but whenever he was under too much stress, as had been the case for the
last ten days, he would relapse.
Karim's wife came in with more coffee as the men worked. Karim had
told her what he was about to do, and to his relief, she had supported
him fully.
In the Officer’s Club, Karim and Shamsher had essentially
brainstormed a veritable gaggle of ideas on how they could go ahead.
Now that they had had more time to think through things, Karim wanted
to approach this a bit more systematically.
`Shamsher, I think it's important we lay down the key objectives and
principles behind this mission- both to clarify our thinking and also put
it down for the record in case anything happens to either, or both, of us.'
`I agree. Shoot.'
Shamsher pressed the Record button on the small two-in-one on the
table in front of them as Karim began talking.
`Key objective- get control of Pakistan's nuclear stockpile to prevent
likely use in current conflict.
Sub objectives- one- physical control of Illahi Khan and the suitcase
containing launch codes and detonation triggers for warheads. Two-
Control over Tariq's HQ, where the launch codes are kept under strict
security. Three- control over the four mobile Hatf launchers that we
know are currently armed with nuclear warheads. Four- ensuring the
twelve air dropped warheads at Kahuta and Sargodha are not used. Five-
unassembled warheads, numbering six, which are kept at Kahuta. Six-
control over all twelve static missile launchers, and their attendant
twenty-four warheads.'
Shamsher shut off the recorder, as he finished detailing the
deployment of these nuclear assets.
`Excellent summary, Karim. I think the key principle should be
minimum bloodshed. We don't want our soldiers fighting each other. I
have ordered the 24th Paracommandos to be stationed just outside
Islamabad. I commanded this unit for ten years- they'll do whatever I
say.'
Karim studied the map in front of him.
`Okay. A small unit hits Illahi's house near the Legislature. The main
body goes on to hit Tariq's HQ further south on Murree road. I'll ensure
the air droppable warheads are not moved. That takes care of one, two
and four. What about the other objectives?'
Shamsher thought it over for a while.
`Okay- I think we can handle objective Five and Six. I'll have a small
detachment sent there to take charge of the unassembled warheads and
the fixed launchers. We can say that we just wanted to secure them in
case of an Indian attack. But, the mobile launchers will be a bitch. They
are spread out over four conventional missile units, and being mobile,
can be moved at very short notice. What we'll have to ensure is that they
are taken down within minutes of our hitting Tariq's HQ.'
Karim studied the maps in silence. He knew it was going to be a tough
job. Ever since Illahi came to power and with the Emir's growing
influence, there had been a drastic change in Pakistan's nuclear
command and control structure. In the old days, the control lay with the
civilian government, and the military would exercise the nuclear option
only after the government directed it to. Even with the coup in 1999,
control over the arsenal lay not with any one man. Illahi, showing his
characteristic distrust of others, had turned this on its head. The launch
codes were kept in Tariq's heavily guarded headquarters in Islamabad,
yet another indication of the growing power of the SSG man. While the
air launched weapons were at key airbases, and thus out of Illahi or
Tariq's control, Illahi had understood that in any crisis, the four mobile
launchers would be his trump card. And he had ensured his control over
them. They were scattered over different conventional artillery units,
and commanded by officers loyal to Tariq.
Karim looked at Shamsher, `You know, I don't know which is going to
be more difficult- taking out Illahi and Tariq or finding those bloody
mobile launchers.'
`Yeah, well we've got no other choice. Let's just pray things go off all
right.'
As they parted ways, Karim was looking forward to meeting Arif. In
these tense times when things seemed to be changing constantly, Arif
had been an excellent sounding board for what he had been planning.

***

The box lay just five feet from Mohammed, who was fast asleep. Gul
sat a few feet further away, reading from the Koran in candlelight. The
Indians had made a limited attack the previous day, and the Pakistanis
had retreated further. Now they were only four kilometers inside
Kashmir. Mohammed was awaiting orders to pull back to the relative
safety of PoK.
Gul looked at the black box once and then resumed reading. He had
had to drag the box along during the retreat, and it had not been a very
pleasant experience. It had taken a dozen men with pack animals to get
the box moving, and more than once, Indian mortar shells had landed
uncomfortably close to the box. Gul could not imagine what was in the
box that was so important that six more SSG men had arrived later
specifically to guard it. But he knew how to obey orders, and his orders
were explicit- not to let anything happen to the box. Oblivious to the
men, inside the box lay a small one-kiloton nuclear warhead with enough
destructive power to lay waste a small city block. Its computer brain was
also asleep like Mohammed, waiting for the electrical impulses that
would awaken it. Then it would unleash its awesome destructive power.

***


TWENTY

There are no warlike peoples- just warlike leaders.
- Ralph Burke

The young Lieutenant just could not figure out what was going on. But
he could not let his men see his uncertainty or let it get in the way of his
doing his duty. He, along with four of his men, was to attack the Prime
Minister's house, and capture Illahi. He had been shocked to have been
called by Shamsher Ahmed himself. Shamsher had trained the young
man, and was almost hero-worshipped in the regiment. So, as weird as
the mission sounded, the young soldier was going to go ahead. All
Shamsher had confided in the men was that Ilahi was going to order the
use of nuclear weapons, when peace was a real option within their grasp.
That was all the men wanted to know. All five men wore black dungarees,
and were armed with a silenced Uzi each. Shamsher had been explicit on
one count- no casualties unless absolutely unavoidable. Well, that was
fine with him- he did not relish the prospect of firing at fellow soldiers.
He took out his night vision binoculars and was surprised as he
surveyed Illahi's posh house. The security did not seem as heavy as
usual. The tricky part would be getting across the 10 feet or so of garden
in front of the house- when they would have no cover. Well, he had that
one figured out.
He signaled to one of his men, who threw a smoke grenade across the
street- away from the house. The grenade skittered across the pavement
and exploded with a dull thud in an alley. The dull explosion and thick
smoke emerging from the alley immediately caught the attention of the
four guards in the guard box, and two of them went across the road to
check. The other two remained at the box, but kept looking at the smoke.
Using this distraction, the five commandos silently ran across the
garden.
The Lieutenant forced open the nearest window, and climbed in,
followed closely by his men.
As he entered, he surveyed the situation. So far, it had been almost too
easy. They were in the main hallway. From the diagrams he had seen,
Illahi would be either in the third or fourth rooms to the right- his
bedroom and study respectively. There would be three guards in the
room opposite his bedroom, but if all went well, they would not even
wake up.
He motioned to two of his men to cover the guardroom. Another took
cover behind a vase, covering the mouth of the hallway. The fourth stood
by the window. The Lieutenant himself went for Illahi's bedroom. He
tried the doorknob, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the door
was unlocked. He pushed it open, and in the same motion, dove along the
ground, rolling and coming up in a crouch, his gun pointed at the bed.
Nothing.
Frustrated, he came out and tried the study. Nothing again.
He was trying to think of what to do, when Illahi's guards solved his
problem. Two men, having been awakened by the noise outside, had
come out of their room, sleepy eyed and fumbling with their weapons.
Both fell dead within seconds as a commando fired precise bursts into
both men.
The Lieutenant considered his situation. Either Illahi had already
gone someplace else, or he was somewhere else within the house. He
discounted the second option- at three in the morning, there was little
chance he was anywhere else in the house. The guards outside had still
not realized what was happening inside, and he knew that the longer
they stayed, the greater were the chances of being discovered. And then
it would get very messy. He signaled to his men to leave. One man
climbed out the window and crouched by the side of the house, covering
the guard box with his gun, as the others crossed the garden, down on all
fours.
From the time the smoke grenade had been thrown, the operation had
lasted just two minutes, and the soldiers outside were still figuring out
what to do about the grenade incident, and did not notice the black
shapes disappearing into the night.

***

Rahul always considered himself very good at judging people and
understanding their gestures. As a kid, this usually took the form of
prophecies on who had a crush on whom. Given his high success rate, his
considered opinion on the subject was sought by many, usually his
classmates who wanted to know if someone had a crush on him or her.
He found it funny that he remembered such a thing now- he had
barely gotten over the shock of the tank incident, and was riding in
another tank. The regiment was cruising along at over forty kilometers
per hour and was now only two hours away from linking up with the
large Indian force at Kasur.
But then, he mused, it did make sense, for he was getting the same
kind of feeling. Yup, there was no doubt about it, Pooja was in love with
the Colonel.
In the tank just next to the one Rahul was riding in, Chauhan was
barking commands to his men. Though he had been burnt fairly badly, he
had flatly refused to slow down, and was running his men and tanks as
hard as ever.
When he did get some time to think things over, he realized that the
tank incident had had a profound impact on him- the feeling of lightness
was almost physical. He had exorcised the demons that had haunted him
for the last two years. He looked up to see Pooja recording her report in
her small recorder. She finished and looked at him, flashing a smile most
men would have killed for.
Pratap and Ram shared a secret smile. Like most other men in the
regiment, they had noticed the vibes between the two, and were glad
that finally their boss seemed to have found someone.
Chauhan stood up to look around through the periscope. The IAF had
reported that there were no enemy forces around for at least twenty
kilometers, and even those were rapidly falling back to bolster the
defenses at Lahore.
Pooja spoke, asking the question that was on the minds of every man
in the regiment.
`What now?'
Chauhan thought it over. He had never really expected to have to get
involved in messy house-to-house fighting in Lahore. He had planned
only to smash the Pakistani defenses and link up with the XIth at Kasur.
Almost everyone had assumed that it would not get further than that-
that if Lahore was so seriously threatened, a cease-fire would be
imminent. Now that Illahi had rejected the cease-fire offer, everything
had been turned upside down.
`I really don't know. The simple part now seems to be getting to Kasur.
With the Pakis turning down the cease fire offer, it's getting dicey?'
Both Pratap and Ram were listening intently. They both had families
living near the border, and the prospect of a nuclear war was weighing
heavily on their minds.
Pooja then asked the question which was on everyone's mind.
`Do you think they'll use nukes?'
Chauhan thought about that one for what seemed to be a very long
time.
`I hope not. Let's just pray that they do not.'
Chauhan and his men knew that their chances of surviving a nuclear
strike were high, unless their unit happened to be directly in the blast
area. The Arjun tanks could be sealed off against radiation and biological
weapons.
But they also knew that their families would have no such protection.

***

Shamsher was personally leading the assault on Tariq's barracks. He
had already got word of the unsuccessful raid at Illahi's house, and his
best guess was that Illahi would be holed up with Tariq.
He was sitting in an APC, with nearly two hundred troops around him.
Tariq's barracks were heavily fortified and guarded by an estimated fifty
SSG men. Shamsher knew that if it came down to a fight, it would be a
tough one.
It was not yet dawn, and the soldiers moved silently under the cover
of darkness. The four APCs were kept well back, so that their noise would
not alert the defenders. Tariq took a loudspeaker and approached the
building. He was now only about fifty yards from the main gate. His men
were all hidden behind nearby bushes and cars. He stopped when he
judged the distance to be close enough for the SSG men to hear him. Then
he began speaking through the loudspeaker. The sudden noise shattered
the quiet of the morning and the SSG men at the gate rushed out, guns in
hand. Lights began switching on in the building and in nearby houses.
`I am Shamsher Ahmed, Chief of Army Staff. I order you to stand down
and let my men enter your building. You are not at fault- no harm will
come to you. We are interested in arresting Tariq- for carrying out anti-
national activities.'
The two SSG men closest to him seemed to waver, when a shot rang
out.
Tariq had been watching from his second floor room, and he knew he
was trapped. He had been briefed by Illahi on the plan, and was planning
to join Illahi by noon.
As soon as Shamsher began speaking, Tariq loaded his Uzi and took
position. He realized the only way for him to escape would be to create a
diversion. That this would mean sacrificing the lives of his soldiers who
knew nothing of his plan never crossed his mind.
The bullets grazed Shamsher's right shoulder and the big soldier fell
down, more out of an old soldier's instinct to find cover than from the
impact of the shots. He got up to tell his men to hold their fire, but by
then, it was too late.
A young Captain, standing just a few feet behind him, saw his
commanding officer go down under enemy fire. Enraged at this act of
treachery, he aimed and fired his full magazine at the window from
which the gunfire seemed to have come.
Tariq ducked and ran out of the room as the window he had fired from
disintegrated. He paused briefly to consider his options. He knew that he
had been a bit callous- ideally he should have destroyed the whole
compound to remove any traces of Illahi's plan. But now, the best he
could hope for was to get out alive. Staying and making a stand would be
suicide.
Shamsher looked on in horror as his men opened up on Tariq's
barracks with a fury. Two shoulder-launched rockets destroyed the main
guard bunker as two M-113s approached the main gate, dousing the
building with machine gun fire. There was heavy counter fire, and he saw
four men fall as they emerged from the APCs. The Paracommandos had a
more then four to one numerical edge and despite losses, soon entered
the main compound.
Shamsher was about to give an order to cease fire, when out of the
corner of his eye, he saw a jeep leaving the compound. Looking at the
solitary bulky figure in the jeep, he did not need to be told who that
would be. The jeep broke through the smaller secondary gate and sped
by, running over a soldier in the process.
Shamsher took out his pistol and took careful aim. The vehicle was
twenty meters away now, and fast receding. In his youth, Shamsher had
been an ace marksman, and had represented Pakistan in the Asian
Games. He fired six carefully aimed shots at the escaping jeep.
Tariq had thought he was free when the first bullet struck him in his
right shoulder. He slumped forward under the impact of the shot as the
other bullets struck home. Four hit the windscreen, and one hit him in
his back. The jeep careened out of control and bounced off the sidewalk,
banging into a parked vehicle, before it burst into flames.
Shamsher winced as the jeep exploded in a huge explosion. He felt
little remorse at Tariq's death, but he knew the monster had caused
many of the young men inside to die a futile death. He immediately
ordered his men to cease firing. The firing from inside the building
stopped within seconds. The remaining SSG men came out, their hands
over their heads. Shamsher went over to their commanding officer, a tall
and strapping Lieutenant.
He glanced at the name badge and said, `Lieutenant Khalid. You and
your men have done nothing wrong. It is a misfortune that some lives
were lost. We have nothing against you- you need not behave as if you
are prisoners.'
The young man, with an obvious look of relief on his face, put his
hands down and saluted smartly.
`Okay, now take me where Illahi is. He wasn't in the jeep with Tariq.'
There was a genuine look of surprise on the young officer's face.
`Sir, the Prime Minister is no longer here. He had come several hours
ago, and left with a small briefcase.'
He had no sooner finished his sentence, than Shamsher was running
towards the building. He looked in four rooms and then came upon what
he was looking for- a thick wooden door with the sign `Restricted Entry'
embossed on it.
He did not wait to ask for a key. He rocked back and kicked hard. The
door swung open, its hinges shattered. Shamsher rushed in. He stopped
dead in his tracks when he saw the large safe in the corner of the room.
The safe was wide open, and was empty.
He went outside and called Karim.

***

Tension hung over the room like a malevolent cloud. Karim was
sitting in a corner, with a glum expression on his face. Shamsher was
pacing the room, while Arif sat at the desk, making drinks for the three
men.
Karim broke the awkward silence.
`Guys, things are going all wrong. We have no clue where Illahi is. He's
probably got the suitcase with the codes, and that's not the end of it.'
Shamsher had just joined the other two men and did not know what
they had discovered.
`Karim, what do you mean?'
He turned around to face Arif as he answered for Karim.
`Well, one of the mobile launchers is untraceable, as is a single one
kiloton warhead from Kahuta. I assume that Illahi has taken the
briefcase, but the warhead it seems was removed at least four days ago. I
would guess Illahi already had a plan, and we have probably been too
late.'
`What exactly does this mean for us, and for the possibility of a
nuclear strike?' Arif had just brought Karim and Shamsher their drinks.
Unlike the Service Chiefs, he was not as cued into the intricacies of
Pakistan's nuclear command structure.
Karim sipped his lemonade- he did not want to have anything
stronger cloud his thinking, and turned to answer his friend.
`Arif, I can think of several scenarios. The mobile launcher could be
anywhere- but it's targeting system can be activated only from the
mobile launch control center- the briefcase which Illahi is carrying, or
from the main control center in Tariq's HQ- which we now have control
over. Now, as to the single warhead- it cannot be air delivered, no fighter
will be loaded with any special ordinance without my approval. We have
taken stock of all missiles, so it’s not going to be loaded there either. So,
my guess is that it's been sent somewhere to be detonated by the carrier
or by Illahi through the suitcase.'
`Can't we override any signals that Illahi gives from the main center?'
Shamsher sat down. He took a large gulp of his whiskey before
answering.
`No. Illahi had ensured that his system could override any other. The
bastard always was a shrewd dog.'
`So shouldn't we warn the Indians? If Illahi does anything stupid and it
triggers off a nuclear exchange, we would really have achieved nothing.'
Karim thought it over for a while.
`Arif, I think the first thing we should do is to form a provisional
government and announce as soon as possible that we are accepting the
Indian cease-fire. I don't know whether we should let them know about
what's happening. It would a terrible sign of weakness, and they might
just exploit it. Let's begin work on getting through the formalities. I don't
want this to be another military coup. We are doing this because it's in
the interest of the nation, and will step aside for democratic elections as
soon as things stabilize. In the meanwhile, let's concentrate our
resources on finding Illahi and ending this madness.'
`My guess is that he's doing all this under pressure from the Emir. The
snake Abdul's also missing. I would guess he'd trigger some sort of
nuclear exchange and try and get away for a while. If things turn out
okay, he'll emerge as some kind of hero. And if they don't, he'll go into
hiding with the Emir.' Arif thought it over. Shamsher's analysis certainly
made a lot of sense.
`Well, the only way he can get out in any reasonable time is by air.
Let's put out orders to all airfields to notify us of any unauthorized
flights to Saudi.'
`Done.'
Arif got up to leave. He gulped down his tea and gathered his things. `I
just got an idea. Since he left not more than a few hours ago, chances are
he'll try and fly out of Islamabad, if he does fly that is. I'll go to the airport
and check it out. He may just be going aboard a commercial flight. He's
smart enough to know that we'll clamp down on all the military flights.'

***

 It was going to another one of those early morning meetings, thought
Joshi, silently groaning. The acceptance of the Indian cease-fire offer by
the new `Provisional Government of Pakistan' had come as a bolt from
the blue just an hour ago. And he knew everyone would be looking to him
for answers. Expectations had been soaring with the precise and
accurate intelligence the Patriot had been providing. But now, Joshi had
his doubts on just how much the Patriot could help him. He would in all
likelihood not have too much access to what was actually going on. If his
last transcript was anything to go by, things were not going to be easy.
He entered the room to see everyone else present.
Khosla was sipping his customary early morning cup of tea. His
wound had fully recovered now, and the news of the Pakistani
acceptance had cheered him up considerably.
`So, Joshi. Don't look so glum today. Looks like it's all over.'
Joshi hated being the harbinger of bad news all the time. But he
mused, perhaps that's what his job was.
`I'm afraid it's not that simple, Sir. It looks like some sort of coup has
taken place, probably led by some senior military officers.'
`And they're calling off this damn war. So what's the bad news?',
Randhawa completed the sentence for Joshi. He was clearly relieved that
his men would not get caught up in house to house fighting in Lahore.
`General, please let me finish.'
Randhawa and Joshi were close friends, and using the formal title was
the closest Joshi could come to rebuking his old friend.
`Sir, I've got information that the Pakistanis are clamping down on all
military flights. We have unconfirmed reports that they’re going mad
searching through all cargo in airports.’
`So what do you make of it?’
`I have a bad feeling Illahi has gotten away. Now add to that this
transmission from the Patriot that I just got. It's unusual to say the least.
He was probably in a hurry, his message is slightly cryptic.'
`What does it say, Joshi?'
`I'll read it out.'
` Possible warheads missing stop.'
`So Sir, if I am to interpret this correctly, there is still a nuclear threat.
It seems Illahi has got control of at least one weapon, and could well use
it.'
There were audible murmurs in the room, which Khosla silenced as
he spoke.
`So, we may face a nuclear attack, but the Pakistani government as
such would not have authorized it. So, how do we react?'
`We nuke them right back to the stone age.' Randhawa was known for
his hard-line views on nuclear weapons. He had really accelerated the
induction of tactical weapons into the Army in the early years of the
2000s.
Khosla spoke sharply.
`Come on, Randhawa. Let's think this through. If they nuke Delhi or
Mumbai, I can see some merit in a large retaliation. But what if they just
hit our forces- let's say the XIIth Corps near Lahore? What do we do
then?'
Ram Prasad, who had but a rudimentary understanding of the subject,
thought he had it all figured out.
`Vivek, they cannot hit our forces so close to the border. They'll suffer
from the radioactive fallout as well, right?'
`Not necessarily.'
Everyone turned to look at Sen. Sen was widely regarded as the
resident expert on nuclear weapons.
`A battlefield target such as a concentration of troops would be hit by
a smallish warhead- let's say a two or five kiloton one. Now if I wanted to
minimize the fallout, I would use the weapon as an air burst, that is, it
would explode above the ground, at a height of 2000 to 5000 feet. In such
a scenario, there is no fallout, and opposing forces can walk through
safely in hours. An aircraft or a missile would deliver these.'
Prasad began to look slightly pale, as Khosla picked up the thread.
`Look, Illahi could not have disappeared with the whole Pakistani
arsenal. He, or his men, probably has control over a few warheads at
best. Now, how would they deliver them, and how can we defend against
them?'
`Well, there are really two options given the Pakistani arsenal- air
delivery by an F-16 or possibly an A-5 or delivery by one of their
missiles. Air delivery is always risky, due to the chance that the carrier
aircraft will be shot down. And if he only has a couple of warheads to play
around with, I would rule it out, especially given the kind of air
superiority we have.'
`Moreover, Sen, if a new government has taken over, chances are that
F-16s will not be taking off loaded with nukes without their knowing
about it.'
`Correct, Sir. Now that would hold for missiles as well, so the only
logical alternative is that he may have one of their mobile launchers.
That would explain why the Pakis are so hassled.'
Khosla turned to his Intelligence Chief, `Joshi, your man's really been
stingy with the details this time.'
`I know, Sir. He must have been really rushed.'
Raman spoke up for the first time this morning.
`Or he's been compromised. All this could be a Pakistani ploy to
confuse us as to their real intentions.'
Everyone started at this statement by the Naval Chief, and several
people began speaking at once. Utter pandemonium reigned for a few
minutes, before Joshi nearly shouted to get things under control.
`I do not believe that he has been compromised.'
`Joshi, how can we be sure?'
Joshi was surprised to see that even Khosla was having doubts.
`Sir, I know this man, He has been working for us, putting his life on
the line for us, for almost two decades now. He would commit suicide
before being compromised.'
`Joshi, I know how you have great faith in this guy., but we can't rule
out the possibility that the Pakis have caught on to him.'
`Sir, we can smoke that out. We run handwriting analyses every time a
message comes in. Its a perfect match with his earlier messages.'
`Joshi, the Pakis could have tortured him and made him write
anything they wanted.'
`Sir, there we are getting subjective. There's really no way we can say
anything- its one man's hypothesis versus another's.'
Khosla sighed and scribbled something on the pad in front of him.
`And we don't have time to sit and debate. We need to act now one
way or the other.'
Joshi began speaking. Here goes nothing. Probably lose my bloody job if
I'm wrong.
 `Sir, in my judgment, we should treat this communication as genuine. I
don't think anyone in this room really knows the guy we're dealing with.
I'll give you some details and let you judge. Sir, you know who he is, but
even you don't know the full story. I'll of course not reveal his identity,
but will give you all some background on this man we call the Patriot.'
He took a sip from the glass in front of him. The tension of the
morning was telling on him, and beads of perspiration had broken out on
his forehead. He gently dabbed at it with his handkerchief and continued.
There was rapt silence in the room as he spoke.
`Over twenty years ago, in the eighties, when I was a relatively junior
officer in the IB, I was handling the Kashmir desk. During one of the many
massacres that marked the beginning of full-blown militancy, terrorists
had wiped out a Hindu family in the valley. There was only one survivor-
a young teenage boy. A that time we were training some Kashmiri youth
and infiltrating them into PoK to get wind of what the Pakis were up to.
Some made it back, many did not. Now this particular young man was
quite exceptional. Unlike most of the guys we used to send across, his
family was fairly well off, and he was a brilliant student. My boss had a
brilliant idea- why not make him something much bigger. We made the
proposal, we explained all the risks, all he would have to give up. And he
agreed- he reasoned he had nothing or no one left anyway, and if he
could do anything to avenge what had happened to his family, it would
be worth it. So we put him through training for a year, got him converted
to Islam and sent him in.'
`I will not go into specifics, but he rose fast in the Pakistani
government and has never failed us so far- he gave us a week's advance
warning of Ilahi’s coup, and in the current crisis, he has been invaluable.'
`Now I've not met him ever since he crossed over, but I know the man-
he would not double cross us, no matter how much pressure they put on
him. I say we go with what he says.'
When nobody spoke, Khosla let his feelings be known.
`Let's go with it. But why has the Pakistani government not told us
anything?'
`Sir, they would probably think that this would be a big sign of
weakness. If we think they're not in control, they may fear that we would
really get on the offensive.'
 `Okay, so assuming that we're dealing with a few warheads, what can
we do to counter it?'
Sen took that question.
`Sir, if it is a mobile launcher or launchers we're talking about, chances
of our taking out the launcher before it fires are slim. During the Gulf
War, for all their superiority, the Allies could not knock out a single
mobile Scud launcher- it's just too easy to hide and move about. Once it
launches, it's not as bad, but not too good either.'
`If it is a Ghaznavi or a Hatf, as it is likely to be, its a very different
animal from the Scud- much faster, and much, much more accurate.
Remember, even during the Gulf War, the US had a pretty low hit rate
against the Scud with the Patriot. In most cases, they just deflected it
away. With a nuke, a near miss is as good as a hit. Now, Delhi and
Mumbai are relatively better off. We have S-300 anti ballistic missile
systems guarding both and if we are talking of one or two missiles, we
should have a fair chance of hitting it.'
`What's fair?', Khosla asked.
`Around 50 to 60 per cent.'
Groans went up around the room.
`It's much worse if we're talking smaller towns or tactical targets. A
Corps, let's say the XIIth, has a lot of SAMs, but given flight times from
any launch point, they'd hardly get any warning before the missile hits
them.'
Khosla noticed that he had nearly chewed the top off his pen. He
frowned to himself, this was an old bad habit he had been trying hard to
kick.
`Thanks everyone. This is what I think we should do.'
Everyone was looking at Khosla. Most were silently thankful that they
had not been asked their opinion on how to get out of this mess.
`First, we try and defend. If they do launch a missile, we do everything
humanly possible to try and intercept it. Second, we retaliate
commensurately. If they hit our troops, we hit theirs, if they hit one of
our cities, we hit theirs. Thirdly, we tell all this to them.'
Everyone was too shocked for some time, then Randhawa protested,
followed by Raman.
`Relax. We tell them we're happy they agree to the cease-fire, but our
satellites or recon flights have found one of their mobile launchers
missing. Let them assure us that all is under control, or the cease-fire
does not come into effect. And if they launch a missile, we'll retaliate in
kind. This should also call their bluff, if they are trying something funny.'

***

Karim read the fax that had just come in from the Indians.
`Shamsher, there's trouble. We better find Illahi or that launcher fast
or we'll be in big trouble.'
The big army man studied the fax with open contempt.
`Can they make out an individual launch vehicle with their damn
satellites?'
`I'm not sure. The Americans can read license plates from space. The
Indians aren't there yet. But they've been active in the commercial
satellite imagery market. Remember that old incident, January 1999, I
think. The Americans were bombing Iraq, and needed bomb damage
assessment. Unfortunately, they did not have a satellite passing
overhead at that time. So they bought Indian satellite photographs. That
gave us a real heads up, the Indians could make out at least building
sized targets from their satellites. They may just have gotten better in
the years since.'
`Or they could be bluffing', Shamsher had a cigarette out, but resisted
the urge to smoke.
`Not a bluff I'd like to call, Shamsher.'
`Yeah, I agree. Let's find that bastard fast. Where's Arif?'
`He said he would be checking out the airport now.'
`Yeah, good place to look. Smart guy, that friend of yours.'
`Yup, don't know where I'd be without him.'

***


TWENTY ONE

The way to win an atomic war is to make certain it never happens.
- Gen. Omar Bradley

Singh's fighter was steady at 20,000 feet. It felt awkward not flying
with Goel, but he knew his makeshift backseater was a good aviator.
Moreover, it was only a matter of time. The doctors had finally declared
Goel as stable. It would be a long time before he flew again, but it was
good to know that he had pulled through.
Tonight, however Singh had other thoughts plaguing his mind. His
squadron had been scrambled just over half an hour ago. His plane was
part of a massive armada, numbering almost a hundred fighters, which
were strung out over the border. It was a momentous effort to keep so
many planes flying, and Singh had already heard about two crashes on
the radio. The squadron leaders had been briefed on the mission. The
others had been told that they were to keep a watch for `intruders' and
shoot them down. Singh knew precisely what he was expected to look
for. And the thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Just before taking off, he had called Sonaina. He was of course
forbidden to tell her what was going on, but he had wanted to hear her
voice. Who knew, it might well be the last time.
He had his main radar on, and was acting as a kind of `mini AWACS'
for the older MiG-21s and 23s. If he picked up incoming missiles, not only
would he attempt to engage them, but would also guide the older
fighters, which lacked his sophisticated radar, to the missile. This was
necessary because though all four Indian AWACS were up, there were
still uncovered gaps. Singh knew that if a missile did show up on his
scopes, it would be a really tough one to crack. Probably the only fighters
in the IAF capable of shooting down ballistic missiles were the Su-30,
and to a lesser extent, the MiG-29. Even then, it would be a very difficult
shot. The missile would be coming in at over twice the speed of sound.
There was no way he would get more than one shot, and making that
count would be nothing short of a small miracle. The fact that so much of
the IAF's combat strength was in the air told him just how desperate the
situation was.
He kept monitoring his systems for any signs of the missile, or
missiles, but kept praying that he would see nothing.

***

`No, be careful, you fool! We don't need the Pakis to kill us, you're
enough!'
The young soldier who had tripped while handling the liquid
propellant drum blanched at the Major's comment and sheepishly put
the container down with a grin on his face. The comment bought nervous
laughter from the dozen men around the vehicle.
There was no great danger in what the soldier had done, but the Major
thought it would be nice to get his troops in a better mood, if at all that
was possible given the circumstances.
As his men got to work on the two vehicles, the Major lit a cigarette
and thought just how strange his job was. You spent every working hour
slogging your butt off training to do your job the best you could, and
every other hour praying that you never had to do it.
He looked at the two vehicles in front of him. They were large wheeled
vehicles, developed specifically for this purpose. Each had, in its cab, a
small control panel in addition to normal instrumentation expected in a
car. The rear had been hollowed out, and modified to carry a single SS-
150 Prithvi surface-to-surface missile. The two missiles in front of him
were equipped with a single 50-kiloton warhead each, and when he
received authorization, would deliver their deadly payload to Karachi
and Islamabad respectively.

***

Illahi felt like a petty thief, sneaking out like this. But when he heard of
the raid on his house and the attack at Tariq's office, he was thankful for
Abdul's advice. He was wearing civilian clothes, and a large hat and a pair
of spectacles to try and conceal his appearance as far as possible. Abdul
too had shed his trademark robe and was dressed in a simple shirt and
trouser. They had left in Abdul's own car, and were headed towards the
airport. They were to board a Saudi cargo plane on a routine flight to
Jeddah.
They were just about at the airport gate now, and he could see ten
heavily armed Mujahideen, who were to ensure that they got to the plane
unmolested. However, they were to intervene only if Illahi or Abdul got
into trouble. The whole idea was for them to get away unnoticed.
As he stepped out, anyone could have mistaken him for a
businessman or executive carrying his laptop. The airport was almost
empty, with most civilian traffic avoiding this route due to the war.
Illahi and Abdul walked through the gate. The policeman on duty paid
them little attention. They had valid tickets, under different names of
course, and did not look as if they should merit any special attention. The
two walked straight to the Saudia counter and checked in to a
commercial flight scheduled two hours later. The formalities over, the
two sat down in the lounge.
Illahi tried to read the paper, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't
wait to get on the plane and get this over with. He knew that Karim and
his men would be looking for him, and he had precious little time to
waste.
`Abdul, where the hell is your man?'
`Patience, he'll be there. His Holiness himself has briefed the crew. I
think you can relax now.'
Illahi kept fidgeting for the next five minutes, when a man, dressed in
Saudia uniform, approached them.
Before Illahi could say anything, he simply said, `Follow me.'
Illahi and Abdul followed the man past the main immigration desk.
The man kept walking briskly, as if he did not know either of the men
following him. When Illahi saw him entering the cargo area, he stopped
and looked at Abdul.
`Hey, what's going on?'
Abdul had not seen Illahi so jittery before. He hoped that he would not
lose his nerve. If he did, his instructions were clear. Get the codes from
Illahi and kill him and carry out the plan himself. Abdul knew that it
would be messy if it came to that, and muttered a silent prayer that Illahi
would not lose it now.
`Illahi, don't worry, this is as per the plan. We'll be going on board with
the cargo. There are no passengers on this flight. If we took our regular
passenger flight, chances are high that Karim would have it called back
once the plan began.'
`Yeah, makes sense.'
In spite of the air conditioning, Illahi found himself sweating and
paused to wipe his forehead before following Abdul into the cargo hold.
He took off his spectacles to adjust them, and found himself looking at a
man in uniform just twenty meters away. He could not place him, but
was certain he had seen him before. Well, must have been at some
parade or something. He entered the door to the cargo hold and shut it
behind him.

***

Arif had been looking around the airport for almost two hours and had
begun to give up hope. He had gone to the snack bar to have a cup of
coffee when he saw the man moving towards the cargo hold. That's
funny, nobody but crew should be in there. Then the man stopped and
seemed to turn his head towards Arif. Arif nearly spilled his coffee as he
gaped in surprise at the face of Illahi Khan. He tried to remember
whether Illahi would recognize him, and then realized that he was being
paranoid. The Prime Minister had no reason to recognize a middle level
Air Force officer. As he watched Illahi enter the hold, he saw the small
briefcase in his hand.
He knew that he would have very little time.
He had four Air Force Policemen with him. Men he and Karim had
specially briefed for this mission. He contacted all four men on the radio
and asked them to hurry to the cargo hold.
The men arrived within minutes. All four were very young, the oldest
not yet twenty, and despite their attempts to look brave, were clearly
terrified. They were hidden behind the snack bar, and had a clear view of
the cargo hold. As he briefed the men on what he had seen, one of them
spoke up.
`Sir, I was checking the manifests. There's a special Saudi cargo plane,
a Hercules. It's scheduled for take off in less than half an hour from
runway one.'
Arif was so excited he grabbed the young man by his shoulders.
`How does one get from the cargo hold to the aircraft?'
The soldier's bewilderment was clear.
`S..sir, one doesn't. I mean, no person goes that way. There's a
conveyor belt that carries the cargo.'
`Can we get there?'
`I don't think so, Sir. Look!'
As Arif looked on, six Mujahideen, armed with assault rifles came over
to the cargo hold, and stood casually by the door, chatting amongst
themselves. There was nothing Arif could do, as the Mujahideen enjoyed
considerable freedom of movement, and ever since war had broken out,
were often called upon to assist civil authorities. Arif shook his head in
disgust at the thought that these ignorant and brutal thugs were
expected to help maintain law and order.
Arif looked at his watch. Less than twenty-five minutes to go. For all
he knew, Illahi was already in the plane. Think, think. He considered the
odds. He was carrying no weapon, and the four soldiers just had a pistol
each. There was little chance they could get past the Mujahideen.
Moreover, if, and that was a big if, and when he did get to Illahi, what the
hell was he supposed to do?
He realized the four men were looking to him for guidance, and
wished he could just tell them that he had no goddamn idea. He pulled
out his cell phone and called Karim's office.
As soon as Karim answered the phone, Arif rattled off whatever had
happened. Karim did not say a single word while Arif finished, almost
breathless.
`Arif, I'll have Shamsher's men over there immediately. They'll be
there in less than half an hour. In the meanwhile, get the cops at the
airport to help.'
`Karim, that'll be too late. We don't have that kind of time. And what
do I tell the cops? Hello, I need to arrest the Prime Minister? We have no
proof he is up to something. You haven't yet officially taken over power.
And we don't have time to try and convince some dumb cops. No, this is
something we'll have to handle. Now, even if I get to Illahi, what do I do?'
 Karim was silent for some time. While taking out Tariq's HQ had
proved easy, gangs of Mujahideen had fallen upon Shamsher's men, and
fierce gun battles had erupted all over Islamabad. Without subduing
these, there was no way they could get on with actually taking over
power. Finally, he thought of the briefcase that Arif had mentioned and
made up his mind.
`Arif, you know how serious this is. Just stop him. Anyway you can.'
`Karim, I need you to confirm. If I have to kill him, is it okay?'
More silence.
`Arif. Do whatever you deem necessary.'

***

Arif took the four soldiers to one side.
`Men, you already know why we are here. It is imperative that we stop
Illahi. It's up to us- we will not get reinforcements in time. Now I need
you guys to keep those thugs busy. Don't do anything stupid- I want all of
you alive, but get them away from that door long enough for me to get in.
Now you have exactly five minutes to think up something. I'll go get
some stuff.'
Arif walked off towards the bathroom, leaving the four soldiers, none
of whom had ever shot at a man before, to consider how they would lure
away their six opponents.
Arif walked into one of the toilets and closed the door. He got down on
his knees and reached behind the toilet bowl to lift out a small cloth bag
that he had bought with him. As the senior officer in the PAF's
Maintenance Wing, he was often called upon to help the civil aviation
authorities especially when it came to accident inquiries. He was well
known around here, and had not been checked on his way in. However,
he had not wanted to risk carrying the bag around and had hidden it
here.
He opened the bag to take out a 9mm pistol. He had two magazine
clips with him. He inserted one into the gun and chambered a round, and
put the other one in his left trouser pocket. The gun went into his right
pocket. He took out the remaining contents of the bag and examined it
for a while. It looked like a small alarm clock, expect for the thick layer of
plasticine like material that padded its back, and the two small wires that
ran along the top.
Arif hefted the object in his hands. It was not more than five kilograms
in weight, yet he knew the devastation the small package could cause. He
set the dial on the clock face to the desired setting and placed the object
back in the bag. He then walked out of the bathroom.

***

Arif walked past the four soldiers and without breaking his stride just
said `Now!'.
As he sat down at the snack bar, he watched the four men get to work.
Two of them walked ahead past the Mujahideen, who eyed them for a
second and then seemed to ignore them. After waiting about five
seconds, one man ran after his comrades shouting. The fourth man
remained behind the bar.
`Fire! Fire!'
There was thick smoke coming from behind the bar. The bewildered
waiters ran helter skelter as fire alarms began to go off. The Mujahideen
were not sure what to do, and stood their ground nervously. One of the
soldiers went up to the Mujahideen, and spoke to the man nearest to
him.
`Are you guys crazy? There's a fire out there. Get out of here!'
From where they were, the Mujahideen could now see flames as high
as a man reaching out from the bar. Reluctantly, they began to follow the
soldiers towards the fire exit to the left.
Arif kept an even pace as he approached the cargo hold. There were
people running all around the terminal and nobody noticed him in the
chaos. He quickly entered the room and closed the door, latching it
behind him.

***

The black helicopter flew no higher than twenty feet above the waves.
It bristled with electronic equipment and jammers that would render it
all but invisible to any prying radars. Its cargo was a squad of ten US
Delta Force commandos. It had been on a standing patrol for the last two
hours, ever since they had gotten word that the Pakistanis were getting a
mobile launcher into firing position.
The Indians had not been the only ones watching out for Pakistan’s
missing nukes.
Ever since Ilahi had rejected the cease-fire offer, and especially after
the tumultuous events in Islamabad, US satellites and high altitude spy
planes had been operating round the clock in search of the missing
mobile launcher. With technology that allowed them to read the cover of
a small paperback novel from outer space, the US had been carefully
cataloguing the locations of all Pakistani mobile missile launchers. It had
been a painstaking task, and finally a few covert teams had been inserted
to provide `eyes on the ground’.
For a mission whose stakes were as high as this, there was no real
alternative to doing this the old fashioned way. There would be no cruise
missiles, no stealth bombers. It would come down to a handful of very
special men.

***



TWENTY TWO

What the scientists have in their briefcases is terrifying.
- Nikita Khrushchev

Illahi had just strapped into his seat when he heard the alarms go off.
He turned to Abdul, who was seated two rows in front of him.
`Abdul, what's going on? Do you think they're on to us?'
Abdul answered without turning around. He did not want Illahi to see
the disgust on his face.
`Even if they have, it's too late. Just do what you need to.'
Illahi could feel the headache coming back. Suddenly it hit him with
such intensity that he dropped the briefcase and clutched his head in his
hands.
Abdul heard the noise and got up. He spoke, but there was no
sympathy in his voice.
`Illahi, pull yourself together, or I'll just do it myself!'
Illahi groped around in his pockets and fished out his bottle of tablets.
He put a couple in his mouth and sat back, eyes closed. He was roused by
the rumbling noise as the big turboprop engines came to life.
He looked out of the window to see several fire engines racing
towards the main terminal, but there was no clear evidence of a fire. If
there was one, it wasn't a big one. Not big enough to hold up his flight at
any rate.
He picked up the briefcase and opened it, setting it on his lap. To a
layman, it may have passed off as a laptop, and indeed it was built off the
basic design of one, similar to the almost legendary `suitcase bombs'
that were developed to give the Russian and American Presidents
control over their nuclear arsenal during the 1960s and 70s.
At the touch of a button, the screen flickered to life.
As Illahi punched in his password and waited for the main screen to
come on, he paused to think of what he was about to unleash. The Emir's
plan sounded simple enough, but could blow up easily into something no
one could control, least of all Illahi.
The main menu came on, and Illahi used the touch pad to navigate to
the option he wanted. He began keying in an alphanumeric sequence and
then paused. He knew that as soon as he completed and pressed Enter,
electrical pulses would trigger off a nuclear explosion in Kashmir. An
explosion caused by a nuclear warhead placed among Pakistani and
Mujahideen forces. He wondered how Allah would judge him for directly
causing the deaths of thousands of his own soldiers, whose only crime,
as it were, was obeying his own orders. The Emir had of course, justified
this as a great sacrifice, one that was necessary for the greater good of
the faith. But now, Illahi was having his doubts. Maybe I should just get
out and give myself up. Live my last few days in peace.
But when he looked up, he knew he had burnt all bridges behind him.
Abdul was sitting facing him, with a pistol in his hand. He did not need to
say or do anything, Illahi knew then that Abdul would kill him without a
second thought.
He typed in one more letter, and stopped again, to feel the piece of
paper lying tucked into a corner of the case. It contained a prepared
statement that would be released to the world ten minutes after the
explosion- condemning the Indian first use of tactical nuclear weapons
against Pakistani forces and freedom fighters in Kashmir. Then he would
enter a set of co-ordinates for the solitary Hatf launcher, whose
commander would then fire its missile at the Indian forces massed near
Lahore.
After that, things got a bit hazy. It all really depended on the Emir.
Whichever way the war went after the initial nuclear exchange, the Emir
would proclaim Illahi a hero of the faith for standing up to nuclear
blackmail, and make a statement of how his faith was not ready to be
cowed down. If things got out of hand, Pakistan would be cited as an
example of the dangers to the faith, and used to stir up actions against
the West throughout the region. If things did escalate, Illahi was to go fly
on to Saudi Arabia.
The coup by Karim had upset things a bit. But, from what Illahi
estimated, they would be able to formally take over power only in the
morning. Abdul's men would see to that. By then, it would be too late.

 ***

Arif entered the cargo hold to find nobody inside. Most of the crew
had run out after the fire alarms had gone off and Illahi and Abdul were
nowhere to be seen. There were packages and boxes lying all around and
to the right, five large conveyor belts leading to vehicles that would carry
the cargo to the respective runways.
Arif started with the belt on the far corner to check which flight its
packages were meant for. PIA. The next was an Air Lanka flight and the
third, a PAF transport. That left the last two belts, and to make his life
even more miserable, neither had any packages on it. There was no way
Arif could find out which belt led to the Saudi plane where Illahi
undoubtedly was. He decided to adopt the time honored decision-
making tool- he flipped a coin.
He clambered on to the stationary belt and walked into the dark
tunnel it led to. He emerged after walking for less than a minute and
found himself facing a C-130 Hercules transport aircraft with Saudi
markings. Bingo. The four large turboprop engines had begun turning. He
tried hard to resist the urge to run towards the plane and walked past it
to the open cargo-loading door at the back of the big plane. There was a
single Saudi crewman, a young boy barely out of his teens, who was
making last minute checks before closing the door.
The man stopped his work on seeing Arif. Unsure of what to do, and
seeing Arif's uniform, he took the safe way out. He saluted.
`Sir, how may I help you?'
`I'm Group Captain Arif Ansari of the PAF. You must have heard the
fire alarms.'
`Yes, sir.'
Arif was now thinking furiously, making it up as he went along.
`Well, there was a bomb threat.'
The young man's eyes widened in fear. He was not a soldier, and
wanted nothing to do with war and bombs. His previous job had been
loading ballast onto barges, and his uncle had gotten him a job in the air
reserves. So far it had been much of the same- load boxes into vehicles.
Except of course that he got to fly around a bit.
`Well, come on, let me in. I've got to check for any bombs inside. It's
supposed to be in a yellow bag. Have you seen any inside.'
Arif had seen the boy's terrified expression and was going for broke.
The Saudi meekly stepped aside and let Arif inside.
Arif made a great show of turning over the boxes inside. As he went
deeper into the aircraft, the Saudi kept his distance. If there was a bomb,
he didn't want to get any closer to it.
Obscured by a large crate, Arif placed his bag bang against the wall
that separated the cargo hold from the passenger section. It was an
unnecessary precaution, but he wanted to place the package as close to
Illahi as possible.
As he walked out, he looked at the Saudi, who seemed quite relieved.
`Have a nice flight.'

***

Illahi relaxed a bit once the plane began moving down the runway. As
it gathered speed, he could see the airport terminal and the city's skyline
from the window. He wondered when he would be able to see them
again.
Well, now the die had been cast. There was no looking back now.
As the plane reached cruising altitude, he pulled out his prayer mat
and knelt down to pray.
As he raised his hands to pray to his god, he asked for forgiveness and
understanding. Abdul was watching him impatiently with irritation.
Finally as Illahi got up to return to his seat, he nearly shouted at him.
`Illahi, pray all you will later. Let's get it over with.'
Illahi took out the briefcase again and opened it. He had already fed in
all the codes. Now he just had to confirm them again and press the Enter
key.
He was about to press the key to go to the final menu when he felt a
sudden rush of hot air behind him. Then it all happened within seconds.
Abdul's face contorting in terror. Turning around to see a sheet of fire
coming up at him. Then darkness. Illahi's last thought was, but I never
even pressed the button.

***

The Pakistani Captain in charge of the Hatf launcher was puzzled. He
had been given explicit instructions that he would receive the firing
codes within the afternoon. Situated in a remote marshland near the
Kutch border, and under strict orders to avoid any radio transmissions,
he had no idea what was going on. Have the Indians nuked our control
center?
The men around him were also getting restless. They did not know the
specific instructions he had, but were incessantly griping about being in
the middle of nowhere for several days. The dozen SSG commandos
appointed to guard the launcher were far more stoic, and seemed to
almost revel at the discomfiture of the `regulars’.
The Captain was trying to delay the inevitable as long as he could. He
would ideally have waited for the formal orders authorizing the launch.
But he knew that, if it did come to it, he would have to operate on his own
initiative. The orders were explicit on that count as well- wait for one
hour and then launch at the target, unless a specific order came to not
launch. This was a late addition insisted upon by Abdul. The intent was
clear- the plan would have to be foolproof and have a chance of success
even if he and Ilahi did not make it.
The Captain watched the minutes tick by, and when there was half an
hour to go, he knelt to pray.
`Forgive me, oh Lord, for what I am about to do. Give me the strength
to go ahead with what is my duty.’

***

The US Black Hawk helicopter was now running flat out. The co-
ordinates of its target had been down linked from an orbiting U-2 spy
plane just an hour ago. There was no telling whether this was the
launcher with the rogue nuke or not. But now was not the time to be
taking chances. The fact that the launcher was in such an isolated border
position, camouflaged to defeat all but the very best US cameras and
sensors, and guarded by what seemed to be an abnormally large
contingent of troops, increased the chances that this was indeed the
elusive launcher.
 Inside the helicopter, the Delta Force operators quietly blackened
their faces and checked their weapons. Very little was said. The men
knew they were undertaking what would be the most important mission
of their lives.

***

Having made his peace with himself and his God, the Pakistani
Captain stood up wearily and summoned his men. As he began to give
the orders for a launch, he could see their faces reflect some of the fear
he knew he must have been showing himself. But he had trained them
well, and they went about their duties with precision.
The SSG men took this as their cue to gear up for anything that may
come in the way of a successful launch. Two commandos, armed with
shoulder fired anti-aircraft missiles, took up positions on an adjoining
hillock, scanning the skies for any airborne threat. The others unslung
their submachine guns and took up positions around the missile.
The Captain had completed all the pre-launch checks and was about to
enter the final co-ordinates, when he turned around sharply at the sound
of a rocket being fired. He saw the red plume of a missile streak
skywards from one of the SSG commandos. Assuming that the Indian Air
Force had found his position, he began keying in the number as fast as he
could. In two minutes, there would be nothing the Indians could do to
stop him.

***

The Black Hawk swerved and deployed a dozen flares, which easily
distracted the aging Pakistani made Anza missile the SSG man had fired
at it. While the helicopter was undamaged, the alert SSG man had caused
some damage after all. Not knowing the intensity of the anti-aircraft
defenses he was flying into, the US pilot put down his helicopter about
two hundred meters further than the intended drop zone. The supremely
fit Delta operators would make up that distance in seconds. But those
were precious seconds they were fast running out of.

 ***

The Pakistani captain had begun keying in the firing codes, when the
SSG man nearest to him went down, his head almost exploding and
showering the Captain with blood and brain matter. Shaken, the Captain
instinctively dove for cover, wondering what kind of demons could shoot
with such accuracy from such a large distance. As he crouched near the
missile trailer, he began to see Pakistani soldiers falling all around him.
He could not yet see the enemy clearly, but could make out black shapes
moving from cover to cover, firing with silenced weapons. He had
thought the SSG men were well trained, but these attackers were mowing
them down with deadly and ruthless precision. It was at that moment he
realized two things- one, that all the black shapes seemed to be
converging on his position, and second, that by ducking like a coward, he
had wasted precious seconds.
He got up and opened the control panel to complete keying in the
codes, when a sharp pain in his side bought him down. His brain
registered vaguely that he had been shot, but he tried to force the pain
aside and reach for the panel again. This time, the bullet bored into the
back of his head. Then there was darkness.
The Delta operators rigged up plastique explosives to the missile
launcher, and disappeared silently into the darkness. Eighteen Pakistani
soldiers lay dead around the launch area. Two Delta operators who had
been wounded were evacuated by their comrades. Ten seconds later, the
missile launcher exploded in a huge fireball, consigning to ashes the last
card in Ilahi’s nuclear deck.
From the time the missile had been fired at the Black Hawk, the
engagement had taken less than two minutes.

***

Khosla was on the verge of panic.
He had spent a sleepless night wondering what would happen if
Pakistan did launch a nuclear strike. He knew in the meeting he had
agreed to the principle of a `proportionate response'. But what did that
really mean? When did you draw the line? It seemed easy enough to say,
if they kill a million of mine, I'll kill a million of theirs, but what was that
about two wrongs not making a right? Moreover, he wondered if he could
ever live with a decision that would lead to the deaths of millions.
As soon as Joshi entered, it was obvious what was going through
Khosla's mind. He was sitting by the window, uncharacteristically
unshaven, staring blankly out at the lawns outside his house.
Joshi cleared his throat to get Khosla's attention.
`Oh, hi Joshi. Any news from Pakistan?'
`Well, Sir....'
Before Joshi could complete, the phone on the desk began ringing.
Khosla picked up the phone to hear an unfamiliar voice at the other
end.
`Mr. Khosla. Let me introduce myself. I'm Air Marshall Ashfaque Karim
of the Pakistan Air Force, and am heading the Provisional Government
till elections take place.'
`Yes, Air Marshall, I've heard a lot about you. Tell me, what is
happening about the situation regarding the missile launchers?'
`Mr. Khosla, I'm happy to inform you that everything's under control,
and we have already asked our forces to act as per the cease fire
agreement, even before it formally comes into force.'
That took Khosla completely by surprise. He motioned Joshi to pick
up the other extension, as he continued speaking.
`Air Marshall, can you tell us what happened. We were very anxious
for a while.'
`Well, there was one rouge missile launcher. But we now have it under
control. The former Prime Minister, Illahi Khan had apparently ordered
the launcher to take up firing position at your forces.'
`Well, what's happened to Illahi?'
`I'm sorry to say that he died in an air accident while trying to flee. I
guess nobody's above God's judgment.'
Karim of course left out the bit about the small nuclear warhead
discovered by Pakistani forces in Kashmir while retreating, and also how
the mobile launcher had been destroyed in rather mysterious
circumstances.
Most of all, of course, he left out any details of the circumstances in
which Illahi had died. That was something very few people knew, and he
would rather keep it that way.
As Khosla put the phone down, he saw Joshi grinning.
`Well, today you seem to be in a good mood.'
`Sir, pardon my language, but air accident, my ass.'
Khosla smiled at this rare profanity from his usually almost
irritatingly correct Intelligence chief.
`Sir, this is the Patriot's latest report.' Khosla read the page long
report for a long time, lingering over certain passages, especially
regarding the fighting in Islamabad, and the events at Tariq's
headquarters, and most of all, the last paragraph.
`Joshi, that tells us a lot about our man Karim. He's obviously left out a
lot of stuff in what he told us.'
`I don't understand, Sir.'
`Well, ever since the Press got wind of the happenings in Pakistan,
there's been a lot of nonsense about a new era of friendship and so on. I
wonder how much is actually going to change. The Emir's still around,
and Karim and co may hold him off for some time, but there's no denying
his growing influence. Kashmir is still a bone of contention, and I don't
think Karim's going to hand it to us on a platter. Joshi, a lot of things are
yet to be sorted out.'
`Yes, Sir. But at least this mess is over for now.'
`You can say that again.'
As Joshi made to leave, Khosla stopped him. `Joshi, I can't wait to meet
this Patriot. He's probably done more for us in this war than all our
bombs and missiles.'

***


TWENTY THREE

Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed.
- Irene Peter

Khosla looked at the man standing next to him. Both were standing at
attention as the Indian national anthem played. They had met before, but
had never really spent much time together. On this visit, that was on top
of the agenda. As the anthem ended, the marching contingents came into
view.
India's Republic Day parade is always a grand spectacle, a mélange of
India's cultural diversity and a showcase for its military might. This year,
more than any other, people were glued to their television sets, watching
the armed forces, who less than two months ago, had pulled off, what
many considered to be a victory against great odds.
Khosla knew there was truth in that, but he also knew that the victory
would not have been possible but for some amazing strokes of luck.
Some, of course, were not really strokes of luck. Like the tilting of the
balance in the air over Kashmir. For that, though nothing had been said
officially, he knew he had the man next to him to thank.
As he moved to his right to face his visitor, he felt a painful tugging at
his shoulder. That night seemed like a distant nightmare now, but the
pain reminded him of just how close he had come to being killed. His
visitor was no stranger to bullets, having been shot three times in the
Gulf War, where he had won a Purple Heart.
Jim Lafferty looked at the procession of missiles with interest. In the
past, the United States had been a vocal opponent of India's missile
program, but that, he mused, was something he needed to relook.
`So Jim, enjoying yourself?'
`Oh yeah, Vivek. Great.'
Lafferty had bought with him a proposal for closer military and
economic co-operation. Khosla had been cautious. He knew things had
really not changed. If anything, they were headed towards more trouble.
The Emir was more active than ever, citing the war in the subcontinent
as an example of the West and the Hindus ganging up on Islamic
Pakistan. While Pakistan was limping back to stability, the
fundamentalist fringe was still very powerful and vocal.
Khosla knew that to side openly with the US would only polarize
things further. Events of the past few months had shown him just how
fragile the communal balance in India was, and it needed only a spark to
ignite it. The last thing he wanted was for people to believe that it was
indeed a Hindu v/s Muslim fight when it came to the Emir. So, he had
politely declined most of Lafferty's proposals.
That did not mean doing nothing. He could not afford the ignore the
simple fact that India would probably not have come out of this war as
well as it did, had it not been for US assistance. Also, while the Middle
Eastern powers had finally chosen to sit this round out, again largely due
to US pressure, the clear and present danger of countries like the UAE
openly siding with Pakistan in armed conflict had come as a rude wake
up call for the Indian government.
In the months of soul-searching that followed, Vivek had come to
realize just how alone India really was. India’s traditional ally, Russia,
was a shell of its previous self, a mockery of the superpower it once was.
In its own neighborhood, India was increasingly isolated, and in fact in
the whole of Asia, probably Israel was the only nation willing to support
India openly in conflict. That left India with few friends that mattered-
outside of the United States. Jim Lafferty knew all that very well, and he
was in India on a dual mission- to extend a hand of friendship; and also
to remind the Indian government the kind of leverage the United States
could exert.
The impact of these factors was not openly apparent, but was very
real. Vivek Khosla had stalled the deployment of India’s first cruise
missile carrying nuclear submarine. The US had agreed to keep quiet
about the massive modernization of India’s conventional forces, but had
come down hard on what it saw as unnecessary to India’s immediate
security concerns.
It was said that each war carried the seeds of the next one. Khosla
began to see the wisdom in that. It was only a matter of time before the
Emir gathered enough strength to threaten Western interests and
interfere with oil supplies. Then an all out war was inevitable. Khosla
was determined to keep India out of it, but that depended to a large
extent on what the new civilian government in Pakistan would be up to.

***

`Karim, let's not let the bastards stand in the elections!'
Karim smiled at his friend. In the last week, they must have had this
argument at least once a day. Arif and Karim were working out the
organization of the elections, now just six months away. With Karim and
Shamsher at the helm, the interim Council had really not gotten around
to any governance, They had had their hands full restoring some order to
the country. After the takeover, there had been sporadic upsurges of
violence by fundamentalist groups allied to the Emir, and only a stern
clampdown by the army had prevented all out civil war. The armed
forces too were recovering from the short but intense conflict with India.
The army had been the least affected, but the navy had lost many of its
frontline ships and the air force's strike squadrons had been brutalized.
Karim knew that rebuilding would be a long and expensive affair.
All in all, he was not enjoying this short stint as a politician.
`Arif, then what's the point of democratic elections. If they can get
votes, that's fine.'
They were referring to the Jammat e Islami, the largest
fundamentalist party in Pakistan, and which owed strong allegiance to
the Emir.
`Better dictatorship than letting those lunatics come to power.'
Karim placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.
`You know you don't mean that, Arif. That's exactly the mistake
countries like Algeria made in the 80s and 90s. They thought they could
keep the fundamentalists out by not letting them contest elections or
worse, even ignoring election results when they won. Look where they
are now.'
`But Karim, we need a strong alternative. The existing leaders are the
same soft, greedy fools who stood by when Illahi came to power. How do
you expect them to inspire the people. They'd probably rather go for the
fundamentalists.'
`There I concede your point.'
 Karim thought the discussion was over and began clearing the plates
from the table. It had been a pretty wild party the night before,
celebrating the birth of Shamsher's son and Meher had insisted that the
men clean up. When Karim began to protest, she had simply said, `My
friends were not the ones lying drunk on their food.’
Arif suddenly put down the glass in his hand and almost shouted.
`Eureka! I have it!'
At this point Shamsher walked in to see Arif literally dancing around
the table while Karim looked on bemused.
`Arif, have you completely lost your mind?'
Arif stopped and walked up to Shamsher.
`It's brilliant! Why had I not thought of it before?'
`What, for god's sake?'
`Okay, Karim, come here. How does this sound, presenting Ashfaque
Karim, Prime Minister of Pakistan.'
Karim stopped what he was doing and looked at Arif more seriously.
`Arif, I'm a soldier, not a politician. This is nonsense.'
Arif looked him straight in the eye, and Karim knew him well enough
to know that he was not joking.
`Karim, I'm dead serious. No man is born with a stamp on his head
saying soldier or politician. You are what you make yourself. Moreover,
the best way you can serve the country is to run in the elections. Any of
the major parties would love to have you. Or don't you know- man,
you're a goddamn national hero!'
`But...'
`No, Karim, let me finish. You are probably the best chance our
country has to keep the fundamentalist madmen out of power. Why join
a party? Why not just bring all of them together in a front to oppose the
Emir's people?'
As Arif and Shamsher got on with the cleaning, Karim stood by a
corner.
Prime Minister, now that did have a certain ring to it.

***

Goel could now finally walk without the help of crutches and could talk
without much difficulty. The single shell fragment that had hit his hip
had threatened to paralyze him for life, but he had staged a miraculous
recovery. The scars on his face would remain with him for the rest of his
life, but he would soon rejoin regular flying duty. It would be a slow
return to flying- for several months, he would go up only in slower
trainers to get his groove back. Only then would he rejoin his frontline
combat duties.
To mark his return to the squadron, Singh and Sonaina had thrown a
party at their place.
As soon as Goel entered through the door, the whole house seemed to
erupt. Singh was leading a badly off-key rendition of `For he's a jolly good
fellow', with all the other pilots and their families joining in. Goel had
never thought of himself as being very emotional, but he felt his eyes
going moist.
Singh ran up to him and gave him a big hug.
`Welcome back, backseater!'
`Yeah, Boss. It's great to be back. It was getting kind of depressing
imagining myself dogfighting bedpans in the hospital.'
`By the way, we're up for a Maha Vir Chakra. Both of us!'
For their demonstrated success in air combat over Kashmir and their
role in the Karachi strike, the duo had been awarded India’s second
highest gallantry award.
`I heard. Well, I'm just glad its over.'
Many of the younger pilots had gathered around Singh and Goel to
hear firsthand their exploits in the war. Singh couldn’t help noticing that
his old partner seemed much more subdued than he had been before.
Part of that was due to the injuries, but he knew that part of it was
because Goel knew it would be a long time when, and if, he could fly in
fighters again.
In different times, Singh had often chided Goel for drinking too much
or behaving too wildly at parties. Now, he would have given anything to
get his old friend back. He began to walk over to Goel, who seemed to be
leaning over to talk in a low whisper to Sonaina.
As Singh came nearer, he heard Goel say, `Hi, where are the drinks?'
`Now I know you're really back to normal!'

 ***

Chauhan found his surroundings completely alien. After having
virtually lived in the desert for years, the big city feel of Mumbai took
some getting used to. He had just gone to Delhi to pick up his MVC for
gallantry during the war, and had also used the opportunity to spend
some time with his parents.
And now he wanted just one more thing before going back to his unit-
to visit Mumbai.
He looked at the frayed card in his hand as he tried to look for the
landmarks he had been told of.
`Stop, stop. I think we're here.'
He paid the cab driver and approached the white building. Come on,
stop feeling like a bloody schoolboy.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and rang the bell.
`Just a minute.'
The voice bought home the reality of what he was doing. Here he was,
standing in front of a woman's house, with flowers in his hand. Well, it
was too late to run now.
The door opened, and he found himself face to face with Pooja, after
almost three months. She was visibly surprised.
`Well, I'll be....come in Colonel.'
`Hi. I was in Mumbai and thought I'd look you up.'
`Good you did. Come in.'
Chauhan entered a small but neat drawing room. As he sat down on
the sofa, he remembered the flowers.
`Uh, these are for you.'
`Thanks. I was wondering if you were going to hold on to them all day.
So, what brings you to Mumbai?'
Chauhan thought of something witty to say, and then figured that
telling the truth would be the best policy.
`You.'
Pooja blushed slightly, and Chauhan wondered if he was going to
make a mess of it after all. He had no inkling that Pooja had thought of
little else since she had returned to Mumbai.
In the chaos following the war, she had just had one hurried telephone
conversation with Chauhan, and was beginning to wonder what it was all
leading up to and whether it had meant anything at all.
She liked to believe that their time together, and especially that one
night together, had meant something more than two lonely souls seeking
solace wherever they could find it. However, she had never really dared
to believe that. That was till she saw the Colonel at her door.
`You want anything to drink?'
`No, no. I mean, I wanted to talk to you.'
Pooja sat down on the sofa next to him and put the flowers down.
`Talk.'
`This may sound silly, and I may be moving too fast...'
`Just say it.'
Chauhan was fidgeting with his hands, but gathered his composure
and looked straight at Pooja.
`I've been thinking....oh hell, I think I'm crazy about you. The war got
me thinking that life’s way too fragile to waste waiting for things to
happen.'
Pooja just sat there looking at him.
Chauhan looked at her for any reaction, but just saw her sitting
quietly, looking at him. He was sure he had messed it all up again.
`I'm sorry. Maybe this was all wrong.'
As Chauhan got up to leave, Pooja held his hand and looked him in the
eye.
`What took you so long?'
Chauhan's dilemma on what to say or do was resolved by Pooja
bringing her lips close to his. He may have been quiet and not terribly
experienced at matters of the heart, but it did not take a romantic genius
to figure out what to do next.
As they kissed, Rahul sauntered into the house, carrying a six-pack of
beer, and singing a badly off key rendition of an old Ronan Keating song.
`Hey, Boss. You've gotten moved to the foreign desk. Thought I'd....'
He stopped on seeing Chauhan, holding hands with Pooja, and let out a
loud war whoop.
`All right! Just like that old movie, An Officer and a Gentleman. Come
on, Colonel, a toast.'

 ***



EPILOGUE

Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious.
- Oscar Wilde

As a child, Karim had often fantasized about flying his jet fighter right
into Delhi and taking out the Indian government, while dodging
hundreds of missiles and MiGs. Well, he smiled to himself, he was flying
into Delhi all right, as he saw the rapidly approaching skyline, but of
course, there were no MiGs and missiles, nor was he going to make war,
but hopefully to make peace.
His would be the first visit by a Pakistani Head of State to India in
many years, and he was hoping he could help heal some of the scars
caused by the war almost a year ago. Some things had really not changed
at all. In India, Khosla was very much at the helm of affairs, and had
embarked on an ambitious program of militarization, with at least two
nuclear submarines and a viable ICBM force planned by the end of the
decade. These were, it was said, not meant for use against Pakistan, but
as a deterrent against future external intervention, such as was
exercised by the Emir's forces during the war. But that did little to
assuage fundamentalist forces within Pakistan, who at every
opportunity, criticized Karim and his government for being too soft.
Karim knew that was nonsense. All they were angry about was their
marginalization in Pakistani politics relative to the power they enjoyed
under Illahi. Karim had, as Arif had suggested, formed an alliance with
the major non-fundamentalist parties. Selective leaks of the full extent to
which the Emir and Illahi had endangered Pakistan, combined with
Karim's impeccable credentials, had meant a landslide victory in the
elections.
But the Emir remained, looming in the background. Karim knew that
he was just licking his wounds, and would strike again. And Karim was
not too sure whether they would be as lucky as they had been last time.
The domestic situation having been largely normalized, a key
challenge before Karim was normalization of relations with India. Some
issues remained unresolved, notably Kashmir, and given the
diametrically opposite views of the two sides, Karim thought a
diplomatic solution was unlikely. But this visit was not meant to solve
the Kashmir problem. It was really much more symbolic in nature, a
gesture that both governments were mature enough to put the past
behind them and attempt a fresh start.
Karim had resigned from the Air Force before the elections, and was
accompanied by the new Air Chief, Shamsher and Shoaib. And of course,
Arif, who too had resigned to join the new government as the chief
Defense Advisor. If anything had helped Karim survive the past few
difficult months, it had been the close presence of the men he could trust.
As the Boeing rolled to a stop, security guards stood by the door as the
stairs were rolled into place. Karim was the first out of the plane. The
Indians are really rolling out the red carpet. The tarmac was packed. To
the right was an army contingent that gave Karim a welcome 21-gun
salute, and somewhere a band began playing the national anthems of
both countries. Karim stood at attention at the foot of the steps, and
once the anthems had ended, walked forward. Khosla was easily
recognizable from the hours of television coverage Karim had seen of
him over the years. He was taller than Karim had thought, and stood a
good two inches taller than Karim's six feet. He was flanked by the Chiefs
of Staff and sundry bureaucrats.
`Mr. Karim, its a pleasure to meet you finally.'
Karim took the offered hand and shook it, noting Khosla's firm grip.
`The pleasure is all mine, Mister Prime Minister. May this be the
beginning of better relations between our people.'
`Indeed. Let me introduce you to my Chiefs of Staff.'
Karim met all the men, while passing Sen, the two old enemies locked
gazes for a while. Karim held his gaze. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
His boys had given as good as they had got.
Arif was now just behind Karim and he introduced him to Khosla.
`Vivek, this is Arif Ansari, an old friend and colleague and now my
Defense Advisor.'
Khosla shook hands with Arif as Karim was introduced to the rest of
the contingent.
 Before turning away to introduce his own staff members, Khosla
looked into Arif’s eyes for a while.

The Patriot looked back at the Indian Prime Minister and smiled.

***

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mainak Dhar is a cubicle dweller by day and author by night. His first
`published' work was a stapled collection of Maths solutions and poems
(he figured nobody would pay for his poems alone) he sold to his
classmates in Grade 7, and spent the proceeds on ice cream and comics.
He was first published in a more conventional sense at the age of 18 and
has since published eleven books including the Amazon.com Bestseller
Alice in Deadland. Learn more about him and contact him at
www.mainakdhar.com.