Fenix (39 page)

“There!” He exclaimed as the first black blob on his screen moved in jerks that only a tank crew understood. Then two more. And then half a dozen. All heading south. The Pakistanis appeared to be reorganizing their formations following the Jaguar strikes. As Kulkarni expected, the center-of-gravity of their formation was to the southeast: the direction they expected the enemy to be.

“All rhino-alpha tanks,” Kulkarni shouted, “
hold
fire until we have enough of the bastards for our first line gunners!”

The last thing he wanted now was a premature initiation of his ambush. Once that
first
sabot round left a tank gun, the surprise would be gone and the enemy would reorient towards them. He
had
to take maximum advantage of his surprise while he had it. Besides, there was no way to tell how many
more
targets were behind these ones…

“
Come on
…
come on
…” he muttered as more black blobs began aligning themselves across their line-of-sight. “Keep coming, you bastards!”

He counted off the blobs as the seconds ticked.

Ten.
More
than the guns in his first line…

“All tanks!
Fire!
”

The night was instantly shattered with the orange-yellow flames erupting from nine Arjun tanks. All nine gunners fired simultaneously. At less than a kilometer separation between them and the Pakistani T-80s, the sabot rounds reached their targets in a second…

Kulkarni watched through his sights as smoke from his gun dissipated and seven explosions erupted in black coloration within the enemy column. Three catastrophic detonations occurred in quick succession as some of the T-80 turrets fell aside their blazing chassis. Four others shuddered to a halt or stopped dead in their tracks, smoke and flame spewing from all hatches. The three surviving T-80s drove past the explosion and instantly disappeared behind smoke clouds as their commanders went into evasion mode. Kulkarni saw other enemy tanks further behind these ones. They were reorienting to face his tanks.

“Rhino-alpha!
Advance! Advance! Advance!
” He shouted into the comms as his gunner fired another round: “fire at will!
Kill them all!”

All sixteen Arjun tanks rumbled forward, firing main guns. Enemy mortar rounds began impacting around them as the enemy infantry started supporting their tanks. The remaining three T-80s began moving east in full reverse. They fired their main guns through the smoke cloud in desperation. But the smoke obscured
everyone’s
visibility. The Arjun gunners kept calm and focused on secondary targets.

As they made their way through the drifting smoke, the Arjun tanks went into free-fire mode. The Pakistanis had several Al-Zarrar tanks supporting their T-80s, but these were obsolete tanks more suited for infantry support operations rather than toe-to-toe combat with enemy armor. Based on the Chinese Type-59, the Al-Zarrar was upgraded with reactive-armor systems and a better fire-control. But they were
still
old designs and could not fight on the move the way the Arjun could.

So while the Al-Zarrar crews halted their tanks to take aim, the Arjun tanks kept moving. This made it even harder for the enemy gunners but did little to hinder the Arjun gunners. Two-dozen sabot rounds flashed back and forth in the darkness, lit by the orange glow of fires and explosions. The Al-Zarrar crews did not stand a chance. Their only hope was to hit the Arjun lower in its chassis and hope to kill its mobility. Or a chance shot in one of the few weak areas in its Kanchan composite armor panels. In the darkness and against moving targets, it was a slim hope…

Kulkarni watched as his gunner rotated the turret as they moved past a burning T-80 chassis. Center in that view was an Al-Zarrar facing them at point-blank range. It fired its main gun before anyone could respond. The enemy sabot round slammed straight into the right, frontal Kanchan panel on the turret and sparks and smoke flew in all directions. The sixty-ton tank was dragged aside by the momentum of a point-blank sabot round. Then another explosion rocked the interior of the tank and smoke and sparks lit up the interior.

Kulkarni shook his head and saw blood dripping from his forehead. He had a severe headache. His arms and legs ached as well. The radio was blaring away in chaos as the battle raged outside. Inside the turret, however, there was the sounds of shuffling as the crew moved back into their seats. All were suffering from concussion, but they were alive. And
that
was all Kulkarni cared about for the moment.

“You guys all right?” He asked as he ran his fingers to his forehead and saw that they had turned bloody. He must have a gash somewhere. But there were no mirrors for him to see it in. He felt around the wound with his fingers and realized it to be just a gash. He must have hit something when the explosion knocked him off.

He heard the muffled voice of his driver on the comms. Looking around , he noticed his helmet headphone laying by the side of his seat. He pulled it up and put it back on. The voices became clearer: “sir, are you okay back there?!”

Kulkarni gave the others a look: “we are fine. How does the vehicle look?”

“The gun stabilization is off and the turret is off to the side. Left track is damaged but we should still be able to move. Right track is fine. Engine is fine. Looks like we took a round straight on the turret armor panel!”

Kulkarni pulled himself back to see his
ABAMS
screen disabled. He muttered an expletive and pulled his sights around: “gunner, is the main gun responsive?”

“Stand by,” the gunner tried moving the gun. It lifted jerkily and locked into its default stowage. “Looks like the gun is still responsive, sir.”

Kulkarni rotated his optics and saw that the Al-Zarrar that had fired on them was
still
there. But its turret seemed tilted and flames were leaping out of all its turret hatches. The roar from its fires was heard even over the battle.

“Looks like the bastard got hit before he could finish us off with a second shot,” Kulkarni noted dryly.

On further rotation of his sights, he saw that the turret-mounted machine gun was dislodged from its position and there were scorch marks everywhere. The main barrel of the machinegun was bent backwards…

“
And
we lost our external machinegun,” he noted for the benefit of his crew. He also noted that the
ABAMS
antennae was destroyed.
That
was the end of his network-centric operations for the rest of this war.

He lowered himself back in his seat and winced at the pain on his forehead. But he also felt rage. His tank was severely damaged. His networked fighting abilities were gone. The only good news here was that his mobility was still alive and so was his tank’s primary armament. And luckily, and most importantly, his radio was still working.

The tank’s engine rumbled to life. He hadn’t even noticed that the driver had switched them off to prevent a source of secondary explosions in case the damage had been worse. He exhaled and cleared his head.

“Okay, gents,” he said, “time to get back to the fight. Driver, get us moving. Gunner, check your main gun while I try to see what the hell is going on!” He switched comms: “rhino-alpha, this is rhino-actual. My networks are down. Give me a verbal sit-rep, over.”

As the other tank commanders started filling him in, he pulled out his paper map and stuck it in the gap between the
ABAMS
screen buttons. This map would be his main tool now. Time to do this the old fashioned way, he told himself.

Looking around, he saw that the battlefield was ablaze. Four of his tanks were damaged, including his own. Only two tanks had been completely destroyed. Ten Arjun tanks were fully operational and had hammered past the last remaining Al-Zarrar and T-80s. They were now rolling north under command of rhino-alpha-two. The latter had taken command assuming Kulkarni to be dead or incapacitated. And while they
were
relieved to hear his voice, Kulkarni had no intention of breaking their momentum to retake command. Not from inside a damaged tank, at any rate.  

So he let them continue their charge as they overran the rear-end vehicles of the Pakistani column, about a kilometer north.
He
would take over and nurse the three other damaged tanks back to the south where trishul had its engineering elements.

He opened comms to Sudarshan: “steel-central, this is rhino-actual, over.”

“Steel-central copies, rhino-actual.”

“Rhino-actual reports destruction of enemy armored and mechanized columns north of waypoint
red
. Enemy has been overrun and rhino is in pursuit. We have two dead tanks and four more bruised, but mobile. We are returning to waypoint
red
. Requesting medical evacuation for six crew members. Confirm receipt of message, over.”

“Steel-central copies all. Good work out there.”

Kulkarni sighed. He could feel the adrenaline causing his body to shake uncontrollably, but forced himself past it: “roger. Requesting sit-rep on the southern enemy column.”

“Southern column is in retreat, rhino-actual. They have incurred massive losses following strikes by
gladiator
. Gladiator
will
rearm, refuel and pursue the enemy. Rhino needs to return to waypoint
red
upon destruction of north column and fold back into the defenses there. Over.”

“Wilco,” Kulkarni said half-mindedly. He realized he was very much in concussion. That was to be expected given that they had been
inside
a metal box that had just been rattled by a fast moving projectile. He found himself having to shake off the blurry vision in his eyes…

“Rhino-actual, do you copy? Over.”

He forced himself to be attentive: “Wilco, steel-central. Rhino-actual copies all. Out.” He then changed comms: “driver, we are heading back to waypoint
red
and are leading three other damaged tanks. Get us on a direct heading and move out.”

              “Sir,” the loader said as Kulkarni fell back into his seat, “you have a gash on your forehead that is bleeding.” He got up from his seat and handed Kulkarni some bandages and painkillers from the turret’s first-aid kit. Kulkarni nodded his appreciation and took the bandage just as the tank reversed its orientation to the south and accelerated back to Rahim Yar Khan.       

──── 44
────

T
he line of seven Al-Khalid tanks moved obliquely, their main guns fired as they advanced. Two kilometers west, the green-white flashes of their guns saturated the night-vision optics on his binoculars, so Haider lowered them and let his eyes adjust. As he watched, a distant crackle of fireballs indicated artillery shelling on some poor souls…

Haider turned to see Akram standing behind him, watching silently. His low-light goggles were push up above his forehead on to his hair. Neither men said anything, but the silence was punctuated by the chatter of several radiomen and staff officers running the army units. Haider finally walked up near Akram and rubbed his eyes.

“This front is stabilizing,” he said, his voice filled with exhaustion. “Looks like the 6
TH
Armored will hold its ground. For now, anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” Akram said quietly. A stabilized front was hardly the desired outcome for officers of his generation, brought up on the humiliation of defeat from previous wars. Haider patted the man on his shoulder. He knew how it felt. He turned to face the young major: “this is
not
how this was supposed to unfold.”

He looked his young aide in the eyes. He knew they had
all
seen and heard the state of the war as it stood tonight. The Indians had reacted to the strike on Mumbai with shocking force. And the results of all that had landed them here. But living in the past was something Haider could ill afford.

“I need to get some sleep if I am to function,” he said finally. “Wake me up if something happens.”

Akram nodded and muttered a “yes, sir”. Haider walked past him and the radiomen towards the houses that had been requisitioned from their owners to serve as his command center, at least until the Indians found this one too. But he was not going to sleep out here in the mud and cold. He needed a bed. A Pakistani general sleeping in the mud with his troops? Unthinkable. Even under the circumstances.

He walked past dozens of soldiers and civilians resting on the streets outside the house. Some were eating food and others were sleeping. These men belonged to the units he had gotten out of Lahore. Most of these units were exhausted, expended and disorganized. The battle for Lahore had proven very costly. One part of him wanted to wake these men up and send them off to the frontline. After all, that was what their comrades in the 6
TH
Armored Division were doing. But he was too exhausted from the efforts of the day, trying to keep the 6
TH
Armored from disintegrating. A voice inside him wondered what would have happened to the defenses if he hadn’t stepped in?

Perhaps his inner voice was trying to find justifications for his exhaustion. Maybe all his body wanted was some sleep. A few hours. After that he would determine what had to be done next. He walked into the living room of the large house and found the stench of soldiers, officers, equipment, blood and food to be nauseous. He winced and walked past the soldiers to the second floor where a room had been kept aside for him. He walked in and went for the helmet chin strap, before realizing that it had been broken since his time in Lahore.

God! Was it really just two days ago?
He asked himself as he sat down on the bed.
It felt like it was months!

He fell back on his back on to the mattress and instantly fell asleep.

“Sir!” There was a knock on the door.

Haider muttered some choice Urdu expletives and then composed himself: “
go
away!
I told you to leave me alone!”

But the knock persisted. “Sir!
Please
open the door!”

Haider picked up his sidearm from the bed and then walked up to the door. He opened it to find one of his radiomen standing there, holding a phone-speaker: “sir, incoming call from army headquarters! For you!”

Haider scowled and then took the phone from the man, extending its coiled cable as he walked into the room.  

“General Haider, here.”

“General, please hold for the army commander!” A bland voice replied.

Haider cocked an eyebrow. He wondered what Hussein wanted now…

“You still alive?” Haider recognized Hussein’s gruff voice. And also his tone. Haider’s facial expression contorted, but he kept his voice calm.

“Alive
and
fighting,” he managed to say without anger seeping in. “No thanks to
you
, though.”

“Where are you now?”

Haider let out a deep breath: “commanding units north of Lahore. The 6
TH
Armored in particular. The Indians decapitated its leadership just as it moved into the line. I was in the area and took over.”

“Good!” Hussein replied. Haider noted the change in tone. The man sounded genuine on that one. “Had you not stepped in, it would have been chaos and the Indians could have penetrated deep into our defenses. I was told that the 6
TH
Armored was fighting hard. I should have guessed you had something to do with adding steel to its spine.”

“I appreciate that,” Haider sat down on the mattress bed. “How bad is it?”

He heard what could only be a long sigh. Haider knew that well enough: Hussein wasn’t sure what to do. That sigh had always been his placeholder whenever he wanted advice but didn’t want to ask for it.

Haider looked at the floor: “that bad, eh?”

“Did you hear about the debacle near Rahim Yar Khan this evening?”

“I heard some rumors,” Haider lied. He knew a great deal more about that failed counterattack from his
ISI
commanders, but he wanted Hussein to say it the way
he
saw it. Because
that
was more important…

“The Indians routed us from there, plain and simple.” Hussein said, surprising Haider with his uncharacteristic bout of honesty. Pakistani generals never admit defeat as a matter of principle. They couldn’t. Doing so meant public humiliation and ridicule and the termination of any further prospects in Pakistan. They hadn’t admitted a defeat even when ninety-thousand soldiers had surrendered to India in East Pakistan in 1971. They even celebrated the loss of land in 1965 to India as “victory day”. And the humiliation of Kargil and Siachen were ignored altogether. Under such a culture, it was highly surprising when the
top
general admitted a defeat in candor such as this.

Hussein continued: “they have taken the
entire
stretch of land from the border
all
the way to the Indus river. The 1
ST
Armored Division has been destroyed. So have several Infantry divisions. They have chopped our control of the country into several pieces. The northern forces are now fighting independently of the southern ones. And units west of the river are being funneled, thanks to the river obstacle!”

“But we can still move forces across the river.” Haider added. His mind was working in overdrive now: “and the concentration of our forces in the north means that we do not have to worry about the Rahim Yar Khan capture as being overly strategic in…”

“
Isn’t
it, though?” Hussein interrupted. “Do you know that the Balochis are using this as the time to launch their own drive for independence? How are we to move forces into the area when the Indians are making strategic movement impossible?”

“Right,” Haider said after a couple seconds.

“Our control on the country is hanging by a thread, Haider.” Hussein said flatly. And once again, he sounded genuine. That scared Haider to his core. Haider was a master of conversations, but he felt even a lieutenant out of basic training could see where this conversation as going. Once the country’s fate had been invoked, there were
no
limits on what methods they could use to defend themselves…

“And the Indians haven’t stopped,” Hussein continued. “If Lahore wasn’t a clear enough sign for them about our seriousness, then
nothing
else will. Perhaps the Mumbai atta…”

“Let me stop you right there,” Haider interrupted his commander. There was only so much he would be caught speaking over a phone. He wasn’t about to hand the Indians any evidence. Not now. “The country’s fate is hanging in the balance, sir. We need to pull ourselves together and
do what has to be done!
” He let that emphasis sink in, before continuing calmly: “and you need to get out Rawalpindi.”

After a very long minute of silence, he got his response:

“Yes.”

It was the most chilling one word reply Haider had ever heard. In it carried the acceptance of fate. His own fate and that of his country. Acceptance of his past actions. And a determination to see it through. All summed up in one word.

Both men knew what had to happen now.

The link cut off. Haider looked at his phone as though it had offended him in a deep way. But really it was his reflexes kicking in while the mind processed what his immediate next steps needed to be.

“Sir?” The radioman said as Haider handed him the phone. But Haider was already in self-preservation mode. He grabbed his helmet, sidearm holster and pushed the scared radioman aside as he walked out the door.