LASHKAR (17 page)
He rapped impatiently on the door again. They seemed to be taking forever, or maybe it was just his eagerness to meet everyone that was making him unduly impatient. He could almost smell his Ammi’s siwai and rogan josh and involuntarily his mouth watered. Oh yes! It was good to be home. He rang the bell again. A longer and more insistent ring.
It was his brother Ashraf who finally opened the door. ‘My God! Iqbal bhaijaan! It is you!’ Ashraf gave him a long disbelieving look and then hurled himself at Iqbal. Thoroughly pleased at such a stupendous welcome Iqbal hugged him back warmly.
Iqbal felt the wetness of Ashraf’s tears on his neck as they hugged tightly and was a bit nonplussed. ‘Hey, relax, yaar. I know you are overwhelmed, but I am coming home not going away.’ All at once Iqbal was acutely aware of Omar standing a few feet behind him and for no apparent reason his presence bothered him. ‘Come on, Ashraf…’ He tried to gently push his brother away and enter the house. ‘Stop crying and let me enter the house at least.’
But Ashraf would not stop sobbing. He clung to Iqbal as though he had no strength left to hold himself up. ‘What the hell? Can’t you see there is an outsider standing behind me? It’s embarrassing…’ Iqbal’s nerves were shot to hell from the events of the past few weeks and Ashraf’s apparently meaningless tears shred what was left of them. He was about to completely lose his patience when the bedroom door opened and he saw his father standing there.
One look at his father and Iqbal knew that something was seriously wrong. Nawab’s strong muscular body seemed to have been drained of life. Those solid athletic shoulders drooped in a way Iqbal had never thought possible. Pulling away from Ashraf he ran up to his father and took him in his arms. ‘What’s wrong, Abbu?’
The sobs that racked through Nawab surprised Iqbal and, even though he declined to acknowledge it, scared him a bit. ‘What has happened, Abbu? Talk to me, please, tell me…’
‘Your Ammi has left us.’ Nawab was speaking so softly that the words were almost lost. ‘She is gone, she is gone…’ Then he said it again: ‘Your Ammi has left us, Iqbal. She has gone forever.’
‘
How?
What happened?’ Iqbal’s breath whipped out of him and bands of pain tightened across his chest. His head felt heavy as his mind refused to absorb what his father was telling him. His father was sobbing brokenly. His strong, invicible father, so defeated, so pathetic.
Control yourself. Get a hold on your emotions. They need you…Abbu and Ashraf need you to be strong and take charge
. Iqbal felt his body stiffen and some measure of control return. He knew he needed to stand firm. ‘Hush! Hush, Abbu…don’t cry…please…hush, Ashraf.’ Iqbal whispered softly as he tightened his grip around both of them. But then the reality of his mother’s death impacted his body like the steel edge of a knife and he felt the fact of her death like a visceral wound. Like the life blood seeping out of a gut-shot man.
How could she have left us alone? Had she not known that she was the anchor that had held us all together?
He struggled to understand that his beloved mother was no longer among the living.
I wonder how Navaz is taking this? She is closest to Ammi
. Iqbal shuddered as he thought of how distraught and lonely his little sister would be.
The poor kid, she must be totally devastated.
Suddenly he realized that she had not come running when she had heard the doorbell and knew he had returned. He fought back the panic in his voice. ‘Where is Navaz?’ he asked already dreading the answer.
’Where is she?’
The sobs intensified. Iqbal was about to ask again when Abbu spoke: ‘They killed her too…the bastards… so horribly…. so brutally…’
Iqbal’s mind froze. Everyone and everything else fell away from him, forgotten for the moment. He pulled back from them. His brain refused to accept the unacceptable things his father and brother kept telling him. He didn’t believe them. It wasn’t possible.
Who kills innocents? Who kills defenceless little girls?
That is when Iqbal learnt about the savage end his beloved mother and sister had met; the two people who had meant everything in the world to him. Iqbal felt the world inside him give way, he felt his very being crumble and implode. The anguish and pain he felt at the loss of his mother and sister slowly transformed into a revulsion for himself.
I am responsible for their deaths.
In his mind’s eye Iqbal saw the look on the Maulana’s face as he had stood proudly in front of the television and told them all of the great deed his brave trainees had done. Just behind him was the shadowy face of the other man who had been there at that time. Salim. The famous Brigadier Murad Salim of the Pakistani ISI. ‘Today a great blow has been struck for the jihad,’ the Maulana had said in triumph.
How could the killing of innocent women and children be called jihad? What God would ever condone such senseless violence?
The snow-flecked images on the television that evening flickered through Iqbal’s tortured mind. But now two of the dead bodies on the ground wore faces he knew and loved. The self-revulsion inside him exploded and he felt the darkness of despair and guilt flood through him.
‘O Allah, I have oppressed my soul and undoubtedly there is no forgiver of sins but You alone. O Allah, forgive me and have mercy on me. Undoubtedly You are the most forgiving and most merciful…’
From somewhere deep within him the words of the
Salaat
ran through Iqbal’s head in relentless circles.
He wanted to lie down and die.
1150 hours, 30 October 2005, Kasauli Hills, Himachal Pradesh.
The most critical set of orders sent out at the behest of the Prime Minister were going to be the hardest to implement. It was Colonel Rajan Anbu, the Commanding Officer of Force 22 who received this set of orders. The orders of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were absolutely clear and concise. It took him barely two minutes to go through them. Absorbing the import, and the twenty files that accompanied the order, took longer. He sat in the solitude of his command post and gave the matter serious thought.
Many people knew about the existence of Force 22, but not more than a handful knew what it was capable of doing. Born in the bloody crucible of the decades-long low-intensity conflict that had been thrust upon India by Pakistani military and intelligence establishments, Force 22 was created to provide a rapid, highly professional and covert response to certain situations that could not, due to tactical, strategic, diplomatic or political reasons, follow standard procedures.
Force 22 comprised officers drawn from the Indian Army, Navy, Air Force and the RAW (Research and Analysis Wing – the Indian Intelligence Agency). All of them were carefully handpicked volunteers every detail of whose personal and professional life had been thoroughly scrutinized before they were allowed to join Force 22.
Each of these officers had some basics in common: they were all commissioned officers not below the rank of Captain, all in superb physical condition, all high achievers amongst their peers, all trained to fight over land, sea and air, all skilled in most known methods of killing and destruction and all highly motivated. In thought, word and deed they all manifested and depicted the credo of Force 22 –
speed, stealth
and
surprise
.
To keep the existence of Force 22 as quiet as possible it was located in a small secluded barracks a few miles away from the picturesque hill town of Kasauli. In this sparsely habited area there were not many people around to take any notice of these tough looking men in camouflage uniforms as they punished themselves with a variety of arduous physical exercises at all hours of the day and night. Yes, the sound of gunfire and sporadic explosions did echo through the hills, but these are normal activities associated with any military unit and did not attract undue attention.
However had someone walked into the barracks that housed Force 22 and taken a close look around, he or she would have been in for a surprise. On the surface it was a typical army set-up, but at its core it was a state-of-the-art, ultra-sophisticated facility equipped with highly secure, multi-mode communications and could latch on to any database in the country and, if the need arose, overseas.
Colonel Rajan Anbu, the first Force 22 Commanding Officer, had been specifically picked by the PM in consultation with the army, navy and air force chiefs when the force was set up about a year ago. An innovative and resourceful mind coupled with a rugged physique, a lead-from-the-front attitude, and a decade of experience in counter-terror operations made the forty-one-year-old Colonel the ideal choice for the job. In the past year, Anbu had interrogated hundreds of potential candidates and put them through a battery of physical, mental and psychological tests. He had finally put together a small but lethal team. He had also used his generous budget to shop for a variety of state-of-the-art weapons, communications and support systems to enhance the potency of the force.
Finally he had set about blending his chosen warriors to fight as a team. Anbu was a firm believer of the more-you-sweat-in-peace-the-less-you-bleed-in-war school of thought. The result of this belief was a training regimen that made Force 22 a hell-hole for those who had been chosen. Despite the rigid selection criteria, six of the twenty-six handpicked officers did not cut the ice and were duly reverted to their parent battalions. Of the remaining twenty, one chose to opt out for personal reasons.
Now the time had come for him to set his team in action. Anbu picked up the intercom. ‘Get me Tiwathia and Sami,’ he told his staff officer.
When they walked in two minutes later, Anbu pushed the bundle of files at them: ‘Each of these files is about a specific individual. The data on these individuals has been systematically collated over the years and kept up-to-date by our intelligence agencies. Each of these individuals is a proclaimed offender who has played a major part in the various heinous terrorist activities that have plagued India all these years. For each one of them a Red Corner alert has already been issued by Interpol. As you know, all twenty of them are living a life of comfort in Pakistan.’
‘We’ve been following the intelligence summaries,’ Tiwathia cut in as Sami and he flicked through the names on the file covers. ‘All these guys are being sheltered and supported by the bloody ISI.’
‘The whole world is aware of who and where they are but this is the age of plausible deniability. Even though their weddings and funerals are front-page news, nobody is ready to acknowledge their whereabouts,’ Sami added.
‘Our government has released extensive proof about all of them a dozen times but the damn Pakis deny it blatantly.’
‘I want you both to study all twenty files.’ Anbu explained what the PM wanted: ‘Look for patterns and avoid those for whom there are no confirmed sightings. Give me your independent views…four each…okay?’
For the next forty-five minutes only the rustle of pages being turned broke the silence as the three men scrutinized the files. Sami was the last to finish. Anbu looked at him. ‘You go first.’ Sami plucked out four files from the bundle and handed them over. Anbu placed the files face down and turned to Tiwathia. ‘What about you? Which ones do you recommend, Vikram?’
Tiwathia took four names without missing a beat.
Anbu gave a small smile as he heard the names then he flipped over the files Sami had handed him. ‘I thought as much,’ he said quietly. ‘You guys have also picked out the same three people that I had identified. We only differ on the fourth. That’s okay…this time we take down only three.’
Colonel Anbu outlined the operational plan in a calm measured tone. Tiwathia and Sami were the two most experienced officers in Force 22. In fact, Sami was the official second-in-command. They both listened carefully as Anbu spoke and gave their input when he finished. An hour later when they finally got up, each knew exactly what had to be done; they had played out many such scenarios in various war games. It did not take Anbu long to fine-tune the plan and hammer out the operational details. Activating his laptop he checked out the availability of men and materials. Then he called in his staff officer and issued precise orders.
Anbu requisitioned a series of satellite and aerial photographs. While these were being uploaded to his machine he put together the Op Orders. Thirty minutes later, twelve of the nineteen Force 22 officers were assembled in the briefing room. Anbu put them through the paces. ‘That’s it, folks. Any doubts so far?’ he asked when he had finished.
There were. Several. Anbu took another fifteen minutes to clear these and then in accordance with the commonsense rule that nothing goes as planned he spent another thirty minutes carrying out some detailed contingency planning. Finally he handed over a Compact Flash Card and some photos to each one of them. ‘Everything you need is here. Study it en route and erase the files when you are done.’ The men were filing out of the room when Anbu called out: ‘And folks, keep your GPS locators on at all times once you leave the base.’
‘Don’t worry about us, boss.’
‘I’m not. I just need to be able to find you in case you get lost.’
The laughter that rang out was a welcome change from the sombre mood that had prevailed during the briefing.
Iqbal spent the whole day on a settee in the far corner of the room. He could not bring himself to speak to anyone. It was as if he had battened down the windows of his mind. Finally, a distraught Nawab sought Omar’s help: ‘Beta, please talk to him. He is not talking to any one of us. He is very disturbed…he loved them very much…specially his sister…I am very afraid he will try to do something to himself…please…I will die if something happens to him also.’ Nawab’s voice quavered.
Omar stood up and held the old man’s folded hands between his own. ‘Please calm down, Uncle. Everything will be all right, I promise. You just need to stay calm.’
Embarrassed that a stranger was giving him solace Nawab choked back his tears and abruptly left the room. Ashraf looked uncertainly at his brother sitting silent and unreachable on the settee and then followed his father out.
