LASHKAR (3 page)
The General paused dramatically before pumping his right hand in the air –
‘
Pakistan Paindabad!
’
An hour later the General addressed a much smaller gathering of the key leadership team of the ISI. There was no one in the room who sported anything less than a Brigadier’s stars. ‘Operation Topac does not concern J&K alone,’ he said. ‘Let me assure you, gentlemen, it is going to be one of the most innovative and audacious covert actions launched by any intelligence agency in history. It is designed to eventually balkanize India by unleashing a low-intensity conflict that, with assistance from the ISI, will snowball into civil war. Considering the inherent contradictions of the Indian polity, this is a very feasible option and the ISI is eminently capable of executing it.’
After the General departed from the headquarters there was a massive uproar; there were many in that room who felt Pakistan was biting off more than it could chew.
Salim was not one of them.
Salim had no doubt in his mind about what Pakistan was going to do. After all, he was one of the first to advocate switching support from the Khalistani militants and focusing their energies on Kashmir at one of the quarterly review meetings of the India Strategy think tank.
‘Why? What is wrong with the Khalistani militants?’ The Director had asked Salim when he proposed it the first time. He did not like ideas that did not originate, or at least seem to originate, from him: ‘They are doing a good job by tying up thousands of troops in Punjab…not to mention the huge economic impact that the Khalistani militancy is having on India.’
‘I am not saying there is anything wrong with them. They are dedicated fighters and yes, I agree, they are inflicting huge losses on the Indian security forces.’ The fire that burned deep in Salim was not evident in the measured tone he used.
‘So what is the problem?’
‘The major problem is that we have nothing to bond us together.’
‘Bond us together? We don’t have to marry them…just use them.’ A dutiful titter ran through the officers attending the meeting; even the General cracked a rare smile.
‘That is the problem.’ Salim ignored the crude attempt to rile him. ‘They know we are using them. They may be stupid, but they are not that stupid.’
The General was watching Salim carefully. So far he had not spoken a word. ‘The other problem,’ Salim continued, now a little wary of the General’s scrutiny, ‘is that it is so hard to raise funds for the Khalistani militancy, whereas in the case of Kashmir it is so easy for us to play the Islamic card. The religious bond makes it very easy for us to raise funds for them from all over the Islamic world.’
‘Are you suggesting we withdraw support from the Punjab area?’ The General finally spoke up.
‘No, sir, not at all.’ Salim turned to face the General. ‘I think we should turn it down a bit and support them only as much as it does not hurt us financially or diplomatically. Our main focus area should always be Kashmir.’
0001 hours, 30 October 2005, Pakistan Army Post Chakoti along the
LOC
,
POK
.
The newly-trained jihadi infiltrators left the Pakistan Army Chakoti Post half an hour after midnight. There were fourteen of them: the twelve boys who had trained together and the two instructors who had trained them. Iqbal’s friend, Abu Khan, was leading the way. Iqbal had taken an instant liking to him when they’d first met. Something about Abu’s quiet demeanour and determination had attracted him. He was easily the star of the class – the best shot, the best navigator and the most versatile in field craft. Omar was present too, despite a fever that was raging through his skinny body. The only concession made to his condition was being spared the added torture of carrying extra ammunition. At the training camp the previous night Fazlur Rehman had given Omar the once-over and pronounced him fit to travel. ‘You are Allah’s soldier, what is a little fever, boy? You!’– he had suddenly barked at Iqbal who had unfortunately been standing beside Omar – ‘you stay with him and help him along. Make sure he doesn’t lag behind.’ That was how Iqbal was designated to wet-nurse Omar.
It also explained why Omar and Iqbal were right at the end of the column that was moving in single file towards a gap in the Indian Army posts strung along the LOC. One of the instructors, Wahid Ali, was at the tail of the column with Omar and Iqbal ensuring no stragglers. The other led the column along with Abu Khan.
About ten minutes after the patrol had left Chakoti Post the instructor at the head signalled the column to a silent halt. They all stood around in silence for a good five minutes till a scruffy, battle-hardened man suddenly appeared from the flanks. ‘Salaam!’ the man whispered to the instructor, who acknowledged his greeting with a brief nod.
‘You’re late.’
‘Something came up at the last minute.’ The man had a guttural voice and a very pronounced Afghan accent. He took up position right at the head of the column, ahead of Abu Khan. Clearly he was their guide for the night. They set off again. The pace was slower and more deliberate. The strong current of tension in the air was palpable in the stillness of the night. It showed on the grim faces of the instructors. Only the rugged Afghan seemed impervious. All of them knew that the Indian Army was on high alert despite the recent earthquake in Muzaffarabad which had devastated a large part of that area. Infiltrating into India was becoming increasingly tough and, if Indian news channels and newspapers were to be believed, the mujahideen casualty rate during this phase of the operation had become shockingly high. During their training, the instructors had repeatedly warned the trainees about the new battlefield surveillance radars that the Indian Army was using; capable of picking out a small group of men moving six kilometres away despite the broken terrain. And those fucking Russian Dragunov sniper rifles, they’d cautioned, were certain death: ‘A good man can take out a guy with a clean head-shot from over 600 metres away – day or night!’
Just how effective these devices were and how well-trained the Indian soldier was, became abundantly clear barely forty minutes later, when the infiltration party was about 300 metres across the LOC. One moment there was total silence broken only by the sound of heavy breathing as the fifteen men trudged stealthily up the rugged mountain path. Then two shots rang out and immediately dozens of flares illuminated the sky. The first two shots killed the Afghan and Abu Khan. Immediately, hundreds of glowing bullets arced through the darkness like fireflies. The ear-shattering din of the fusillade that followed was a combination of the harsh chatter of machine-gun fire and the tortured screams of the young jihadis. A few of the trainees managed to get their weapons out and return fire. Iqbal saw a couple of his friends try to rush the ambush, as they had been taught, but luck was not on their side that night. In a matter of minutes, the silence of death lay heavy around him. The merciless hail of bullets that tore through the undergrowth and blanketed the trail cut down the entire patrol, barring the three who lagged behind.
Watching his companions of six months die before his eyes Iqbal felt a liquid warmth spread down his legs. Iqbal did not even realize he had pissed in his pants as he frantically stumbled in the treacherous darkness. Wahid Ali pulled Omar and him down to the ground, fiercely motioning for them to fall back. ‘Get down!
Down!
’ The instructor’s strident whisper was more effective than the loudest scream. ‘Get down and move back down the trail…. stay low, you fools.’ Maybe the sound of gunfire had deadened the ears of the ambush party. Maybe Allah was watching over them and did not want them to die that night.
A classic ambush comprises scouts or stops on all routes that lead out from the kill zone, an ambush party that is sited to deliver the maximum possible firepower on the kill zone and a small reserve party to cater for unforeseen contingencies. The Indian Army ambush was well sited. The kill zone had been totally saturated with firepower. However it had obviously been set up in a hurry to take out a suddenly emerging target of opportunity because the tail of the infiltrating party was not covered. Obviously the Indian ambush party stops were not even aware of the three people trailing about eighty feet behind the tail of the column since no shots came anywhere near them.
Twenty minutes later the three of them were back on the trail, moving stealthily, when all of a sudden Wahid Ali stumbled and fell. As Iqbal rushed to help him up, he saw him tentatively touch his stomach and holding up bloodied fingers say, ‘Crap! I think I’ve been hit.’
‘Janab, do you think you can go on?’ Iqbal asked, desperately trying to sound calm, while inside his head he was going berserk.
Please don’t die on me. What the hell will I do alone with Omar? I don’t want to die in the wilderness here
…
‘Don’t panic, boy, I’m not done for yet.’ Wahid Ali seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Pull out one of those field dressings from your pack…and some painkillers.’
Iqbal’s hands trembled as he shrugged off his pack and pulled out the first-aid kit. Omar, sitting on a rock a few feet away, held his head in his hands. From time to time he shuddered and a low moan escaped him. He was in shock.
Iqbal watched the instructor down a painkiller and stanch the bleeding with the field dressing. Then, grimacing in pain, he wrapped a bandage tightly around his abdomen. A few minutes later, the instructor staggered to his feet and took up his weapon again. But for the fact that he clutched the right side of his stomach it was hard to tell that he had been hit. ‘It must have been a ricochet that got lucky,’ he said.
‘Is it hurting?’ It seemed an absurdly dumb question to ask. Then again, Iqbal could hardly ask him if he was going to die, though in fact that was all he was interested in knowing. Wahid Ali had to live because his own survival depended on him.
‘It seems manageable right now,’ the instructor spoke through gritted teeth, ‘but the bullet is lodged inside. I can feel it. I need to have it looked at…or else…’ he broke off; he did not want to pursue that chain of thought.
‘Should we head back then?’
‘We cannot go back to Chakoti,’ Wahid Ali said grimly. ‘The Indians will be expecting us to do that. Chakoti is the closest of our posts so they will know we must have started out from there. By now they will definitely have another ambush waiting for us on that route. We have to loop around the ambush site and head for the camp we were going to.’
‘How much further is it?’
‘About an hour and a half…maybe a little more if I am not able to maintain the pace.’
‘Do you think you will be able to manage such a long walk with that wound?’ Iqbal asked. ‘And what about him?’ Iqbal jerked his thumb at Omar who was now moving only when they prodded him and collapsed to the ground when they stopped for a minute.
‘There is no choice.’ Wahid Ali seemed determined enough. But as they stumbled and groped their way through the forest he seemed to lose focus. He halted frequently and his breathing grew heavier. The blood loss was telling on him. Once or twice he cried out sharply in pain. The sound rang out in the stillness of the rapidly receding night. Iqbal froze when that happened; his body bracing itself for the barrage of gunfire that he was sure would shoot out at them from the darkness around in response to the sound.
‘Is it getting worse? You want to rest a while?’ Iqbal asked after the instructor stumbled and fell yet again.
‘No!’ The instructor leveraged himself up slowly. ‘We have to keep moving. If I stop now I will not be able to get moving again.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘Don’t worry…I can do this...I’ve seen worse.’ He was speaking more to convince himself than Iqbal. ‘See that peak there?’ He pointed to a slightly crooked peak towering over them. ‘We have to take the saddle to the right of it. The path runs almost along the base. Just in case…’ his voice faltered and then trailed off. Then he lifted himself up slowly and they stumbled after him again.
Dawn had started to break when they staggered upon the small camp in the thick pine-laden forest just north of the Indian village of Hari. No one who had not been here before could possibly have known of its existence. A light snow began to fall just as they approached. The sentry who emerged like a ghost from the tree-laden shadows was expecting them. He seemed to recognize the instructor because he waved him on into the small clearing where the camp was sited.
‘Only three of you?’ he asked.
The instructor nodded. He was too far gone to be able to talk.
‘That firing last night?’ The sentry raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Was that your party?’
Wahid Ali didn’t answer. He had collapsed in a ragged heap to the ground.
It was about two weeks after that spectacular quarterly review meeting on India Strategy that Salim received a curt phone call from the General’s aide. ‘The President has requested your presence at the Central Command Headquarters at 1100 hours tomorrow.’ Despite the way it was worded there was nothing remotely resembling a request in the order; these simple summons had led to many more important men than him vanishing without trace.
The next day Salim arrived outside the Presidential office dressed in full military regalia. Excluding the two heavily-armed guards who watched him from under hooded eyes, the plush office was vacant. He was still contemplating the implications inherent in this when the door flew open and the General strode in. ‘Salim!’ The General’s tone was full of jovial bluster. ‘Come…’ The General gestured to the plush leather sofas arrayed on one side of the huge office. Two hours later, armed with explicit instructions and a very free hand, Salim’s life in the ISI had hit the fast track.
It was at Salim’s initiative that Pakistan began to focus attention on Nepal and Bangladesh. They proved ideal for getting at India at virtually no cost to Pakistan. ‘Isn’t it strange,’ Salim mused to his Adjutant in a rare moment of introspection, ‘how easy it is to foment hatred and violence?‘
The passage of years proved how right Salim had been in the strategy he’d selected. The Indians were bled white for over two decades in a low-intensity, constantly simmering conflict that cost them millions of rupees and tied down thousands of troops and security forces in the Kashmir Valley. The Pakistanis spent scarcely a dime; simply using the poppy fields of Afghanistan to fund their war.
