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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 2 |
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| Fuel and Fire |
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“More explosive in content
is the hate-laced intent.”
— Jesse |
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| Dardpura,
Lolab Valley, Kashmir |
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The game was being played repeatedly since October 1989, with different characters
and at various locales. For now, the time was 1200 hours, February 15, 1997.
For the sought and the seeker, trust was an unfathomable element. It had not
been sowed in this land since popular people’s uprising. Nor did the
winds carry its sweet scent anymore.
The meeting was not innocent.
It was fraught with peril.
The danger of betrayal, lack of trust and above all, death.
Major Sunil Yadav, Sena Medal (Gallantry) recipient, sitting camouflaged atop
a 400-year-old Chinar tree, was aware of it intimately. It was his second
tenure in the Valley and he was not taking any stupid chances based on trust.
Nazir Lone, alias Gazi, Battalion Commander of Hizbul Mujahidin, Lolab Valley,
also knew of it in ample measure. He had not survived the last eight years
in this business based on trust.
Certain feelers had been sent. Positive feelers had been returned. A meeting
without a profit in Kashmir was unthinkable.
Yadav spotted them first, clearly from his vantage point. He wouldn’t
have chosen the site otherwise. The terrorist’s father appeared first,
then at regular intervals his mother, wife and lastly the endless line of
his islamia educated kids. They had come to sanitize the area, to preclude
any betrayal. Finding the place innocent, calm and serene they left suspicion-free.
Good trustworthy fellow, a man of his words, that Major sahib, they smiled
at each other and opined.
They were at least half a mile wrong.
Sahib’s Quick Reaction Team was very skillfully concealed, a mere hundred
metres away, tucked inside muck, grime and humus of plentiful green vegetation.
Handpicked by the officer, they were the best of the best and had ample terrorist
headhunting trophies to prove their calibre. They won’t let apne Major
sahib down. They had been in that invisible state since the first light at
0430 hours. None had moved, none wanted to move; they had been trained not
to move.
From above, Yadav watched Nazir below hesitatingly totter in, looking around
nervously. He sat unobtrusively under him, at the stump of pious Chinar for
next half an hour. That major had duped him. He will not come, reasoned the
fear-shivering terrorist. As he got up, maybe to leave, a voice beckoned him
from the heavens above.
Nazir Lone looked up incredulously. Major Yadav, aping and shaming the Tarzan,
suddenly appeared below.
“Don’t worry, I am unarmed,” the major hurriedly said after
ensuring that two of his snipers had Nazir firmly fixed in their telescopic
sights.
“Me too,” replied the terrorist, adjusting his kurta concealing
a cocked 7.62mm Chinese pistol.
“We have lot to discuss,” said the Major. They discussed something
for the next five minutes or so. |
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| Murree, Pakistan |
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(2045h, 02 Mar)
It was a pitch-dark night.
One could barely see the back of one’s hand. Harsh winter draft was
screaming down from the lofty peaks of Hindukush Mountains. But the gusts
of wind had a different character from the ones that had blown six months
earlier, chilling the mountain passes to deep depths of un-negotiable snow.
The present winds brought down with themselves massive amounts of latent heat
trapped in the upper stratosphere above Afghanistan, furiously melting the
snow-trapped gullies and passes, the military significance of which was not
an unknown quality to the top brass of both countries of India and Pakistan.
In a nondescript, two-storey old British-era building, located in a remote
corner of Pakistan’s 12 Infantry Division Cantonment, a few incandescent
lights were illuminating the long mosaic floored corridor, through an open
oak door. Surprisingly, no sentries seemed to be around to guard such a significant
office complex and the rear of the building adjoining massive birch tree forests
was protected by a mere strand of barbed wire.
Two American ‘Land Rover’ jeeps, one flying the pendant of a three-star
general from General HQ Islamabad, drove in along the mud gravelled driveway
and screeched to a halt under the small bougainvillea adorned porch. The co-driver,
a young smart ADC, jumped out acrobatically even before the vehicle could
properly halt and opened the rear left door with a slight consenting bow.
“We are at the field coordination office sir,” informed Captain
Zaheer in his crisp military voice.
General Ibrahim Lodhi, the Officer on Special Duty of Kashmir Desk, stepped
out of the vehicle. He slowly gazed around taking stock of his immediate surroundings
and did not like whatever he could see up to the extremities of illumination.
The place, lacked military tone, the likes he was accustomed to. It was an
essential quality, which he had mastered as a young cadet. This had caught
the eye of dashing artillery major, an instructor in Pakistan’s officers’
military academy at Quetta. Later, the major had manipulated the young cadet’s
posting to his regiment and made him his adjutant when he commanded the regiment.
Such flirtations, cultivated over the years had brought him to a position
envied by all, except the Chief Executive Officer of Pakistan who had chosen
him ignoring many senior generals. He had proved his trustworthiness by commanding
the troops to ensure the safe landing of his beloved boss at Karachi airport
and the rest was history, known to the entire world.
Before the general could take three unsteady steps after an arduous six-hour
journey, a bald man in civilian dress greeted him. To any bystander, he looked
like a clown dancing around the general and after animatedly shaking an ice-cold
hand; he guided the esteemed visitor inside the building.
After crossing three small dimly lit anterooms with sparse furniture, the
guests reached the main hall, which was dazzling with a number of tube-lights
hanging from the walls. Each glow focused below on various maps and enlargements,
all pertaining to India. The various annotations, markings, pinups and overlays
reflected numerous hues of information to whet the appetite of any seeker.
Brigadier Altaf Ghaur, the chief field coordinator, was half bent over a colossal
map of Kashmir with transparent plastic sheet rolled over it. A cheap Chinese
mini tube-light emitting an equally poor quality of illumination provided
a strange aureate halo around his round head. The vigour with which he was
munching the end of the china graph pencil, demonstrated the degree of concentration
with which the Brigadier was studying the map. He was about to mark something
on the mass of confusing contour lines when the noise of visitors being ushered
in made him look back. As he saw them, his face broke into a big smile.
“Good evening General, welcome to Murree,” said Brigadier Altaf
beaming and at same time extending forward his soft hand, “I hope you
will have a comfortable stay here and the outcome of your visit will be fruitful.”
General Lodhi, after casually shaking the hands without being offered a seat,
pulled a chair, sat down slowly and faced the speaker.
He saw a slightly built man, with lines of determination crisscrossing his
forehead, staring back at him. He knew the power this puny man enjoyed. The
military intelligence folder reflected his absolute control over various mujahidin
groups engaged in Kashmir. This man was an enigma; those holy warriors swore
by him and at the same time feared and hated his guts. Despite Inter Service
Intelligence group man’s massive reputation, he was this little man’s
de-facto boss and this man better understand that. Moreover, he had serious
allegations to investigate.
“It better be for everyone’s sake Altaf,” replied the General
very deliberately and signalled his ADC and the civilian to leave the room.
He further added, “Our targets are going haywire, projections have been
cockeyed and results are a big zero till date. Special operations financial
directorate is hopping mad. They gave directly to Kashmir field desk, that
is your office, rupees 213 crores last year and are twiddling their thumbs
now. They want complete audited accounts and are asking for each penny spent,
co-related with what has been achieved by our magnificent organization.”
“What do you expect sir, that in those measly 200 odd crores India will
give you Kashmir on a platter,” shot back Altaf in a tone bordering
dissent. “The money the grateful people have provided is only peanuts.
Hope those army auditors can visualize the task we have set ourselves to achieve.
We are hurting India where it hurts the most. The sly Indians are on a defensive
for the first time in decades. Their military hollowness and fighting capabilities
have been exposed to the whole world. The government of India is in a quandary
on what to do. They are crying like little babies. You give me some more money
and I will put their whole army, no let me phrase it better, their whole nation
out of business. Those babus want to know what we have done with the morsel
full of money. It is disgusting even talking about it. We have inflicted a
thousand cuts on the rotting bloating body of Indian elephant in this decade,
something our nation as a whole could not do since independence. And with
the kind of other novel plans we now have in place, the Indian elephant can
be executed within a year,” he finished in a rush, visibly irritated.
“Despite your bravado with words my dear Altaf, your accounting procedures
are atrocious. As per the financial expenditure details forwarded by your
esteemed office, purchases of arms, recruitment, training, incentives and
money pumped across do not tally at least in the first glance and god forbid,
what will happen on a detailed scrutiny,” quipped back the General in
a very impersonal tone. “We all will be hung by the nearest tree if
we cannot explain the spending of government money correctly to those babus.”
He deliberately added we, just to throw an idea of collective accountability.
“Sir, I am in total consonance with you on this matter and comprehend
the significance of correctly accounting for the public money,” the
Brigadier spoke this time a little softly but still unable to suppress a note
of insolence in his voice. “You must understand that normal sources
of funding are just not adequate to cover the costs of our covert operations
and other sources, being so sensitive in manner of procurement, cannot be
reflected in normal accounts. We had obtained permission in principle to that
effect from the last government once it was made clear to us that adequate
funds will not be forthcoming and alternative avenues of funding should be
explored. As both normal and other income heads are same and interrelated
to a specific task being executed, asking for audited expenditure is not feasible
or possible to audit under normal circumstances,” he added forcefully.
“My dear Altaf, the ground reality on the home-front has changed hundred
per cent if you are not aware of it already. The Chief is visibly annoyed
that despite ten years of focus, nothing concrete is visible. Kashmir is where
it was a decade ago – with slimy Indians, a situation not acceptable
to our supreme commander at any cost. Even bloody civilians have started smirking
behind the curtains at our ability to handle the conflict anymore. I am sure
it will make you a nervous wreck only answering their chirpy wives, ‘General
what has gone wrong in Kashmir’,” replied the General and thumping
the table with good measure for effect, wherever he felt necessary.
Brigadier Altaf had a vague suspicion of the nature of the General’s
visit earlier when he came to know of the immediate secret visit bypassing
the normal channels of military protocol. His own faithful and well-wishers
had forewarned of certain bewailing in the service headquarters at Islamabad.
As the General’s diatribe began, his temples started throbbing in sheer
anger. What does this old faggot of an ass-licker know of the situation on
the ground, thought Altaf. Little coddle nut that the General was throughout
his service. Moreover, back at the service headquarters sitting in an air-conditioned
office, these creatures could never comprehend how he single-handedly had
achieved in making the jihadi’s turn to him. Yes, he had moved a mountain
and these rascals better appreciate that fact. If they annoyed him a bit more,
the shit he could throw, could drown thousands like this General but his insatiable
love for his country made him think rationally. Cool down please, he reasoned
sanely with himself.
“We never had such a stupid situation before where years of hard work
is being belied by lack of trust. Why the sudden interest in how the money
is being spent now after a decade of our relentless efforts? When we initially
started, directions were to carry on regardless of the cost and I have written
orders to that effect. It was the last civilian government, which came under
immense coercion from the United States to freeze the funding to these mujahidin
groups. It was then our proposals of alternative funding were accepted,”
he added, little assertively.
“I know the advantages accrued from the profits of white gold. However,
do you know how much we had to invest in setting up the network in India and
abroad? Before we could reap the benefits of unaccountable money, we, as a
nation have been branded as dope-dust economic power. Worse still, our people
in uniform have been apprehended in America, smuggling heroin. To top it all,
our alternative-funding department did not know of this good little side-business
everyone had started. So do not even talk about it and, in any case, we have
to wind up this scheme, as money is being siphoned and ploughed back into
our economy at a rate you will feel it’s just funny. Whole Afghanistan,
our NW provinces, Karachi and now, Azad Kashmir are in total grip of drugs.
Have you seen people in the villages? We are a shame to any civilized society.
In any case, this is no quorum to voice virtues of morality and we better
stick to the old British system of clean accounting. We are fighting a just
war with an enemy and we should plan for it openly,” said the General
rubbing his palms to fight the cold seeping in through the corridors.
“But what you are giving us officially, I repeat again, is too meager.
I implore upon you, sir, to please increase our funding to a minimum of three
times of present levels without disturbing my external sources of revenue.
You would agree that despite your personal morale conflict, this is the only
motivating factor – infinite money. Jihad be damned for the majority
of essential players concerned if money, more importantly, unaccounted money
is not made available. How do they drag the youth in the conflict –
lure of money when none exists at their homes? If no more powder-money is
made available, then majority of my operations would just die, as the one
I have planned for tonight, the magnitude of which will surely astound you
and my esteemed Chief, if I succeed, Allah willingly,” replied the Brigadier
triumphantly.
The General leaned back on his chair and then staring into the eyes of the
man opposite said, “We are looking into your requests and for your information
you will be getting Indian rupees 500 as asked. Don’t ask me their source
but they are definitely not tainted with heroin.” He paused for the
effect and added, “But other sources you are banking upon are definitely
out and that authority ceases as of now. Your office will shortly be getting
a copy of the executive order signed by the Chief within a day or so. And
as for the operational requirements of money, you need not bother and I will
ensure that none of the line operations are affected for want of crisp hard
money. These mullahs better know and acknowledge that the begging bowl is
filled due to our magnanimity and logically directed towards us. Though we
showed them the way, we do not want independent sources of revenue to get
into their heads so that they can start dictating terms to us. In fact some
are already acting like governments-in-power. This ridiculous situation better
be nipped in the bud or we will have hell to pay at a later stage. Now brief
me about the little coup you are planning.”
Brigadier Altaf looked a little pale, as the news was hard to digest so quickly.
With all funds channeled through Islamabad, his empire would shrink drastically,
including his influence over the people. Damn, he thought, it was better dealing
with buffoon civilians than the idiotic men in uniform. At least the civilians
could be manipulated into doing what one wanted. With pyrosis-stung chest,
he vacantly stared at his falling fortunes.
“I will, sir, firstly, I must request you to join us for dinner. Please
excuse transgression on my part for having invited some key jihadi elements
without your approval. It’s a public relations exercise and an opportunity
for you to get acquainted with these people of whom one is a dying octogenarian
but essential to meet. You will be dealing with them for a long time as destiny
of our nation, our offensive capabilities, our strategic depth in the West
and other issues to keep India tamed depends upon them,” he said throwing
a no-win situation at his boss for instant compliance.
Lodhi solemnly got up, to be led and was sure to be lavishly fed. |
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| Colombo |
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(2055h, 02 Mar 2000)
She was the most lascivious woman of her country. This was a confirmed fact
and authenticated by an independent survey conducted by the BBC office at
Colombo.
All lusted for her.
She lusted for none, except her daughter.
Rashmi Srivastava was putting her eight-year-old girl child to bed. She was
a bit tired singing lullabies for the last one hour, but Nana was not satisfied
or amused by her mother’s ministrations.
Nana pulled Rashmi’s hair and sweetly cooed in a rebellious tone, “Ma,
I want to hear the story of Frog Prince and I don’t want to sleep. Mama,
you better give up singing those boring sleeping songs. You are a terrible
singer and now I think I can hear cows collecting outside my window.”
“You rotten spoilt princess,” said Rashmi bending down and tickling
Nana’s tummy with her nose. “I sing on TV and if it is good enough
for people then it better be good for you.”
“Boo, I want a story and nothing else,” lamented Nana sticking
her tongue out.
“All right,” sighed Rashmi and started narrating the story of
the Frog Princess, each word of it she was sure that her spoilt and overly
indulged daughter knew by heart.
By the time she came to the point where the beautiful princess was kissing
the frog, she found Nana fast asleep. Rashmi cuddled her daughter into her
arms and stared at her innocent face. Nana was her life and the only reason
for her existence. The vagabond professor, Nana’s biological father,
had run away on the first instance when she as an awe struck teenager, had
told him that she was pregnant with his baby. Her father, a high ranking officer
in the Sri Lankan Army, had instantly disowned her and thrown her on to the
streets than to face the ignominy of the disgrace of his pure Singhalese bloodline
impaired by a Tamilian rogue.
It was on the streets of Colombo that she had learned to survive and do what
she loved the most – investigative journalism. She had survived catcalls,
lewd remarks, snide remarks, obscene suggestive gestures, outrageous money
for a glimpse and services of her body, birth of Nana, poverty, slums, one
room shanty and soon became a buzzword on live on-the-scene reporting.
The second shock in her life came two years after Nana’s birth when
the doctors diagnosed a defective valve in her tiny heart. Her Nana was dying,
unable to breath.
She had died the second time in her life that day.
Rashmi ran from pillar to post, her parents, her relatives, the lanky handsome
former lover, but alas, all had mercilessly turned her down. In sheer desperation,
she met the Indian Ambassador to Sri Lanka, who was totally taken aback on
hearing the cosy relationship between the Sri Lankan government and the Tamil
guerrillas in the early eighties to rout the Indian Peace Keeping Force. It
had been a relationship of convenience since then and Rashmi had never regretted
it.
The ring in her special cell phone, a gift from her newly acquired friends
disturbed her chain of thoughts. She extended her slim hands to pick up the
telephone.
“Hello, how’s our beautiful lady tonight,” crackled the
voice. “The vast ocean hungers for your touch,” continued the
speaker in a suggestive tone.
“Emerald always shines bright,” replied Rashmi.
“How much does she shine tonight,” asked the voice?
“Enough to blind the crown of your heart. Our esteemed Foreign Minister
is going to soft-peddle Kashmir in the next SAARC meet and thereafter at UN,”
she seductively whispered into the phone.
“What! has the idiot gone mad? He seems to be propagating quicker birth
of Elam than his pregnant girlfriend can deliver the child,” shot back
the voice.
“No need to get vulgar, dear friend,” she scolded. “Nevertheless,
the relationship runs deeper and is not an eyewash. Check out Attapattu naval
base. I believe ships of your friendly neighbour have been enjoying our uninterrupted
hospitality since the last few weeks. Believe in addition to some heavy machinery,
a few very macho men have impressed the young wives of several officers in
bed and out of it.
“Thanks and how’s our esteemed princess, Nana,” boomed the
voice.
“Fine and as lively a brat as I knew her an hour ago. She is due for
her last operation in June,” she said.
“Do not worry, everything will be arranged as usual,” said Grover
and then dropping the telephone, he disappeared into the night, thanking his
boss for the first time in providing the scrambler version of mobile to Rashmi,
thus doing away with the ever dangerous exercise of a physical meeting. |
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| Murree, Pakistan (Same night) |
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The dinner had been a social coup.
The high-rank officer from Islamabad had wriggled his fat bums to the dance
of mystic Zaida churning out Bollywood songs at a furious pace. Zaida, adequately
dressed in revealing clothes, showed more intentionally than hide her sumptuous
curves in mock modesty. The Jihadi types had been fixated to their seats,
confused, agitated, but never letting that ‘evil woman’ out of
their shamed sights. The more she wriggled her buttocks and gyrated her boobs,
the more they sank into the cushions except his boss who, like those mystic
seers, seemed to float in the air. Not given to miss anything he quickly concocted
an extended recreation plan.
These mujra performing girls were good and convincing Zaida to give an exclusive
private performance to the lusty-eyed General had been easy, a mere some thousand
rupees later. Zaida with big poetic lips stared expectantly at the big patron,
willing on the massive man with smiling eyes. His boss’s ruby red eyes
had sparkled, and he silently nodded his consent to the wild suggestion thrown.
One more mighty had fallen to a lowly woman. Not at all odd, these creatures
were such; he reflected being himself the victim of a few. More than that,
he was satisfied with the boss in mixing with those slimy civilians, as such
pretenses mattered in the long run. They had hugged and chirped all confounding
words about the holy work being undertaken in Kashmir. It had also pleased
the General somewhat. Rather reluctantly, both called the end to the festivities.
They had serious business to conclude, the business of fine-tuning Indian
destruction.
Back at the operational room, with the General sitting opposite him, not so
nice earlier observations, came rushing back, to spoil the sumptuous taste
of venison, the fondness of it he had acquired as a young Captain while serving
in Drass sector.
The Brigadier collected the sheaf of papers and started tapping them on the
table to get all loose sheets in order. He hated at not being in command of
any situation and the old goat had outmanoeuvred him at least till now. Looking
back, he replied in a soft voice. “Well sir, as for operations this
week, seven minor and one major intrusion have been planned. In fact the major
one is on tonight and if we succeed, it will be the most daring infiltration
in history. Forty-six jihadis led by a tiger of a man are crossing over to
the Indian-Administered Kashmir to start an operation, which just might initiate
events to sound the first death knell to India. Operation ‘Ghaznavi
Tir’ has been launched and has all the right ingredients for an unprecedented
success.”
“I am not sure of the death-knell part, for we or at least I have become
skeptical about hearing that word so many times for the last ten years,”
the General replied tapping his manicured nails on the table. “But a
forty-six people group is definitely big, in fact very big. How come I have
not been informed of such a magnitude of operation before,” asked the
General.
“Sir, we certainly cannot slip on such a major operation. The detailed
planning was finalised three months earlier and a summary of daily operations
has been forwarded directly to the Chief’s directorate. I am sure the
events of the last few months overtook the normal daily briefings at the Service
Headquarters,” Altaf added and could not restrain himself in not taking
a dig at the General. ‘I will ensure personally to wake up the concerned
staff to keep you adequately briefed,” he further said.
“No, you need not do that, for I am sure that your hands are already
full. The concerned person will surely get a big boot, provided your information
is right. As it is too late to do anything about it right now. I am sure the
basic nitty-gritty of the operation would have been worked out by your staff,”
said the General. “Who is leading them,” he inquired.
“Asif Gul sir, and with him are six Afghanis, basically his junior commanders,
to keep an eye on the local rabble being inducted for their administrative
support,” Altaf informed.
“Why induct Kashmiri locals when we are not sure of their capabilities?
Wouldn’t it have been better to keep one homogeneous group,” the
General quipped.
“Well sir, all pros and cons were considered. It was deemed essential
to give an indigenous colour to the whole operation and at the same time keep
the control in our hands. It is basically an ISI operation, may be that’s
why the regular briefings did not pass through your desk,” explained
Altaf.
General Lodhi did not like what he heard. He hated these ISI types trying
to run their own shitty rotten empire. Most of them were officers from the
Pakistan Army on deputation and they behaved as if they were the only saviours
of this nation. Had those idiots given correct advice to Yahiya Khan and accurately
assessed the Bengali opposition, this country would have remained united and
they would not have been so desperate to destroy India. And Americans have
given them a jihadi feather in their cap, which they will only take off if
this country splits again. Idiots think they control the Jihadis’ or
Taliban for that matter. The way they are going, his progressive Pakistan
will be a quagmire of mad mullahs’ in a short time. He was ashamed of
ideology being imposed in Afghanistan despite himself being an ardent Muslim.
Even today those ISI types smirk and dictate national policies. Sad, very
sad, indeed.
“Don’t worry, this situation of bypassing any issue concerning
Kashmir will also change very fast whether ISI or even a private agency is
involved,” shot back the General, irritated by this recent development.
“Now give me the whole profile and scope of the operation,” he
added after a brief pause and a little later noted something on his writing
pad.
Brigadier Altaf, scanning a sheet of paper replied, “Sir, Asif Gul is
a very interesting man. Aged 32 years, six feet tall, brown haired, muscular
Pathan. Recruited into mujahidin in 1982 at the tender age of fourteen, in
Peshawar. His parents were Afghani refugees who lost their three children
while escaping from Kabul. Thus natural hatred for anyone connected with previous
communist regime in Afghanistan exists. By the age of twenty, he had completed
thirty-two missions inside Afghanistan. His bosses, including the CIA controlling
staff, were so impressed that they allowed him to raise an independent group,
a suicide squad of sixteen people when he was himself only twenty-two. In
fact, he did the first trial firing of TOW missiles over the Khyber Pass.
He also led the famous raid on Jalalabad air base and destroyed five Russian
MIGs on ground. He was the inspiration to initiate a handful of freedom fighters
when all seemed in the enemy’s favour.”
“How come such a daredevil never came into public limelight before?”
asked the General.
“Our fortune, on number of accounts,” said Altaf “Firstly,
he is media shy and secondly, he gives all the credit to Allah for success.
Lastly, the major factor was that his senior leaders wanted to grab all the
doles themselves to consolidate their relative power base inside Afghanistan,
thus sidelining him. However, Gul did not object. But that is not all about
the brave lion. His speciality lies in brokering alliances. He was instrumental
in forging a joint front at Kandahar against Maqsood and his Indian cohorts,
once the Russians left and bringing that tract of territory under control
of Taliban for the first time. It is for this unique capability, that he is
being sent across so heavily armed, as in coming months he has a key role
to play for us.”
“Why?” asked General Lodi with his eyes sparkling and showing
interest for the first time.
“Sir, you know how fragmented the various groups operating inside Kashmir
are. Each one is fighting another for the turf of territory and Indians are
exploiting this issue to the hilt in keeping the rebellion under check. These
buggers are so vain that they see no reason in joining hands to fight a common
enemy and are actually vying with each other, in dropping information of their
rivals, at the doorsteps of the Indian security forces camps. The lazy Indians
do not need to step out, to get any information. We give them money but on
this issue, cooperation is not forthcoming. You can imagine the situation
across inside India, when they refuse to train together here, inside Azad
Kashmir,” the Brigadier explained.
“So how does that lion help us when our own house is not in order. You
have just reinforced our observation that it’s the money and its unlimited
supply which govern their hearts and not the holy cause in kicking the Indians
out,” the General pointed out.
“Maybe you have a point here sir, but if Gul can even achieve half of
what we expect of him, then under one umbrella you can imagine how easy it
will be for us to control the operations. The joint synergy of the groups
will definitely break India’s back,” said the Brigadier.
“How come we keep on churning out such jihadi elements?” inquired
the General further.
“Well sir, on this let me quote an Indian officer. He says that the
number of freedom fighters/terrorists does not depend on any ideology or perceived
wrongs, but is directly proportional to idle youth multiplied by quantum of
heretics you can throw at them. On this, I am in total agreement as Pakistan
has both in great numbers,” Altaf replied, smilingly.
“Now I see why you are so smug about the operation. You have unlimited
supply of raw material and an achievable target. You have the right to be,
if it has been conceived and being implemented by your office. Pray to Allah
for its success, but for against Indians, count on what has been achieved
and not what you can,” the General retorted and simultaneously confirming
his observation of mullah-mechanism spawning his land. He must bring this
to the notice of his Chief Executive who had once hinted in a similar direction.
The Brigadier smiled broad for the second time and continued, “Sir,
I have been able to persuade with great difficulty the various groups here
engaged in jihad to agree to this proposal in principle. The whole exercise
took over a year in hard talk and negotiations. It was Gul who tilted the
balance in our favour. The leaders on this side of the divide were of the
opinion that only a man like Gul could effectively achieve what we wanted,
so they literally begged him to take control of the operation. Again this
was a master stroke for we managed to dump our man on them.”
General Lodi digested the news.
Conceptually, it was a brilliant plan.
Similar to the one this man as a half colonel had been able to achieve when
he had paralyzed the Indian city of Bombay with the help of one smuggler in
the summer of 1993. In that too, it is believed, he had made a considerable
personal profit on the sly and only with great difficulty could he explain
the ownership of two shops in that smuggler’s commercial building in
downtown posh Karachi metropolis. But above all that, what a glorious magnitude
of chaos he had been able to bestow upon India. Their pants were blown apart
and there dirty asses had gleamed stark naked for the first time in so many
years. We need young blood like him to infuse energetic strategic concepts,
but they need to be directed, he thought. No wonder that such a junior person
had been promoted to the post of the Brigadier and was directly responsible
for feeding the turmoil in Kashmir for the last four years. Let’s hope
this plan succeeds. At least it will dim his chronic nightmare of being a
one month old commissioned wounded POW at the mercy of Indians at Khulna in
the shameful war in East Pakistan. He himself had a soft corner for anyone
who would spit on the Indians and this man at least was trying to hurt them.
The allegations levelled against this man were serious. He was sure that the
magnitude of siphoning off funds, as reported, was not going on without Altaf’s
knowledge. But for now, he will put the inquiry, on hold. The operation had
very grave implications for any loser and it would not be right on his part
to sidetrack any effort due to an inquiry.
For his own bloody sake, the Brigadier better come up with an ace, mused the
General as he got up to keep the promised date with the utopian dancer, Zaida. |
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