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| Crimsonkashmir > Chapter 7 |
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| Spider’s Web |
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“A million weak strands make one strong web”
— Jesse |
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| Point 4714, Pir Panjal |
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(Intervening Period)
He had liked the site, the moment he set his eyes on it.
The immediate terrain and the hideout in particular was an ideal military
feast.
On the three sides were sheer unassailable cliffs. On the remaining side
there was a massive peak, a steep jagged black dagger, jutting out of the
broken rock crest-line.
The rising rocks resembled the minarets of Mecca.
Yes, this was a holy place.
Allah’s blessings were necessary to wage a holy war. It had a small
crater at centre of its base, allowing the snow to melt into a small scenic
pond. The sides of the crater had a number of huge wide cracks, aged by
erosion, creating deep crevasses onto its sides. He had explored these small
caves. Good, they could house people, in fact much more than he had envisaged.
The best part was that it was difficult to see the bowl, in the base of
massive peak, from air. Billets inside the rocks could never be seen. He
had tried going along both the side-shoulders of the rock from East and
West. He had explored with Risal’s help, but could not proceed further
as there was a sheer drop, whose bottom he could not see, in the swirling
mist below. The cliffs were just too steep. Good, an excellent fortress.
Not negotiable from North, East and West. The only route to it was along
a narrow spine, which innocently bifurcated from across Pir Panjal Pass
along old Mughal caravan route, from Punch Gabbar to Hirpur in the Valley.
It took Gul a good part of three days, to trek back to Nusur, straight into
the arms of his caring Nurie. He had recovered from his wounds, all thanks
to the doctor’s medicines and Nurie’s ministrations. The shoulder
had healed well including the minor fracture in the ribs. The pain had long
since gone. A dole of mutton, vegetables, milk and pure butter, ensured
his strength was back to normal. He was raring to kill.
Reshab had resisted the affection bestowed by Nurie on him, and had threatened
to bring the girl in line with his rigid thinking. A talk, a very mild talk
had smoothened matters, but not before Reshab in his typical bakarwal sense
of making a quick buck had managed to squeeze fifty thousand rupees from
him, to protect the family honour, as Nurie was not to be legally wed to
him.
Bloody family honour, thought Gul.
The sly man was himself planning to marry the widow of his cousin Risal,
who had died not even two months earlier. There had been a lot of wailing
and breast-beating, but Risal had become charmingly adamant, after the financial
deal had been sealed and he alone thrust this houri from heaven, into his
panting laps. He was even ready to part rupees two lakhs to obtain Nurie.
She had mesmerized him totally. What was money for? In any case, he did
not care about the expenses, as the Government of Pakistan would foot the
bill, for his sexual escapades, no, better phrased as his spiritual upliftment,
he reasoned.
Nurie stalked him like a slave. Ready to obey even before he could utter
a command. Ready to please. She had found a good reason for her existence
in him. He would definitely take her to the camp. It would add to his stature.
As it is, men-folk of Nurie’s clan, even children held him in awe.
He was the chosen one, the one who would give them deliverance from this
Indian misery. Wasn’t it that he was the only one to escape from the
Indian massacre? His time would come to avenge that painful loss. His blood
and passion had been aroused. He felt young again and he will repeat his
daring sagas of Afghanistan. They had not called him “janbaz”
for any miniscule reason. Earth and winds of Afghanistan bore mute testimony
of his bravery and incredible band of forty men. “Ali baba and chalis
chor,” was another nickname Ruskis had given him. Yes, he was a thief.
He had stolen back his country’s freedom from the yokes of white pigs
and infidels. He was again ready to steal the freedom, for his Kashmiri
brethren, the second time.
Warmth of the small campfire above Reshab’s house, in the side brook,
away from direct observation, bathed his shoulders. He played with a stick,
fiddling the fire embers and charcoal. Reshab was sitting opposite and his
face glowed in sudden flickers of the fire embers.
“Reshab, the camp site is good, we have water and shelter, and now
we need to stock it with food,” spoke Gul.
Reshab nodded silently.
“I don’t want any locals or any known tanzeems helping us. All
have been hopelessly infiltrated. Indians come to know the moment they belch.
Colonel Iqbal did not choose you and Risal without a reason. You both were
good. No, in fact, the best. I know you breath and smell money in everything
you do. You won’t be disappointed. Important thing is how to organize
the camp, at such a scale, without being found out,” Gul spoke, scratching
his madly itching wound, vigorously and further inquired, “And what
happened to the list of persons to contact. They are our sources for money
channelled through their business deals.”
“Well almost all of them have been contacted. Fund flow has started.
I have already collected rupees ten lakhs for this purpose and more money
is coming. It’s in your account. You don’t worry. The summer
is on us. I will shift my herd to the mountaintop. It’s one routine
yearly migration. I will get adequate security passes too. Though it is
a bit early, I will stake the claim for that area. In the movement to establish
one’s dera on mountain top, we will carry rations,” replied
Reshab.
“OK, then plan to move within the next three weeks. Ok yes, this is
important, no other women or children,” interjected Gul.
“Are you mad, how will we cook, who will look after the goats or milk
the cows,” cried Reshab raising his hands in despair.
“No woman, I repeat no woman, except Nurie who comes with me.”
He hesitated then added, “OK, take male children over 12 years of
age and as for milking and caring for goats I will teach you all, like little
children. All men, all jihadis will work in the camp and in any case, you
can’t fight the war, with women.”
Reshab stared at Gul in dark silence. “Well then, we have much to
do. Can you lend me an advance of rupees eighty thousand to buy the mere
essentials,” he asked, without mincing any word.
The genetic fleecier would want more for main essentials. Reshab had made
his intentions clear and it was time to make his clearer too, mused Gul.
“Take the money immediately from our account. I warn you, do not,
I repeat do not cheat on it. I will be very harsh if I found out otherwise.
Spend it wisely. First, within this week, you have to go to Jammu and then
again to Srinagar. We have to tie up a few details. I plan the initial orientation
not at the main camp, but much lower of Pir Panjal Pass near the forests
of Hirpur. It is going to be small affair for three days. If we succeed,
then a full-fledged operation will be conducted from ‘Allah’s
Rock’. Yes, Allah’s Rock is the name I have just conceived for
my camp,” Gul rasped in total concentration.
Reshab groaned on money restrictions imposed. But what the hell could a
foreigner do in his land. If he can’t be trusted for purchases they
were welcome to organize it themselves. Whatever little side cuts he had
planned and will certainly do were for covering the cost of dangers he was
engaged in. It was legitimate and not cheating. The boss himself had misappropriated
half a lakh to hump his sister. Was that a true cause? But to keep the cow
milking he had to be cautious and keep Gul amused at his money accounting
honesty. He smiled a big toothy picture to Gul and said, “I work for
the task of God. How can I even think of making profit from that holy enterprise?
To cheat would be to burn in hell.”
Gul stared back at the innocence of intentions displayed. He didn’t
believe the man opposite a bit. Their blood was devoid of that haemoglobin,
a defect passed down from the times of Allah. A known minor pilferage was
acceptable and necessary to keep this excellent organizer in good morale.
Check he must, to stall the operation from being converted into an organized
money loot programme.
Aroma of herbs, brewed with tea, filtered in before his majestic Nurie made
an appearance. Staring at her visible shape of nipples protuding out of
her kameez, he quietly took the steel cup and noisily sipped on the sugary
broth.
“I am presently helpless, like a toothless tiger, my fighting claws
have been severed. Little more time, say within ten days, we will have ‘God’s
own Army’ to give me the sword to chop Indian heads with. What a glorious
day it would be,” Gul said but not before intentionally brushing his
hands with Nurie’s, small round tight buttocks.
“Yes, Badshah of Murree has confirmed. The operation is under way,”
whispered Reshab. “I have arranged few Kenwood Radio Sets from my
underground channels. I will guide and receive them well,” he further
added, staring at the face of Gul, who in turn was staring at blushing Nurie.
Bloody immoral woman, he thought. She was bringing shame to the family by
flaunting herself about, but then what’s shame to the money she brought,
he reasoned.
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| Colombo |
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(1315h, 01 May)
The game was full of uncertainties.
Minuses fell on your lap like popping packet of popcorns. Pluses were rare
and rarely made an announcement. He had not seen them of late.
Grover was perplexed.
Seven men from hotel “Emerald Isle,” attending Pak-Ceylon business
promotion meet had disappeared. The front lobby, under constant observation,
had yielded nothing. No one had passed and yet the front office had confirmed
room vacation, at 6 AM.
Fruitcake Fernandez. Why couldn’t he use his peahen brain? All earlier
good work had come to a naught. But what could his four-man army, do. Twiddle
their big thumbs more furiously at each other. His repeated requests for
more manpower and money were always turned down. His last off-duty personnel
had to be rushed back, to track Pakistan’s second secretary’s
impromptu holiday drive, along the western highway to Jaffna. His merciful,
famous carpool had provided a timely tip. He must shower that man with more
money. Mr Rafiq Raza, alone with his petite, nervous-looking wife, with
four big suitcases, had gone along the coastal highway. Own trailing idiot
ran out of petrol 145 km North of Colombo and had lost further track.
Grover peered over the map.
The chase was sixteen hours old.
The fool had taken eight hours, in just heading back to Colombo, to speak
from the nearest telephone. The road passed through many villages abundant
with fishermen. His fingers slowly traced the villages, name by name. He
suddenly stopped and circled a cluster of five villages, North of a town
called Paltalun, where river Kala Oya met the Indian Ocean. They were the
only pure Muslim villages in the whole western province.
An hour later, after bumping along the gravelled roads, they came on a small
clearing, atop a bald hillock. The stunning blue expanse ahead dazed both
of them for a few seconds. They treated their eyes to the deep blue of the
Indian Ocean. It was deceptively calm and beautiful. Below them, lay the
biggest village of Shahpulai. Numerous boats danced in the waves, penned
to the makeshift wooden piers, along the white stretch of the beach. They
stopped their car and walked the remaining hundred metres, posing like mad
tourists in Bermuda shorts and big straw hats.
After two hours of making half-hearted purchases and persuasive haggling
on smuggled Indian goods, Grover could find out that a fast boat had left
supposedly for Maldives, early in the morning.
“Yes, a sahib from Colombo had seen them off. He came in a big car,
with a very smart woman. About seven very muscular college boys, may be
more, boarded the boat. They were working on some project about oceanic
studies, on fish movements, in the Indian Ocean,” muttered the old
crone, selling coconuts, on the beachfront. Grover was three thousand Sri
Lankan rupees down, for this small tidbit and was ready to be ten times
that amount down, if he only could get the exact destination of those stated
fishy studies.
My bloody left foot, he thought. Pakis studying Sri Lankan fish movements
and that too muscular ones.
It was very laughable.
Even the dear God seemed to be running out of any more interesting brainy
hypotheses. It did not gel as an acceptable idea, not even in his wildest
figment of imagination.
With top speed of thirty nautical miles per hour, the bloody dhow could
be anywhere in twenty-five thousand square km area, most likely near the
Indian coast by now. Twelve hours of lead was too much to catch up immediately.
He glum-faced peered into the vastness of the blue haze, helplessly.
At least, he still had some time, to warn the concerned people.
|
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| Tsrare Sharif/ Srinagar |
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(1130h, 07 May)
It had been nonstop gaiety and fun. She was glad that she had come despite
her earlier inhibitions.
They had all been singing for the last two hours. In tune or out of it,
in melody or without it. They had sung movie songs, Kashmiri songs, patriotic
songs, and militant songs, all known ones, minimum thrice over. The most
comical was that when the Indian Security pickets stopped them, they all
sang old Indian melodies and just beyond their hearing distance, Khushbu
would lead the pack with pro-militant, pro-azadi singlets. Singing and munching
on soft baked kulcha and nans was child-like merriment. Nafisa was already
dreading the remorse when this pleasurable day would end. It was too good
to be true. For the first time, in so many days she had giggled like a silly
teenager. There was love and happiness in the air. But she was a bit peeved
at a strange man sitting with Tahir. That idiotic, short, feminine, pansy
looking, man would stare at her, at repeated intervals. His eyes bled lust
and curiously enough, hate.
The boys were sitting in the front seats along with the driver, with Tahir,
making a throne over the bus bonnet, sat facing them.
A flirt thought Nafisa, as his eyes darted from one girl to another.
He wore that thin crooked smile when looking or speaking to them. In any
case, more than half were ready to run into his arms, legs apart, if he
wanted. If rumour mill was to be believed then he had bedded almost all
of them present now, including her dear friend Khushbu, who just did not
want to hear anything negative about her secret lover. She had guessed Khushbu’s
situation nearly three months back, when she had paled and howled on missing
the first three days of her periods. Happiness, crazy thankfulness had overcome
her friend on seeing her spotless white bed-sheet stained crimson red, one
fine morning, but only after popping a few clandestinely obtained menstruation
inducing medicines, from an equally shady character, who lived off from
income generated in rectifying such poor girls.
Suddenly, just five km short of their destination of the exalted sacred
shrine of Tsrare Sharif, the bus was pulled over into an apple orchard,
obscured from the main road. All the boys jumped down and started unloading
their suitcases piled on top. God, why carry suitcases for picnic, Nafisa
thought. Suddenly only half of them were left. Only then she noticed that
more masculine looking amongst the boys had disappeared with Tahir.
Somehow the planned picnic finished in the orchard.
The bus did not show any sign of moving back to the main road, onward to
its stated destination. Rather than just sit, Khushbu again bossed over
everyone to move down to stretch their legs. She somehow knew that Khushbu
knew that the journey was terminated. But of what happened subsequently,
she was sure that Khushbu had no prior inkling. All the girls eagerly skipped
off the bus chattering profusely. As she alighted, suddenly that feminine
looking man singled her out and shouted, “Yes, it was her, she is
the one who met that Indian Army officer at Hotel Cecil, a week back. She
is a bloody mukhbir,” he shouted more agitatedly.
She agape, stunned, stared at the frightening accusing voice.
Her head whirled with accusation. She wanted to shout, to protect her love,
to bray her innocence but no words came from her shocked sealed mouth. Khushbu’s
eyebrows were riding her forehead in mock horror. Her face was fury red.
Someone roughly grabbed her from behind and suddenly the whole world around
her collapsed as she fainted.
She woke up with a start to a stifled silence. Strangely the eerie silence
was painfully loud and frightening.
It was pitch dark and she was also shivering cold. The onset of summers
had not thawed the cold beset in her bones. Soreness tore through her slender
back. Uncut stones were jabbing into her soft flesh. She very slowly, in
dreaded apprehension stretched out till her nimble hands met a wall. She
felt her way around, in huge laboured breaths. Yes, she was alone in a small
room, maybe eight feet by six feet. Alone in a small dark room was not comforting.
Suddenly, she was very frightened. She opened her mouth and screamed. Her
muted sobbed screams continued till the wee hours of another glorious dawn.
Not that anyone noticed or heard of her plight, beyond those desolate walls.
She was a golden sparrow in an unknown sorcerer’s cage. |
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| Jammu |
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(1830h, 14 May)
Jammu Tawi-Kanyakumari Himgiri Express lazily rolled into platform number
three at 1830h.
The train was only four hours late. Not bad considering 2289 km of distance
travelled over two nights from Coimbatore to Jammu, reflected Captain Ahmad
Khan alias Mr Ashok Gupta of Third Special Force Battalion of Pakistan Army.
It had been a hectic and an eventful journey. Karachi to Colombo in style
by air, in comfort of a fishing boat to a deserted beach near Kanyakumari,
and lastly by a spacious taxi to their first safe house in Chennai. He admired
his country’s premier intelligence agency for having such an effective
and wide dragnet in and around India. That ISI operator, running a two-star
hotel in Saidapet locality, bang on Usman Road, in the black-human metropolis,
was a masterstroke in luxury and pampering. A good ten bloody days of orientation
to the Indian ways of life had invigorated his earlier tense demeanour.
The man Friday had provided new sets of identities, which all had practised
to master in twenty-four hours, though he hated his Hindu baniya one. He
was a very proud Punjabi Mussalman and to be equated with such unscrupulous
people, whose tales of even robbing their dead, were legendary in their
clan. It was personally, very demeaning.
The journey further fragmented out to other small towns in garb of sightseeing.
He was impressed with diversity of the intriguing culture.
Prosperity was even more disturbing.
What they had embarked upon was the only solution to drag India down to
their level of economic growth. Given equal opportunities, Indians will
gallop away and his country’s elite wont be able to explain that why
the land of pure was in the quagmire of poverty.
It was ultimately that from Coimbatore they had boarded his first class
air-conditioned coupe. The trip bisecting the heart of his enemy-country’s
territory had been very comfortable. He could not travel with his dear fellow
conspirators, who were lugging it out, in an ordinary second-class compartment.
Even in hostile territory, he had to maintain his separate officer’s
status.
This was his second infiltration into India.
First had been in the valley last year, to protect and induct three valley
chiefs of various organizations and key ISI coordinators into the town of
Kupwara. It had been via the land route. That had been a very tough assignment,
infiltrating through Indian defensive positions on the LoC. They had lost
two men going in and further three while exfiltrating. He had been very
lucky on both the occasions to miss the main ambush by ten to twenty metres
in the pitch-dark night. That was the general safety distance, from a certain
death to safety, always.
The most interesting part of this second journey inside India was that three
girls accompanied them. All decent local Muslim girls, provided by their
operator in Chennai. They were a fantastic cover up. He hugged Ayesha alias
Sita as he alighted to find a taxi to take them to Hotel Asia at Katra.
Amongst the chaotic crowds and throng of teeming humanity, he and his acquired
bride moved out of the railway station. They were devout Hindu tourists
on their way to pay homage, in that famous infidel’s shrine. Others
would also reach by bus or taxi as it suited them. Further coordination
would be done from Katra itself.
|
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| Bangkok |
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(0930h, 15 May)
“I am Mr Badshah from Karachi,” said a gruffly voice.
“This is Rani from Pakistan International Airlines, what can I do
for you sir,” she replied sweetly as ever.
“I wanted to thank you for our reservations earlier. We had a good
flight and have reached our homes comfortably, all thanks to your excellent
service. I was told for onward destination to contact you,” the male
voice spoke again authoritatively.
“Yes sir, please note down. Your cousin from Multan will be available
at 146.750. Thank you sir, nice to hear from you,” she said, putting
the phone down.
Few minutes later Sibal was pulling his hair down.
Voice amplification signatures showed a totally different voice. The piece
of equipment had reached its destination. Where? Again it was a big question.
Contact number did not tally with any known telephone codes, so it must
be a radio frequency. He must sound alert for a general monitoring of it.
He himself was not convinced of his intelligence tomfoolery but warn he
must. All the elements seemed to be in place and they had no clue of what
it was, except maybe, an infiltration of some key personnel as confirmed
by Grover in Colombo.
What was it for?
He was in total dark and fearful.
It would be worthless to discover their intent when the event was over.
|
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| Katra |
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(1430h, 16 May)
Multan had confirmed his arrival half an hour ago.
Relief was instantaneous, when visual contact was established, at the congested
bus stand of Katra. No one paid attention to a bakarwal hugging a masculine
young Punjabi-looking Hindu, accompanied by his sari clad, little darkish,
typical South Indian-featured wife.
The hotel staff was perplexed.
The visitors wanted immediate clearance. They had not even gone up the shrine
for the visit. However, the smart young man after collecting the Vaishno
Devi shrine visit passes explained that they, after the visit, would not
return and go back straight to Jammu. Why should I worry, thought Mr Narendera
Jamwal, the manager of Hotel Asia, if his visitors had paid the full amount
including the day of their visit to the shrine.
Two hours later, three taxis left for Poonch via Riasi, carrying a marriage
party. The bride was being taken home. Ayesha was decked up accordingly
and played her role perfectly. She even took out real sobbing tears at each
security checkpost on the road axis. Even sternest of military personnel
all over the world, melt, drool, tears drop, display a queer sense of caring,
when confronted with teary brides. Manifestation of their pathetic family
life must be so, the Special Forces officer calmly reasoned. Malleable gullible
buffoons, laughed Captain Ahmad Khan hugging his voluptuous wife referred
to as Ayesha and her firm tits in good measure.
The taxis were flagged through and went unchecked, through three checkposts,
till the road head, just short and below the village of Nusur.
|
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| Delhi
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(1030h, 24 May)
Chaos was his working hallmark. He believed in its ideology in full measure
and thrived in it.
Mr Mukand Sharma, Director, Intelligence Coordination and Analysis Desk
of RAW, had a busy schedule, as usual. Appointments had eaten into each
other and even his cute smart secretary was not sure who was late or ahead
in time but her boss still huffed and puffed in and out of his office at
a breakneck speed to keep all amused. His desk lay cluttered with reports,
analyses and numerous inputs from abroad and sister agencies at home. Two
computer screens on his desk were churning over some data at a furious pace.
It further added to the chaotic display on his desk. Only Sharma, with one
blink of an eyelid could focus and decipher the shifting data on screen
in front of him. His stubby chin and bloodshot red tired eyes did not deter
him to do what he dwelt on passionately, knowing about what others were
doing around him, at all times.
He had read reports of Sibal and Grover. Isolated inputs far apart in geographic
context but co-joined in intent. The separate events were beginning to make
some sense. But why such an exercise? Something very dear to Pakistan was
being executed. For what, what purpose? What could be the aim?
It was like a boil in the ass. Pus accumulating, but not bursting.
What had happened in the last two months, which had miserably, backfired
for Pakistan and made them run around like panicked colts on a death chase?
He jotted down a few major events, which had occurred recently.
• Cancellation of US orders for F-16 aircraft.
• Putting ‘persona non grata’ their ambassador in Nepal
on the charges of distributing fake currency.
• Disclosure of arms shipments to Sri Lanka.
• Killing of their deep-cover mastermind ISI Muslim MLA, again in
Nepal.
• Interdiction of forty odd jihadis at the border – the biggest
catch ever, on the troubled LoC, in Kashmir.
Of all above, the first three issues did not require shifting of men and
material, at any stage. They were dead issues and best politically motivated.
It required Foreign office intervention and not his. The last two were promising.
But replacing something like their Nepalese MLA would require only a one-man
changeover and to his best of knowledge their basic machinery had not been
affected. He was sure they were very firmly entrenched in the Himalayan
kingdom. Poor Nepalese, they did not know what shit they were getting into,
in wooing Pakistan or for that matter China, as a counterbalance to India.
They were welcome to free flow of jihadi ideas and communist subversion.
You always reap what you sow.
We had bitterly learnt it in Sri Lanka. When he had tried explaining it
to his Nepalese counterpart and an old Saint Paul school friend, he had
grinned and just shrugged his shoulders. But what he had uttered later had
amused him.
“If there is no difference between India and Nepal then how will the
elite rulers, big, small or petty ones, survive. How will we get and sanctify
our minor privileges otherwise? We have to ensure that the differences exist.
If none exists then we will create some to exist. That’s how we can
justify a separate Hindu state, away from mainland Hindu subcontinent,”
he had explained. But to him it still did not make any sense despite his
friend’s smugness. They were willingly and knowingly stepping into
anti-India quagmire.
Best of luck, long lost pals. You will definitely need it in years to come.
His young, slim stiletto-healed secretary, walked in with his favourite
coffee and chicken mayonnaise sandwiches. She prepared them to his exact
taste, much to the annoyance of his wife, if he ever compared the finery
of art of his secretary’s cooking. Thanking her without looking up,
now to the utter annoyance of his doting secretary who loved being pampered,
he opened up a detailed report passed through Army Intelligence, on the
incident near Haji Pir Pass. Only two pages into the twenty page thick file,
he knew he had hit the jackpot.
|
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| Poshiana Forests
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(2030h, 30 May)
Their grim faces were shining intermittently.
Pale long faces with equally long unkempt beards were shimmering in reflection
of kindled flames, leaping out from the pine logs placed in a two feet deep
pit, slightly ahead of them. All were sitting in a hollow square, on a green
opening, sloping downwards. Across the fire-lit pit, sat three men on a
little higher ground pedestal, supposedly the new commanders of these jihadi
forces. By the evening, all jihadis knew them, at least by face, if not
by name. They had been instrumental in welcoming all to this place and organizing
their short stay. Jihadis of various tanzeems had poured in one by one from
various directions at different times.
For the last one day of their forced march through these jungles they had
only one aim. To reach the massive thirty feet in diametre, the magical
Chinar tree on the Northern periphery of the village of Poshiana. They were
received with due courtsey, escorted nicely and looked after well, at least
till now. Apprehension still remained as none trusted the security arrangements
of another and was evident in the nervous looks, which frequently darted
across. Feared Indian Army could come in from anywhere, anytime. Who was
sure that they had not been betrayed? However the trio of men had been firm.
The camp security was theirs.
It was visible and looked good.
Rasool Bhat’s generally very steady eyes had been roving around, and
sizing up the men loitering, on the perimetre duty. He had been the one
to take up the issue of security.
The men looked different.
Their weapons were lazily brushing their side hips as they walked casually.
Their gait was definitely not jihadi.
It was crisp, comfortable and very deliberately relaxed.
Body profile also looked too athletic. Biceps and muscles gleamed and wanted
to burst out of their cotton fabrics. It was very unlike the cute paunches
he had seen most God’s men support.
No stained yellow teeth.
No habit of living on the high, generated by narcotic naswar. He remembered
his old Kashmiri jihadi joking about Afghani mercenaries he had encountered,
“They can dump jihad but not naswar.” Unlike any other war waging
blokes he had earlier known. Rough hands but clean. No dirty animalistic
smell, typical of months of accumulated sweat, emanating from their clothes.
Beards yes, but trimmed neatly. Before they all sat down together, he had
observed one of the cleaner version of the God’s men stiffen as one
small but muscular one approached him to supervise the overall security
of the makeshift camp.
Then it struck him like a brick falling over his genitals.
Not that any pain reflected on his otherwise calm face. His breath deepened
and eyes fractionally narrowed in concentration.
He knew what he was looking for. He knew what he wanted to see. He was sure
now that he knew of what he had been suspicious of, so instantly. His worst
fears had come true.
They were men in uniform, in jihadi fatigues.
They were Paki Special Forces Commandos.
|
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| Srinagar
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(1000h, 06 Jun)
As usual he had nothing concrete to go by.
Reports filtering in for the last two months had been vague at first, however,
later they had stabilised to something plausible. But in intelligence, no
information was true, unless proven by facts. Everyone worked on hearsay
or verbal communication. No one ever gave you written detailed notes of
any terrorist intention or plans, unless of course, you picked ISI funding/operational
plan dossiers. They came, but at best once in two years, if you were extremely
lucky. You deduced, the best you could, from tidbit of information, filtering
from various sources, intercepts, police, robbers, pimps, moles, spies,
captured terrorists, turncoats and plain gossip uttered from scotch stinking
mouths of politicians, businessmen, doctors, lovers and the best and most
authentic, from the jilted lovers.
Life was lackluster, holed up in one corner of Badami Bagh cantonment.
After Fort Knox, which housed America’s wealth, the most heavily guarded
place on earth.
Warming his lean buttocks in the workplace one could not obtain intelligence.
His job meant meeting hundreds of people a day. At best, he could interact
with ten personally and about twenty through telephone. Somehow he still
pulled on. He deputed his deputies to give him secondhand knowledge, where,
by all logic, he should have got it, first-hand. The corruption due to different
perceptions soiled the purity of his information. Still he invested in them,
as he had deadlines to keep, some bosses to please, who could read his reports
without any mind tease. The problem did not finish here. He was a Army HQ
unit, located at Badami Bagh. A copy of all his reports was endorsed to
the local formation where he was stationed. To make matters worse the local
Corps Commander treated him like his own staff and he had to be present
at his will, to decipher nuances of his projections and to clear the old
man’s foggy views but a very sharp analytical mind. For the last ten
minutes, he had been standing at ease, opposite Lieutenant General Rocky
Dass who was scrutinising his latest inputs.
“This last summation is interesting. But what is the actual possibility
on the ground,” asked the Corps Commander gently.
Colonel Mushtaq, Officer Commanding 762 Army HQ Liaison Unit, stiffened
and replied, “Sir, I believe such an operation is already underway.
All ground inputs have confirmed terrorists of different tanzeems moving
out for an ultimate mission. Having corroborated all the inputs including
the neighbouring 16 Corps, I feel the camp will be established somewhere
in Pir Panjal ranges. It has its advantages. It’s central to the valley,
Poonch and Doda districts. Moreover, it’s in the interior and it is
a very difficult terrain. Army deployment too is meager and grossly inadequate.
Even the RAW-alert has confirmed that a major group for the same has infiltrated
via Sri Lanka, when its initial attempt was foiled at Haji Pir sector last
March. They are up to something very big, sir.”
“Any inputs from those captured terrorists. I am sure, it was part
of the same plan,” told the General.
“Nothing sir. They were minor Kashmiri boys, who knew nothing of any
bigger operation,” replied the Colonel and then further added, “We
have identified their commander. One called Gul. He is an Afghan. With RAW’s
help we have got his dossier. His capabilities are remarkable and if he
is being inducted for the reasons he specialises in we do have a problem
in our hands.”
“I foresee major operational problems if only ten per cent of what
you say, comes true,” said the General and beckoning the Colonel closer,
he continued almost in a whisper, “Let me share a secret with you.
The Chief the other day, told me to bring up the subject with you only in
an emergency. I feel this is an emergency. I will not question you again
or you mention the subject ever, except that one more person that is I am
in knowledge-trap. What about Black Falcon?”
Colonel Mushtaq took a sharp intake of air-conditioned air, to keep his
composure, unbreakable. He stared back and replied, “Black Falcon
has disappeared. No communication since the last two weeks. I am myself
worried too.”
“OK, I am sure you are working on the problem. Keep me posted on specifics.
Let me see if we can refocus our attention on to some suspected areas. Oh,
leave that dossier of that terrorist. One more thing, no need to alarm everyone,
at least not till now. See you later,” said the General, dismissing
him.
Each stride out of the General’s office rattled his sanity.
The Colonel cursed all and sundry.
His only ace was becoming a public knowledge.
If this sharing of the secret business kept going on, then his ace will
surely become a two of spades and a dead dodo, within a few months.
“Yes Ranvir, that’s what I mean. Please come tomorrow with refined
concept of keeping those areas under surveillance,” said 15 Corps
Commander. After listening for a few seconds again, he replied, “Ranvir,
I know you are very thin on ground. Surveillance by other means is being
reassigned. Yes, at worst pull out two battalions from the present Counter-Insurgency
grid. No, you do it and present the plans. Sorry, I can’t give you
any additional troops. See you tomorrow.”
Maj Gen RV Singh, GOC 9 Mountain Division located about forty km away from
his boss, bit his knuckles in frustration. He had just stabilised his deployment
of troops a few months back, when suddenly additional 311 Mountain Brigade
sector was given to his division. It had made no sense. By all refutable
logic, that Brigade sector should be with the Rajouri division. He had no
access by road, except pony tracks. The sector was maintained ex-Poonch
falling under different formations.
Now again a reshuffle.
He was not sure of Corps Commander’s intentions, but he had an inkling
of suspicion. Very garbled intelligence inputs after the March incident
were filtering in. Despite his vehement disagreement of inclusion of the
disputed sector into his area of responsibility, he had loved the glory,
which came with that successful operation of 1/9 GR.
Back in his office a little later, Colonel Mushtaq tore open a letter and
read its contents. Shit another one of those circulating chain letters.
How come the postal authorities don’t get to the bottom of such muck?
Exemplary punishments across the board will immediately set the malaise
right. As he got to throw it in its rightful place in the dustbin, he spied
on an interesting quote, a universal law of some idiot Jesse stating that
the clarity of intelligence is directly proportional to the number of intelligence
agencies involved divided by a constant; the constant being that singular
source in avid employment of all known Indian intelligence agencies.
On that score he could not fault that stupid man’s observation.
Bn HQ 1/9 GR, |
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| Pir Panjal |
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(0930h, 07 Jun)
It had been burning his innards for last so many months. Now the pain was
too acute, to let it fester in that state and a balm, a human balm was needed
to lessen it.
A great risk had been taken and was enough in nature to sack him, if found
out. A gambler’s dice was wedged at the rim of abyss, ready to fall
off and reveal its magical numbers. He knew that the dice was loaded against
him. But then you can’t command military units without taking risks.
The secret was safe in the battalion but he could no longer hide it. He
had not reported capturing the guide, in a wounded but unconscious state,
hoping to discover more information about terrorists later. One day merged
into another and the thing got postponed inordinately. Though the Regimental
Medical Officer had done his best to ensure that the chap did not die, he
had failed to revive him back to consciousness. There was no medicine on
earth, which could fructify his desire. The man’s wounds had healed,
less the scars. His vital organs were normal, but the terrorist was slumbered
into a deep coma since 03rd March.
What an ironical situation.
Three months of blissful sleep for the traitor and worst kind of deepest
anxiety for the country’s protector. That rodent of a traitor snores,
silent, uncaring and big fat ulcers he, the esteemed saviour, reaps. But
why blame him. It was the classic case of putting your own shit-steeped
foot in your mouth. A good material for a moralistic story, to be published
later, on what all is not to be done while commanding a unit.
But this was the least of his worries.
The idiot could sleep for a decade more as if he cared or die sleeping or
be induced to die sleeping so he could go quietly to his unmarked grave.
The timing had gone wrong and they overslept. The trouble lay in that the
main body of his relieving unit, 14 Rajputana Rifles, was already in location.
Those ‘Raj-ruffians’ had surprised everyone in reaching his
location, ten days earlier. In the same location the issue could not be
safely hidden. Within the next two weeks, his unit was to move out. Should
he or should not he confide in the relieving units Commanding Officer. On
looks, Colonel PP Singh looked a very positive man, but he was not sure
that he could trust him. Anyhow, no one was sure of anyone. That was the
problem of the Indian Army. There were many legendary tales of woe, on handing
and taking over, he contemplated. Already the over-zealous junior staff
officers of both the units were trading blows on the state of equipment,
when only twenty five per cent of it had been handed over. God only knew
what would happen when they reach the desired objective of total turnover.
Despite that, his heart told him otherwise.
A proud second-generation officer, Colonel Vishamber Singh Thapa, lifted
his field telephone set, to invite his slim and tall counterpart.
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| Gund Machar, Lolab Valley
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(2000h, 11 Jun)
The meeting was in the order of things.
Both willingly met for the fourth time.
Nazir with a cocked 7.62 mm Chinese pistol tucked inside his loose shirt
and Yadav with his snipers aiming at his perceived friend’s back.
Both still lacked trust.
Both hated each other.
Both spoke to each other.
Both smiled at each other.
Both shook outstretched clasping hands as long lost friends.
The one uniformed could not love an anti-national, the other, the son of
an ardent jamaiti, nothing un-Islamic. Something Indian was very opposite
in meaning for the both of the interpolators.
They met again for not more than two minutes. Beyond that there was no trust.
Two days later, Major Yadav’s Rashtriya Rifles Battalion conducted
a spectacular raid, killing five Pakistanis, owing allegiance to Harkat-ul-Ansar.
The hideout, their home, for the last one year, deep inside the jungles
was not known to many.
Same night seventy thousand rupees astounded Farida, the wife of the dreaded
Hizbul terrorist Nazir.
Sixty for the five heads and ten just to buy more trust.
Both hated each other. Both did not trust each other. But both loved something,
Yadav the information and Nazir the money. Both had nothing more to give.
Nothing happens in Kashmir without profit.
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| Srinagar
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(1250h, 10 Jun)
He had gone crazy. It was visible on his face.
His Nafisa had gone missing after her picnic trip. No one was telling anything.
Her friends gave dumb blank stares. Thought he saw fear registered on some.
Worst was that most denied knowing her in any way? Even her best friend,
the one she endlessly chirped about, was not forthcoming. That woman’s
gaze scorched him, as he was a thief. The University Dean was not at all
helpful. He said that she might have gone home. But why, he could not answer.
The local police did not want to register the case. The University staff,
or her relatives or her friends had not made any statement. His statement
was not valid, as he was a mere acquaintance and that too from outside the
state. He would have gone mad if his old unit officer, posted in staff,
at 302 Sub Area in Srinagar had not helped him in running about and retain
his sanity.
He was certain, that she was in acute problem and he was also certain that
it was due to him. |
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