Line of Control- A Thriller on the Coming War in Asia Page 12

  `Yeah, turn on the lights’.

  Singh and Goel were a study in contrasts and complemented each other beautifully. Singh was, for a fighter pilot, quite introverted. He believed in being thoughtful and systematic about everything he did. Many of his friends wondered how he had ever managed to get Sonaina, who had broken many a young pilot’s heart. He felt really at home only in the air-and he was acknowledged as one of the best pilots in the IAF in air combat. As a purely `stick and rudder’ man, there were probably others in the air force as gifted as Singh, but few had his tactical sense, and that unique killer instinct that sets a great pilot apart from the other.

  Goel, four years younger than Singh, was a maverick-who believed in living life as he wanted. He was the one to hit the bars first, and the last to leave-usually helped along by Singh. As a teenager, he had often got into trouble by hacking into computer systems. But his brash and maverick behavior hid a genius in electronics. It was said he never stayed with one girlfriend for too long, as they could never match up to his computer. Sitting in front of the Flanker’s sophisticated radar and weapons control computer, Goel was an ideal complement to Singh.

  Goel turned on the Flanker’s radar on air intercept mode and the targets showed up immediately-closing rapidly at the two Indian Sukhois. These were represented on the glass Heads Up Display in front of Singh’s eyes as green boxes slightly to his left. Singh looked at the numbers on his HUD-the lead PAF plane was now about fifty kilometers out, flying at around 8,000 feet.

  `No radar yet, boss. They’re probably not F-15s. They’re coming in dumb-and those F-15 jocks have not been very dumb so far.’

  `Probably. Falcon 2, I’m going for the lead-take his wingman. ‘

  `Goel, R-27’.

  Goel punched a button on the console in front of him to arm an R-27 Alamo air-to-air missile under the Flanker’s wing. Singh had an identical console in front of him and in case of an emergency could operate the controls himself. Similarly, Goel also had in front of him all the controls the pilot did, and was expected to fly the plane home in case the pilot was incapacitated.

  `Boss, they’re turning away-their RWR must have lit up!’

  Singh revved the big plane into a punishing 9g turn and swooped down at the PAF fighters, accelerating to over 700 knots.

  The range to the enemy fighters kept counting down on his HUD-40, 35, 28….

  At a range of twenty-five kilometers, a box on the HUD appeared indicating that the R-27 had locked on. But Singh pressed on-he would probably get only one shot at the fleeing PAF fighters and wanted to make it count.

  The two PAF fighters had now dropped lower, to less than 2000 feet, hoping to lose themselves in the ground clutter. This tactic may have worked with older radars on fighters like the MiG-23, but did not affect the Sukhoi a bit. The powerful radar had a firm lock on the PAF fighter, and with a speed advantage of almost 200 knots, the Sukhoi was closing in fast for the kill.

  `15 kilos, Boss. And he’s low and turning like a mad dog. It’ll be a tough shot.’

  Singh was now at 7500 feet, flying at 750 knots. His HUD showed range to the PAF fighter at just 14 kilometers. A high angle shot in look down mode was a tough shot under any circumstances. Singh waited a second and fired. A couple of seconds later, his wingman fired at the other PAF plane.

  The R-27 accelerated to over 2000 knots, covering the distance in seconds. The PAF pilot tried to evade, but the missile slammed into his port wing, ripping off nearly half his fuselage as he ejected from the stricken fighter. The other R-27 missed and the PAF fighter ran for home with all the power he had.

  `Beautiful, Boss. We’ve got a kill!’

  `Yeah-but it was a Mirage’. At this range, Singh could make out the delta wings of the remaining Mirage as it sped away over the border.

  `Boss, let’s go after the other one.’

  `Negative, we’ll run short on gas. Our mission is to cover those MiGs, not play cowboy with some Mirages.’

  The two Sukhois regrouped and were guided back to their original bearing by the AWACS.

  Singh’s calm demeanor could not hide the excitement he felt. His first air to air kill! What every fighter pilot trains and hopes for. He could feel his hands shaking as if from the exertion of a hand-to-hand combat, not the almost impersonal hi-tech nature of his combat victory. He had read about pilots who later had trouble recovering from the fact that they had actually killed a man not very different from themselves. But for now, all he could feel was the adrenaline pumping in his system. Plus, the bugger had managed to eject, hadn’t he? And then, another troubling thought came into his mind…

  Goel must have read his mind.

  `Don’t sweat, Boss. Next time, I’ll find an F-15 for you to chew up.’

  ***

  Major Danish Rahman could now clearly make out smoke rising from villages the Mujahideen had torched. It was history repeating itself-in 1948, the advance of Pakistani raiders had been slowed down by their insistence on stopping to rape and plunder villages on the way. It was happening again-the Mujahideen were not disciplined soldiers and would think nothing of attacking civilian villages, especially those with a Hindu population. In their zeal, they often ignored religious differences and attacked the nearest village. Ironically, the `liberators of Islam’ as Illahi had described them, were now turning on members of their own faith. While Pakistan wanted Kashmir for itself, for several years, the Kashmiri people had virtually refused to side with Pakistan, especially after their bitter experiences with foreign mercenaries in the 1990s. While many still wanted an independent state, armed terrorism had greatly subsided, and while some pockets of terrorism had emerged to support the Mujahideen offensive and the devastating attacks by foreign mercenaries on Indian forces in the valley, most Kashmiri civilians remained neutral.

  Rahman felt sorry for the hapless villagers, but there was nothing he could do to help them. However, he was determined not to let their sacrifices go in vain. Their deaths had given him invaluable time to prepare his defenses, so that he could avenge them manifold when the time came.

  He had almost four hundred men with him, along with five mortars and three anti-tank launchers. His first line of defense was a small hillock a kilometer outside the outskirts of Uri, where he had positioned all his mortars and launchers, along with a hundred men. Their job was to get the first shot away at the enemy, and try to inflict as many casualties as possible. However, they would not fight to hold the hill-when the Mujahideen approached, they would retreat into the city. It was in the city that the Indians would make their stand. Most of the civilians had already been evacuated, but around a hundred youth had stayed behind, to fight for their city with the Indians. They had been given rifles and rudimentary training, but their most valuable role would be as scouts in the house to house fighting that was now looking inevitable.

  Rahman considered himself lucky that the Mujahideen had no artillery-most of their guns having been destroyed in the initial air strikes. However, they were reported to number over two thousand-and with those kinds of odds, they did not need artillery. Rahman and his men had been staying near the city for over a year-and he had forged a strong bond with the locals. Many of his men had helped in local matters, and Rahman himself had taught at the small municipal school on some weekends.

  He still remembered the words of the old school principal before he was evacuated `Sir, destroy the city if you have to, but don’t let those robbers through’.

  For Rahman, the defense of Uri was much more than a job or his duty. It was personal. Born into a middle-class Muslim family in Baroda in Western India, Rahman had spent much of his formative years moving around Army cantonments in India, accompanying his father, a Jawan in the Indian infantry. Life had not always been easy, with a Jawan’s meager pay, but Rahman had picked up something growing up which no amount of money could buy-the camaraderie and traditions of the Indian Army. He had learnt from his father that the only thing that really drove a man to feats of valor
was the desire to protect his buddies, irrespective of religion or caste. And he had learnt just how meaningless attempts to divide people on the basis of religion were, growing up in an environment where men of all faiths prayed together. He could still remember his father’s tears of joy when Rahman had become an officer in the Indian Army. The old man had saluted his own son, saying just a few words- `Always remember, you’re a Jawan first, Hindu or Muslim second.’

  Seeing the mercenaries stream in from across the border in the name of Islam made his blood boil. Rahman had always considered himself a pious Muslim, and he had absolutely nothing in common with the cutthroats now pillaging villages in Kashmir. Rahman would die but he would never let Uri suffer the same fate.

  Looking at his men around him, Rahman was sure he wasn’t going to let the Mujahideen through cheaply. As he walked to inspect the defenses, he kept talking words of encouragement to his men.

  He did not make any extravagant speeches or give any lofty platitudes. His was the demeanor of one who has led men into combat for a large part of his life. A small joke here, a pat on the shoulder there, just merely referring to each and every man by his first name. The small, yet critical qualities that have set outstanding combat leaders apart from the time man first wielded a sword and shield into combat thousands of years ago.

  His soldiers prepared themselves for what they each knew would be the most desperate struggle they would have ever faced. To a man, they would have died for the tall, bearded officer, a Maha Vir Chakra winner in the snowy wastelands of Siachen.

  ***

  The roar of the powerful twin engines could be heard for a long distance in the small town. The MiG-25 reconnaissance plane had flown down to Barmer from its home base in Bareilly the previous day, and it was now taking off from the small forward base near the Indo-Pak border.

  Derived from the powerful interceptor of the 1970s, the MiG-25R retained the awesome speed and altitude capabilities of the fighter, but instead of intercept radar and weapons, was laden with cameras. India had bought a squadron in the early 1980s, and they still formed the backbone of India’s reconnaissance assets. In 2006, they were officially phased out, but with many delays in the satellite based system that was supposed to replace them, a couple stayed on in service.

  The pilot swung the big plane into a southwesterly course that would take it over the Arabian Sea and then towards his target-five hundred kilometers off Karachi, just over the 24th parallel.

  Laden with four fuel tanks and no weapons, the MiG may have looked vulnerable, but flying at 75,000 feet, there was nothing in the PAF inventory that could intercept it.

  It was a fairly boring flight. At this altitude, there was not much for the pilot to do, except ensure that his plane was headed in the right direction. That sounds much simpler than it actually is. For an aircraft that routinely flies well over the speed of sound, a slight change in direction could send the plane dozens of kilometers off course in a matter of seconds.

  As he neared his target, he put the MiG in a slow dive to get out of the thick cloud cover below him. Stabilizing the plane at 50,000 feet, he turned on the five cameras embedded in the plane’s nose. He had enough fuel only for two passes, and that was all he would require.

  His radar warning receiver lit off for a moment, as a ship based radar swept past him. Well, they would have to be very lucky to get him-his plane could run faster than most missiles.

  His second run over, he turned for home. The Sirena 3 warning system in his tail warned of a SAM launch. He fought the instinct to turn away from the missiles and abort his pass. For a split second, he felt the fear of impending death, as any man would. But then training took over-he looked at his instruments and prepared to meet the threat. The Indian modified warning computer on board indicated that the missile was a French built Crotale. He punched a few strips of chaff to hopefully confuse the missiles and then engaged the most powerful weapon he possessed-his plane’s awesome speed. The big plane accelerated to over Mach 2 and climbed to over 60,000 feet as the two missiles haplessly tried to catch up.

  ***

  `Sir, I can see them. They’re about two kilometers away. I can see three tanks’

  `Wait for 1000 meters and then take the tanks out. Open fire with your mortars only when they’re 500 meters away’. Rahman knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but the young Lieutenant who had reported in was a tough soldier. However, this was his first taste of combat-and the biggest thing was to keep your nerve, as Rahman knew from his own experiences.

  Lieutenant Umesh Phadke could now clearly see the T-55 tanks advancing towards his position. He had the advantage of surprise and would get the first shot. But he would have to make it count-for the Mujahideen outnumbered his force by almost ten to one.

  He had set up a classic perimeter defense, with the three Nag anti-tank launchers at the flanks-two on the right and one on the left. All mortars were at the center to provide concentrated fire and his four LMGs had been positioned ten meters ahead of the rest of his force, forming an arc over a clear field of fire, and also hopefully covering the missile-men from enemy counter attack.

  There were more enemy vehicles than he had estimated-he could now see four tanks and a dozen trucks loaded with Mujahideen.

  He ran over to each missile team with the same instructions, `Go for the trucks’. The tanks made for more glamorous targets, but each truck laden with men or ammo knocked out would reduce the odds he faced-and this battle was not going to be decided by the tanks, but how many men the Mujahideen could bring to bear on his force.

  `Range now 900 meters, Sir.’

  `Fire-and make each shot count.’

  With the advantage of complete surprise, his missile teams did not fail him. The three Nag missiles streaked towards their targets and destroyed three trucks, over twenty Mujahideen dying in this first salvo. The Mujahideen were quick learners, and the remaining soldiers jumped out of their trucks, so that they would be less conspicuous targets. The four tanks opened up with their 105mm cannon.

  `Take cover, we’ve got shells coming in’

  Phadke’s men emerged relatively unscathed from the first salvo-the aging T-55s firing from the outer limits of their range. However, Rahman did not fail to notice the impact tank shells bursting nearby had on some of the younger troops. Don’t fail me boys, please don’t.

  `Mortars at 500 yards. Missile teams, fire at will.’

  The five mortars opened up within seconds of each other and the shells fell in among the Mujahideen, kicking up dust and smoke as they exploded. The Mujahideen ran on, firing wildly from their AK-47s. The Mujahideen had never really taken on a professional army in head on combat, their tactics having evolved in hit and run attacks against the Russians and later similar attacks against the Americans in Iraq. Their experience against the Indian Army was reinforcing the age-old maxim that guerilla warfare and head on conventional battle are two very different things.

  Five hundred meters away, the Mujahideen commander, Major Mast Gul cursed his lack of artillery or rockets and his ill-disciplined soldiers for running in blind.

  `Tell those fools to take cover-the Koran won’t stop Indian bullets. And those tanks must think they’re invisible!’

  Such irreverence would have cost Gul his life in Afghanistan. But here, in the heat of battle, his experience and skill as a commander was worth more than his religious fervor.

  The Indian missile teams fired again, hitting two tanks. One exploded in a spectacular fireball, the other produced no such pyrotechnics, but stopped dead in its tracks with black smoke coming out its hatches. But the sheer weight of numbers was with the Mujahideen-who had now closed to within 200 yards.

  Phadke realized that staying on any longer would mean getting in a close quarters slugging match-which he was bound to lose.

  `LMGs fire two magazines and then pull back to the city. Mortars cover their retreat. Missile teams, one more salvo and you’re out.’

  The Mujahideen pressed on-at
this short range, their tank guns were beginning to tell-having knocked out at least one Indian LMG post. The last Indian missile salvo was nowhere as accurate-the gunners being distracted by Mujahideen tank fire-and hit only one truck.

  `Retreat, retreat.’

  The Indians sprinted back towards the city, leaving the hill to the Mujahideen.

  The Mujahideen swarmed over the hill, exulting in this easy victory. But Gul was more circumspect. He knew there would be bloody fighting ahead. He knew that the Pakistanis had promised to come in only if the Mujahideen could produce a genuine breakthrough, otherwise they would probably call it a `citizen’s uprising’ and stay away from all out war. The capture of Uri was the only real hope the Mujahideen had. In the rest of Kashmir, the pre-emptive Indian strikes had blunted much of the Mujahideen offensive. He resented what he and many other field commanders saw as Pakistan’s using the Mujahideen as pawns, shedding blood to get the initial breaks which Pakistan would exploit. But now he had little time for such thoughts-the capture of Uri was not going to be an easy task. He had already developed a healthy respect for the fighting abilities of the Indian Army, and was not given to the bluster of some of his more fundamentalist colleagues who believed they would `sweep the infidels in one stroke’. A former Major in the Afghan Army, he knew that religious fervor and military tactics were two very different things.

  The first skirmish had mixed results. The Indians lost twenty men and two of their LMGs, but had knocked out three tanks and accounted for nearly a hundred Mujahideen killed. But the odds were still heavily in favor of the Mujahideen-and with the Indians hunkering down in the city; there was nowhere to run.

  ***

  `Sir, this just came in-looks like very interesting stuff.’

  Khosla looked at the five black and white photographs on the table in front of him. Taken from an altitude of over 50,000 feet, they were remarkably clear-yet it would take a professional to really decipher them.

  `So, what do you guys make of it?’