Line of Control- A Thriller on the Coming War in Asia Read online

  The Indians knew that, equipped with four Exocets each, the Agostas could launch an attack from about fifty kilometers away, and to guard against this, had a pair of Sea Kings sweeping the sea around the task force.

  Ramnath’s group had two key missions-interdict the Saudi convoy when the order came, and to destroy the remnants of the Pakistani fleet left after the Kilo attack. His immediate concern however, was dealing with the Pakistani submarines stalking his force.

  `Missiles in the air-twenty kilometers, bearing one-six-four!’

  Ramnath looked at the radar screen to see the two Exocets closing in on the group.

  `Air defenses, engage incomings. All ships activate countermeasures. Get the Sea Kings on that bastard!’

  The two missiles were now barely skimming the sea-closing in at over 500 knots. The Pakistani captain had fired at the largest target, and one missile was homing on the Vikramaditya. The other had locked on to the Delhi. The Delhi was equipped with 36 Indian designed Trishul missiles just for this eventuality. In testing, the Trishul had scored a 60% one-shot success rate against subsonic sea-skimmers. Now Ramnath would find out if it worked nearly as well in real life.

  At a range of fifteen kilometers, the INS Delhi fired a salvo of four Trishuls, two aimed at each Exocet. The smoke trails of the Trishuls stood out against the blue sky as they streaked towards the Pakistani missile. Three of them missed, causing Ramnath to muse that if things worked as well in real war as they were claimed to in tests-there would be no casualties-as everyone would be knocking the other side’s missiles out of the sky.

  The fourth Indian SAM however locked on to one of the Exocets and exploded near it, destroying it a safe distance from the Indian ships. The other however kept coming in at the Vikramaditya.

  `Barak, CIWS!’ Ramnath cried out to his weapons officer to activate the carrier’s Close in Weapons Systems.

  The Vikramaditya was equipped with four multi-barreled Gatling guns to deal with such close in threats. Controlled by the ship’s main radar, these guns would spew out bullets at any incoming threat at over 3000 rounds a minute. In addition, it had a battery of Israeli designed Barak short-range missiles, specifically designed to deal with threats like the Exocet.

  Two Baraks were fired at a range of just over five kilometers. To Ramnath’s dismay, both missed the Exocet and flew on. The two port guns opened up, laying a barrier of metal in the path of the missile. The first burst missed, and the missile was now just a kilometer away. The guns readjusted and fired a second burst, which exploded the Exocet just a couple of hundred meters from the Vikramaditya. The fragments from the destroyed missile hit the side of the Indian carrier. There was no serious damage to the ship, just a few dents that would not impair operations. However, some of the fragments hit a group of seamen who, rather foolishly, were watching the missile home in. Four of them received fairly serious cuts and were sent to the ship’s hospital.

  `Sir, we’ve got a fix on him. Ten kilometers out, doing ten knots, coming straight in.’

  `Well, he’s got balls. Hasn’t given up yet.’

  Ramnath watched his ASW plot as the Indian Sea King dropped a torpedo into the water. The torpedo tracked in on the Agosta, and Ramnath watched it merge with the submarine icon on his screen.

  `Negative-he’s still there. I think we just blew up a decoy.’

  `Sir, sixteen kilometers and closing.’

  This was one tough guy, Ramnath thought. But probably a bit too aggressive for his own good. The Pakistani skipper had most probably been frustrated in his attempts to get in close to the Indian carrier due to the gauntlet thrown up by the Indian choppers and escort ships. That was probably why he had taken the risky gamble of firing Exocets and giving away his position at pretty long range. What Ramnath did not know was the tremendous pressure Pakistan’s submariners were under to show some results. So far the war at sea had gone almost all India’s way. That was in large measure responsible for the Pakistani skipper’s one error in an otherwise flawlessly executed engagement. Now Ramnath would make him pay dearly for that mistake.

  The Sea King dropped another torpedo from point blank range.

  `That’s a kill. Confirm, sub destroyed.’

  To his surprise, the exultant cheers on the bridge of the Vikramaditya soon gave way to groans. That’s when Ramnath looked at the message being flashed by the Delhi.

  `Need to be a bit faster, big guy. Missiles aren’t for staring at.’

  The Delhi crew would be insufferable now, their ship having claimed all the honors in this engagement-shooting down an Exocet and then one of its choppers claiming the sub kill. In contrast, the Vikramaditya had ended up looking a bit foolish.

  Well, that would have to change. Ramnath knew this had been a very close call-next time; the INS Delhi’s jibes would be least of his worries if a missile got through.

  ***

  `Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

  The Patriot turned around at the guard’s challenge. He knew it was dumb of him to be here, but the last transmission had been explicit. They wanted more detailed information. What they did not seem to understand was that he did not have first hand access to everything, and getting information carried its own risks. Which was why he was hanging around outside the Boat Club at Karachi on a Sunday afternoon.

  He spoke as the guard, a young boy barely out of his teens, approached him.

  `Yes, what is it?’

  `Don’t you know that area is only for those who have rented boats. With the war, no boats are being rented out.’

  `Sorry, I didn’t see the sign.’

  The Patriot quietly walked back and sat at a bench. Typically he operated through informants, often on a one-time basis, so that they would not know anything more than their one assignment. Some informants had, of course been cultivated over a period of time, through money, and sometimes, blackmail. They of course, never met him. To them, he was a faceless Dr Dastur, who would call and ask for packages to be delivered at a specified location.

  So far the system had worked well. Only one of his operatives had been arrested so far-a clerk in the army whom he had bribed Rupees fifty thousand to get a confidential file. The investigation never got too far, since the poor clerk simply did not know who had asked him to do the job. And The Patriot never got caught as he realized a trap was being set the moment he entered the drop area, and just walked on. But there was a real risk that one day he would be compromised. Which was why he took precautions as he was doing today. The drop was at five-o clock, but he was waiting from four thirty. He had scanned the area and judged it to be clear. Now all he had to do was to wait for his operative. Today’s information was relatively easy-the Indians wanted to know the operational deployment areas of Pakistan’s Agostas. For this, the Patriot was using a leverage in the Navy that he had not used as yet-an Operations Officer on whom he had evidence of corruption-which in turn he had paid one hundred thousand Rupees for.

  At five o’clock, a man entered the park next to the boat club. The Patriot had a clear view of the area, and watched the man furtively look around before taking out a small envelope from his jacket and place it in the garbage can, as had been agreed.

  The Patriot made no attempt to move towards the bin. He calmly walked over to the adjacent cafe and sat down, ordering supper. He would watch the bin for the next two hours, when it would be dark enough for him to quickly reach into the garbage can without anyone observing him. Only then would he approach it. In his profession, patience was a virtue that kept you alive

  ***

  THIRTEEN

  If fighting will not result in victory, then you must not fight, even at the ruler’s bidding.

  - Sun Tzu

  `This is wonderful news! God, I’d like to meet that Major and congratulate him myself’, Khosla was in a good mood after several days. The news of the Uri raid had spread fast, and the newspapers were full of it. Public morale, which had been sagging after news of the steady progress of the
raiders and the IAF’s inability to get quick air superiority, had received a double boost with the news of the Navy success off Karachi, and now the Uri counterattack.

  Khosla could see tired, smiling faces all around. His service chiefs, Randhawa, Raman and Sen had been living with great stress ever since the whole thing began. The last two days had given them something to cheer about. Joshi was the only one with a frown on his face.

  `Well, Joshi, anything we should know about?’

  Joshi was scratching his nearly bald pate, an action that Khosla had long come to recognize as a sign of nervousness.

  `Sir, there’s some intelligence.’

  `Yes, go on.’

  `But it’s from the Patriot.’

  `I understand-but at least tell us what the intelligence is. These are the guys who will have to act on this intelligence.’

  Joshi began speaking reluctantly, `Sir, the Patriot says that Pakistan is about to launch a ground offensive in Kashmir to take Uri. The offensive should begin in a day or two.’

  `Well, so our friend finally proves his worth. So, Randhawa, what are we doing about reinforcing our boys in Uri.’

  The Army Chief lost much of his cheer, `Sir there’s no way we’ll get substantial ground reinforcements there in time. As you know, terrorists had triggered a landslide on the main highway with explosives. We’re still struggling to clear it-but we need at least two days more. The only way to get forces there is to airdrop them, and Sen had an issue on that. We’ve discussed this before.’

  `Sen, what’s the issue?’

  `Sir, we don’t have decisive air superiority yet-we estimate around ten to twelve F-15s left, plus the AWACS are around-if they make a concerted effort, they could really chew up any airdrop effort. With those E-3s, they’ll know we’re coming as soon as our planes take off.’

  Khosla was going to have none of it.

  `Those boys have shed their blood and sweat, holding out against impossible odds. I’ll be damned if I let them die. We’re going in! Put as much fighter cover as you want, but we’ll not lose Uri.’

  He turned to Randhawa again, `Now that we know the bastards are moving, lets kick off our attack in the plains and Raman, let’s sink that damn convoy if they refuse to turn around.’

  Joshi spoke up again, `Sir, actually the Patriot has another piece of news, the 45th fighter squadron, their top F-16 squadron, has been moved to Karachi to protect the convoy.’

  Raman looked at Sen, `Sen, the Vikramaditya alone can’t handle the convoy and a squadron of F-16s- she has only sixteen fighters. Your boys will have to suppress Karachi while the convoy is hit.’

  As the Services Chiefs walked out, Sen looked quizzically at Randhawa, `Who’s this Patriot?’

  `Don’t know guys. He’s a mole we have in Pakistan. The grapevine says that he’s been there for many years. Only the PM and the top Intelligence guys know who he is.’

  `Well, whoever he is, I think he’s saving a lot of lives.’

  ***

  There was complete silence in the large briefing room as Lt. General Manoj Shetty stepped up to the podium. Behind him on the wall was a large computer projected map of India’s western border.

  Shetty commanded the XII Corps of the Indian Army, based in Rajasthan. A powerful force, the XII Corps had at its disposal three infantry divisions, four artillery regiments, two T-72 tank brigades, and Chauhan’s Arjun regiment. In all, a force of over 35,000 men with 250 tanks, 200 artillery and rocket pieces and five hundred other vehicles including the missile equipped BMP armored personnel carrier. It was a powerful striking force, and Shetty was laying out its objectives.

  As Shetty spoke, Chauhan could sense the buzz of anticipation in the room. This was it-the real thing. He knew that further to the North, Lt. Gen Parvindar Sandhu, commanding officer of the XI Corps in Punjab, was carrying out a similar briefing. The XI Corps would be the spearhead of the Indian offensive, and its primary objective was to rush to Lahore. The XI Corps was the single most powerful unit in the Indian Army, with four infantry and one armor division-equipped entirely with the T-90.

  As the plans were laid out, Chauhan felt a bit disappointed. It was really going to be the XI Corps’ show. The XII Corps was going to make a diversionary attack in the South, making Pakistan divert resources to stop what looked like a thrust at its heartland, while the XIth would push on to Lahore. He had half expected it-the cream of India’s armor was with the XIth Corps, and it was no surprise that they would spearhead the attack in the plains.

  As the briefing ended, Chauhan walked out. Most of his fellow officers were excitedly discussing the briefing, but Chauhan stood to one side. As the group dispersed, he started walking in the direction of his bunk.

  He had walked only a few feet when he stopped. To the right, in the corridor that connected the Briefing Room to the Mess, was Pooja. She was writing something, sitting on the low wall. Chauhan had never thought of himself as very poetic, but for once he wished he could think of words more poetic than `beautiful’. Pooja’s face was showcased beautifully by the afternoon sun behind her, her black hair blowing in the gentle breeze. Her eyes were glued to the piece of paper on which she was scribbling furiously.

  Chauhan walked up to her slowly, wondering every few seconds whether he shouldn’t just turn and run for his bunk. Grow up, Chauhan, you’re acting like a love struck sixteen-year-old. He had been bowled over by the young journalist the moment he saw her-but he wouldn’t think of making any advances.

  He had never considered himself particularly good around women, and seemed to have a natural talent for saying the wrong things at the right time. This, combined with a particularly bad experience just after he had joined the Army, when a girl he had fallen quite madly in love with had walked out on him, had made him even more diffident while approaching women. As he had said to one of his closest friends, if you’re introverted, it takes a lot of effort to really open up, to wear your heart on your sleeve. If then it doesn’t work out, you just retreat into your shell with renewed fury-and it’s even tougher to come out again. At that moment, he realized just how abrupt he had been in dealing with her. Little did she know the thousand things that were plaguing his mind.

  `Oh, hi Colonel. What’s up?’

  Chauhan thought her smile could light up a darkened room.

  `Well, I was just coming from the briefing…..’

  `Yeah-I heard, we’re moving tomorrow, right?’

  `Yes. Well, I’ll go now. I want to check on the tank’s ammunition.’

  With that, Chauhan walked past Pooja. Ammunition, Chauhan mentally kicked himself as he entered his bunk.

  Pooja was beginning to understand the silent Colonel after all. After the first few meetings, she had caught him staring at her on several occasions. He would, of course, avert his eyes whenever she turned to look at him. But I wonder why he’s always so psyched up?

  ***

  Singh walked towards the briefing room to meet his pilots. He was thrilled at the fact that his squadron was so far doing a splendid job. It had claimed nine kills, including four F-15s and had lost only four aircraft in air combat. The MiG-29 squadron also based at Srinagar had done almost as well-six kills, including three F-15s, for four losses.

  He had been asked to select six crews for the mission, and he saw all eleven men in front of him. They were the cream of his squadron, and each crew had claimed at least one kill in the fighting over Kashmir. They represented the cutting edge of the Indian Air Force’s fighter crews and had been handpicked for this particular mission. This represented not so much the fact that the job in Kashmir was finished, but the simple fact that in the judgment of the Air Force, only these pilots, and these planes, had any realistic chance of pulling off the mission before them.

  `Well, guys, I know Kashmir’s picturesque and all-but we’re being moved temporarily to Jaisalmer for a special mission.’

  As he could have expected, Goel was the first to speak up.

  `But Boss, we were
just beginning to enjoy ourselves. A week more, and we may just have made those Pakis sorry they messed with us.’

  `Guys, you’re doing a terrific job-so this has nothing to do with performance. It’s a mission you’ll want to go along on. The Navy wants to hit some ships and being the Navy, they just pretend they can fly those fighters on their carriers. They’re much more comfortable on the sea, not above it. Give them a chance, and they’ll be sailing their fighters in some bloody regatta.’

  This drew amused laughter from the crew. It was a long-standing joke in the IAF about Navy fighter pilots, despite the fact that the Navy pilots in fact trained along with the Air Force.

  `So they want us to go and help them out. Look at it this way-you’ve whipped the F-15s, now’s your chance to go and kick some F-16 ass-right in their backyard.’

  As Singh briefed his men on the upcoming mission, he could sense a palpable change in mood. They were every bit as excited as he was. Now was a chance to hit the Pakistanis where it really hurt.

  ***

  Karim ordered yet another beer as he looked at Shoaib and Shamsher sitting across the table. They were sitting in the Officer’s Club in the heart of Islamabad, and were glad that they had finally got some privacy after they asked for a private booth.

  The three did not know each other well, despite having worked together as a team now for over four years. Karim had figured that now was as good a time as any to make a beginning. His latest conversation with Arif was still fresh in his mind. He thanked God for giving him such a friend, with whom he could discuss anything. He had not even discussed the latest goings on with Meher, as he did not wish to alarm her. It was on Arif’s suggestion that he had called this meeting. He had only a vague idea of what he wanted to say-nothing that would remotely qualify as a `plan’, but he knew that there were certain paths down which his conscience would no longer allow him to walk. Also, if he really wanted to influence things around him, he desperately needed the two men around the table with him on his side, or neutral at worst.