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

  For a mission whose stakes were as high as this, there was no real alternative to doing this the old fashioned way. There would be no cruise missiles, no stealth bombers. It would come down to a handful of very special men.

  ***

  TWENTY TWO

  What the scientists have in their briefcases is terrifying.

  - Nikita Khrushchev

  Illahi had just strapped into his seat when he heard the alarms go off. He turned to Abdul, who was seated two rows in front of him.

  `Abdul, what’s going on? Do you think they’re on to us?’

  Abdul answered without turning around. He did not want Illahi to see the disgust on his face.

  `Even if they have, it’s too late. Just do what you need to.’

  Illahi could feel the headache coming back. Suddenly it hit him with such intensity that he dropped the briefcase and clutched his head in his hands.

  Abdul heard the noise and got up. He spoke, but there was no sympathy in his voice.

  `Illahi, pull yourself together, or I’ll just do it myself!’

  Illahi groped around in his pockets and fished out his bottle of tablets. He put a couple in his mouth and sat back, eyes closed. He was roused by the rumbling noise as the big turboprop engines came to life.

  He looked out of the window to see several fire engines racing towards the main terminal, but there was no clear evidence of a fire. If there was one, it wasn’t a big one. Not big enough to hold up his flight at any rate.

  He picked up the briefcase and opened it, setting it on his lap. To a layman, it may have passed off as a laptop, and indeed it was built off the basic design of one, similar to the almost legendary `suitcase bombs’ that were developed to give the Russian and American Presidents control over their nuclear arsenal during the 1960s and 70s.

  At the touch of a button, the screen flickered to life.

  As Illahi punched in his password and waited for the main screen to come on, he paused to think of what he was about to unleash. The Emir’s plan sounded simple enough, but could blow up easily into something no one could control, least of all Illahi.

  The main menu came on, and Illahi used the touch pad to navigate to the option he wanted. He began keying in an alphanumeric sequence and then paused. He knew that as soon as he completed and pressed Enter, electrical pulses would trigger off a nuclear explosion in Kashmir. An explosion caused by a nuclear warhead placed among Pakistani and Mujahideen forces. He wondered how Allah would judge him for directly causing the deaths of thousands of his own soldiers, whose only crime, as it were, was obeying his own orders. The Emir had of course, justified this as a great sacrifice, one that was necessary for the greater good of the faith. But now, Illahi was having his doubts. Maybe I should just get out and give myself up. Live my last few days in peace.

  But when he looked up, he knew he had burnt all bridges behind him. Abdul was sitting facing him, with a pistol in his hand. He did not need to say or do anything, Illahi knew then that Abdul would kill him without a second thought.

  He typed in one more letter, and stopped again, to feel the piece of paper lying tucked into a corner of the case. It contained a prepared statement that would be released to the world ten minutes after the explosion-condemning the Indian first use of tactical nuclear weapons against Pakistani forces and freedom fighters in Kashmir. Then he would enter a set of coordinates for the solitary Hatf launcher, whose commander would then fire its missile at the Indian forces massed near Lahore.

  After that, things got a bit hazy. It all really depended on the Emir. Whichever way the war went after the initial nuclear exchange, the Emir would proclaim Illahi a hero of the faith for standing up to nuclear blackmail, and make a statement of how his faith was not ready to be cowed down. If things got out of hand, Pakistan would be cited as an example of the dangers to the faith, and used to stir up actions against the West throughout the region. If things did escalate, Illahi was to go fly on to Saudi Arabia.

  The coup by Karim had upset things a bit. But, from what Illahi estimated, they would be able to formally take over power only in the morning. Abdul’s men would see to that. By then, it would be too late.

  ***

  Arif entered the cargo hold to find nobody inside. Most of the crew had run out after the fire alarms had gone off and Illahi and Abdul were nowhere to be seen. There were packages and boxes lying all around and to the right, five large conveyor belts leading to vehicles that would carry the cargo to the respective runways.

  Arif started with the belt on the far corner to check which flight its packages were meant for. PIA. The next was an Air Lanka flight and the third, a PAF transport. That left the last two belts, and to make his life even more miserable, neither had any packages on it. There was no way Arif could find out which belt led to the Saudi plane where Illahi undoubtedly was. He decided to adopt the time honored decision-making tool-he flipped a coin.

  He clambered on to the stationary belt and walked into the dark tunnel it led to. He emerged after walking for less than a minute and found himself facing a C-130 Hercules transport aircraft with Saudi markings. Bingo. The four large turboprop engines had begun turning. He tried hard to resist the urge to run towards the plane and walked past it to the open cargo-loading door at the back of the big plane. There was a single Saudi crewman, a young boy barely out of his teens, who was making last minute checks before closing the door.

  The man stopped his work on seeing Arif. Unsure of what to do, and seeing Arif’s uniform, he took the safe way out. He saluted.

  `Sir, how may I help you?’

  `I’m Group Captain Arif Ansari of the PAF. You must have heard the fire alarms.’

  `Yes, sir.’

  Arif was now thinking furiously, making it up as he went along.

  `Well, there was a bomb threat.’

  The young man’s eyes widened in fear. He was not a soldier, and wanted nothing to do with war and bombs. His previous job had been loading ballast onto barges, and his uncle had gotten him a job in the air reserves. So far it had been much of the same-load boxes into vehicles. Except of course that he got to fly around a bit.

  `Well, come on, let me in. I’ve got to check for any bombs inside. It’s supposed to be in a yellow bag. Have you seen any inside.’

  Arif had seen the boy’s terrified expression and was going for broke. The Saudi meekly stepped aside and let Arif inside.

  Arif made a great show of turning over the boxes inside. As he went deeper into the aircraft, the Saudi kept his distance. If there was a bomb, he didn’t want to get any closer to it.

  Obscured by a large crate, Arif placed his bag bang against the wall that separated the cargo hold from the passenger section. It was an unnecessary precaution, but he wanted to place the package as close to Illahi as possible.

  As he walked out, he looked at the Saudi, who seemed quite relieved.

  `Have a nice flight.’

  ***

  Illahi relaxed a bit once the plane began moving down the runway. As it gathered speed, he could see the airport terminal and the city’s skyline from the window. He wondered when he would be able to see them again.

  Well, now the die had been cast. There was no looking back now.

  As the plane reached cruising altitude, he pulled out his prayer mat and knelt down to pray.

  As he raised his hands to pray to his god, he asked for forgiveness and understanding. Abdul was watching him impatiently with irritation. Finally as Illahi got up to return to his seat, he nearly shouted at him.

  `Illahi, pray all you will later. Let’s get it over with.’

  Illahi took out the briefcase again and opened it. He had already fed in all the codes. Now he just had to confirm them again and press the Enter key.

  He was about to press the key to go to the final menu when he felt a sudden rush of hot air behind him. Then it all happened within seconds. Abdul’s face contorting in terror. Turning around to see a sheet of fire coming up at him. Then darkness. Illahi
’s last thought was, but I never even pressed the button.

  ***

  The Pakistani Captain in charge of the Hatf launcher was puzzled. He had been given explicit instructions that he would receive the firing codes within the afternoon. Situated in a remote marshland near the Kutch border, and under strict orders to avoid any radio transmissions, he had no idea what was going on. Have the Indians nuked our control center?

  The men around him were also getting restless. They did not know the specific instructions he had, but were incessantly griping about being in the middle of nowhere for several days. The dozen SSG commandos appointed to guard the launcher were far more stoic, and seemed to almost revel at the discomfiture of the `regulars’.

  The Captain was trying to delay the inevitable as long as he could. He would ideally have waited for the formal orders authorizing the launch. But he knew that, if it did come to it, he would have to operate on his own initiative. The orders were explicit on that count as well-wait for one hour and then launch at the target, unless a specific order came to not launch. This was a late addition insisted upon by Abdul. The intent was clear-the plan would have to be foolproof and have a chance of success even if he and Ilahi did not make it.

  The Captain watched the minutes tick by, and when there was half an hour to go, he knelt to pray.

  `Forgive me, oh Lord, for what I am about to do. Give me the strength to go ahead with what is my duty.’

  ***

  The US Black Hawk helicopter was now running flat out. The coordinates of its target had been down linked from an orbiting U-2 spy plane just an hour ago. There was no telling whether this was the launcher with the rogue nuke or not. But now was not the time to be taking chances. The fact that the launcher was in such an isolated border position, camouflaged to defeat all but the very best US cameras and sensors, and guarded by what seemed to be an abnormally large contingent of troops, increased the chances that this was indeed the elusive launcher.

  Inside the helicopter, the Delta Force operators quietly blackened their faces and checked their weapons. Very little was said. The men knew they were undertaking what would be the most important mission of their lives.

  ***

  Having made his peace with himself and his God, the Pakistani Captain stood up wearily and summoned his men. As he began to give the orders for a launch, he could see their faces reflect some of the fear he knew he must have been showing himself. But he had trained them well, and they went about their duties with precision.

  The SSG men took this as their cue to gear up for anything that may come in the way of a successful launch. Two commandos, armed with shoulder fired anti-aircraft missiles, took up positions on an adjoining hillock, scanning the skies for any airborne threat. The others unslung their submachine guns and took up positions around the missile.

  The Captain had completed all the pre-launch checks and was about to enter the final coordinates, when he turned around sharply at the sound of a rocket being fired. He saw the red plume of a missile streak skywards from one of the SSG commandos. Assuming that the Indian Air Force had found his position, he began keying in the number as fast as he could. In two minutes, there would be nothing the Indians could do to stop him.

  ***

  The Black Hawk swerved and deployed a dozen flares, which easily distracted the aging Pakistani made Anza missile the SSG man had fired at it. While the helicopter was undamaged, the alert SSG man had caused some damage after all. Not knowing the intensity of the anti-aircraft defenses he was flying into, the US pilot put down his helicopter about two hundred meters further than the intended drop zone. The supremely fit Delta operators would make up that distance in seconds. But those were precious seconds they were fast running out of.

  ***

  The Pakistani captain had begun keying in the firing codes, when the SSG man nearest to him went down, his head almost exploding and showering the Captain with blood and brain matter. Shaken, the Captain instinctively dove for cover, wondering what kind of demons could shoot with such accuracy from such a large distance. As he crouched near the missile trailer, he began to see Pakistani soldiers falling all around him. He could not yet see the enemy clearly, but could make out black shapes moving from cover to cover, firing with silenced weapons. He had thought the SSG men were well trained, but these attackers were mowing them down with deadly and ruthless precision. It was at that moment he realized two things-one, that all the black shapes seemed to be converging on his position, and second, that by ducking like a coward, he had wasted precious seconds.

  He got up and opened the control panel to complete keying in the codes, when a sharp pain in his side bought him down. His brain registered vaguely that he had been shot, but he tried to force the pain aside and reach for the panel again. This time, the bullet bored into the back of his head. Then there was darkness.

  The Delta operators rigged up plastique explosives to the missile launcher, and disappeared silently into the darkness. Eighteen Pakistani soldiers lay dead around the launch area. Two Delta operators who had been wounded were evacuated by their comrades. Ten seconds later, the missile launcher exploded in a huge fireball, consigning to ashes the last card in Ilahi’s nuclear deck.

  From the time the missile had been fired at the Black Hawk, the engagement had taken less than two minutes.

  ***

  Khosla was on the verge of panic.

  He had spent a sleepless night wondering what would happen if Pakistan did launch a nuclear strike. He knew in the meeting he had agreed to the principle of a `proportionate response’. But what did that really mean? When did you draw the line? It seemed easy enough to say, if they kill a million of mine, I’ll kill a million of theirs, but what was that about two wrongs not making a right? Moreover, he wondered if he could ever live with a decision that would lead to the deaths of millions.

  As soon as Joshi entered, it was obvious what was going through Khosla’s mind. He was sitting by the window, uncharacteristically unshaven, staring blankly out at the lawns outside his house.

  Joshi cleared his throat to get Khosla’s attention.

  `Oh, hi Joshi. Any news from Pakistan?’

  `Well, Sir….’

  Before Joshi could complete, the phone on the desk began ringing.

  Khosla picked up the phone to hear an unfamiliar voice at the other end.

  `Mr. Khosla. Let me introduce myself. I’m Air Marshall Ashfaque Karim of the Pakistan Air Force, and am heading the Provisional Government till elections take place.’

  `Yes, Air Marshall, I’ve heard a lot about you. Tell me, what is happening about the situation regarding the missile launchers?’

  `Mr. Khosla, I’m happy to inform you that everything’s under control, and we have already asked our forces to act as per the cease fire agreement, even before it formally comes into force.’

  That took Khosla completely by surprise. He motioned Joshi to pick up the other extension, as he continued speaking.

  `Air Marshall, can you tell us what happened. We were very anxious for a while.’

  `Well, there was one rouge missile launcher. But we now have it under control. The former Prime Minister, Illahi Khan had apparently ordered the launcher to take up firing position at your forces.’

  `Well, what’s happened to Illahi?’

  `I’m sorry to say that he died in an air accident while trying to flee. I guess nobody’s above God’s judgment.’

  Karim of course left out the bit about the small nuclear warhead discovered by Pakistani forces in Kashmir while retreating, and also how the mobile launcher had been destroyed in rather mysterious circumstances.

  Most of all, of course, he left out any details of the circumstances in which Illahi had died. That was something very few people knew, and he would rather keep it that way.

  As Khosla put the phone down, he saw Joshi grinning.

  `Well, today you seem to be in a good mood.’

  `Sir, pardon my language, but air accident, my ass.’
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  Khosla smiled at this rare profanity from his usually almost irritatingly correct Intelligence chief.

  `Sir, this is the Patriot’s latest report.’ Khosla read the page long report for a long time, lingering over certain passages, especially regarding the fighting in Islamabad, and the events at Tariq’s headquarters, and most of all, the last paragraph.

  `Joshi, that tells us a lot about our man Karim. He’s obviously left out a lot of stuff in what he told us.’

  `I don’t understand, Sir.’

  `Well, ever since the Press got wind of the happenings in Pakistan, there’s been a lot of nonsense about a new era of friendship and so on. I wonder how much is actually going to change. The Emir’s still around, and Karim and co may hold him off for some time, but there’s no denying his growing influence. Kashmir is still a bone of contention, and I don’t think Karim’s going to hand it to us on a platter. Joshi, a lot of things are yet to be sorted out.’

  `Yes, Sir. But at least this mess is over for now.’

  `You can say that again.’

  As Joshi made to leave, Khosla stopped him. `Joshi, I can’t wait to meet this Patriot. He’s probably done more for us in this war than all our bombs and missiles.’

  ***

  TWENTY THREE

  Just because everything is different doesn’t mean anything has changed.

  - Irene Peter

  Khosla looked at the man standing next to him. Both were standing at attention as the Indian national anthem played. They had met before, but had never really spent much time together. On this visit, that was on top of the agenda. As the anthem ended, the marching contingents came into view.

  India’s Republic Day parade is always a grand spectacle, a mélange of India’s cultural diversity and a showcase for its military might. This year, more than any other, people were glued to their television sets, watching the armed forces, who less than two months ago, had pulled off, what many considered to be a victory against great odds.

  Khosla knew there was truth in that, but he also knew that the victory would not have been possible but for some amazing strokes of luck. Some, of course, were not really strokes of luck. Like the tilting of the balance in the air over Kashmir. For that, though nothing had been said officially, he knew he had the man next to him to thank.