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

  As he moved to his right to face his visitor, he felt a painful tugging at his shoulder. That night seemed like a distant nightmare now, but the pain reminded him of just how close he had come to being killed. His visitor was no stranger to bullets, having been shot three times in the Gulf War, where he had won a Purple Heart.

  Jim Lafferty looked at the procession of missiles with interest. In the past, the United States had been a vocal opponent of India’s missile program, but that, he mused, was something he needed to relook.

  `So Jim, enjoying yourself?’

  `Oh yeah, Vivek. Great.’

  Lafferty had bought with him a proposal for closer military and economic co-operation. Khosla had been cautious. He knew things had really not changed. If anything, they were headed towards more trouble. The Emir was more active than ever, citing the war in the subcontinent as an example of the West and the Hindus ganging up on Islamic Pakistan. While Pakistan was limping back to stability, the fundamentalist fringe was still very powerful and vocal.

  Khosla knew that to side openly with the US would only polarize things further. Events of the past few months had shown him just how fragile the communal balance in India was, and it needed only a spark to ignite it. The last thing he wanted was for people to believe that it was indeed a Hindu v/s Muslim fight when it came to the Emir. So, he had politely declined most of Lafferty’s proposals.

  That did not mean doing nothing. He could not afford the ignore the simple fact that India would probably not have come out of this war as well as it did, had it not been for US assistance. Also, while the Middle Eastern powers had finally chosen to sit this round out, again largely due to US pressure, the clear and present danger of countries like the UAE openly siding with Pakistan in armed conflict had come as a rude wake up call for the Indian government.

  In the months of soul-searching that followed, Vivek had come to realize just how alone India really was. India’s traditional ally, Russia, was a shell of its previous self, a mockery of the superpower it once was. In its own neighborhood, India was increasingly isolated, and in fact in the whole of Asia, probably Israel was the only nation willing to support India openly in conflict. That left India with few friends that mattered-outside of the United States. Jim Lafferty knew all that very well, and he was in India on a dual mission-to extend a hand of friendship; and also to remind the Indian government the kind of leverage the United States could exert.

  The impact of these factors was not openly apparent, but was very real. Vivek Khosla had stalled the deployment of India’s first cruise missile carrying nuclear submarine. The US had agreed to keep quiet about the massive modernization of India’s conventional forces, but had come down hard on what it saw as unnecessary to India’s immediate security concerns.

  It was said that each war carried the seeds of the next one. Khosla began to see the wisdom in that. It was only a matter of time before the Emir gathered enough strength to threaten Western interests and interfere with oil supplies. Then an all out war was inevitable. Khosla was determined to keep India out of it, but that depended to a large extent on what the new civilian government in Pakistan would be up to.

  ***

  `Karim, let’s not let the bastards stand in the elections!’

  Karim smiled at his friend. In the last week, they must have had this argument at least once a day. Arif and Karim were working out the organization of the elections, now just six months away. With Karim and Shamsher at the helm, the interim Council had really not gotten around to any governance, They had had their hands full restoring some order to the country. After the takeover, there had been sporadic upsurges of violence by fundamentalist groups allied to the Emir, and only a stern clampdown by the army had prevented all out civil war. The armed forces too were recovering from the short but intense conflict with India. The army had been the least affected, but the navy had lost many of its frontline ships and the air force’s strike squadrons had been brutalized. Karim knew that rebuilding would be a long and expensive affair.

  All in all, he was not enjoying this short stint as a politician.

  `Arif, then what’s the point of democratic elections. If they can get votes, that’s fine.’

  They were referring to the Jammat e Islami, the largest fundamentalist party in Pakistan, and which owed strong allegiance to the Emir.

  `Better dictatorship than letting those lunatics come to power.’

  Karim placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  `You know you don’t mean that, Arif. That’s exactly the mistake countries like Algeria made in the 80s and 90s. They thought they could keep the fundamentalists out by not letting them contest elections or worse, even ignoring election results when they won. Look where they are now.’

  `But Karim, we need a strong alternative. The existing leaders are the same soft, greedy fools who stood by when Illahi came to power. How do you expect them to inspire the people. They’d probably rather go for the fundamentalists.’

  `There I concede your point.’

  Karim thought the discussion was over and began clearing the plates from the table. It had been a pretty wild party the night before, celebrating the birth of Shamsher’s son and Meher had insisted that the men clean up. When Karim began to protest, she had simply said, `My friends were not the ones lying drunk on their food.’

  Arif suddenly put down the glass in his hand and almost shouted.

  `Eureka! I have it!’

  At this point Shamsher walked in to see Arif literally dancing around the table while Karim looked on bemused.

  `Arif, have you completely lost your mind?’

  Arif stopped and walked up to Shamsher.

  `It’s brilliant! Why had I not thought of it before?’

  `What, for god’s sake?’

  `Okay, Karim, come here. How does this sound, presenting Ashfaque Karim, Prime Minister of Pakistan.’

  Karim stopped what he was doing and looked at Arif more seriously.

  `Arif, I’m a soldier, not a politician. This is nonsense.’

  Arif looked him straight in the eye, and Karim knew him well enough to know that he was not joking.

  `Karim, I’m dead serious. No man is born with a stamp on his head saying soldier or politician. You are what you make yourself. Moreover, the best way you can serve the country is to run in the elections. Any of the major parties would love to have you. Or don’t you know-man, you’re a goddamn national hero!’

  `But…’

  `No, Karim, let me finish. You are probably the best chance our country has to keep the fundamentalist madmen out of power. Why join a party? Why not just bring all of them together in a front to oppose the Emir’s people?’

  As Arif and Shamsher got on with the cleaning, Karim stood by a corner.

  Prime Minister, now that did have a certain ring to it.

  ***

  Goel could now finally walk without the help of crutches and could talk without much difficulty. The single shell fragment that had hit his hip had threatened to paralyze him for life, but he had staged a miraculous recovery. The scars on his face would remain with him for the rest of his life, but he would soon rejoin regular flying duty. It would be a slow return to flying-for several months, he would go up only in slower trainers to get his groove back. Only then would he rejoin his frontline combat duties.

  To mark his return to the squadron, Singh and Sonaina had thrown a party at their place.

  As soon as Goel entered through the door, the whole house seemed to erupt. Singh was leading a badly off-key rendition of `For he’s a jolly good fellow’, with all the other pilots and their families joining in. Goel had never thought of himself as being very emotional, but he felt his eyes going moist.

  Singh ran up to him and gave him a big hug.

  `Welcome back, backseater!’

  `Yeah, Boss. It’s great to be back. It was getting kind of depressing imagining myself dogfighting bedpans in the hospital.’

  `By the way, we’re up for a M
aha Vir Chakra. Both of us!’

  For their demonstrated success in air combat over Kashmir and their role in the Karachi strike, the duo had been awarded India’s second highest gallantry award.

  `I heard. Well, I’m just glad its over.’

  Many of the younger pilots had gathered around Singh and Goel to hear firsthand their exploits in the war. Singh couldn’t help noticing that his old partner seemed much more subdued than he had been before.

  Part of that was due to the injuries, but he knew that part of it was because Goel knew it would be a long time when, and if, he could fly in fighters again.

  In different times, Singh had often chided Goel for drinking too much or behaving too wildly at parties. Now, he would have given anything to get his old friend back. He began to walk over to Goel, who seemed to be leaning over to talk in a low whisper to Sonaina.

  As Singh came nearer, he heard Goel say, `Hi, where are the drinks?’

  `Now I know you’re really back to normal!’

  ***

  Chauhan found his surroundings completely alien. After having virtually lived in the desert for years, the big city feel of Mumbai took some getting used to. He had just gone to Delhi to pick up his MVC for gallantry during the war, and had also used the opportunity to spend some time with his parents.

  And now he wanted just one more thing before going back to his unit-to visit Mumbai.

  He looked at the frayed card in his hand as he tried to look for the landmarks he had been told of.

  `Stop, stop. I think we’re here.’

  He paid the cab driver and approached the white building. Come on, stop feeling like a bloody schoolboy.

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor and rang the bell.

  `Just a minute.’

  The voice bought home the reality of what he was doing. Here he was, standing in front of a woman’s house, with flowers in his hand. Well, it was too late to run now.

  The door opened, and he found himself face to face with Pooja, after almost three months. She was visibly surprised.

  `Well, I’ll be….come in Colonel.’

  `Hi. I was in Mumbai and thought I’d look you up.’

  `Good you did. Come in.’

  Chauhan entered a small but neat drawing room. As he sat down on the sofa, he remembered the flowers.

  `Uh, these are for you.’

  `Thanks. I was wondering if you were going to hold on to them all day. So, what brings you to Mumbai?’

  Chauhan thought of something witty to say, and then figured that telling the truth would be the best policy.

  `You.’

  Pooja blushed slightly, and Chauhan wondered if he was going to make a mess of it after all. He had no inkling that Pooja had thought of little else since she had returned to Mumbai.

  In the chaos following the war, she had just had one hurried telephone conversation with Chauhan, and was beginning to wonder what it was all leading up to and whether it had meant anything at all.

  She liked to believe that their time together, and especially that one night together, had meant something more than two lonely souls seeking solace wherever they could find it. However, she had never really dared to believe that. That was till she saw the Colonel at her door.

  `You want anything to drink?’

  `No, no. I mean, I wanted to talk to you.’

  Pooja sat down on the sofa next to him and put the flowers down.

  `Talk.’

  `This may sound silly, and I may be moving too fast…’

  `Just say it.’

  Chauhan was fidgeting with his hands, but gathered his composure and looked straight at Pooja.

  `I’ve been thinking….oh hell, I think I’m crazy about you. The war got me thinking that life’s way too fragile to waste waiting for things to happen.’

  Pooja just sat there looking at him.

  Chauhan looked at her for any reaction, but just saw her sitting quietly, looking at him. He was sure he had messed it all up again.

  `I’m sorry. Maybe this was all wrong.’

  As Chauhan got up to leave, Pooja held his hand and looked him in the eye.

  `What took you so long?’

  Chauhan’s dilemma on what to say or do was resolved by Pooja bringing her lips close to his. He may have been quiet and not terribly experienced at matters of the heart, but it did not take a romantic genius to figure out what to do next.

  As they kissed, Rahul sauntered into the house, carrying a six-pack of beer, and singing a badly off key rendition of an old Ronan Keating song.

  `Hey, Boss. You’ve gotten moved to the foreign desk. Thought I’d….’

  He stopped on seeing Chauhan, holding hands with Pooja, and let out a loud war whoop.

  `All right! Just like that old movie, An Officer and a Gentleman. Come on, Colonel, a toast.’

  ***

  EPILOGUE

  Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious.

  - Oscar Wilde

  As a child, Karim had often fantasized about flying his jet fighter right into Delhi and taking out the Indian government, while dodging hundreds of missiles and MiGs. Well, he smiled to himself, he was flying into Delhi all right, as he saw the rapidly approaching skyline, but of course, there were no MiGs and missiles, nor was he going to make war, but hopefully to make peace.

  His would be the first visit by a Pakistani Head of State to India in many years, and he was hoping he could help heal some of the scars caused by the war almost a year ago. Some things had really not changed at all. In India, Khosla was very much at the helm of affairs, and had embarked on an ambitious program of militarization, with at least two nuclear submarines and a viable ICBM force planned by the end of the decade. These were, it was said, not meant for use against Pakistan, but as a deterrent against future external intervention, such as was exercised by the Emir’s forces during the war. But that did little to assuage fundamentalist forces within Pakistan, who at every opportunity, criticized Karim and his government for being too soft.

  Karim knew that was nonsense. All they were angry about was their marginalization in Pakistani politics relative to the power they enjoyed under Illahi. Karim had, as Arif had suggested, formed an alliance with the major non-fundamentalist parties. Selective leaks of the full extent to which the Emir and Illahi had endangered Pakistan, combined with Karim’s impeccable credentials, had meant a landslide victory in the elections.

  But the Emir remained, looming in the background. Karim knew that he was just licking his wounds, and would strike again. And Karim was not too sure whether they would be as lucky as they had been last time.

  The domestic situation having been largely normalized, a key challenge before Karim was normalization of relations with India. Some issues remained unresolved, notably Kashmir, and given the diametrically opposite views of the two sides, Karim thought a diplomatic solution was unlikely. But this visit was not meant to solve the Kashmir problem. It was really much more symbolic in nature, a gesture that both governments were mature enough to put the past behind them and attempt a fresh start.

  Karim had resigned from the Air Force before the elections, and was accompanied by the new Air Chief, Shamsher and Shoaib. And of course, Arif, who too had resigned to join the new government as the chief Defense Advisor. If anything had helped Karim survive the past few difficult months, it had been the close presence of the men he could trust.

  As the Boeing rolled to a stop, security guards stood by the door as the stairs were rolled into place. Karim was the first out of the plane. The Indians are really rolling out the red carpet. The tarmac was packed. To the right was an army contingent that gave Karim a welcome 21-gun salute, and somewhere a band began playing the national anthems of both countries. Karim stood at attention at the foot of the steps, and once the anthems had ended, walked forward. Khosla was easily recognizable from the hours of television coverage Karim had seen of him over the years. He was taller than Karim had thought, and stood a good two inches taller than Kari
m’s six feet. He was flanked by the Chiefs of Staff and sundry bureaucrats.

  `Mr. Karim, its a pleasure to meet you finally.’

  Karim took the offered hand and shook it, noting Khosla’s firm grip.

  `The pleasure is all mine, Mister Prime Minister. May this be the beginning of better relations between our people.’

  `Indeed. Let me introduce you to my Chiefs of Staff.’

  Karim met all the men, while passing Sen, the two old enemies locked gazes for a while. Karim held his gaze. He had nothing to be ashamed of. His boys had given as good as they had got.

  Arif was now just behind Karim and he introduced him to Khosla.

  `Vivek, this is Arif Ansari, an old friend and colleague and now my Defense Advisor.’

  Khosla shook hands with Arif as Karim was introduced to the rest of the contingent.

  Before turning away to introduce his own staff members, Khosla looked into Arif’s eyes for a while.

  The Patriot looked back at the Indian Prime Minister and smiled.

  ***

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mainak Dhar is a cubicle dweller by day and author by night. His first `published’ work was a stapled collection of Maths solutions and poems (he figured nobody would pay for his poems alone) he sold to his classmates in Grade 7, and spent the proceeds on ice cream and comics. He was first published in a more conventional sense at the age of 18 and has since published eleven books including the Amazon.com Bestseller Alice in Deadland. Learn more about him and contact him at www.mainakdhar.com.