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

  `Don’t know-and really don’t care. He’s probably some rival of either of these two jokers. That’s the way with these scums.’

  The two entered the hotel and checked the room Sharan was staying in.

  `What now, Boss. We can’t just walk in with the camera running.’

  `Don’t know. We’ll think of something, we still have one floor to go. Let’s get there and take it as it comes’

  Rahul had long gotten used to Pooja’s style of functioning. She would rush into any situation where there was likely to be news-but never believed in planning too much in advance. That was fine with him-he was not much of a planner himself.

  ***

  Ram Sharan got out of bed and looked wistfully at the girl next to him. She was still asleep and stirred a bit as Sharan reached over to fondle her one last time. He reminded himself that he would be very nice to the Ambujees. Girls like this one were rare. He looked at the bathroom mirror and sighed at the sight of his corpulent frame-he would need to go on that much planned diet soon. A life of overindulgence in rich food and alcohol had not left him in very good shape at all.

  As the bell rang, he threw on a robe and went to the door, expecting Karan Ambujee, but was instead greeted by a very large waiter with a lopsided grin on his face.

  `Yes-what do you want?’

  `Sorry to disturb you sir-but I just wanted to clean up the room service trays in the sitting area.’

  `No, no. I’m expecting guests.’

  `Sir, it’ll only take five minutes.’

  Sharan did not want to waste any time talking to a waiter, and finally gave in.

  `Okay-go ahead, but make it fast.’

  Sharan went back to the bathroom to get dressed, not paying much attention to this unexpected interruption.

  He heard the door close as the waiter left and a minute later the bell rang again. When he opened the door, a smiling Karan Ambujee was waiting for him, a large briefcase in hand

  ***

  Rahul had now returned to the corridor where Pooja was sitting, munching on a biscuit. Trust her never to miss her breakfast.

  `Boss, just how illegal is all this? So far we’ve flicked an uniform, a housekeeping trolley and have invaded someone’s privacy.’

  `Rahul, this man is not just anyone-he’s an elected representative of the people. If he’s fooling around and betraying their trust-they and we have a right to know. What are you smiling at?’

  `Nothing Boss-just love it when you get all angry and stuff. Just hope you keep your sense of humor when we get chucked out.’

  `Get ready. You’ll have to do your waiter act again soon.’ Less than ten minutes later, Ambujee, Sharan and an attractive young girl came out of the room. Rahul waited thirty seconds and went in to get his Handycam, which he had left concealed behind a vase while `cleaning’ the room.

  Bingo.

  ***

  The swirling desert sand made visibility beyond a few dozen yards almost impossible. To the casual observer, there could not possibly be any sane man out in this inhospitable terrain.

  The quiet of the desert was shattered by what sounded like the roar of some pre-historic beastsas powerful engines revved to life. Then, out of the mist emerged four monsters of steel-racing through the desert at over fifty kilometers an hour, belying their fifty-ton weights.

  `Gunner, HEAT!’

  Colonel Dev Chauhan looked through his scope at the enemy tanks swarming across the battlefield. His troop of four Arjun tanks had just emerged from behind two large sand dunes. He had spent the last five minutes waiting for the enemy to swallow the bait he had offered, but it had seemed like an eternity of waiting. Racing ahead of the enemy tanks, he could just make out the two BMP armored vehicles he had sent out as a feint. The plan was simple-let the enemy think the BMPs were lead elements of the main force, and have them lead the enemy into a trap.

  As an enemy tank filled his scope, he gave the order to fire, and watched the high explosive shot track into the enemy vehicle.

  `That’s a hit!’

  The gunner had already selected his next round with the automatic loading system on the tank by the time Chauhan found his next target-an armored personnel carrier just 1500 meters away.

  `Fire!’

  `Hit!’

  The enemy tanks had by now been alerted to their presence and were swiveling their guns to attack Chauhan’s position. The four fifty ton monsters raced out of their position at the enemy, firing on the move. Chauhan’s tank claimed two more kills before the fighting stopped with the enemy retreating.

  Chauhan had walked the enemy into a perfect ambush-for the loss of two tanks; his troop had destroyed nine enemy vehicles and blunted the attack. It had been only a mock battle, played out in India’s Thar Desert to hone their skills, but in a real war, the losers would all be dead. That realization made the lessons learnt very real.

  The rest of the crews came out of their tanks, cheering, but were forced back in to take cover from the sand being whipped around by the wind. Chauhan, however, stood alone in a corner, watching the retreating enemy. The wind swept past his body and whipped sand into his face, caking his eyebrows and moustache. But the young officer had only one thought in his mind-I still have it in me.

  ***

  `This is dynamite stuff, Pooja! How in God’s name did you manage this?’

  `Tsk, tsk, Boss-a magician never tells.’

  Rahul watched in fascination with the station chief sitting wide eyed in front of the television as they watched Sharan accept a suitcase and then open it to reveal neatly stacked 500 Rupee notes. The audio was as devastating; with Sharan promising Ambujee inside information on bids given by rival groups for the new building projects the government was sponsoring to house Mumbai’s teeming slum dwellers. The project was worth billions, and Sharan obviously believed there was nothing wrong in helping himself to a small bit.

  The balding Station Chief, Mr. Dasgupta, was literally jumping with excitement.

  `This goes on air tonight-Pooja, you’ve got the lead story.’

  He picked up the phone to issue a series of rapid-fire instructions, which in essence said everything else could wait, this goes on air TONIGHT.

  Pooja turned towards Rahul; barely able to conceal her excitement-and saw him sipping yet another can of Coke.

  ***

  As Chauhan walked back to the mess-he knew the guys from the 14th cavalry regiment were going to be in a foul mood. They had come down to Chauhan’s regimental HQs in Bikaner to train with them-and had been comprehensively drubbed in the afternoon’s war games played out in the arid expanse of India’s Thar Desert.

  Almost all eyes turned towards Chauhan as he entered the mess. As Chauhan looked into the eyes of the men he faced, he knew what he saw. To a man, they would acknowledge Chauhan as one of the best tank commanders in the Indian Army. Yet. Yet-that was one word Chauhan had been trying to live down for the past two years.

  Tall and strapping, he had bucked the family tradition of joining the Infantry to join India’s armored corps. His first assignment had been on the Russian made T-72, three of which he had `killed’ in the war games. His initial years in the army had been picture perfect-till that fateful evening in the desert.

  It had been a slow climb back, and the wounds had not healed yet.

  Chauhan tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind as he went to his room. Yet he wondered if his life, and career, would ever be the same again.

  ***

  Khosla started in disbelief at the images flickering on the TV screen in his office.

  `Oh my God!’

  He sat upright with a jolt-he could have sworn he had felt a real, physical electric shock. The sudden movement sent his dinner scattering all over the carpet, but right now he had far bigger concerns than a stained rug.

  `This is Pooja Bhatnagar signing off for WNS’. No sooner had the news story ended that Khosla reached for his telephone to call his Home Minister.

  `Have you
watched WNS News? Well, switch the goddamn TV on!’

  There was a perceptible tremor in the Home Minister’s voice as he answered. He had been one of the key drivers of Sharan’s entry into the cabinet, in the face of much reluctance from Khosla.

  `Vivek. I had no idea….’

  Khosla cut him off in mid-sentence. `I told you I wanted nothing to do with these crooks. I’m going to have a meeting of the cabinet called tomorrow morning-and I want a public statement that we’re expelling Sharan and that the law should take its own course.’

  `Vivek, we need to talk this…..’

  `Nothing doing, Prasad. You’ve heard me-I hope I don’t have to repeat myself.’

  `God. I’m sure things just couldn’t get any worse’, Khosla said to nobody in particular as he sank back into his couch.

  He was very, very wrong.

  ***

  Naik Subeer Singh raised his night vision scopes again-yet again he saw nothing. He knew he was probably being paranoid, but something just didn’t feel right tonight. Come to think of it, things had gone crazy on the border for the last month. Incursions and firings were always a part of life, but these had taken on a whole new dimension in recent days-firing by regular Pakistani troops had subsided, but incursions by heavily armed Afghan mercenaries had become almost a daily event. Completely different from the Kashmiri terrorists Singh and his men had been fighting for years, these Mujahideen were battle hardened and fanatical mercenaries who wanted to expand their jihad to India. The past few years had done much to shatter the myth of their invincibility, when in the face of overwhelming US firepower and rage following the World Trade Center attacks, they had chosen to run and hide, instead of even trying to make a fight of it. Except now the fuckers seem to be crawling out of the woodwork all of a sudden, Singh thought.

  Well, let them come. Singh held the terrorists in utter disdain. Coming from a family that had sent men to the Indian Army for five generations, the thought of becoming a paid killer who attacked unarmed civilians was abhorrent. In the exchanges so far, the mujahideen had come off distinctly second best to the Indian Army, but had caused havoc among the poorly trained and armed local police force and paramilitaries.

  `Ready’, Singh whispered to his men as he noticed some movement in the rocks ahead. He turned off the safety on his rifle and aimed at where he thought he’d seen some men. He mentally readied himself for the telltale rattle of a Kalashnikov, the favored weapon of the mujahideen. The thought that the mujahideen could for once be packing more than twenty-year-old assault rifles never even crossed his mind. That error would be fatal.

  Suddenly, the quiet of the night was shattered as two Chinese made NORINCO Red Arrow anti tank missiles streaked towards the Indian army post.

  These missiles were designed to defeat the strongest tank armor in the world. They sliced through the sandbags and rocks of Singh’s bunker like hot needles through butter, and exploded inside, showering the post with red-hot fragments of steel. Singh barely had time to duck as the rockets struck.

  When he got up, of the six men with him, only two remained alive, both badly wounded. Singh tried to wish away the pain and the warm wet feeling along the side of his face as he bought his rifle up, bayonet attached. He looked up to see six men rushing at his post, guns blazing. He had been deafened by the explosions, otherwise he would have heard the sound of gunfire accompanied by cries of `Allah ho Akbar’.

  Singh braced himself and took aim. If he was going to die, he would take a few of the bastards with him to Hell.

  ***

  THREE

  It is from the character of our adversary’s position that we can draw conclusions as to his designs and will therefore act accordingly.

  - Karl Von Clausewitz, On War

  `Do we have even more bad news today?’ It was an unnecessary question from the Indian Prime Minister. He had barely slept at all over the past two days, and it was telling in his blood-shot eyes. He knew the same held for his entire National Security Council, now seated around the table with him.

  `Mujahideen have made four more incursions in the last week’, the Chief of Army Staff spoke up, `We’ve lost a dozen troops over the weekend and there’s no letting up’.

  The NSC knew that Khosla was in a foul mood. He was walking along the breadth of the room, with his characteristic occasional clap that meant little, except to signify that he was deep in thought.

  `What the hell’s happening? Has Illahi lost his mind-why the hell does he want war now?’ Khosla nearly shouted.

  Gireesh Joshi, the erudite, soft spoken Intelligence Chief spoke up, `In a conventional war, we’re bound to get the upper hand, and so far the only insurance they had was the threat of nuclear retaliation. But if they used nukes, so would we, so it was a nice stalemate. Their current belligerence makes sense only if something fundamental has changed to upset that equation’.

  `The only way this makes sense is if the Pakistanis have got some sort of assured first strike ability or a reliable anti-missile system. And neither of them has happened’, the Air Chief cut in.

  `None that we know of, Sen and there’s a world of difference between the two’.

  Khosla looked up at the remark from his Intelligence Chief. In addition to the already thankless task of being Prime Minister of the world’s largest, and by far, most complex, democracy, Khosla also held the Defense portfolio for now. The previous incumbent, a vigorous but old stalwart, had been laid low by sudden heart related complications, and till Khosla could find a suitable replacement, he was double hatted. With crowns of thorns, he thought.

  `Point taken, Joshi. Let’s ensure we aren’t caught with our pants down. I want our forces on an enhanced level of alert. I want a review of the correlation of forces, and I want it by tomorrow morning.’

  The Service Chiefs exchanged glances, knowing that they, and their staff, all had a long night ahead. But they were thankful too. After seeing dozens of Indian politicians rising to the rank of Defense Minister with little or no understanding of defense issues, and very little sympathy for the soldier’s cause, Khosla had come as a breath of fresh air. Though he had never served in uniform, Khosla was convinced that while economic progress was the top item on his agenda, there would be no compromise on national security. Within months of coming to office, he had acquired a high degree of familiarity with issues facing the services and also the weapon systems and tactics they used. His large library included most of the military classics ranging from Von Clausewitz’s On War and Sun Tzu, to the latest editions of the Jane’s series.

  Khosla looked at his Foreign Secretary. `Also, Guha, set up a call with Illahi as soon as you can. Joshi, find out if he’s got something up his sleeve that we don’t know about’, the Prime Minister summed up and left the room.

  The members of the NSC got up, wondering why this had to happen on a Friday evening, of all days.

  ***

  Vice Admiral Ramnath was a worried man. At fifty-nine, he thought himself a bit too old to go out and play cowboy again-but here he was. He cut the image of the stereotypical sailor; with his salt and pepper beard and his spotless white Navy uniform. He had seen combat up close and personal, and was old enough to know that no war movie could ever capture the sheer terror and adrenaline rush of combat. Over thirty years ago, as a rookie pilot in the Navy, he had flown Sea Hawks off India’s aircraft carrier, the INS Vikrant, to attack targets in East Pakistan. He still remembered that heady cocktail of terror and exhilaration while zigzagging along the narrow rivers of Bangladesh, shooting up gunboats, squirming in his cockpit as tracers reached out at his plane, and exulting when his shots hit home.

  Now he commanded the pride of the Indian Navy, the INS Vikramaditya, acquired just two years ago from Russia, where it had been born as the Admiral Gorshkov. The Vikramaditya was a powerful ship-the 44000 tonne behemoth was by far the largest ship in any Navy in Asia, and it’s formidable air defenses and complement of MiG-29K fighters would give any adversary a nightmare
. The acquisition had been a long and tortuous process, more than once threatening to be derailed or lost in the red tape and confusion that epitomized any defense deal with the chaos that Russia’s once vaunted defense industry had been reduced to. Ramnath had played a leading role in ensuring that the acquisition pulled through, and was convinced that the future of war lay in control of the sea-lanes.

  Ramnath and his task force were currently about 300 kilometers off the coast of Karachi, Pakistan’s major port. They had been taking part in routine exercises, when a flash cable had warned them to increase the level of alert. With increasing tension in Kashmir, the Indian Government wanted to make sure that there was nothing left to chance. Ramnath hoped that war wouldn’t break out-with both India and Pakistan having nuclear weapons; war wasn’t something to look forward to. But if it did come to that, he wanted to make sure that he and ship were ready.

  `Okay, let’s run another ASW drill-we were almost killed last time’, Ramnath growled to his Anti Submarine Warfare officer. The young man cringed and got back to his display. Ramnath knew that he could not take any chances now-he was responsible not only for his own life but for a dozen ships, and thousands of lives.

  Ramnath walked out to the flight deck to see a Kamov 31 helicopter take off. The stubby Russian made helicopter hovered briefly before flying to its station about fifty kilometers ahead of the carrier. The Kamov was a `poor man’s AWACS’, but its on-board radar and computers gave it a powerful ability to detect any incoming air or surface threats before they could come close to the Indian carrier. The Kamov was followed by two Sea King helicopters, which would simulate a hunt for the deadly Pakistani Agosta submarines.

  As this aerial ballet was carried out with deadly precision, Ramnath looked at the seemingly endless expanse of blue sea before him. A deceptive calm, beneath which he knew death lurked at every turn.

  ***

  `What do you make of this stuff on the border, Boss?’ Rahul’s question was barely audible, being muttered between huge bites of his burger. If I eat solid, it better be meat, he had offered by way of explanation for this dramatic deviation from his normal diet.