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

  Pooja and Rahul were seated outside one of Mumbai’s many McDonald’s outlets. Their newfound celebrity status after the Sharan Scandal was not lost on them, as many patrons paused to stare at them.

  One little girl walked up to Pooja, and pointed at her saying, `TV auntie.’ A sharp growl from Rahul sent her scurrying to the safety of her mother.

  Pooja laughed at another expression of Rahul’s professed hatred for children.

  `I’m not sure, Rahul. The new government in Pakistan has been a bit loony-but I don’t know why they would want to escalate matters now. I don’t think they’d go too far-they probably bred themselves a few more mujahideen than they could handle and are sending them over here to keep them busy.’

  `Yeah-that’s probably it, Boss. See I knew you’d know. The papers are all full of shit.’

  `I wouldn’t be too sure, Rahul. Things can go crazy real fast. Wanna eat my French fries? You seem to be hungry today.’

  ***

  `Illahi, what the hell is going on’, Guha cringed as the Prime Minister screamed over the speakerphone. As a seasoned diplomat and the newly appointed Foreign Secretary, he knew it wasn’t good form to scream at other Heads of State, but nothing would calm the PM down this morning.

  The latest wave of attacks that had begun almost a month ago had continued unabated, claiming over a hundred Indian casualties. After the first few attacks, the Indians had got alerted, and given back as good as they got-the most notable victory being during a show of misplaced bravado by a dozen Mujahideen when they charged a post manned by eight Gurkhas. It had come down to hand-to-hand combat and the Gurkhas had massacred the Mujahideen with their khukris, suffering only three casualties. But it had not been as good across the border and the Mujahideen had overrun several posts before withdrawing across the line of control to Pakistan Occupied Kashmir.

  Illahi’s coarse voice wafted over the speakerphone.

  `Vivek, calm down. I assure you that Pakistan has nothing to do with this. This is the act of Muslim youth who are unable to tolerate the injustices being heaped on their brethren in Kashmir. I cannot stop them-though I have ordered increased police presence on the border’.

  As the two men talked, the sharp contrast between them was apparent. Illahi was a man with only rudimentary higher education, having just completed high school before joining the army. He had come from a poor family, the only son of a security guard. His background reflected in his coarse and halting English, which contrasted sharply with Khosla’s sophisticated, clipped tone. Today, however, Khosla was pulling no punches. Also, the members of the NSC noticed, Khosla insisted on carrying on only in English, a language Illahi was uncomfortable with, and which only put him further on the backfoot.

  Which idiot once said that this man doesn’t understand realpolitik, Joshi mused as he watched his Prime Minister’s verbal duel continue.

  `Illahi, hear me out. This has happened before. Or have you forgotten 1948 and 1965, when your `youth’ had just created the groundwork for regular troops. We will not tolerate this invasion of our sovereignty, and if your forces step in, we will retaliate. For God’s sake, we both have nuclear weapons now, why would you want to bring our countries to the brink of destruction?’

  `Vivek, we give wholehearted moral support to these youth, but are not intervening militarily. And you have no proof either way. So please keep your threats to yourself.’

  `Whew, that was some tough talking’, Joshi commented as Khosla almost threw the phone down.

  `Okay guys, if it comes to war, how ready are we?’

  `Sir, we can be ready to fight in a couple of days. We’ve just finished the summer combined arms exercises, and we’re as ready for battle as we’ll get’, the Army Chief, Baldev Randhawa summed up. He had the thick accent typical of his native state of Punjab and had reached the top post after a thirty-five year career in the infantry. He was by far the most hawkish of the Service Chiefs, and his heroics in the Kargil conflict had ensured that everyone knew that he had the bite to match his bark.

  `The Air Force is ready to go. Our fighter and strike squadrons in the Western and South Western Command are at a ten minute alert status, and our air defense is on full alert’, Sen spoke up in his characteristic drawl. In sharp contrast to the big and beefy Randhawa, Sen had a slight build and spoke in a slightly anglicized accent, which often aroused the derision and amusement of his peers. However, there was no such reaction to his professional capabilities-he had had an outstanding service record as a fighter pilot, and was particularly known for not standing for any bureaucracy and political interference. His career had been on the chopping block after he had stood up to the previous government over delays in approval for critical spare parts for the Air Force’s aging MiG fighters. One of the first things Khosla had done on coming to power was to resurrect Sen’s career.

  `The Vikramaditya task force is just off Karachi anyway, and we have two Kilos shadowing the Pak fleet in Karachi. If it comes to war, the Pakistani Navy will have a short and exciting life’

  Raman had spent much of his professional life in submarines, commanding the Indian Navy’s first operational squadron in the 1970s. He had commanded every class of submarine the Indian Navy ever had-the now retired Foxtrots, the German designed Type 209 and the even more modern Kilos.

  `The Kilo is one of the most difficult submarines to detect in the world. Ever since things started getting hot, we moved two boats off Karachi harbor. Their brief is to lie low and observe the Pak Navy. If war breaks out, they’re to sink their capital ships before they get out into the open seas. What does worry me is their submarine fleet-their Agostas are superb boats, and their sub drivers are right up there with the best in the business. We’ll be watching them closely-if Pakistan is up to anything aggressive, I would bet on the Agostas being their first punch at sea.’

  Khosla looked briefly at the papers in front of him, not really reading anything, but taking in all the pieces of information, trying to make some sense of how they could fit together.

  `All this is fine, but why the hell would he want war? Joshi, any progress?’

  The Oxford educated bureaucrat spoke in his usual clipped accent, but the tensions of the past few days, and his highly overweight frame ensured that he was constantly wiping perspiration from his forehead.

  Khosla always enjoyed Joshi’s precise analysis, but sometimes he felt that his Intelligence Chief was just a bit too mechanical, like a computer rattling off responses.

  `Well, Sir, we’ve had three MiG-25 recon flights over Pakistan last night-plus we’ve got satellite photographs from the latest IRS pass. There’s nothing to suggest that they have any new or unknown anti-missile systems in place. That leaves one option-they’ve found a way to neutralize our nuclear capability.’

  `Or Joshi, they believe they can engineer circumstances that would ensure neither side uses nuclear weapons.’

  ***

  Karim was getting very uncomfortable with the kind of talk he was hearing around the table. It had been nearly two months since that fateful telephone call from the Emir, and now Illahi was laying out the broad strokes of his plan to execute the Emir’s directive. The plan terrified Karim. As the Air Chief, he and his men would carry out much of what Illahi had envisioned-and the very thought chilled him to the bone.

  He noted that Illahi had left many details vague and had really elaborated only upon what he expected his armed forces to achieve. Some way to motivate a professional soldier-don’t even trust him. Or do you have something so dirty up your sleeve that you’re afraid to tell us openly?

  `So it’s pre-ordained- the day is near when we shall restore glory to our Quam and liberate our brethren in Kashmir’, Illahi said with a flourish that would not have been out of place had he been posing for the camera.

  Illahi had really dressed up for the occasion. While he usually did wear khakis, today he had dug out his stars and was standing with all his medals and decorations on his chest.

  Kari
m looked at this display with more than a little distaste. Illahi had never been in battle, and had he stayed in the Army as a professional soldier, would not have risen far. Most of his stars and decorations had followed his ascendance to political power. Karim looked around the table at the other Service Chiefs and thought he saw similar feelings in their eyes. None of them, however uttered a word as Illahi continued speaking

  Tariq maintained his usual stoic silence, standing in a corner, his massive bulk obscuring much of the view out of the window.

  As Illahi finished and was about to sit down, a single voice broke the silence of the room.

  `But Illahi, this is madness-surely you don’t want to risk a nuclear exchange-why should we risk millions of innocent lives because of your visions of grandeur and that old mad Emir’. Everyone turned to the speaker, General Babar. Babar had retired in the late 90s but due to his glorious career and staunch patriotism, had remained a key advisor to the military leadership. Even Illahi’s purges had not dared touch Babar, something Illahi was beginning to regret now.

  `Illahi, I too have fought for my Quam, and have shed and spilled blood for it. But there’s no glory in setting out on such a foolish quest’

  `You are getting old and tired, Babar, war is not for the faint-hearted. You worry about nuclear weapons, well, the Indians dare not use them first, and we will not give them any reason to’.

  `Illahi, you know we cannot win an outright victory in a purely conventional slugging match. And this plan that you seem to have worked out with the Emir is just too risky. If anything goes wrong, we’re standing at the threshold of using nuclear weapons. Moreover, you’re not even telling us everything. You can’t expect us to walk our forces, our families and our whole nation into something without knowing what’s going on.’

  `You do not need to know everything-and I do not need to tell you everything. Just put your trust in Allah and me and set out on this noble mission. If you cannot bring yourself to do it, then I have no need for you’.

  `So be it’, and to everyone’s horror, Babar got up and left the room.

  ***

  Babar sat down with his daily peg of whisky in front of his television. He savored the rich taste of the scotch as he tried to forget all that had happened over the day. The alcohol got him thinking of the day’s events again. The imposition of prohibition in the Pakistani Army in the early Eighties had in fact been a signal of far reaching changes. It had marked the gradual transition from an Army created on British traditions-the Army Babar had joined, to an Army that was part of the larger Islamic establishment that was being created in Pakistan, which was the Army that had created the likes of Ilahi and Tariq.

  That bastard Illahi, his madness was going to bring ruin to the whole country! Babar drifted off to sleep, old memories of burning tanks and dying friends coming back to him. He had long lost his wife to cancer, and his son was settled in the Gulf. After the day’s happenings, the old soldier felt for the first time that he had very little to live for anymore.

  He was awakened by a slight noise outside-a noise his trained ears recognized as the snapping of a magazine into a rifle. It had been a long time, but Babar’s fitness could put men half his age to shame-and he raced to his drawer and pulled out his Guernica .25 pistol. Smaller than a man’s palm, the Guernica was not a weapon to kill with at long range, but at short range, it could be deadly. There was now no time for calling the police or others for help, but he was determined to make this as difficult as possible for his attackers. The first thing he did was to switch on all the lights in the drawing room and then he hid behind a bulky cabinet in a far corner of the room.

  The four gunmen were now almost at the door. They were hired mercenaries and were hardly the best choice for this kind of job, which required stealth and precision. But they would have to do-it would be unthinkable for Tariq to get Army commandos involved in this operation. The first man kicked the door open and rushed inside, his AK-47 on full automatic.

  Babar now saw what he was up against. One on one, he was sure he could have dispatched these rogues even at this age, but the odds were clearly against him.

  All four attackers were now inside, having emptied nearly two hundred rounds in a futile burst that had destroyed the TV and completely shredded the sofas. As they paused to reload, Babar made his move. He emerged from behind the cabinet, the Guernica blazing. Three rounds caught the nearest man, who went down in a heap. Two others nicked another, who screamed and dove for cover. Before the others could return fire, Babar had run up the stairs and taken a new defensive position.

  `Get that old bastard!’

  Firing from their rifles, the gunmen advanced towards Babar’s hiding place, the steady volley of bullets pinning him down. They stopped after a minute, realizing they had their quarry trapped.

  `There’s no hope now, old man, you’re going to die!’

  Babar knew that was true-he had made a big mistake by running towards a culvert on the second floor. Now he was trapped-to emerge from the cavity under the stairs where he had hidden himself would expose him to his attackers, and there was nowhere else to run.

  The old soldier reached his decision quickly. He snapped a new magazine into his gun and burst out of his position, firing at his attackers.

  The gunmen were taken unawares, and one of them fell, before the two others returned fire. A burst of rifle fire caught Babar in his stomach, turning him around and throwing him across the room. The last thing Babar did was to empty his magazine into the nearest attacker’s chest.

  ***

  It had been yet another meeting of the NSC with a lot of speculation, but very little in the way of hard facts. With the rest of the NSC gone, Khosla could speak more freely to Joshi. Khosla ordered a couple of cups of tea and waited for the servant to leave before he locked the door.

  `So, Joshi-what we said in the meeting was all we could before the others-but what about the Patriot? Doesn’t he have anything to add to what we know?’

  `No, Sir-for once, things are moving too fast. He hasn’t really had a chance to tap his sources in Islamabad. But I wouldn’t bet on his being out of the know for too long-remember he’s the guy who gave us a week’s warning before the Pakistani coup. As soon as he sends any message, I’ll get it directly to you.’

  Khosla sat down heavily, as if the worries were physical forces bearing down on him. He had considered the reactivation of the Patriot carefully, and after much discussion with Joshi, decided to go ahead. If there ever was a situation when India needed the Patriot’s help, this was it.

  `Good. Just remember, as usual, no one else gets in the loop.’

  ***

  Illahi paced up and down his office-almost oblivious to the presence of his Chiefs of Staff. That old fool had almost spoiled everything. But now nothing would stand in his way. He would finally fulfill his destiny. His plan was perfect-it had to work. `Okay gentlemen, let’s commence the first phase of our Jihad.’ The generals, still in a state of shock from the news of Babar’s death at the hand of `robbers’, nodded and left the room.

  Karim could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. He had known Ilahi to be a ruthless son of a bitch, but he could never imagine his one time friend stooping to murder. He wondered if Ilahi had been involved in it, or it had been Tariq’s own initiative-and then decided that it realty didn’t matter after all. Pakistan was being thrown headlong into a war. Once everyone had left, Illahi looked at Tariq, still standing where he had been for the past two hours.

  `Tariq, the ball’s in your court. Don’t fail me.’

  The big soldier grinned.

  ***

  FOUR

  If we are the invaders, we may direct our attack against the Sovereign himself.

  - Sun Tzu

  Khosla finally retired to bed at midnight. Before hitting the bed, he combed his hair in front of the mirror. If probed, he could never give a logical explanation of this habit of his, except that it was something he had done for as l
ong back as he could remember.

  As he lay down, it was one of those rare moments when he regretted never having married. Having someone to talk to would be great just about now. He had had only one serious affair in his youth, but the relationship could not stand the strain imposed by the twin hectic schedules of a banker and a politician, both determined to reach the top of their careers. He smiled wistfully as he remembered his mother’s frantic advice to him, `Who’ll look after you in your old age?’

  He had ambitions of reading the day’s intelligence summaries, but was way too tired. He fell asleep within seconds of hitting the bed. Being the Prime Minister of the world’s largest, and possibly, most chaotic democracy was bad enough. Adding on the threat of nuclear war was more than any man could be expected to bear.

  ***

  Naik Iqbal Dar checked his rifle again. It was a worthy cause to die for, but the prospect of impending death could stop the bravest man in his tracks. He had been in the Police for almost six years, but the bitter memories of the past had not left him. He still remembered the day when his father and brother had died-shot down by Indian troops as they tried to run. He remembered his rage and desire for revenge. He remembered the Afghan who had befriended him and taught him to channelize his anger, taught him that one day he would avenge his father and brother thousands of times over. He remembered being asked to join the Indian Police under a false name, and with forged records. He remembered the hours of training and lies the Indian government told him about his homeland, Kashmir.

  The Afghan had not contacted him for years, and he was surprised to see him at his doorstep a couple of months ago. When the Afghan heard that Iqbal had been posted to the elite guard unit outside the PM’s house, he went nearly mad with joy and left, promising to return the next day with instructions.

  Iqbal strode over to the PM’s house, telling the Army commandos at the door that he wanted water. They brusquely motioned him to go to the back. Iqbal had practiced every day for a month for this, and things came to him automatically. The Afghan had promised him help, but he did not know what form it would take. For now, he was alone.