Fenix Page 15

  “What are you suggesting exactly?” Basu was curious. His position demanded clarity. Diplomacy and riddles was not his game.

  “I am suggesting,” Ravoof said forcefully, “that we make the real perpetrators of the strike on Mumbai pay for what they have done.”

  “Ramp up the strikes further against the last remaining LET commanders?”

  Ravoof shook his head: “I mean the real perpetrators. not their proxies.”

  “Rawalpindi?” Basu cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward: “Are you insane? How would we even do that? The place is a fortress!”

  “You used the limited strikes on the terror camps in Kashmir as cover and almost wiped out the entire senior terrorist leadership, did you not?”

  “So?” Basu pressed.

  “So, just imagine what you more could accomplish if you had the cover of an ongoing war and the resources of the military…” Ravoof observed.

  After several seconds of silence, Basu smiled and got up from his chair: “I will call on you later.”

  Pathanya jumped off the back of the truck and looked up as a massive C-17 roared into the bright blue noon sky above the airfield. He saw the rest of the pathfinders jumping off the truck and grabbing their backpacks and making their way to the open ramp of the nearby C-130J. Kamidalla was the last to get off and he grabbed both his backpack as well as Pathanya’s before making his way to the edge of the truck.

  “Where to now?” He said as he tossed Pathanya his backpack and jumped off. Both men walked towards the parked aircraft.

  “No airbase north of here, so I assume we are going south.” Pathanya said after a few seconds.

  “They didn’t tell you?” Kamidalla asked in surprise. Pathanya laughed: “You know the deal. They never tell us anything. But we will probably find out soon enough.”

  “Well, I hope it is someplace warm!” Kamidalla noted as he walked into the rear cabin of the aircraft and tossed his backpack to the side of a seat. The loadmaster on this flight walked past the two officers and put up four fingers.

  Four minutes.

  “We are one short on the team,” Kamidalla noted as Pathanya took his seat. Pathanya nodded. He knew. They had had one casualty during the operation to nab Muzammil. It could have been worse, Pathanya thought. But while his team member would recover and live to fight another day, it had left the pathfinders one man short.

  “Ansari asked me about that,” Pathanya replied. The aircraft engines began spooling up and the loadmaster began raising the rear cargo door.

  “And?” Kamidalla asked as the blue interior lights of the cabin activated and left everything inside awash with shades of white and steel-blue.

  “And I told him I know just the man to fill that position,” Pathanya continued. He noticed his pathfinders beginning to doze off as the aircraft rolled to the runway.

  “Know the man?” Kamidalla stowed his rifle safely behind the backpack. Pathanya removed his battlefield computer from the backpack and powered it on. “Former spear team member. Used to be in the position you occupy now when we were in deep shit inside Bhutan.”

  “Aha.” Kamidalla noted with a smile. “Part of the Thimpu shield trio!”

  “The man saved my life out there. I would have bled to death on that god-forsaken ridge near Barshong if he hadn’t gotten me out.” The two men held on as the aircraft rumbled down the runway and lifted into the skies above Ladakh.

  “Then why didn’t you bring him in for our previous joyride into enemy territory?” Kamidalla asked out of curiosity. He noted that he was perhaps asking one too many questions. But it might be a long flight and there was not much for him to do to pass the time…

  Pathanya didn’t look away from his laptop: “SOCOM had him assigned to some other task force.”

  “So what changed?”

  Pathanya stopped what he was doing and faced Kamidalla: “this war is about to start soon. Our missions is no longer to nab a terrorist leader or some other piece of shit. This is going to get real messy real fast. I want pathfinder reinforced with experienced men before the army’s demand for men begins to start sapping resources at SOCOM.”

  “Like last time?” Kamidalla asked.

  “Yeah. Like last time.”

  “In here, sir.” Ansari strained his eyes as he followed the soldier into the darkened corridor. He looked around and saw the source of the bleak neon lighting overhead. Closed doors on either side had numbers on them. The one at the very end was guarded by two military-police guards on either side, heavily-armed for the fact that they were inside a secure military facility. Ansari noticed the holstered pistols on their belts. The two guards snapped to attention as Ansari walked up to the door.

  The doors and rooms here were supposed to be soundproof. Yet Ansari could hear the muffled guttural screaming of a man inside. He turned to his escort: “What the hell is going on in here?”

  The major from military-intelligence kept a neutral face and unlocked the door, motioning to Ansari to enter. Ansari hesitated. Did he want to know what was happening here? At some level he knew what to expect. The counter-insurgency personnel at military-intelligence were not known for kid-gloved methods. Especially when it came to the hardcore members of the Islamic jihad waging war in the valley against Indian forces.

  So why was he here to begin with? Surely he could have waited for the disseminated intel to come though? No. Basu had “advised” him to go see for himself the determination with which his service was pursuing the Mumbai attackers. Basu was known to come across as a mild mannered, balding old man with white hair. Almost like a school headmaster. But there had been something deeply menacing in his words to Ansari. And that had gotten Ansari’s interest.

  Ansari exhaled and gently opened the door.

  The large room behind the door was lit up in the same bluish ceiling neon lights as the corridor outside. Cameras on every ceiling corner focused on the center of the room. Ansari saw a badly bruised and bleeding Muzammil on the floor, laying to the side of his chair, which had also fallen on its side. His spilled blood showed up as bluish-black in the lighting. An army captain in fatigues was on one knee, punching the man on his face with bare knuckles. Four other soldiers stood nearby, their batons and pistol holsters visible. Ansari looked to the side to see some of Basu’s men also in the room, checking their notes. Nobody seemed to be particularly concerned about their source receiving savage blows to the face…

  “Okay, captain. That’s enough for now, I think.” Ansari’s escort said as he walked in behind Ansari and closed the door to the room. The army officer on his knee turned around to face the senior officers in the room and got to his feet. On the floor, Muzammil began to crawl away desperately, using nothing but his fingers to pull himself.

  Ansari felt disgusted. His face showed it. He turned to the guards standing near the crawling terrorist: “You! Get that man up! Now!”

  The soldiers hesitated and looked to the major, who nodded. They moved to pick the man up by his shoulders and put the chair upright. They then placed Muzammil on the chair. It seemed like he would simply fall off it again.

  Ansari walked up to Muzammil and stood two feet away, observing the wretched mass of flesh and bones now left in front of him. It took him some time to associate this man with the pictures he had seen of him just days before. This same man had been shouting at the top of his voice for jihad against India. The mastermind of the attempted nuclear strike on Mumbai.

  The murderer of thousands of civilians.

  “Did you ever think,” Ansari said as he brought Muzammil’s head up with his left hand, “that you would ever see the inside of an Indian prison?”

  Muzammil looked at Ansari, his eyes sore and red. But he said nothing.

  “No, you didn’t, did you?” Ansari continued. “You must have thought that you would send thousands of your young boys to die by our bullets, but never face captivity. Didn’t you?” Ansari then jerked the man’s head back to its slump state. “Did you think we woul
d just let you get away after what you did?”

  Muzammil mumbled something unintelligible, so Ansari turned to his captors: “at least leave the man able enough to speak! Good god!”

  “What do you know about god?” Muzammil said finally, barely speaking the words. Ansari turned around and looked at the man, who still staring at the floor. “So. He does speak! I was beginning to have doubts!”

  “Allah is witness to my suffering,” Muzammil continued. “He protects the faithful and the pure. Do what you must.”

  “Impressive,” Ansari noted. “As it turns out, I am also deeply aware of the Holy Book. And His teachings. And you, represent neither.”

  That got Muzammil’s attention enough for him to face up at the man in front of him. He stared at Ansari for several seconds. “You claim yourself a Muslim?”

  “I don’t just claim it. I am one.” Ansari stated authoritatively.

  “And yet you fight for the pagans?” Muzammil asked in genuine surprise. “Anyone who fights alongside the Hindus and against his Islamic brothers is not a true Muslim.”

  Ansari smirked. “Do you honestly expect people to believe that your attempts to wage war and kill innocents are about religious purity? I am a Muslim but I was born on this land and I will fight scum like you to ensure nothing happens to it or the people who live here. You and I will both answer to Allah for our sins in the afterlife. But my faith is not dependent on interpretations of irrelevant mortals. Only He can judge us, lest you forget!”

  Muzammil continued to look at Ansari for several seconds and then stared back at the floor. Ansari was about to turn away when the terrorist leader spoke again: “why did you come down here? You could have just left me to your Hindu dogs in this room.”

  Ansari turned around and punched Muzammil to the side of his face that shoved him off the chair and to the floor. The man spat out some more blood from his mouth and gasped in pain. Ansari stepped forward over the writhing man on the floor: “You and I may share the same faith. But do not mistake it for a weakness. I came here to see the face of the man who has brought death to thousands of my countrymen. Of all faiths, of all ages.” Ansari then bent on one knee near Muzammil: “I also came here to let you know that we have already killed all of your commanders in front of your eyes. But we won’t stop there. Oh no, we are going up the ladder, my friend. All those who supported you will find themselves next to you. Just you watch.”

  Ansari got up to his feet and nodded to the major and walked towards the exit. Stepping out into the corridor, Ansari turned to Basu’s men as they piled out: “just tell me you have the names we want from that bastard.”

  “We do,” the major replied.

  “That simple?” Ansari asked as he removed his handkerchief and wiped the blood off his knuckles.

  “That simple,” the major continued. “What you need to understand here is that it is the same story with all these so-called holy-warriors. When they fall into our hands, they sing like canaries. All of their courage melts away when they realize that they will spend their life in a coffin-sized room unless they cooperate. This one, was no different.”

  “And what did you find out?” Ansari asked, impressed with the routine way the MI personnel were treating this case.

  “Lt-general Haider is Muzammil’s contact man in the ISI,” the senior RAW man noted. “Our captive met with him repeatedly during the past months while they put together the strike on Mumbai.”

  “So Haider’s our man,” Ansari noted. “What about the warhead itself?”

  “They received the warhead through Haider’s men. A Brigadier Minhas was in charge of that. Mihas belongs to Hussein’s operations staff but works closely with the ISI and Haider.”

  “If Haider and Minhas are involved,” Ansari noted, “then rest-assured, so is the higher offices at Rawalpindi. If your captive sang like a canary, why is he almost on the verge of dying in there?” Ansari asked as the noise of beating and moans from room started again. The major waved Ansari down the corridor as they left the room behind.

  “Mumbai is a big city, sir,” the major explained. “A lot of us lost a lot of friends and relatives. Many had to be evacuated. Others are still missing in that mass exodus following the detonation off the coast. Once my men here realized who they had on their hands, well…”

  Ansari nodded. He understood the sentiment. He started to climb up the stairs that would take them out of the underground facility. “Which is why it is important that you keep a close eye on the captive and make sure he stays alive. At least until our work is done. Can you do that?”

  The major smiled to himself. “Yes sir. But I make no guarantees that he won’t just flop over and die on his own.”

  Ansari stopped midway on the stairs and turned to face the military-intelligence officer: “now you listen to me! We went to a lot of effort and risk to get that bastard alive. You keep him that way. If I hear that you let him die, I will make it my personal mission to make sure you are busted down to lieutenant and posted to the freezing Siachen glacier the rest of your career. Is that understood?”

  “Sir! Understood.” The major had lost his earlier smirk.

  Ansari vented his anger in a sigh and then made his way up the stairs again. He understood the emotions running within the services at the savage attack on Mumbai. With all-out war just around the corner, fear was in the air as well. People under these stressful conditions could and would make mistakes. But the mistakes tended to be costlier when the people making them were in positions of responsibility. He knew he had to keep a short leash on everybody under his command until the situation stabilized to normal again.

  If at all it ever did.

  ──── 19 ────

  “Where are they headed?” the prime-minister asked as he glanced through the images in front of him. Ravoof turned to General Potgam who responded sharply:

  “Pasrur.”

  “And where the hell is that?” the PM said as he looked at Potgaml. The latter kept a remarkably neutral face, Ravoof thought as he watched this play out.

  “A short distance west of Shakar-Garh. Which itself is across the border from Pathankot.” Potgam replied. The room filled with silence. The images were unanimous in their clarity. Columns of tanks and vehicles on the road were headed east to the border with India. The Pakistani army was on the move.

  “What the hell are they playing at?” Bafna asked as he passed the PM more images from the file. “They know they can’t win this, right?”

  “By the looks of it,” Ravoof noted, “it looks like they don’t agree with you on that.”

  “This,” the PM noted, “goes against everything that their government and the foreign office have given assurances against! It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Unless the analysis model is itself flawed,” Basu noted chillingly.

  The PM put down the images and removed his glasses as he looked at the intelligence-chief: “What are you saying? That the civilian government in Islamabad is unaware of all this military mobilization? I know their prime-minister personally. He would never authorize this!”

  Ravoof muttered an expletive just a tad bit more loudly than he had anticipated and the PM caught it: “Oh, and you concur with Basu, I take it?”

  “I do.” Ravoof replied. He understood that now was not the time to be subtle. His country was being threatened by war by its nuclear-armed neighbor. If what Basu had revealed to him about General Hussein and Haider’s involvement in the Mumbai strike was true, even this assessment was untrue. The country was not being threatened. It was already at war…

  “The facts are straightforward,” Ravoof continued, “but the choice is for us to either see them or ignore them. The strike on Mumbai was not a deranged act of a lunatic. It was planned. It was considered. It was analyzed. And Rawalpindi chose to act on it. Why? Is it because they are stupid? No. Nothing that we know about Generals Haider and Hussein over the past two decades show us that they are stupid. In fact, they are an
ything but. So their decision to allow the terrorists to strike with a borrowed nuclear warhead reveals their inner thoughts and conclusions. Much more so, in fact, than anything their civilian leaders have put out over the past few weeks.”

  “They are convinced that we are weak.” Potgam added in a voice teeming with authority that he was known to wield. “They think we are on our knees militarily after the Tibet war and more so psychologically. They think the nuclear fallout from the attacks in Bhutan have left us without the stomach to absorb another such war. A war where the nuclear options are on the table from the get go. They are not convinced they are going to lose, sir. In fact, they think they can win!”

  “Of course,” Ravoof added, “our massive strikes against the terrorist camps and commanders was unexpected both to the ISI as well as the terrorist commanders themselves. That was why it caught them flat-footed. The senior terrorists are dead. And the street-jihadists in Pakistan are outraged and rabidly asking for war. I don’t think Islamabad is convinced that they will win. I just think that they see no other alternative at this point. From their perspective, they can wage a popular jihad against us or the same Islamic extremism will topple their precious hold on their country!”

  The PM rubbed his eyes and shared a look at Bafna: “everything we have done for peace. All our efforts. And this is what it is coming down to. Is there no alternative for peace at this point?”

  Bafna shook his head after a few seconds of consideration. The PM then looked around his war cabinet: “what will it take for Islamabad or Rawalpindi or whoever is in charge over there, to talk peace? Can we give them something, anything, to avoid war?”

  “I suppose,” Basu noted in frustration, “if we surrender Kashmir and put down our arms in front of their tanks, it might get them to reconsider chopping our heads off.”

  He got a piercing glare from the PM and Bafna stood up from his chair: “how dare you show disrespect for this country’s prime-minister!” Somehow, under the circumstances, the outburst rang hollow in the room. Basu was long past the mental inhibitions that held him to this particular government. When the strike on Mumbai had unfolded, he had decided right then that this time the perpetrators would not be allowed to escape. If war was the medium to deliver on that promise, so be it. After all, what was that saying about nations who could not summon the guts to push back when blatantly instigated?