SALIM MUST DIE

  Salim Must Die

  Mukul Deva

  For Meher, my favourite younger daughter,

  the best gift God could possibly have given us

  and in fond memory of Homzi Vesuna,

  dear friend and comrade-in-arms.

  Rest in peace!

  ‘Fighting terrorism is like being a goalkeeper.

  You can make a hundred brilliant saves,

  but the only shot people remember

  is the one that gets past you.’

  Paul Wilkinson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author's Note

  Preface

  Iqbal

  Force 22

  Peace Goes to Pieces

  Postmortem

  Becoming Anbu

  Enter the NIC

  Beirut

  Call to Action

  A Bundle of Straws

  The First Big Straw

  The Second Big Straw

  The Final Straw

  The Plan

  Phase One: The Death Dealers

  Phase Two: The Weapons

  Phase Three: Breaching the Barriers

  The Unravelling

  The Traitor Falls

  Strike One

  Strike Two

  Strike Three

  Strike Four

  Strike Five

  Strike Six

  Strike Seven

  Strike Eight

  Strike Nine

  Strike Ten

  Salim Must Die

  Rebirth

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise for Lashkar

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION ALTHOUGH SOME OF THE events mentioned here have actually taken place.

  All the characters, countries, places and organizations described or mentioned in this book are fictitious or have been fictitiously used and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is unintentional.

  The technical details of the various weapon systems and chemical and biological agents, and the specifications and methodologies of bomb making and weaponry, as well as the tactics and security procedures employed by any police, military, airline, airport security and/or militant organization, as also criminal, forensic and investigative procedures, have been deliberately kept vague, inaccurate and/or incomplete to prevent any misuse, accidental or otherwise.

  There is no slur or malice intended against any religion, race, caste, creed, nation, organization or people.

  Preface

  THEY SAY FACT IS OFTEN STRANGER THAN FICTION. THIS WOULD be quite obvious to anyone who has been watching the global turn of events even casually.

  Despite all the apparent progress and advancements we may have made as a race, it is undeniable that the world we live in today is definitely a far more unsafe and unpleasant place than it ever was. We talk glibly about quality of life, work-life balance, increased life expectancy, freedom for the individual and human rights, but the facts speak for themselves. And the story they tell is far from pleasant.

  Nuclear, chemical and biological weapons, terrorism (including the state-sponsored type), drugs, the easy access to weapons of all kinds, a huge spurt in crime, pollution, global warming, climate change are only some of the hard realities we live with today. And this is the world we are leaving behind for our children to suffer in.

  The question is, why? Why did it happen?

  Who made it happen?

  Who allowed it to happen?

  The truth is that no single person or nation can be held responsible. All of us are, albeit in differing degrees.

  Likewise, there is no single incident or event that has led to this situation. Hundreds of apparently unrelated and seemingly trivial events have brought the human race to the brink of disaster.

  In this novel, I have mentioned a few such events that also form an essential backdrop to the lives and deeds of my characters. On the face of it some of them may not appear relevant or especially calamitous, but they are all inevitable parts of the same gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

  Other than that, this story is essentially and completely a work of fiction. And I fervently hope that it remains so.

  Iqbal

  0340 HOURS. SECTOR 35, LINE OF CONTROL (LOC). KASHMIR, INDIA

  THAT NIGHT ALPHA COMPANY OF 18 GRENADIERS HAD BEEN tasked to keep an eye on the various infiltration routes in Sector 35. The entire company, minus the platoon manning Kaman Post, was deployed in section strength patrols along the LOC. Havaldar Ranbir Singh commanded the last section deployed on the northern flank of the sector.

  Ranbir was a hard-bitten combat veteran with seven operational tenures under his belt. In fact, this was his second tenure in the Kashmir valley. Though not a very imaginative individual, his tactical knowledge and field craft were decidedly above par. So was his iron-fisted control over the section he commanded. All these factors enabled him to react hard and fast when another routine night on the LOC turned into an eventful one. Though, if you stop to think about it, no night on the Kashmir LOC can be routine. After all, there are more men and guns deployed along this line than there are on any other border in the world.

  And the guns are always cocked and ready to fire. As are the men wielding them.

  IT WAS NOT THE INDIAN SOLDIER MANNING THE BATTLEFIELD surveillance radar who spotted the movement down on the rugged, barely visible mountain trail. It was the machine gunner who first heard the sounds and alerted Ranbir.

  The sounds were muted and sporadic, but there was absolutely no doubt that someone was coming across the LOC. It was also clear that whoever was moving down the trail was close, very close. A wave of tension surged through the section. At this place and at this time of night it could only be an infiltrator. Nerves that were already on the edge moved closer to the brink.

  There's no time to alert either the platoon or the company commander. Not that they could do anything right now even if I did manage to get through to them. Ranbir rapidly took stock of the situation. He gave the required field signals and silently pointed out the positions. Immediately, the section changed its profile and moved into new positions. Barely eighty seconds later, all six rifles of the section were trained on the narrow winding mountain trail. So was the section's machine gun. The ambush was firmly in place.

  ‘Nobody fires till I give the signal,’ Ranbir whispered as he primed the pencil flare. A very slight murmur rustled through the section as they acknowledged his command. The attention of each man and his weapon was riveted on the barely audible, but now continuous sounds coming from the mountain trail that lay just below the ledge on which they were positioned. Heartbeats ramped up even higher and hands tightened on weapons as a silhouette suddenly appeared on the crest. The man was not making much noise but he was not taking any precautions either. In fact, he seemed to be moving like a sleepwalker.

  ‘Stupid shit!’ Ranbir hissed to the rifleman beside him. ‘Must be one of those newly trained morons coming back to conquer the world.’

  By now the intruder had descended almost twenty metres down the rocky slope. Another eighty metres and he would be at the base of the defile and within range of the waiting guns. So will the rest of the infiltrating party that is sure to be behind him. Ranbir swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry and his was not the only one. No matter how many times you go into combat, each time is like the first time. The fear is starkly virginal.

  Fear coiled tautly at the pit of every stomach and adrenaline-hyped bodies tensed, as they got ready to receive the hail of bullets sure to be flying around soon. One never knows which one of them is destined to seek you out…. Ra
nbir pushed away the thought and focused on the task at hand.

  ‘Usually, there are nine or ten of them in each infiltration part,’ the battalion Intelligence Officer had told them during induction training.

  Ranbir only started to worry when the intruder had descended another fifty metres. How come none of the others is visible even now? You never leave such large gaps between people while moving in such rough terrain. Ranbir was perplexed. How can it just be one man trying to cross the LOC? What the hell am I missing here?

  By now the intruder had almost reached the centre of the killing ground.

  In another few moments he will be out of it and lost behind the bend in the mountain trail. The dilemma racked Ranbir briefly. Should I wait for the others? Are there any others? Or should I take this one out? In the end it was a simple decision. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Ranbir nodded to himself. I guess taking one of them down is better than going back empty handed. ‘Get ready, guys,’ he whispered softly. ‘I am going to hail him… if he doesn't stop, blow him away.’

  An equally soft murmur let him know the section had heard him. Guns steadied as he raised the small hailer to his mouth. Experience has shown that a sudden loud voice booming out of the darkness more often than not freezes the unsuspecting person for a few seconds. In such conditions those few seconds are more than critical. They are what make the difference between life and death.

  ‘Stop! Stop right there and raise your hands in the air.’ Amplified by the hailer, Ranbir's metallic voice blasted out of the undergrowth.

  Then came the harsher metallic thud as a pencil flare snaked up in the sky and bathed the mountain-side in white, blinding light.

  The man stumbling down the mountain track stopped abruptly. He turned to face the voice that had thundered out of the darkness. In the sharp light of the flare, his face, lined with tiredness, was devoid of expression. He seemed totally oblivious to everything happening around him.

  The section tensed, as it got ready for the reaction. Did we act too soon? Where is the rest of the infiltration party? Unanswered questions flitted through their minds as they strained to see beyond the discontinuous illumination of the rapidly fading flare. There was a harsh click as Ranbir unleashed another flare into the sky. It effortlessly took over the mantle of light from the first one, which fell spent into the undergrowth.

  There was still no movement. The intruder stood listlessly waiting for something to happen next. The tableau remained frozen for what seemed an eternity. Finally Ranbir murmured a low command. The machine gunner and the rest of the rifle group maintained a careful vigil, ready to provide fire support, as Ranbir and two riflemen moved swiftly towards the intruder.

  Four minutes later, the intruder had been thoroughly searched, disarmed and handcuffed. Other than the inevitable semi-automatic rifle, they also found a Thuraya satellite phone and a telephone diary on him. Ranbir took custody of these. The captured man made no attempt to resist or avoid any of the questions thrown at him.

  Twenty minutes later, Ranbir's patrol started back towards base, the intruder safely ensconced in their midst. It took them almost two hours to reach Kaman Post and present themselves to their post commander, Captain Vinod Rai of 18 Grenadiers.

  RANBIR HAD ALREADY RADIOED AHEAD TO INFORM CAPTAIN Vinod Rai about the capture of the infiltrator on the radio set. As soon as the patrol entered the post, Rai strode up to them with youthful impatience.

  The captive was in his early twenties, tall and broad-shouldered. Despite the grime and filth he was covered in and the fact that he had obviously not shaved or bathed for a few days, there was something clean-cut about his bearing that made Rai pause momentarily. He doesn't look like the typical, semi-literate terrorist who has been picked off the street, given some bullshit training and then sent out to kill… and die. And why do his eyes have such a strange spaced out look… is it just that he has been taken captive… or is it something else? Is he one of the big fish who have…

  Rai sized up the man before him, as he began to question him. Like Havaldar Ranbir, Captain Rai also found the man willing to talk.

  The minute the prisoner began to speak, his public school education came through in his tone and choice of words. More than a little surprised, Rai took a closer look at him. Damn! That, but for the grace of God, could be me… or any of the other officers in the paltan. This guy could easily have been whatever he chose to be, if he had not strayed… or been misguided. Then the captive's words began to strike home and dragged Rai back to reality.

  THE INTRUDER HAD AN INTERESTING TALE TO TELL. IN FACT, what started out as the routine interrogation of yet another intruder captured during infiltration left the young captain open-mouthed and wide-eyed. When the man finally finished, Rai ordered him to be placed under guard. Then he stepped across to the communications hut and called his battalion commander on the secure line.

  ‘He says his name is Iqbal. Says he is an Indian, a resident of Lucknow, but was studying in Delhi when he was recruited by the Lashkar and sent across to Pakistan for training. What? Yes, sir, I have. The man is more than willing to talk and he seems to be telling the truth.’ Rai gave him all the details of the man and the items that had been found on him.

  ‘Why was he crossing the LOC again? And that Thuraya satellite phone? I am sure you know that only very senior terrorists are given satellite phones… or those who are on a highly critical mission. Get into more details, Rai. Something doesn't smell right.’

  ‘That's what I was coming to, sir,’ Rai replied. ‘He says he was trained at Muzaffarabad by the same group that carried out the terror bombings in Delhi last month. Apparently his mother and sister were among those killed by the bomb that exploded at Sarojini Nagar market. He came to know about it when he got back to Lucknow after the training, so he killed the maulavi in Delhi who'd recruited him, and then returned to Muzaffarabd to avenge their deaths by killing those who'd trained him and planned the bombings. It was the Lashkar-e-Toiba lunatics, as we all suspected.’

  Rai paused. ‘Incidentally, sir, the man says that when his party was infiltrating into India on the thirtieth of last month, they were launched from Chakoti Post and were ambushed by one of our patrols just after crossing the LOC.’

  ‘On the thirtieth of last month? That would have been the ambush by Delta Company.’

  ‘That's right, sir.’

  ‘I thought they got everybody in that ambush.’

  ‘Well, apparently they didn't,’ Rai replied. ‘Iqbal and two others got away from the ambush and managed to reach their camp, although one of them was injured and died later. He says it was the Paki instructor who had trained them and was escorting them across.’

  ‘Hmmm…. Does this guy know where the camp is?’

  ‘Yes sir, he does. He was not able to point it out on the map but he says he can take us there. From the way he described the camp, it seems to be in the mountains above Hari. In fact, he is quite eager to take us there.’

  ‘He is, is he?’ There was a long pause as the old man thought it over. Finally, he spoke. ‘Okay, Vinod. Take a platoon and get him to show you where the camp is. Take the southern approach. Meanwhile, I'm going to have Bravo and Delta companies set up stops on the other approaches.’

  ‘Roger that, sir. I'll move out immediately.’

  ‘Do that.’ Pause. ‘And listen, be careful… it may well be a trap. Okay?’

  ‘Don't worry, sir, I will.’

  ‘I'm paid to worry, son.’ The smile in the old man's voice was evident. So was the steel of command. ‘And Vinod, don't go pulling any Rambo shit on us.’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ Rai grinned. He was quite used to the constant leg-pulling that he was subjected to ever since he had tried for a berth in the Special Forces. Despite the fact that he had given up halfway and returned to his battalion, the Rambo tag had stuck.

  ‘As soon as you're done with that, send the prisoner back to base. And also the diary and that satellite telephone. I'm
sure the spooks would love to get their hands on them.’

  ‘Roger, sir.’ Before the old man could terminate the call, Rai spoke again. ‘Sir, would it be okay with you if I called up Colonel Anbu and shared Iqbal's story with him?’

  ‘Anbu? The Force 22 CO….’ He broke off. ‘Why? You feel he might be interested?’

  ‘I'm not sure, sir, just a gut instinct. I think he may be….’ Rai's voice tapered off tentatively.

  ‘Sure, go ahead. We're batting for the same side after all. In any case, we wouldn't want to go against your guts… would we now?’

  Both men laughed as they ended the call. Rai waited for the dial tone to return. Then, dialling another number from memory, he waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up at the other end.

  Force 22

  THE SHARP, FLAT BANG OF THE GRENADE AND THE SOUND OF the shots fired hard in its wake drowned out the ringing of the phone. All six shots had been fired so rapidly that the sound had cannonaded into one thunderous roar.

  Ignoring the pounding in his chest and the roaring in his eardrums, the gunman raced forward. Swallowing hard to ease his dry throat, he kicked open the door and tossed the XM-84 grenade into the room.

  The XM-84 is a non-fragmentation, non-lethal Flash-and-Bang stun grenade that produces a blinding one million Candela light and a deafening 175 decibels of sound. The sudden surge of light activates all the photosensitive cells in the retina, making it impossible for the eye to see anything till the retina returns to its normal, un-stimulated state. Simultaneously, the incredibly loud sound disturbs the balance of the fluid in the semi-circular canal of the ear, thus disrupting a person's sense of balance. The combined effect is enough to degrade a person's combat effectiveness for as long as one minute. In battle, a minute is a very long time – long enough for many people to die many times.

  Tossing the grenade inside, the man dressed in battle fatigues stepped back instinctively and took cover as he mentally counted down. Four, three, two….