FOUR
Khuzdar (Baluchistan) 7th October
Durrakh Shambani didn’t curse as the television screen went blank—he just lay on his bed and stared. Having spent most of his life in this town Durrakh had become used to the regular power cuts. To add to the people’s misery the municipal authorities had been ordered to enforce a blackout throughout the night—the army feared further air strikes by the Indians.
The day’s news had caused a stir in the town and Durrakh could hear the buzz from the streets below. It was common for the people to gather at street corners, around newspaper stalls, and in teashops to debate and discuss the hourly developments in this furious conflict. Such debates were the right forum for political activity—especially for an office bearer of the Baloch Students Organization—but the BSO members had been arrested, beaten up, and threatened on just the second day of India’s military operation.
But that wasn’t why Durrakh Shambani lay closeted in his tiny one-room apartment. The revving of a motorcycle pierced through the buzz on the street and a voice called out, “Durrakh!”
He jumped out of the bed and looked down through the window. “I’m coming,” Durrakh shouted down at his associate Qaisar. He turned to pick up his jacket and looked at himself in the mirror. The faded gray jacket was a gift from an American reporter four years ago—Durrakh had served as his interpreter in visits to some remote villages.
“Where’s my ID card?” Durrakh looked at the table littered with books. He then shuffled through his jacket pockets and pulled the card out. Any cop or FC man who saw the word student on the card would smirk—Durrakh was almost 44. His cropped beard was graying and the hair on his scalp was getting thinner each passing year. Durrakh didn’t bother to take a closer look—the wrinkles around his eyes and lips had become depressingly profuse.
“We’re getting late,” Qaisar kicked the Chinese motorcycle to a start and the two men raced through the streets and out onto the main road.
Khuzdar was the second major city in Baluchistan and was uniformly Baloch unlike the capital Quetta. It was also more centrally located with roads leading up to Kalat and Quetta in the north, to Turbat far in the east, Jacobabad in the west, and south to Karachi. Such an important town was bound to have a heavy security presence and Qaisar could see the crowd of Frontier Corp men at the checkpoint. He cut the motorcycle’s engine and let it roll to a stop.
“Ey Balosan?” a mustachioed Pashtun stepped toward them. He was dressed in the familiar dark blue shalwar-kameez of the FC and there were a dozen other men with weapons pointed at the road. Behind a bunker of sandbags was the main post where their officer was sitting.
“Going to my village,” Qaisar and Durrakh handed over their ID cards.
“Get off,” the security man was joined by two others. They searched the Baloch men thoroughly and began rustling through the bags on the bike.
“It’s only some rice for my uncle,” protested Qaisar. They ignored him and spilled some of the rice on the road. Most of the FC personnel were recruited from outside Baluchistan and were usually Punjabis and Pashtuns—not surprisingly this force was much despised among the Baloch people.
“Come here!” an imperious voice commanded them over to the post. The officer was sprawled on a cot examining their ID cards. “Who is Durrakh Shambhani?”
“That’s me,” Durrakh said quietly.
“And you are Qaisar Rind,” the young officer sat up and looked closely at the two men. “BSO…you call yourselves students? When I’m your age I’ll be a commanding officer…did you find anything?”
“No sir,” the Pashtun stood alongside the two Baloch. “Only bags of rice.”
“Check inside the bags. They could be carrying bombs or drugs…empty them out,” the officer looked angry. “These BSO-wallahs are traitors to our country. We are under attack and their able-bodied men are going around raising slogans for independence! Why don’t you fight for your land…for your religion?”
The young man was now on his feet and facing them, his thin moustache quivering along with his lip, while the last outburst rang in everyone’s ears. Durrakh and Qaisar only responded with a deafening silence.
“Go and stand outside. We will first check your status with the police in Khuzdar…then we’ll see what is to be done!”
The rice lay in a pile on the road. Qaisar sat down and began gathering it in heaps while Durrakh held the bag open. They spoke in Balochi.
“The Punjabi pup hopes to become a CO,” Qaisar’s gaze was hard with anger.
“Only if he lives that long!” Durrakh slapped his friend on the shoulder and forced him to smile. The Pashtun soldier came up to them and blocked out the mid-morning sun.
“I have made our saab understand,” he assured them. “I said BSO has no guns and no money…they can only shout slogans! But we have a problem. These wretched Indians attacked at such a time that our monthly pay hasn’t been delivered to us yet.”
Qaisar understood what the FC man was fishing for and handed him a hundred-rupee note.
“What will ten men do with this?” the Pashtun shook his head and then smiled as another note was handed to him.
Five minutes later Qaisar and Durrakh were racing away on the road—low hills ran parallel to that road until Qaisar turned right into a dusty track. Khuzdar town and the entire Khuzdar district rest in the lap of the Kirthar and allied hill ranges. These low hills rise up to meet the Brahui Range in Kalat, while from the south, the Suleiman range begins to run parallel to the Kirthar and then goes on to meet the mountains of Afghanistan. These mountain ranges together separate the plateau of Baluchistan from the plains of the Indus.
The two men stopped near a small cluster of houses built in the lap of the low hills. Qaisar Rind was 37 years old and lived with his family in this farm. The Rind tribe dominated all lands further north but in these parts Qaisar’s family occupied the middle strata in the tribal hierarchy.
“How are you uncle?” Qaisar waved to an old man gazing across the date orchard. He cut the engine of the motorcycle and rolled to a stop.
“Salaam Durrakh!” Qaisar’s cousin Shazain walked up to them. “What’s the news from the city brothers?”
Shazain’s little daughter ran to her uncle who took her in his arms, “Alas this time I have bought nothing for you!”
“The city is tense and there’s little electricity,” Durrakh told Shazain as they both picked up the rice bags.
“How are you son?” Shazain’s father had followed them on foot. “And why are these bags open?”
“We were searched on the way by the FC,” explained Qaisar. Both Shazain and his father spat in disgust. “It’s okay…no major loss.”
“All will be okay when these people are thrown out of our land!” exclaimed Shazain. He was shorter and darker than his cousin but both men had the gray eyes of their family.
“Come let’s have lunch,” suggested Qaisar’s uncle.
“No uncle we have to go now.”
“But…”
“Uncle we have important work to do,” insisted Durrakh, the hard look in his eye showing steely determination. He reached across to shake their hands, “Pray that we return successful.”
Durrakh Shambani was the head of the Baluchistan National Army, an organization that he had helped form eight years ago at Kalat. The choice of location was very symbolic—as Durrakh intended it to be. Kalat State had led a confederacy of Baloch tribes that strove for independence after the formation of India and Pakistan in 1947. But they were forcibly incorporated into Islamic Pakistan with the covert support of its western allies. Since then the people of Baluchistan had led several uprisings against their oppressive Punjabi rulers and in the process had formed various parties, groups, and organizations to push their cause.
In 1997 the BNA joined that crowd. Despite the militaristic name Durrakh desired a political role for his organization and an important future for his student followers. He therefore aligned himself with major political parties, collected money for them, and campaigned on their behalf in the towns of Baluchistan. The BNA had barely made its presence felt when in 1998 the Pakistan government decided to test its nuclear weapons in the Chagai district. Durrakh’s fledgling organization went on a protest march to the Ras Koh hills where they were promptly arrested by the army and for two weeks tasted the venom of Punjabi brutality.
The BNA offices were ransacked and Durrakh escaped back to Khuzdar. After lying low for a few months he visited the local BSO office and signed up to become a member—not revealing his political past to his new friends. Durrakh quickly tired of the groupism and infighting within the BSO and found a soul mate in Qaisar Rind. One day Qaisar took Durrakh to a secret location west of Khuzdar where he and a handful of others trained with automatic weapons. They told him that all they needed were new recruits and the means to raise money. Durrakh knew how to arrange both. Thus the BNA was reborn—this time however it became a shadowy and militant organization.
“Dostagein braat Shahdad! Are you there?” Qaisar called out in the darkness.
“Salaam Qaisar! Salamat baate!” friend and brother Shahdad was sitting on top of the grassy hill waiting for them. Durrakh and Qaisar had been trekking through the hills for six hours and their associate ran halfway down the hill to greet them.
“Salaam Durrakh,” Shahdad wished his chief and put his hand on his heart. Qaisar embraced the younger man and the three of them slowly wound their way up the hill and then down into the darkness of a narrow valley. The dark basin was strewn with unimaginably large boulders with smaller rocks dotted around them—there had been little rain in centuries to pare down the rocks or make their edges smooth.
“Ah! Zarkani is awake,” Shahdad flashed the torch twice in response to similar flashes from across the valley. They made their way across the dry river bed and met Shahdad’s cousin Zarkani—both were from the Mengal tribe and were in their twenties. After another ten minutes through bush-covered ridges they reached their secret hideout.
“Baba when did you arrive?” Qaisar looked at the old man sitting in one corner of their cave.
“Baba!” Durrakh cried out and rushed to hug the elderly Baloch. This was the first time that many of them had seen such emotion on Durrakh’s cold and hard face. But then only Qaisar and Fatah Brohi knew that the man who worked as a gardener in Quetta Cantonment had also bought up the young Durrakh.
“He came to the village,” remarked the beardless Fatah Brohi. “After I heard what had been happening in Quetta I brought him here. The old man has a lot of life in his legs!”
Fatah Brohi was 39 years old and belonged to Durrakh’s village. The two youth had left the village to study in Khuzdar but while Durrakh had moved on to Quetta University, Fatah began working in a timber factory at Kalat. Their paths crossed again when Durrakh was reviving the ABA and his old friend showed up to join the BSO in Khuzdar—Fatah had become a carrier for drug traffickers and volunteered to help the BNA raise money.
“The mujahids have become active…they have begun going around the city and the suburbs…only a miracle can prevent an all out attack on our people!”
“Come baba sit down,” Durrakh pulled the hysterical old man down. There were a total of fourteen men in that cave each with a rug to sleep on, and a blanket to keep out the cold. Durrakh reached for one of the battery-powered lamps that lit the cave. “Are you okay? Did anyone grow suspicious of you?”
“No but I left the city without informing anyone…even your associates,” the old man’s tired old face welcomed the warmth of the lamp. “But if you want I can go back!”
“No you have done enough,” smiled Durrakh. “What news of Sachlay?”
“He has gone to Khuzdar,” the old man’s gaze lost its sparkle. “His entire family is there with him.”
“I have to square accounts with him,” Durrakh had winced at the mention of his cousin’s family. “Soon…”
“Dinner is ready brothers!” one of the men called out.
Apart from stores of food grain and vegetables these men had an entire complement of cooking utensils and plates. The food was cooked on gas stoves. Today they had bought a goat from a nearby farmer and the mood was celebratory.
“We hear that the Indians have entered Sindh and there is fighting going on in Punjab?” Zarkani asked Durrakh.
“How many times have I told you not to talk while we are eating?” Durrakh was enjoying the meat. “But yes, this time I won’t scold you…our objective is now within reach!”
“Allah-o-Akbar! I swear I will become a namaazi if he grants us independence!” exclaimed Fatah. The others laughed between mouthfuls.
“It isn’t that simple,” cautioned Qaisar. “The Punjabis are now crowing that the Chinese have brought their forces on the borders and India will soon pull back to defend itself on that side!”
“Remember also that our enemies will use religion to confuse and divide us…our people,” Durrakh’s tone made the others stop eating and look carefully at him. “The mujahids and the talibs in the north, their agents here and the FC will try to turn people against us. We have to be careful on that account.”
“That will be dangerous only if the Indians enter Baluchistan,” suggested Fatah.
“But we don’t need anyone’s help,” Zarkani shook his head. “We can fight on our own…let the Indians take Sindh and Punjab.”
Durrakh and Qaisar exchanged glances but said nothing. After the meal they discussed the strategy to be followed. The BNA had 470 active members scattered across several hideouts in the province and there were thrice that number of freelance fighter who sometimes worked with them. At different times those fighters joined other resistance groups or followed the army of a tribal chief.
The fourteen in this cave were all active members. They would attack FC men on the roads, bomb military installations, and coordinate activities with other factions and tribes. Caches of arms and ammunition were scattered across different locations in the hills while money was raised through contributions, taxes on outsiders, outright robbery and the drugs trade.
Durrakh left his comrades and took a battery-powered laptop outside into the cool night. He checked the encrypted e-mail from his Indian friend and slowly absorbed the shocking news. The Baloch leader then typed out his response, read and re-read each paragraph for mistakes, and then re-wrote it. After pressing the send button he looked up at the starry night sky. The encrypted electronic signal shot through the small satellite dish, up into the darkness, bounced against a satellite overhead, and was reflected back down into the computer of his friend thousands of kilometers away.
Ormara (Baluchistan) 8th October
Hemant was glad that all his electronic equipment was safely wrapped and placed in the dry cabin on the frigate. He too should have been sleeping in the warmth of the bunk there—with a hot meal in his belly. But he was out here bobbing up and down with the LST as it cut its way through the Arabian Sea.
“You know what I want most Mr. Upadhyay?” the man standing next to him shouted over the roar.
“What Colonel?”
“Coffee! A cup full of boiling-hot-coffee!”
Prahlad Chitnis and Hemant Upadhyay laughed as another gust from the sea nearly drenched them. The intelligence officer and the paratrooper had met first at the joint briefing in Mumbai but there had been no time for a one-on-one interaction. For this reason Hemant had opted to ship with the Colonel and his commandos. He was quite taken in by the soldier—Prahlad Chitnis had the light eyes of a Maharashtrian Brahman, a gray moustache twirled in the fashion of some of his Rajasthani men, and a face barely lined even after years of physical exertion and mental stress.
On his part the Colonel was wary of the intelligence officer. He had worked with the R-A-W before; his most vivid memory had been from the operations in Jaffna, northern Sri Lanka. Prahlad Chitnis sized up men on the first meeting and it was either a clear like or dislike relationship after that. With the somewhat reserved Hemant Upadhyay and his mischievous eyes the Colonel wasn’t very sure—he didn’t like that feeling. Especially since the two men had to work closely together in a task of such magnitude.
“You two have been out here for so long!” a voice called out from behind them. Commander Madhavan wedged himself between them and all three men stood on the bow of the LST and stared out at the dark sea.
“The sea is really rough!” exclaimed Hemant as the ship jumped sharply over the waves.
“This is your first time on a ship?” Commander Madhavan patted Hemant’s back. “Well the sea is fine…it’s just that we are following in the wake of all these other vessels.”
Straight ahead were the dark masses of two corvettes, their hulls glistening under the moonlight, now veering to the left. The frigate INS Ganga was also pulling away.
“Well it’s begun,” Madhavan looked at the Colonel. “One hour to landing…we move towards the beach…the ships following us will join in the attack on the port.”
The three men were on the INS Gharial and following close behind were two similar but smaller landing ships, the L36 and the L37. Closing the pack further behind were the big destroyer INS Ranvijay and two large tankers carrying supplies, fuel, water, and troops. The three landing craft were under the command of Commodore Mistry and had begun veering to the right.
“Well gentlemen! I must join my troops now,” Prahlad stuck his hand out.
“Good luck!” Hemant had a grim expression on his face as he watched the Colonel walk away towards the bridge.
“All ready Mustafa?” Prahlad looked across at the men huddled in the boat hanging by the side of the ship.
“All ready sir!” Major Mustafa Pakir’s reply was echoed by the five other commandos with him.
“Sab tayyari hai?” the Colonel shouted and waved across at another boat hanging along the starboard side of the ship. He got a show of hands in acknowledgement from Captain Tomar and his squad. These two boats were motorized landing craft, which would be lowered into the sea as the main ships slowed down near the approach to the coast. The boats would then skim ahead, watch out for anti-ship mines floating inshore, and check the seabed for the approach of the three LSTs.
That then was the main purpose of the Landing Ship Tank—these amphibious vessels would unload troops and vehicles directly on to enemy land unlike other ships or submarines, which had to first secure a functioning port. The smaller L36 and L37 were carrying 200 soldiers each with only their personal equipment and supplies. The INS Gharial, which would lead the landing, carried 800 troops and 10 Armoured Personnel Carriers in its hold—200 of these men were the commandos of the 10 Para. All the other infantrymen belonged to the illustrious 2 Sikh battalion.
“Do you hear that?” Colonel Mohanty, their commanding officer, looked at his junior officers. “They are lowering the landing craft.”
Mohanty’s officers were standing in a huddle around him, the menacing but silent BMPs were parked in a single column through the length of the holding area, while standing shoulder-to-shoulder around them were the infantrymen and the commandos. All of them could hear the creaks and knocks as the boats were lowered along both sides of the ship. And they could feel the INS Gharial slowing down to a crawl.
“Okay boys gather round,” Colonel Chitnis joined them. “The Sikhs will embark first and secure the beach…we have to locate the coastal highway and move towards our objective.”
“My boys will hike it behind you,” said Colonel Mohanty. “Estimated five kilometers to the town where we will set up roadblocks and eliminate resistance. The main town is located on the isthmus while newer settlements have come up along the road to the airport…we will secure the highway as it leaves the town towards Pasni.”
“Major Pakir and Tomar will move along the coast in their boats,” continued Chitnis. “They will approach from the east bay where the port is located. They will then evaluate the situation and secure Pak Navy and Coast Guard assets…by that time we will be racing down the isthmus.”
Dull thuds in the distance made everyone quiet. The large crowd of hot, sweaty, and nervous men knew that these sounds could only mean that the Pakistani port was under attack from the missiles and guns of the Indian Navy. It also meant that they were now approaching the shore.
“Check your weapons and put on your life jackets!” ordered Colonel Mohanty. The Sikhs sprang to attention and quickly donned their orange life jackets—these were necessary considering the strong sea currents and the heavy equipment that each man carried. The commandos in their all-black uniforms scrambled into and on top of the BMPs.
“The enemy is vigilant and prepared to give you a hot reception!” continued Colonel Mohanty—slowly switching to Punjabi with the rising tone of voice. “Show these bastards what you are made of! Take out each one of them and give him such a thrashing that he remembers his grandmother!”
“Oye bolo mere naal!” the stocky Subedar Major standing next to him now roared. “BHARAT MATA KI…!”
“JAI!”
“KI…”
“JAI!”
“KI…”
“JAI!”
The massive gates on the ship’s bow finally creaked open at 1:30 a.m. Indian Standard Time. The sounds of the waves lapping against the shore and the cool air rushed into the LST’s hold. The pumped up Sikhs jumped into the knee-deep water and charged across the beach. Pairs of them took up positions along the shore until more of their comrades had joined them and until it was obvious that the coast was—quite literally—clear!
The BMP rolled down the landing ramp and sank like a stone—the water came up to Colonel Chitnis’ ankles as he surveyed the foreign land. The driver pressed the accelerator and the infantry combat vehicle roared out of the water and crushed the dry brush in its path. Behind them the Sikhs were raising the battle cry of their regiment.
“Bole so nihal! Sat Sri Akal!“
The BMPs tore across the dry bush-covered plain as Prahlad put on his night-vision goggles. “There it is! I can see the highway…slow down!” he shouted down to the driver as they turned.
Even the roar of the ten BMPs could not disturb the picturesque calm of the scenery—the white hills under the moonlight and the vast emptiness that they enclosed. Prahlad could almost visualize the dry plains of the Baluchistan plateau that lay beyond the hills.
“Get down! Get down!” the Colonel ordered the men sitting around him. “Take positions!”
They were now on the outskirts of the town and there was darkness all around.
“Come in! Sultan!” the Colonel was on the radio using the code name of his second-in-command, Major S Negi. “Set up a roadblock on the road to the airport! Locate the FC compound and give them hell!”
One BMP already guarded the approach to the town and besides Negi’s vehicle a third BMP was to capture the Ormara airport. The other six vehicles followed Colonel Prahlad Chitnis as he turned towards the sea. They roared down the narrow isthmus to the town of Ormara—the facilities of the Pakistan Navy were built beyond on land reclaimed from the sea and protected from the sea currents by the rocky headland.
“Sultan to Sikander!” the radio in Prahlad’s BMP crackled. “Hitting the FC post with mortar.”
“Well done Sultan!”
Prahlad now clambered up the turret and used his night-vision goggles to study the horizon—the distant flashes of light over the rocky horizon were disturbing. The navy boys were nowhere near the port.
“Stop!” the Colonel banged the steel turret with his palm. As the convoy stood in the middle of the isthmus Prahlad looked at the town—it seemed much bigger now. Mohanty’s Sikhs would take twenty minutes to drag their supplies and equipment along the highway. Another fifteen minutes would pass as the 600 men positioned themselves around the town. But unless they were supplemented by the men being transported in the large tankers it would be impossible to hold the town against a determined assault by Pakistani troops from the nearby bases.
Distant bursts of gunfire flashed from the port. They were shooting at something in the water—Chitnis thought of his men creeping up in their landing craft and quickly barked an order. The BMPs fired their mortars at the port to silence the resistance while their comrades took positions on the floating docks. After three rounds the armoured personnel carriers drove through the town, two vehicles for the port and the rest following Chitnis towards the main naval compound.
“Sultan to Sikander!” Negi’s voice seemed agitated. “We’re taking positions around the compound…FC retaliating with small arms fire.”
“Sultan hold on to your position…wait for reinforcements.”
Inside the BMP Chitnis put on his night-vision goggles and nodded at Naik Sujan Singh. The two men clambered out and took positions along the ground. In the darkness they could see an iron gate guarding the approach into a large building—Sujan crawled along the ground until he was within fifteen feet of the sentry’s wooden post. The BMP’s engine drowned out any sound that the young commando made as he jumped to his feet and stormed into the post with a loud yell.
“Abey utth!“
Sujan dragged the cowering sentry outside and kicked him to the ground.
“Stay down there! Raise your head off the ground and I’ll blow it off! Got that?”
Two more men joined the Colonel and Sujan as they opened the gates and took positions inside. Within a minute they had kicked the door open and were in the building. A woman’s scream froze Prahlad in his tracks.
“Anyone near a light switch?”
“Yes sir!”
“Keep your finger on it…everyone take off your NVGs,” Prahlad blinked his eyes in the darkness. “Switch on the lights!”
The old woman lay on the floor, clutching prayer beads in her hands, pressed up against an ornate settee. This building was part of the residential complex and from its appearance probably housed a high-ranking officer and his family. They found the rest of the house empty but for one locked room. Prahlad followed his men inside as they forced the door open and switched on the lights. On a sprawling bed sat a woman holding a young girl in a stifling hug while a wild-eyed older boy stood next to them. Without warning he lunged at the commandos.
“Stay calm!” Prahlad shouted as Sujan caught the boy’s arm and threw him on the bed. “Is there anyone else in this house?”
The woman was too scared to reply. The boy had the wind knocked out of him and was lying in a state of dazed confusion.
“We are the Indian army,” remarked Prahlad in English. “Don’t worry. We will not let any harm come to you. Stay inside this house and don’t step out till daybreak.”
At 6:30 a.m. Indian Standard Time the sun peeked over the horizon—it was the 9th of October. The commandos had secured the entire naval complex with all the civilian and military personnel. The sentries and MPs had been the first to surrender—their rifles would’ve been of no use against the armored BMPs.
The only resistance had come from the Coast Guard personnel at the port. Captain Tomar and two of his men fell to their fire before the BMPs charged in and strafed the port with machine guns and rockets. In all the engagements at the town and the port there had been five casualties and twenty soldiers had been injured. But the naval encounter out at sea had been even more ferocious.
The Jinnah Naval Base had been built to house almost twelve ships and four submarines—however in September, three of these ships and one submarine had been sent for exercises to the Arabian Sea with all ratings and complete equipment. These had been sunk by the Indian ships off the coast of Sri Lanka. Three remaining submarines had been detected escaping to the West Asian ports. So the Indians had taken a calculated risk to target under-staffed and under-equipped Ormara.
The naval task group of one destroyer, one frigate, two submarines, two corvettes, two tankers, and three LSTs had maneuvered their way across the Arabian Sea unchallenged. From the Jinnah Naval Base one frigate and three missile boats came out to challenge the Indians. The engagement lasted twenty minutes and ended in the destruction of the Pakistani ships—but a lone submarine from the nearby port of Pasni torpedoed the frigate INS Ganga twice in succession. One full hour was taken up in the hunt for that submarine and in rescuing the personnel on the frigate. More time was lost in locating and defusing the floating mines that protected the port and in creating a safe path for the Indian vessels. The LSTs were the first Indian Navy ships to enter through the approach channel and dock at the Jinnah Naval Base.
Hemant Upadhyay walked up to the commandos standing around the lone BMP at the port. After the INS Gharial had docked safely, Hemant had slept like a baby through the docking of the other LSTs and the continued sounds of gunfire from the town. When day broke he had stepped on to the port with his laptop.
“Where is your CO?” he asked Captain Usman.
“In the town sir,” remarked Usman from atop the BMP. “You are to take a Coast Guard jeep and meet him at the airfield. Havildar Shankar will escort you there.”
As they drove across the narrow isthmus Hemant felt the cool sea breeze envelop him. For such a bright day and the beautiful location the town was quiet and the roads deserted. The airfield was located on the outskirts of the town—at the briefing Hemant remembered it had been described as a national airport. Twenty men of the Paras and a company of Sikhs were standing guard outside while their officers brainstormed inside the terminal.
“Mr. Upadhyay is here. Welcome sir,” Colonel Chitnis was strangely subdued. The others stood up to greet the Joint Secretary.
“Good morning!” Hemant nodded at them. “I hope all’s well.”
“We’ve had casualties,” Brigadier Aditya Puri’s expression was grim. “Lost some good men…but sir phase one of Operation Janjira has been completed.”
As a Joint Secretary, Hemant was equivalent in rank to Rear Admiral Isaacs, who commanded the naval task group. Brigadier Puri was their junior and he was setting in motion phase two of Operation Janjira. Puri rubbed his hand over his balding head and frowned.
“The 114 Expeditionary Brigade must be in position to thwart enemy aggression on Ormara town, the airfield, or the harbor,” continued the Brigadier after they were all seated. “Now the naval submarines and ships have already begun patrolling along the coast. The enemy submarine that attacked our naval task group came out of Pasni and it is the navy’s estimate that future attacks will come from that side.”
Hemant was lucky to have not been on board the frigate and the others knew it. All of his equipment and baggage was damaged or lost permanently. By the time the INS Ganga was pulled into port fresh replacements for Hemant would be flown in.
“Fortunately the IAF has made it impossible for the enemy’s P3C Orion aircraft to take to the air…making our job easier. However patrols by enemy aircraft have been noted by Negi. We need to have our radars and guns in place.”
“Yes. We’ve already had aircraft flying overhead in the dark,” explained Major Negi. “While we were engaged against the Frontier Corps unit…bastards fought hard. No survivors. I lost two men and the Sikh company sustained injuries.”
Hemant looked around the control tower of the airport. Brigadier Puri, Mohanty, Chitnis, and Hemant were seated in the main circle and around them were Majors Kumar and Negi, the seconds-in-command respectively of the two colonels, and Major Ghose from Puri’s staff. The sun was getting brighter and Hemant could clearly make out the barren hills and plains of this beautiful land.
“We’ve set up an OP…observation post on the hill ranges over there,” Chitnis gestured at Hemant and turned to the Brigadier. “Sir we must also place one of the anti-air units there…it’s a very commanding position.”
Puri nodded and turned towards Hemant, “Mr. Upadhyay have you heard from your contact?”
“Yes. I need some men to go and pick up one Abdul Mirwani from this address,” Hemant handed a note to Chitnis. “He works in the electricity department and will be your guide to Khuzdar.”
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