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  Funny how a babu with absolutely no idea of how much time and energy it took to build a new missile, that too with an absolutely new concept, would run to his honourable minister and utter gibberish with key phrases like 'strategic, deterrent, incursions, policy, epistemological shift, technology, budgetary allocations, DRDO head, non-recurring expenditure, zero-based budgeting, lapse, global terrorism' thrown in. Funny how it earned him the task of the execution of such a policy at such a short notice.

  This was the reason why Suryakant was here in the state-of-the-art laboratory of NMRC in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, working sixteen hours a day for the past thirteen months. His team was charged with successfully integrating and installing the propulsion and guidance system in the missile – a task which they had almost completed.

  Funding was not a problem. Time was. The catch was to get Pralay operational before the government was forced to formally abandon such projects due to international technology transfer deals in areas like nuclear energy. Therefore, here he was, slogging. Fortunately, things were not as bad as they could have been. He was assisted by the 'best brains in the galaxy', as he fondly put it.

  The computer buzzed. An Instant Message had arrived from the central lab. It read: 'Project nearing completion. On schedule. No anomalies reported.' He chuckled and logged off, and started walking clumsily towards the central lab singing Jaise Beemar ko Bewajah Qarar Aa Jaye. He did not lock his office door.

  The corridors of the complex were lit with jolly spirits. There was an aura of happiness about the place. Suryakant himself could not believe it. He passed a couple of scientists who smiled at him and waved. At last, after years of sweat and hard work, they had finally been successful in creating the 8000 km-ranged intercontinental ballistic missile, code named Pralay. Having a CEP* of just 25 m, its accuracy was almost perfect. Its submarine launched version was also on the verge of operationalization. Next week was the D-Day– its demonstration to the prime minister himself. Suryakant imagined the moment of glory and smiled.

  He reached the central lab and stared intently at the missile like a paleologist who had just found an egg. A dinosaur's egg. One that was about to break.

  From the inside.

  'Is everything ready?' Suryakant enquired, feeling unusually buoyant.

  'Yes, sir. Everything is going as planned. The parts of Pralay are in the process of being assembled as we speak. We have briefed the project directors. The testing will begin on schedule,' replied a fellow scientist.

  Suryakant nodded in approval. For safety, the missile was not to be assembled until the very last minute. The military did not want to bring Pralay under open skies. That would have risked satellite detection and led to international pressure to abort the test. To avoid that, it was housed in a specially designed silo.

  'Tomorrow would be the day of Pralay. It would go down in the history of India...and so will you,' Suryakant said prophetically, addressing a bunch of eager scientists expecting to be fathers soon. Little did he know that the next day would actually be the day of Pralay in many ways. And the scientists there, were to become history.

  ____________________

  * Circular Error Probable is the radius of a circle within which half of a missile 's projectiles are expected to fall and thus is an indicator of the delivery accuracy of a weapons system.

  North Gate, NMRC

  Local time: 1200 hours

  Date: 23 April 2014

  Lieutenant Colonel Ankit Yadav felt his guardian angel trying to snap his eyes open with a rusted car jack. He sat up and looked around, his neck bobbing as if on danger-activated springs. The sea breeze gently ruffled his collar and the sky was still a clear sparkling blue. Wisps of clouds were swimming towards him.

  The clouds. That was what had made him sit up as if electric current was disrupting his synapses. He had seen such a cloud formation earlier in his life. The shape was ominous, almost... sinister. His eardrum popped. He shuddered involuntarily and was thrown years into the past. A gory past that he had desperately tried to forget. And failed.

  An ill-kempt house, hidden in a dingy alley, overlooking a valley, illuminated by pale moonlight. Silence broken sporadically by boots on asphalt. Suddenly Yadav was swept off his feet by a hurricane, as if a bottle of champagne was uncorked inside a very small closet. He was drenched. White wine was all over him. Except that it was not white, it was red. Blood red. Someone screamed.

  A loud whoosh. An RPG slammed the rear of the FV432 Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC) he was in, spinning it like a toy and setting it on fire. The driver sat still with his head drooped, his eyes unblinking, his face bearing a nasty grin– and blood spurting from his forehead, drenching Yadav.

  That was 1998.

  21A, Model Road, Srinagar. Reports had indicated that heavily armed terrorists planning to strike at Radio Kashmir, had holed themselves up in that house, shooting everything that moved. The Kilo Force of the Rashtriya Rifles* had been ordered to sanitize the area.

  Cut.

  Captain Yadav lay paralysed in his armoured personnel carrier with his driver bleeding all over the vehicle's floor. Wake up. Wake up! He came to his senses. He heard a steady rat-tat of machine gun fire as units surrounded the house. He climbed out, shaking but unhurt, and allowed his training to take over.

  What…? What?

  When under fire, first find a safe location, regroup, communicate and counter-attack. A fine commander he had been, he cursed himself, he had walked straight into an enemy trap. The house reported to be taken over by the terrorists was not this one–21A, Model Street was empty.

  27B, however, was not. This was the house where he had planned to set up a sniper and reconnaissance base to launch the first wave against the occupied house. The house where they were headed. The house that was raining death on them.

  Bastards! They fed us false intelligence, thought Yadav. The house further down the road, the one they were planning to raid was empty. They knew we would try to set up a base at a strategic location nearby to assess the situation. 21A, the target, is empty. 27B, our to-be-base, is not ours. It never was.

  At least five heavily armed terrorists were hiding inside the house, wielding one sniper rifle and two RPGs and were shooting at his column. Two APCs were on fire, caught fully unaware; screaming and barking soldiers ran helter-skelter trying to be heard over the din of moans.

  The stench of charred flesh was all around him. He took aim from behind a corner of a building and started firing. He heard a dull thud and a shriek. He hoped it was a vital organ. Still, bullets kept coming from the other end. As if this was not enough, his AK-47, the most reliable gun in the world, jammed. Bad ammo! Yadav gritted his teeth. He took another weapon lying nearby, its owner being in no position to use it anymore.

  Yadav ordered his squad to regroup and counter-attack. He rushed to the back door and peeked in. Suddenly, he felt ants crawling over his leg. His feet were no longer able to bear his weight as he sank to the ground. A small red hole appeared in his trousers. Yadav had been shot.

  He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He felt no pain. Shock was all. He felt the ground rising to meet him as a sub-inspector of Jammu and Kashmir police dragged Yadav out of the firing range. He was laden into a waiting ambulance. The last picture he remembered from that day's operation was the moon shining behind 27B, making it glow like a surreal yet immensely attractive Venus flytrap. Another APC exploded as the ambulance sped away.

  Blackness. He woke up screaming. The cloud...the approaching cloud. The shape of this tuft of cloud, closing in fast on his present location, NMRC, was strikingly similar to the shape of the house 27B in Srinagar a decade ago.

  Yadav stood up and ran towards the gate. With his INSAS rifle in his hand, he scanned the entire area. It seemed as if the ghost of Christmas past had returned to haunt him. He looked all around again. All he saw were some peasants protesting. He lowered his gun but not his guard.

  Then almost in slow motion, he saw a
Heckler and Koch 9mm MP5SD sub-machine gun emerge from beneath the garb of a farmer; others followed suit. He immediately lunged for the nearest cover, his gun thundering even before he reached it.

  Yadav did not panic. With cold efficiency infused in him by the rigorous army training, he kept firing at the attackers. He saw two tribals fall to his bullets. The two sentries also saw the unusual weapons of protest and their rifles returned fire.

  Damn, why did I not ask for additional protection? Yadav mused. As if to answer him, the two Browning M2 machine guns from the two watch towers located nearby started chattering. Bless the Americans, he thought. He reached for his communicator. The base had to be warned. The sky thundered. It had started to rain.

  In between reloading his INSAS rifle, Yadav's mind was working furiously. With the main facility three kilometres further inside, he was sure the gunfight would not be heard there, at least not over the raging storm. Security around this isolated base was pretty light and superficial, as no one expected much trouble round here. One could easily get in, but getting out was impossible. Who would be mad enough to do it?

  Somehow, he had to raise an alarm. Before he could think further, or bark a command, he heard a familiar whine and saw two white streaks tearing towards the watchtowers. He felt his stomach drop. He knew what was coming. Before he could react, a barrage from 85mm RPGs had reduced the watchtowers and the gate to rubble. Yadav merely stood there, his mouth agape. How did these tribals get their hands on something as sophisticated as a rocket launcher? Now that he thought of it, where did they get the MP5s from?

  He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the attackers clamber over the smoking remains of the gate. It was then that he noticed the corpses of the sentries. There was no use running back. He would be shot in the back. He waited for them to come inside, hidden for most of them to come within their killing range. With a growl, he started to fire.

  Yadav lunged out of his lair and cut three attackers down before he was shot in the head. Wrong technique, Yadav-ji, this is not Border nor are you Sunny Deol, was the last mirthless thought in his head before he hit the ground.

  ♦

  Ignoring their dead and moving forward with the efficiency of a well-trained army, the'tribals' split into two groups. The gate was clear. Barring the attackers, everyone at the gate was already dead by now. No one would know what had happened here, until it was too late. One group headed inside towards the main testing facility and the other stayed behind at the gate, fortifying it. The facility was surrounded by hills on three sides; this gate was the sole entry to the facility. Now they controlled it.

  From the trolley of a tractor in which they had arrived, they took out bunches of P5 MK1 versions of M18 Claymore mines. These mines were capable of firing steel balls within a 70-degree arc in front of them to a distance of 150 metres. Soon, everyone from the group that stayed back at the gate was busy digging the earth or looking for trees to plant these mines. These directional anti-personnel mines formed a barricade that was almost impenetrable. From now on, no one and nothing would be able to pass this gate without their consent.

  This is precisely what the plan had been all along.

  ♦

  MH Kutty was dying.

  He moaned and tried to stop the bleeding by covering the wound with his shaking hands as he slithered to safety. Blood gushed forth, falling on the green leaves, brown earth and the white tiles, leaving behind a colourful mosaic.

  Kutty clenched his teeth and got to work. He had to survive. He expertly wrapped the gaping hole with a cloth and tried to minimize the bleeding by exerting pressure at the right points. Although his I-card identified him as an administrative officer in DRDO's Material Management Directorate, his acts were of a seasoned combat veteran. Kutty was far from a smug file-pusher. He was an Assistant Central Intelligence Officer (ACIO) with the Indian Intelligence Bureau (IB), and was working undercover to assist in the security of the base.

  Kutty had been unlucky enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time (or lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time). He had been shot in the legs. He had dropped to the ground the moment he was hit and was taken to be dead. His training at IB had taken over. The words of his drill instructor rang in his head. When in trouble, run. His job was to warn others on time – not fight back. There were others better trained to do so.

  Ignoring the pain, he had dragged himself to a safe spot. Kutty had to inform of this breach to his superiors. He knew he would soon be breathing his last due to excessive bleeding and he could manage only one quick, terse broadcast.

  He reached for the radio and in a spluttering voice, began his ultimate message.

  ____________________

  * A counter-insurgency force in India.

  Kalaiya, Bara District, Nepal

  Local time: 1645 hours

  Date: 25 March 2014*

  Run, Basheer, run for your life.

  Yasser Basheer instinctively looked around. The voice seemed to emanate from all around him. He shook his head and sniffed – as he always did in any sticky situation–struggling to fathom what the air was trying to tell him. He casually tried to glance around again but was met by questioning glares. Evidently, it was his brain playing tricks with him.

  His two aides steadfastly at his side, Basheer felt the dozen men surrounding him were gently yet firmly prodding him to walk in a particular direction. No, not only men, but also a woman. She wore combat fatigues like the rest of them. Her lips were cruel and her eyes cold. Barbarians, Basheer thought, his mind revolting, what kind of man allows a woman to fight for him?

  Basheer looked at his men, who, as evident by their expressions, shared his disgust. He was, however, intelligent enough not to voice his concerns out loud. He kept walking silently. The jungle party kept looking at Basheer cautiously – unsure of how to respond in case he turned on them – and stole a glance at their comrades every ten seconds. They were emaciated, tired, shoulders drooping, but their hands were steady on their guns. The leader of the party wore spectacles and had a pedantic look. He seemed well educated. Ha! Basheer thought, what is the use of such education? In the afterlife, only deeni-taaleem* will matter.

  The guns were not pointing at Basheer or his two burly companions, but he knew those surrounding them would not hesitate to fire if need arose. His aides had been asked to surrender their firearms when they had rendezvoused with this group an hour ago, making them uneasy with the realization that they lacked any means to defend themselves. These people had no imaan, Basheer thought. They could not be trusted, but he needed them, just as they needed him.

  The group entered dense foliage, butting their way forward with their guns. Basheer followed. He was good at tracking and navigation, but now even he was beginning to falter. Deep down he knew he was safe…as long as they made a deal at the end.

  Their pace fastened. It was getting darker; the sun was about to set. This infused in the group a renewed zeal and quickened their pace. Basheer found himself panting. Age was catching up with him. He shook his head wistfully. Gone were the days when he started with a five-kilometre jog. Basheer was beginning to get tired of the jungle.

  Soon, they stumbled across a clearing. Ah, sanity at last. Makeshift tents were scattered throughout. Some were dark, some had light flickering inside. Music emanated from a nearby tent, two men were bandaging a third's wounds and singing. They looked at him, their expressions vacillating between curiosity and hostility. Basheer hurried forward.

  He was led to a tent. It was shabby, torn at places, smelt strongly of sweat, blood and gunpowder. The recent ride through the fresh jungle air made this smell even more intolerable. He heard voices inside; an argument was on.

  His mind immediately got to work. There were at least three men. One sitting on a stool in the centre of the tent, one standing near the entry and the third was lying on the floor at the rear end of the tent. He tried to triangulate their position. An old habit. Observe, trian
gulate enemy position, shoot, and disappear. He hoped that particular skill would not be required here.

  Basheer stood at the entry of the tent and glanced at his escort. Go in, the man motioned with a slight tilt of his head. Basheer nodded and stepped forward. His aides tried to follow him but were stopped by the same man. They looked up at Basheer questioningly, and he merely shook his head. Relax; keep your calm, stay where you are. I will be back. All of this conveyed with a single glance. Basheer stepped into the tent.

  He did not expect what he saw. The tent was clearly more comfortable than it looked from the outside. In a corner lay a king-sized portable bed with a thick mattress on it, though the sheet was a bit dirty. Right next to it was a fully stocked bookshelf and a writing table. A TV, three laptops, a satellite phone, and some personal firearms were kept nearby. Chinese assault rifles, Basheer could make out from the markings. He knew them well.

  'Welcome, Basheer sahib. Hope your trip was not uncomfortable. Comrade Agyaat thanks you for your visit,' the man standing near the entry said, and extended his hand to Basheer.

  Basheer took his hand and shook it nimbly. 'Are you Agyaat?' he asked.

  'Er…no.' The man coughed, visibly uncomfortable under Basheer's inquisitive gaze. He was saved the trouble of further explanations as the curtain parted.

  A wiry bespectacled man walked in from the rear of the tent, wiping his hands with a towel, and said, 'I am Agyaat.'

  Basheer nodded. Is this how a typical guerilla fighter looks like? He wanted to ask, but all he said was, 'Uhm…interesting place you have here.' Even a warrior needs some comfort, he thought. No, a warrior especially needs comfort. For other parts of his life were not easy.