Red Jihad Page 6

  Model Town, Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  Local time: 1500 hours

  Date: 07 April 2014

  'So even a patriot like you would spill your own blood rather than that of the enemy?' demanded Yasser Basheer, his fists clenched, face red and eyes wide in disbelief.

  He was addressing a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair. Basheer had spent most of his army life with Asif Hussain Chowdhury. Both had been brother officers: promising, young and talented. It was said that Basheer, if he continued the way he was, would go on to become the chief of army staff of Pakistan one day. All had gone well, until that fateful day, years ago.

  It was a routine operation in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) against holed-up jihadists. These two friends, both of them lieutenant colonels, had been supervising counterinsurgency units when tribesmen unhappy at Pakistan's role in the Allied invasions had attacked them. The units commanded by Basheer and Chowdhury came under heavy fire, and were pinned down on all sides. Chowdhury had retaliated by calling in air support. Basheer did not. In fact, he asked the troops under his command to stand down.

  Basheer was caught, taken to a remote seminary and assimilated by the Islamists. Six weeks later, the Allied forces had rescued him, but the damage had been done by then. Basheer was a shattered, indoctrinated and bitter man. Consequently, he had to spend the next six months in a mental hospital abroad for rehabilitation counselling and medical assistance, so jolted had he been.

  When Basheer finally returned to Pakistan, he was court-martialled for disobeying a direct order, and for putting lives under his command in danger, but that mattered little to him. He was now accustomed to look at the bigger picture. His newfound mentors had told him about what a waste infighting was. The enemy was always changing his face, and one needed to adapt with him to be able to defeat him. Some lives had to be sacrificed for the betterment of the entire world. How could he have forgotten such a crucial fact? How could he have allowed jingoism to dictate his actions and prevent him to work for the greater goals of humanity? Basheer had changed that day. He had distanced himself from the army – which had been his life for over twenty years. He went closer to God instead.

  Basheer's mind came back to the present. He may have been disgraced by the army, but there was no dearth of his followers in Pakistan, even though the new government distanced itself from him. However, to the people, he was a hero. When a hero asks for an audience, even a lieutenant general has to relent. Especially the one who wished it was he who had had the courage to halt strikes on his brothers that day. Their cries still returned to haunt Chowdhury at nights–was there a chance to make things right? He really hoped there was.

  The two men were sitting in the plush drawing room of a three-storey villa in the high-end locality of Model Town. The villa belonged to Basheer's friend. Basheer spoke aloud again, 'So you would rather kill innocent women and children than the actual enemy?'

  Lieutenant General Chowdhury merely shrugged, surprised at the accusatory tone, 'I had no choice. No one wants to kill. But sometimes it becomes necessary. What these people are doing leave us with no alternative. We kill by profession, not by choice.'

  'Why are you of all people talking like this, Yak? The jihadists are fighting against the Westernization of Pakistani society in the name of modernization. This country was founded in the name of Islam and would always remain an Islamic country. Pakistan will and should never become a secular state. These people are Ghazis, fighting for the will of Allah,' Basheer retorted angrily.

  'Allah has nothing to do with it. Their driving force is vengeance, narrow-mindedness and greed,' Chowdhury muttered evenly.

  Basheer flared up, 'Quaid-e-Azam never envisioned a secular Pakistan but laid the basis of an enlightened and modern Islamic state. Our leadership chose Pakistan to be like that. Who is this new government to question the words of our founding fathers? Yak, you think you are serving Pakistan by killing people in indiscriminate attacks? By supporting the West? By selling our people to Western multinational corporations? By allowing the Americans to blast our sovereign territory to take you-know-who out right under our noses?'

  'That is the policy of the government. What I want is irrelevant…We had to make that deal since bigger things were at stake...' Chowdhury did not know what he was supposed to say. All he knew was that he did not want to make the same choice that he had made years ago.

  'A civilian government, corrupted by Western hypocrisy, cannot impose itself on the Pakistani people. We have defended Pakistan against all odds, and now we are on the verge of disintegration because of our infighting! Can you live with that? Not long ago, I remember you were a fiery young captain who wanted to make Pakistan a superpower. Is this your resolve?' Basheer asked.

  'Listen, Basheer, these people leave the government no choice. Do you remember how local bazaars used to be when we were young? How they were filled with rounaq until late at nights? How the common Pakistani was a carefree citizen who wanted to enjoy life to the hilt?' Chowdhury counter questioned.

  'What is your point?' Basheer asked patronizingly. Poor Westernized fool, he thought, refusing to see that he is just a pawn in Western hands who is made to believe that he is serving the interests of his own nation.

  Chowdhury wanted to make his stand clear. He said, 'Go and see the bazaars now. They are empty. After seven in the evening, shopkeepers start downing their shutters. Lahore is no more the cultural capital. Culture has fled away, fearing the wrath of the fundamentalists. Peshawar seems like a war zone. Karachi lives in perpetual fear. Islamabad shudders at every loud noise. A Pakistani feels threatened at all times. Pakistanis have become the objects of suspicion, ridicule and fear all over the world. Such is the mahaul these people have created. Bomb blasts, suicide attacks, assassinations – they have not even left mosques and schools! No one can speak out for freedom, democracy and secularism. One is publically gunned down if one does. Remember Salman Taseer? You expect the government to give them leeway?'

  'They were provoked, you know. We do not want to attack civilians, but we need to send out a strong message. You were the ones who attacked us first. The Soviets, the Americans, and now our own army.'

  Basheer sighed and continued, 'You think it is easy for us to see our women and children die helplessly when death rains from Allied bombing missions? You think we want to kill our own people? No! But we have had enough. We seek to return to the original path. We want to create a Caliphate governed by just, humane and equal rules and where hedonism would be crushed. We are willing to lay down our lives fighting, but we are not terrorists. That is what the larger army calls the smaller army. We are freedom fighters.' Basheer had a strange fire in his eyes.

  Chowdhury caught hifm. 'We?' he asked.

  'Yes. I was court-martialled, remember?' Basheer responded, 'I consider myself closer to Allah now and work with like-minded people to spread his word. However, you... just look at the direction in which you are propelling Pakistan! Tell me, are you happy?' Basheer asked.

  'Happy? With what?'

  'Are you happy with the army killing its own people?' Basheer asked, his voice indicting Chowdhury for all these years of inaction.

  'Of course not! But what can I do?' Chowdhury tried to defend himself.

  'You can do a lot. You want to prevent a civil war, right? We cannot have another 1971, can we? We cannot have any more divisions of Pakistan,' Basheer said emphatically.

  'No, we cannot,' Chowdhury conceded.

  'Don't you want to bring back the good old days. We on our side…they on theirs. No quarters given or taken. Fight and die honourably like men, not rats.' Basheer seemed unstoppable. He started pacing up and down in front of Chowdhury, his voice raised, his eyes burning.

  'Uhmm...yes' was all a surprised Chowdhury managed to say, the portals of time being opened to him for one last chance to correct his past mistakes.

  'Don't you want to regain the lost glory of the Pakistani military? Don't you recall h
ow the last attempted coup in early 2012 made Pakistani people so hostile towards the army? Don't you want to get back our lost respect? The army getting its rightful powers back from this pathetic civilian government?' Basheer was not done yet enticing his old chum.

  'Of course!' Chowdhury felt better all of a sudden. A part of him, a part that he had suppressed for long, was speaking through Basheer. Hearing him made sense. He sounded soothing.

  'Don't you want to show India her place?' Basheer asked.

  'Yeah,' responded Chowdhury, his voice rising. He realized he was no longer Basheer's equal, and that he had to follow what Basheer told him to do.

  'And if along with all this, you get promotions, glory, riches and fame, would you mind?'

  Chowdhury managed a smile; this was not as hard as he had thought. This time, he would choose his own master. He would be an old man soon, and old men needed to go closer to god. Or cash. Lots of it.

  'Try to look at the bigger picture, Yak. If a tremendous plan were to come knocking at your doorstep, would you be foolish or cowardly enough to send it away?' Basheer cooed.

  'Ha ha! Spoken like a true siyasatdan. I have heard you are into politics and all. Jolly good, old boy!' Chowdhury tried to lighten the conversation now that the deal had already been made by Basheer and accepted by Chowdhury.

  Basheer smiled and remarked, 'Politics is just the means. Salvation is the end.'

  'Is that what you wanted to discuss with me?' Chowdhury felt stirrings of adrenalin after a long time. Action at last, after all these years of mindless paperwork.

  'Yes.' Basheer relaxed. Calm descended over him. He sat in front of Chowdhury and looked straight into his eyes. He kept quiet, giving Chowdhury time to absorb what he had said.

  Chowdhury was cautious, 'What exactly do you want from me, Basheer?'

  'That you be true to yourself, my friend, make the right choice this time and atone for your earlier sins.' Basheer patted his friend's shoulder as he went stiff with the memories.

  'How?' Chowdhury needed guidance. Deep down he knew what the truth was–that he wanted to be convinced by Basheer. He wanted to be persuaded, to be shown the right path.

  'By helping us...' Basheer kept driving him towards what he wanted.

  'But how?'

  'We want equipment and supplies,' disclosed Basheer.

  'What for?' Chowdhury was suddenly on his guard.

  'Don't worry. Not for use on the Pakistani soil. We plan to raid an Indian base,' Basheer assured him.

  'What!!' Chowdhury suddenly did not know whether to feel happy or be alarmed. 'Which one?'

  Basheer handed Chowdhury a file. He took it and read it, his eyes widening with each line he read. 'This is big!' he said.

  'We need it to be big. Operation Tupac* has failed. We need to launch another offensive. The bigger, the better. Think of the blow it will be for the Indians...' Basheer's voice was distant by now; he was lost in imagining the glory the future might bring to both of them.

  Chowdhury whistled softly. 'Men and material?'

  'Material more than men. Men we already have. A gift of some Indian rebels.' Basheer smiled.

  'It is difficult. I am bound to raise suspicion because of my requisition orders. How can I...?' Chowdhury asked him, though in his heart of hearts he knew his mind was made up.

  'You will find a way,' Basheer assured him, 'you will save Pakistani lives, prevent a civil war, frighten India and show her the Pakistani might. It will be back to the good old days when politics had not corrupted us. What more do you, a loyal Pakistani citizen, want?'

  Lieutenant General Chowdhury studied him carefully. He thought for a few seconds and said, 'I will see what can be done,' and then looked away.

  Basheer smiled. The die was cast.

  ____________________

  *Operation Tupac was an action plan initiated by Pakistani President Zia Ul Haq in 1988 to disintegrate India by exploiting porous borders with Nepal and Bangladesh to set up spy bases and engage in strategic sabotage.

  7 Race Course Road, Prime Minister's Residence, New Delhi, India

  Local time: 1500 hours

  Date: 23 April 2014

  The black car swerved and came to a halt, as the pilot vehicles drove tangentially. A guard opened the door even before the car engine went off. General Malhotra was greeted by a whiff of sizzling air the moment he stepped out. His life in an air-conditioned atmosphere had almost made him forget how cruel the Delhi summer can be. Moreover, this year was hotter than usual. Must be because of the weapon discharges all around the world that contribute to global warming, he mused. After a long time, Malhotra felt like he was back in Rajasthan. I hope all these years of babu-giri have not made me soft, he thought, and smiled to himself.

  The minute from the car to the main door seemed like a long trek across the Thar. He cursed himself inwardly as he was ushered by the deputies directly to the conference room. He saluted the already sitting ministers and took his seat. He saw some other additions apart from the regular members of the National Disaster Response Council. It seemed something big was afoot. Next to him sat CR Prasad, director of Research and Analysis Wing (RAW) and Akash Gupta representing the Intelligence Bureau (IB). The naval chief Admiral Yashpal Sapra and Air Chief Marshal Vikramjeet Sharma sat huddled in deep conversation with Ajay Mishra, the cabinet secretary. Dr Amrit Pal Dhillon, the head of DRDO was a special invitee, who was nervous as hell, as evident from his frequent glances at Mishra.

  Mishra may have been a civilian, but RAW reported directly to the Cabinet Secretariat – that is, to him. Although the control of the cabinet secretary over RAW was limited to administrative and financial matters, with very little say in operational and policy matters, Mishra was an extremely important cog in the hierarchy, and an intelligent one at that. No wonder, the defence chiefs, though already briefed by their directorates of air and naval intelligences, sought him to clarify any doubts.

  To the right of the PM's chair sat the home minister, the defence minister and the external affairs minister. A couple of other ministers were present, apart from the two Leaders of the Opposition (from Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha) and some party functionaries. The elections were close; they certainly did not want anything to upset their apple carts.

  'So, what is the matter?' asked Malhotra, guessing if anybody present had any idea about what inspired this untimely meet. Heads turned to look at each other. Shrugs were forthcoming but answers were not.

  With the quorum now complete, the door opened and the PM entered. He scanned the room, his eyes boring into the persons in attendance. After a long wait, the man spoke. Bipolab Roy, a young Stanford-educated reformer who led his party to a landslide victory in the previous general elections, was not easy to tackle once he had made up his mind. And today, he had decided to be pissed with everyone present.

  'You want to know what the matter is, Malhotra sahib, then ask him,' the prime minister replied having overheard the question, and jabbed a finger at the director general of DRDO, who had a beam-me-up-Scotty expression on his face. Oh boy, he looks enraged, thought Malhotra. He had learned that one should never let a neta not blame people around him, for it was the neta's pet alibi.

  All heads turned to Dhillon, the director general of DRDO, who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He was as aghast at what had happened–and was desperately hoping to think of something brilliant to rescue him from the soup.

  'Tell them,' hissed the prime minister.

  Dhillon began addressing the gathering as keen faces turned to watch him. 'Well, I hope you know about the development of our new missile Pralay…which was to be test-fired soon at NMRC in Andaman.'

  'Yes, and you also assured me it was off the enemy's radar,' the PM butted in. Dhillon fell silent, his eyes downcast.

  'Please continue,' the defence minister spoke up.

  Dhillon waited for some time and said, 'So, the missile programme has developed a…snag.

  'A snag?' the home minister asked cautio
usly.

  'Yes, snag,' Dhillon managed to squeak.

  'What is it?' the Leader of Opposition, who was observing the proceedings finally jumped into the conversation, his interest piqued by the opportunity such a development provided.

  'Why is no scientist present here then? Call the Pralay mission directors. We need their inputs,' the naval chief also chipped in.

  'They are…er…inaccessible at the moment,' replied Gupta, speaking up for his assailed counterpart. It takes two to tango. He knew they must hang together, or they would have hung separately.

  'Stop beating around the bush, will you? Tell us what the snag is. Magnitude?' The defence minister was almost hysterical. I am not losing the next election because a scientist forgot to put the bolts in the correct spots, he thought furiously.

  'A rather large one, sir,' Prasad said.

  'How large?' Air Chief Marshal Sharma asked.

  'Depends on how you look at it, but I reckon…quite.'

  'For God's sake, are we getting any straight answers from you two?'

  Malhotra knew about that missile, of course. What happened to it? Malfunction? Any other technical snag? He was hoping that Pralay would join his arsenal at the earliest.

  'We have reports that the missile centre has been taken over by hostile forces,' Prasad formed the words slowly, as if that would help the information to sink in.

  Malhotra's jaw dropped open. 'Taken over? What do you mean by that?'

  'Yes, allow me to explain. It was taken over. To be precise, overtaken by someone.' How droll, Mr Thompson! Gupta saved Prasad again.

  'But how? And by whom?' Malhotra said.

  'It is your job to find the answers to those questions, General. This represents one of the biggest failures in the history of Indian intelligence. It is one of the most grave threats to our national security,' the PM retorted. He may have been speaking to Prasad and Gupta in particular but everyone in the room seemed to cringe at the tone. The PM looked frustrated. Of course, he should be. His biggest achievement in the field of defence was on the verge of biting dust.