Red Jihad Page 9
'It will be passing overhead soon. I will consult with the planners of the base and align the satellite so that we can scan the areas at NMRC that are more prone to imagery intelligence. I am sure we could get a more detailed picture. Until then, we will have to wait,' volunteered the director general of DRDO. The air chief, under whose aerospace command the satellite actually functioned, gave him a dirty look.
'Is any satellite of a friendly country passing over the island?' asked the defence secretary.
'I do not think so. However, presently I am working on the definition of a friendly country. Our friends may not want to help us the moment they know we are clandestinely working on developing an ICBM,' shrugged the secretary to the Ministry of External Affairs.
'I understand. Whatever be the case, I do not want the news of the attack on NMRC to reach the press. They know how to make an issue truly burn. We will handle it on our own,' commanded the general.
'Well, Vikramjeet, see to it that I get the information ASAP. Sapra, send a ship to the island and quarantine it. Take care that no merchant or civilian vessels escape the blockade. Meanwhile, I want 201 Paratrooper Battalion to be deployed to NMRC and surround it. They are supposed to be jungle warfare specialists, let us see what they can do here. In addition, have 901 Paratrooper Battalion reach the surrounding hills and await further orders. Let us wait for data from RISAT and the reconnaissance sorties of IAF and then formulate a plan of action,' Malhotra said.
'Yes, sir.'
'We will meet again when we have more information. Dismissed.'
Malhotra strolled out of the room. He fancied a game of golf right then to soothe him. It always worked.
Master Control Facility, NMRC
Local time: 1600 hours
Date: 24 April 2014
The intercom of the team leader, Major Masood Rana, formerly of the 4th Commando Yalghar Battalion of Pakistan's Special Service Group, beeped the moment he came off the long range radio, having received the final set of instructions from his handler.
He checked the intercom. It was one of his men stationed at the air defence console. 'Sir, the radar has picked up an IAF formation approaching the base 30 degrees west of south […] four hostiles [...] about 2000 feet AGL.'
'It could be an enemy bombing mission,' a shaken voice was heard in the background.
'Nah,' Rana replied, wondering how soon this soldier had cracked. Next time he would ensure that this man never got on-board for any important mission. Or better, any mission. If there was a next time.
'The Indians simply cannot bomb the fruits of a decade-long research project. We should be expecting a reconnaissance sortie. You know what you have to do.'
'Right, sir. Will do. Out,' the voice at the other end said, sounding reassured.
No one but Rana had looked up when he was talking; everyone else was busy in their tasks. They had been given specific instructions to talk only when asked, and to focus on the task at hand. Rana looked around, almost paternally, and then got back to work.
♦
Wing Commander VV 'Sanyo' Nayar was cruising serenely in a four-finger formation of Su-30 MKIs belonging to No. 30 Squadron Rampaging Rhinos. The super flankers, having punctually reassembled in reconnaissance formation at their Initial Point (IP), scrambled towards the target, constantly checking for any signs of trouble. Speed was of the essence. Sanyo swung and aligned his Sukhoi-30 MKI in a direction parallel to the missile base, the machine responding superbly to his touch.
Custom-made for IAF by the Sukhoi Company, Russia, and Hindustan Aeronautics Limited (HAL), the Su-30 MKI integrated Indian, French and Israeli subsystems and avionics to create a heavy class, long-range air superiority fighter that also doubled up as a multirole strike fighter aircraft, making it a feared adversary in the skies.
Sanyo craned his head and spotted a couple of Mi-8 choppers of the HU 122 Dolphins Squadron already hovering around his target. Apatsu mitram, indeed. He focused further and saw numerous yet tiny dots of land-masses approaching, like glittering jewels on the smooth skin of a sea nymph. The voice of the fighter controller cackled over his RT, 'Target […] eleven o'clock [...] fifteen nautical miles [...] RV Dolphins […]'
Sanyo, the flight leader replied, 'Roger. I have visuals...'
Sanyo then glanced to his left and saw three accompanying crafts in a sparkling blue sky with unending visibility.
He spoke to them this time over his RT, 'This is red leader to red team. Red two, stay at my side. Red three and four, follow from another vector. We will not go in together. Red two and I will fly very low and cover the northern area. Red three and four, you have the southern sector. Go!'
The Su-30 MKIs slowed their speeds, activated their cameras to record the proceedings below and commenced a dive down to 250 feet. Sanyo saw his number two swing to the north to cover the respective sub-area allotted to him. Three and four were already behind them. Adrenaline pumping through his body, he lowered the altitude of his plane to record even the minutest details on the ground.
The reason why Sanyo was there instead of a Searcher II Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) from Car Nicobar Air Force Station was that a manned reconnaissance mission was preferred–simply because of the human intuition to focus on what looked important. From his briefing, Sanyo and his team knew about the vital areas of the installation they had to cover, hidden from sight though they were.
The cameras had started clicking when the RT spewed some not-so-good news. 'Red leader…sensors detect a ground based SAM launcher powering up at bearing 099…repeat 099… Exercise caution.'
'Roger,' Sanyo replied.
Hell, who was operating a Surface-to-Air Missile (SAM) launcher here, he thought? He had been told in his briefing that the security apparatuses of the base were under lock-and-key and access to them was impossible for any hostile forces. How did they bypass security and manage to activate a launcher?
Sanyo pulled his craft up in a steep climb and told others to follow. The command would most definitely not approve his data collecting efforts if he lost a plane.
He was climbing when he heard a scream over his radio. 'Number three under attack,' shouted his wingman, 'twelve thousand yards. ' At the same time, a proximity alarm went off in his cockpit.
His number four whispered, 'Visual contact with an incoming bogey!'
'Request type...' said the fighter controller and Sanyo almost together.
'SAM...SAM...SAM!' replied number two, his pitch rising.
Sanyo heard the scream on his radio and saw the white streak of a SAM almost simultaneously. The missile angled away from him, missed him by a couple of metres and went back. It was on top of him even before he realized; it was fired from so close. Heat-seeking, he thought. Instinctively, Sanyo turned back to see where it had gone. He pulled the nose of his craft and pointed it to the sky, somersaulting and trying to avoid contact as it made another pass at him.
'SAM on your tail, repeat, SAM on your tail, red one,' he heard his radio utter. Damn, Sanyo released decoy flares and chaff. The missile was not deterred. It continued following his plane like a hawk preying on a sparrow.
This time too, it came dangerously close to him. Nevertheless, he was lucky again. Suddenly, the missile swerved sharply, as its sensors got a lock on another target and it veered away from him.
Sanyo sighed involuntarily. The missile was gone. But where? A SAM does not leave its prey for another. What was it? Some technical malfunction in the SAM...or in his own aircraft?
Sanyo's reverie was broken by a harsh moan, 'Ahhh…I am hit...I am hit.'
'Number three, you are on fire, eject, eject!' another voice said on his radio, almost pleading.
Sanyo had until now been so absorbed in his miraculous escape, he did not see where the SAM had gone. He looked back to see a ball of fire in the sky. He was no longer the target. It was number three. The missile had found its prey. Thankfully, number three had time to eject. His white parachute was slowly drifting down towards the g
round by the time others came to their senses. A life was saved. Machinery, on the other hand, was not.
Bitter with the way the events unfolded, but content that the task was done and pictures taken without any loss of life, Sanyo found himself ordering everyone to return to the base, as the Indian Coast Guard units swung into action to intercept the falling parachute.
♦
Finally, a member of the infiltrating group exhibited the first signs of unprofessional behaviour. He looked at his friend and touched his fingers to his lips, grinning sheepishly. The meaning was unambiguous. Care to smoke?
The friend shook his head and looked away. Give a dying man some leeway, he then thought, and tilted his head a little in the direction of the door. Go ahead, go out and have a smoke, I will wait, the look meant. The man got up and exited the room. He walked down the corridor, stopped at a door, checked if he was being followed, opened it and went in. It was the Auxiliary Launch Navigation Control Station (ALNCS), meant for manually programming the coordinates and flight path in case the more often-used, computer-operated Primary Ballistics Navigation System (PBNS) failed.
No guards were present. Why should there be? Thieves' honour, he thought. The base personnel had been neutralized and his own team was busy completing the tasks allotted to it, preparing for its part in the grand scheme. Access to this room came much later, if at all. It was only in case of failure to access PBNS that this room was to be used–unlikely given their initial success in gaining entry to the PBNS itself. Therefore, other priorities needed to be addressed first.
For them, he thought. Not for him.
This room was vital to him. He re-read the final set of instructions again. He did not know what they meant, but it mattered little. He booted the machine, opened a program and with quick, deft key strokes, modified the programming. He then took out a pen drive and installed a program into the mainframe, as he had been ordered to do. This done, he exited the room and joined his mate at the end of the corridor.
He smelt of smoke.
Bay of Bengal, India
Local time: 1630 hours
Date: 24 April 2014
The crew thronged the deck of the tiny, dingy fishing trawler and stared agape at the sleek, shining convoy. They were all young, sturdy village lads who depended on fishing for a living. Every second week, they used to set out deep into the sea. A few months ago, they decided to go even deeper into the sea and hunt for lobsters, and if time and tide permitted, pearls. Inflation was at an all-time high, and the thekedar who bought fish from them was giving them lesser and lesser cut. Drastic times called for drastic measures to earn. This was one of them.
What they saw right now was greater than a thousand pearls. A carrier group of the Indian navy proudly sailed at their side. The boys waved at the passing ships – majestic, shining and radiating power. One of the village boys, who had gone to the recently opened school in the nearby village, knew how to read. The crew thrust him to the portside of the trawler and gesticulated wildly.
His duty was clear. He mustered all his learning, squinted at the largest of the ships, one that carried aircrafts on it, and tried to read, 'I...N…S…Vi…Vismaya…' Everyone looked at him with expectation. He turned to another ship, smaller than the first one but still managing to look as impressive.
'I...N...S...D...Dharti.' The elders looked at him with visible pride.
There were other ships too, helicopters strapped on their decks, waiting to rain fire. The elders shuddered, the young suppressed shivers of excitement running through their bodies.
A crew member shouted. He had seen a whale! Yes, a whale! It had surfaced for a brief instant and then dived. It had been following them for a while. However, he was too experienced to feel afraid. Whales seldom attack people, contrary to the Hollywood movies. Though the thought never struck him, simply because he did not know what Hollywood was. He thought the whale was merely playing tricks with them, though not with any malicious intentions. At least, he hoped so.
At an expletive-ridden shout from the leader, the trawler crew stopped gawking at the task force and got to work. They were here to feed themselves, not to ogle at these monstrous pieces of machinery, the leader made it evidently clear with his words.
The leader of the trawler then took the wheel and started laughing all of a sudden. If piloting this little thing is so hard, he thought, he was glad he had nothing to do with those mammoth ships. He shook his head, still laughing, and concentrated on catching some lobsters. His daughter wanted a new pair of shoes. There were many ways in which he might have got them, but staring idly at ships passing by was not one of those ways.
♦
'Get me to periscope depth,' a harsh voice cracked like a whip in the confined spaces of a submarine's bridge, knowing that no one would be able to hear them over the din the fishermen were making.
The battle-hardened captain whispered again,'10 degrees rise on bow planes […] 5 degrees Up Bubble […] on my mark […]'
The orders to the helmsman were coming directly from the master of the boat, instead of via the executive officer and the diving officer. Clearly, the chain of command on that submarine was more flexible. The executive officer (XO), if he could be called one, was away attending to an important guest. The diving officer, if any, was handling the sonar equipment as he was the best submariner of the crew after the captain and was required to focus wholly on his current quarry at the precarious moment. The sonar operator, on the other hand, merely stood on the bridge, doing nothing. Sonar was all he knew, rest everything puzzled him.
As a result, orders were flying directly from the top to the bottom. Though it punctured the pyramidal chain of command, it also ensured that the orders be followed to the pith and substance, in the minimum response time and to the best efficiency a crew can muster in the circumstances.
'Up periscope,' the captain said. The crew and the boat rushed to comply.
The captain was given orders to minutely observe the happenings around them and then inform his master of every development that was to take place. The master was keen on it, which came as a surprise to the captain as his superior rarely took interest in such small matters. Which meant only one thing–what was about to happen was not small at all.
The captain had done well by staying hidden under the nose of the Indian fleet, or at least the belly. It was not too difficult, he thought, thanks to the Indians' lousy anti submarine warfare capabilities, but he had to be vigilant. Vigilance leads to victory. Brazenness leads to death. Many had paid in blood to realize that.
He knew he would be engaged the moment he was spotted, and he had no wish to battle an entire carrier group, not to mention the nasty Sea King anti-submarine helicopters comfortably strapped on the deck of a ship, especially not with whom he was carrying on-board. History would never forgive him if he did.
He had utilized the signature of the fishing trawler, staying near it, and trying to merge with its readings to confuse sensor sweeps by the Indians so that his presence might not be detected. Not very difficult, he thought, especially when the Indians were not looking for him. They had other things to do.
He too had other things to do. He coarsely whispered to dive deeper and change course; the boat still rigged at silent speed. Again, the boat complied. Its tanks started pumping water in, and silently, the submarine disappeared into the depths of the sea.
Launch Silo 01, NMRC
Local time: 1700 hours
Date: 24 April 2014
The second in command gave the leader a zealous thumbs-up and grinned from ear to ear. Highly out of place, thought Major Rana, but it showed good spirits and that was a good sign.
Rana looked up from his watch. He knew they were behind schedule, if only a little. He controlled his anxiety and did not tell them to hurry. The men were already under pressure, but that did not matter. Pressure was a part of the game. Errors were not. It was a delicate task, and having a superior breath down on your neck all the time was not on
ly disturbing but also irritating. The last thing he wanted was to have the missile change its target by a couple of miles. That would have been disastrous.
He barked orders to begin the final assemblage. The men rushed to comply, their muscles paining and sweat glistening on their faces. Their eyes were thin slits of concentration. They closed the silo doors and started to assemble the parts of the missile in launch position. God bless the Indians, Rana thought, for creating a missile that was so easy to assemble.
The silo was lighted and ready for action. The men took their positions. Some faltered at the sight of the huge monster. Those who did were guided by those who did not – with encouraging whispers and gentle nudges.
Pralay was taking shape.
Meanwhile, the man deputed to handle the pre-flight sequence made his way to the propulsion guidance lab and started working, this time on PBNS. There was no need to lock the door to execute his task. Others were busy and no one would come checking until the time came. He focused on the task at hand. First, he had to encrypt the target coordinates. He did. Secondly, he had to upload a program for the remote guidance of the missile. Check. Third, he had to install safeguards to prevent unauthorized access. Complete. He smiled and let out a sigh.
He had done it all in record time.
Andaman and Nicobar Islands
Local time: 1900 hours
Date: 24 April 2014
His heart thumped furiously, beating against his chest with an almost painful regularity, as he followed his lieutenant. He was glad at being tethered to the line. The light above the aircraft door was a soothing green by now. Funny how this shade of green was now associated with such an event that it neither soothed him, nor looked green in the first place.