Operation Deep Strike Read online

I was never good at delegation. It’s too late now.

  Gorbat picked up the phone, “Inspector Khan speaking.”

  “Gorbat, this is Raza. I need your advice on something that's just come in.”

  Gorbat wondered what Raza wanted. He was the Inspector of the general police department. He had previously asked for help whenever they encountered a situation related to terrorists. “Raza, I was about to leave. Can we discuss this tomorrow morning?”

  “Actually, this could be related to yesterday's Gwadar bombing.”

  Gorbat was suddenly all ears. Raza had spoken the magic words. Gorbat had been working for almost two days without a lead. He couldn't go home without at least knowing what Raza was talking about. Raza's office was in a different section of Quetta's police headquarters complex. He convinced himself that it will take only a few minutes. And it may probably turn out to be nothing.

  It took him a couple of minutes to pick up his stuff and lock the door to his office. He exited out of the building and walked across to the adjacent building. A minute later he was seated across Raza.

  “What did you find that you think could be related to the bombing?”

  Raza pulled his desk drawer and handed a dozen photos to Gorbat. Gorbat went over the photos. It showed a motor and what appeared to be the remains of an inflatable dinghy. The photos were taken from various angles, and the background showed a muddy beach.

  “What is this?”

  “These photos were taken near Makola village on the Makran coast. One of the local fisherman's net got stuck under the water. He tried to pull it free and then discovered this. It’s an inflatable dingy. Only the motor is intact. The rubber was shredded to deflate it and submerge it out of sight.”

  “How is this related to the Gwadar bombing?”

  As an answer, Raza pointed to one of the photos. The photo showed a close-up of the motor. Gorbat followed Raza's finger. A small but distinguishable print read 'Made in India'.

  “We had an attack yesterday, no one has reported about a missing boat, and we find a submerged boat a few kilometres from Gwadar.”

  Gorbat looked at Raza, “So where does that leave us.”

  “I have a pretty strong hunch that the boat came from India. It landed on the Makran coast. The crew sneaked over to Gwadar and bombed our port.”

  “The evidence is pretty circumstantial.” Gorbat played the devil’s advocate. He was excited, but he knew that hasty judgements were emotional and not logical. “That boat could have been submerged for months.”

  “It isn't. Look at the motor. It hasn't rusted. My guess it’s been under the water for a few hours to a few days. That matches with the timeline of the bombing.”

  “It isn't much to go upon.”

  “And that is why I called you. We can prove nothing until we have captured the people behind this.”

  “Let’s say your theory is right. But they couldn't have done it without local help.”

  “Do you suspect anyone?”

  “In Balochistan? All locals are suspect here. But they don't have the resources for this.” Gorbat thought for a moment. “Except for the tribal lords. I know one who is rumoured to be working with the Indians. And he is from Makola. Fazal Darzada.”

  A few minutes later Gorbat was back in front of his office opening the door. He switched on the lights and powered up his desktop. He studied the dossier for Fazal Darzada. He had been apprehended multiple times for inciting violence and sedition, but the charges were never proved against him.

  Gorbat thought of asking the Makran police to follow up on the lead. But then, they could be hand in glove with him. He had to be personally involved. He twirled the paperweight on the table wondering what should be done. It was a flimsy lead, it could mean nothing. He couldn't waste an entire day going to Makran only to find out it was a dead end.

  He sat straight. There was one thing he could do. He glanced at the dossier as he punched the digits on the desk phone. It rang for a few times before a deep voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  Gorbat said. “Am I speaking with Fazal Darzada?”

  “Yes. Who is speaking?”

  “This is Inspector Gorbat Khan from the Quetta Counter Terrorism Department.”

  There was a pause before Darzada replied. “Yes Inspector Khan, how may I help?”

  “We found an abandoned boat from India on the Makran coastline where you live. I want to know where the Indians on the boat went.” Gorbat had been in the field for a long time. He would know immediately if Darzada tried to evade the question.

  The pause this time was longer. Just when Gorbat wondered if the line had been disconnected, Darzada spoke. “Some of my people saw four men with weapons on the Makola beach.”

  Gorbat’s ears perked. “Why didn't they report this to the local police?”

  “How do we know who those men were?” Darzada was indignant. “They could have been the local police themselves or the Army conducting some operations. Life is hard for us as it is, we don't want to make it harder by cross-questioning what the Army or police does.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “Our people stay as far away as possible from people with guns. They fled away in terror without a backwards glance.”

  Gorbat thought about it. The chances of these people identifying the gun-wielding terrorists were slim. But after listening to the Balochi, he was now convinced that he had a lead. It was undoubtedly Indian spies, and they had infiltrated from the Makran coast.

  “I'll be in Makola tomorrow. We can talk then. Good night.” Gorbat hung up the phone.

  Fazal Darzada got up from his chair and paced around the bedroom of his two-storey bungalow. The house was located on a twenty-acre estate. His was the only regal-looking house in the tiny village of Makola on the Makran coast. The others houses were ramshackle hovels where the local Balochis resided.

  His father had lorded over the area and had taught the tricks of the trade to him many years back. The theory was simple. On one hand, blackmail the government that the people will rise in revolt if they didn't give him money to support the livelihood of the local Balochis; and on the other hand, complain to the local people about the government's apathy towards the Balochis and pocket a majority of the money. It was a fine balancing act and he had learned the art to perfection.

  The local Balochis were simple villagers who didn't really care whether they were part of Pakistan or an independent state, but Darzada knew that perception was reality. So he used to stage frequent rallies whose audience were filled with his cohorts. And he used to talk incessantly on the injustices faced by the Balochis and repeatedly demanded for a separate nation. So far, the strategy had worked making him rich beyond measure, and with an indelible influence over the innocent Balochi people who still pinned their hopes on him.

  But the association with the Indians was starting to turn into a problem. He was candid enough to admit that he did what he did for the money, and not for the Balochi cause. He would milk it for what it was worth and as long as he could. If the villagers didn't see it, that was their problem. Life was neither fair nor unfair. Life was simply going for what you wanted, and brushing aside everyone who stood in the way.

  When Inspector Khan had called him, Fazal knew he was treading on dangerous territory. The inspector would be coming tomorrow and he had to be ready for his questions. He pulled out his mobile phone and spoke to one of his colleagues for a few minutes.

  He ended the conversation by saying, “Call me once you are done informing the police.”

  Fazal hung up the phone. There was an easy way to disentangle himself from the situation. The solution was to lay the blame on the Indians. It was best if the police came to the conclusion by themselves. That way, the Balochis would never be questioned about their loyalty to Pakistan.

  Chapter 12

  “This is a goldmine.” Hitesh excitedly looked at his screen.

  Armaan looked at him. He couldn't share in the e
xcitement. They had just returned back from the naval base. As far as he was concerned, the mission was a failure. They hadn't achieved all their objectives. Hitesh would be happy with the data they had extracted from the submarine files, but Armaan felt morose inside.

  Hitesh continued, “It will take us weeks to sort out all this data, but so far it looks like we have hit the jackpot.”

  “Yes, but we didn't get to change the configuration on the missiles.” Armaan looked out of the window. The Makran coastline spread out in the distance. If he was not on a mission, he would have been tempted to go down to the beach and laze around for hours. He shook the thought away. He had been chosen to deliver results, and by a quirk of fate, the missiles were not on the base.

  Armaan had always prided on his abilities to deliver results. The mission had been a clean in-and-out exactly the way he had envisioned, but the critical objective hadn’t been met. An emptiness gnawed at him, and he knew it to be the subconscious rebuke of a failed mission. The General had chosen him for this mission and he had let him down.

  Armaan knew how critical this mission was. Millions of lives would be saved in the event of a war. And they would be able to decisively act against their adversaries. He slapped his hand on the window sill. It couldn’t be. He shouldn’t have failed at this mission. Too much had been riding on his shoulders. As he watched the cobalt-blue coast, a thought stuck him.

  Who said the mission had failed?

  Armaan realized that he had been thinking that the mission had failed already. His jaws set tight in determination. No, the mission hadn’t failed. He could still salvage it. No mission objective was out of reach for him. He could achieve what an army of soldiers couldn’t. He would resuscitate this mission from its death throes. The General had given him the objectives. The General wouldn’t care how he accomplished the mission. He wanted results.

  And Armaan would give him the results he wanted.

  He felt Baldev appear at his side. “I am sorry this mission went kaput. It’s time to return home.”

  Armaan squared his shoulders. “No.”

  “No?” Baldev was perplexed.

  “We will not leave without completing the mission.”

  “What are you talking about, Armaan? The mission is dead. Let’s get back home safely before these guys find out what happened.”

  “No, we proceed to Sargodha and complete our mission there.”

  “That’s crazy. We don’t have the resources to do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This mission is critical for the General. I can’t give him no for an answer. As a leader, this mission is my responsibility and I promised him that I will execute it.”

  “But, do you realize what you are saying? We cannot go halfway through Pakistan searching for the missiles.”

  “We will do it. We have to do it. It’s the only way.”

  Baldev shook his head, “We should at least consult the General about this.”

  “There is no need to bring the General into this. I am your mission leader and I give the orders. And this is an order.”

  Armaan glanced at the room and saw that Hitesh’s and Roshan’s eyes were on him. They had heard his argument with Baldev. So be it, he thought. It was best they understood who was running the show here.

  Roshan said, “I am with you, Armaan. Let me know what to do.”

  Armaan nodded. It appeared that Roshan had finally learned his lesson after the Bangladesh fiasco. He looked at Hitesh waiting for his answer.

  Hitesh shut down his laptop and stood up, “Yes, sir. I’ll follow your orders.”

  Armaan glared at Baldev as if expecting him to rebel.

  Baldev said, “I am coming, okay? And not because you are ordering me to. It’s to protect you from yourself. You are like my brother. I’m seeing you go crazy, and I don’t like it. I want to be there when you need me.”

  Armaan ignored his words and turned to Roshan and Hitesh. “The missiles have been shipped to Sargodha. We need to figure out where they went.”

  Hitesh said, “The Captain could be talking about the Central Ammunition Depot on Kirana Hills. It is a few kilometres away from the Mushaf Air base in Sargodha. My bet is that's where the missiles will be.”

  Armaan gave a grudging smile. This kid may not be suited for field work, but he did have all the answers. “Great. What do we know about that place?”

  “Not much, the Depot consists of large concrete structures dispersed at the base of the hill. The structures may just be the proverbial iceberg tip, with some speculating that the weapons are stored in underground bunkers to protect them against a sudden attack by the IAF.”

  Armaan said, “Okay, so we have to get inside the Central Ammunition Depot, figure out which bunker houses the missiles, and access its systems.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “I will figure out how we will accomplish that. Pack up your gear. We move out ASAP.”

  Gorbat looked at the wall clock. The time was seven-thirty pm and he was still in his office. He had spent the last thirty minutes reading and re-reading the file on Fazal Darzada. His mobile phone buzzed. He glanced at it. It was his wife.

  “Did you get the birthday gift for Salim?”

  Gorbat winced. He had completely forgotten about his son's birthday tomorrow. “I am leaving the office. I will buy it on the way home.”

  “Are you still in office?” Gorbat could hear the tone of disapproval in his wife’s words.

  “Yes, something came up.”

  “Okay come soon. We are waiting for you. Make sure you get the gift before the stores close.”

  “I will.”

  Gorbat again went through the motions of packing his stuff and turning off the computer. As he reached the door, the desk phone rang again. Gorbat stared at it wondering if it was Raza with an update. He picked up the phone.

  “Inspector Khan speaking.”

  “Inspector Khan, this is Inspector Bugti from Makola village.”

  Makola, the name echoed in his ears. Inspector Bugti was the CTD representative attached to the Makola Police Station. “Yes, Inspector Bugti?”

  “We found four dead bodies here. They have been shot.”

  It must be the Indians. “When did this happen?”

  “We are trying to find that out. One of the locals found the bodies and called in. I have taken over the case as an incident of terrorism.”

  This was the evidence he was looking for. With Bugti in charge of the case, Gorbat's department would be rewarded for solving the Gwadar attack. He needed to be on site at the earliest.

  “Keep the bodies in your custody. I am coming to Makola immediately.”

  As Gorbat turned off the lights and locked the office door for a final time, he realized that he had to make a difficult call to his wife.

  It was evening and time for their prayers. Malik spoke the verses and the others joined in. After the prayers ended, Shafiq went over to his tent. Malik jokingly referred to it as their palace. Shafiq’s ‘palace’ was nothing but a single worn bed that was too short to fit his tall body. Ten other similar beds were laid next to his. On the edge of his bed was a small locked chest. It contained all his worldly possessions.

  No one was in the tent. Shafiq knelt down and took a key and unlocked the chest. A Colt pistol snagged off an American corpse, half a dozen magazine clips, and a much-thumbed copy of the Holy Quran stared back at him.

  “Why do you keep that chest of yours locked?” Hafeez walked in through the door. “As far as I can see, there is nothing valuable in it.”

  Shafiq looked up and smiled. Hafeez was his next-bed neighbour. None of them had any possessions to speak of, except for the clothes on their back and the weapons in their hands. Apart from him, only a few others possessed bags most of which contained blankets and supplies of dry fruits. “It’s of sentimental value to me. I know no one will take anything, but I will be upset if I lose these. It’s my last connection to a world that once was.”

  Ha
feez put a hand on his shoulder, “We all have lost a lot, which is why we continue to fight. We now have left nothing to lose. We will be victorious in our cause, or we will die trying.”

  Shafiq nodded solemnly.

  “Come, it’s time for dinner. Don’t be late or Malik wouldn’t like it.”

  Shafiq found the dinner to be livelier than that of the previous night. The menu consisted of chapli kebab and naan. They sat cross-legged in small groups on the ground. “People seem to be happier today.”

  “They would be, don’t they?” Hafeez replied. “We had purpose, now we also have a deadline. Everyone is looking forward to what our leaders have in mind.”

  Shafiq looked around. Everyone was talking, mostly about the day’s training and speculating about their upcoming assignment.

  “What do you think our next mission is?”

  Hafeez said, “It doesn’t matter to me. My duty on earth is to kill the enemies of Islam.”

  Shafiq nodded appreciatively. Hafeez was right. They would get to know by tomorrow. He looked around. Zia and Malik weren’t present with the group.

  “Where’s Zia?”

  Hafeez looked around, “I don’t know. Probably dead from all that talking and climbing.”

  Shafiq chuckled as he realized that even Hafeez disliked Zia, but then hardly anyone liked the blabbermouth. “Wishful thinking. But, it’s not like him to miss an opportunity like dinner to talk about his great fighting abilities.”

  Hafeez glanced at Malik’s tent. “Do you think Malik may be training him to be the next in line for chief?”

  A chill ran down Shafiq’s spine. Today wasn’t the first time he had a run-in with Zia. Zia and he had disagreements and arguments previously as well. It wasn’t that Zia targeted him only; Zia was discourteous and rude to most of their group members. A person like him in power lording over their group was an unpleasant proposition.

  “It could be possible.”

  Shafiq saw Hafeez frown at his response. Hafeez pushed his plate away. “You eat. I will take a look around.”

  Shafiq’s eyes followed Hafeez as he strode to the commander’s tent. He slowed down as he passed by, momentarily peeking inside and then continued strolling around the camp and finally returned to the table.