Fenix (21 page)

A second massive explosion ripped through the skies to his north as the other
AMRAAM
missile slammed into dagger-two, turning the
LCA
to smithereens. The debris laced with fire streaked earthward. There was no time for mourning. Grewal recovered his aircraft and saw warning lights going off inside the cockpit. But the controls still felt good. The engine was still running. The weapons were good. The
HUD
was smashed and the cockpit glass was cracked.

Damn!

Further south, he saw yet another fireball as the flaming wreck of one of the two F-16s disappeared into the cloud cover below. The second F-16 was nowhere to be seen.

“Dagger-three, -four!
Get
the buggers
before
they escape! I am weapons
ineffective
and dagger-two has been blotted out!
Go! Go!
”

“Wilco, dagger-leader. I am
on him!
”

Grewal saw his two remaining pilots punch afterburners and launch Astra missiles towards a non-visible target. He felt his control stick shudder. Looking at his starboard wing, he spotted several holes and what looked like fuel splatter. The fact that it had not ignited had probably saved his life. But the list of problems didn’t end there. The fuel indicator was slinking away. Grewal realized he was trailing fuel…

Before he could say or do anything, a flash of light erupted on the horizon and flicker on its way earthward. The radar-warning-receiver changed audio tones as the source of the enemy radar disappeared.

The radio came alive: “splash one bandit!”

“Dagger-leader, this is mongol-two. We no longer detect the enemy airborne-control source on our scopes. Is that
your
handiwork?”

“Looks like it,” Grewal added. “Dagger-three and –four claimed the prey! Also count
two
enemy Foxtrot birds in the bag. I am damaged goods over here and dagger-two
has
been lost. We are egressing the
heck
out of here!”

“Mongol-two copies all. Good work.”

Grewal pulled his aircraft around and felt the shudder in his controls all the way. Dagger-three and -four took flanking positions on either side of him as he fought to keep his aircraft in the air. As an extension of his body as it was, he could
feel
the airframe barely holding itself together. He would be lucky if he made it back across the border, let alone get back to base. The fuel indicator was now flashing red. He needed to put this aircraft down. And fast.

“Dagger-one declaring emergency!”

“Mongol-two copies. Proceed to Bathinda.”

“Wilco.”

“Mongol-two-actual here, Dagger-leader,” Verma’s voice chimed in. “You can make it. Put the bird down on the concrete.”

              Grewal tightened his grip around the control stick as the aircraft continued to vibrate. The vibration was becoming more pronounced as they lowered altitude just after crossing over the border. Some solace was to be had when the patrolling Mig-21s at Bathinda lined up in a pair to his right just after he lowered his undercarriage. They would follow him in. The runway at Bathinda showed up to the east.

              Almost there. Don’t fail me now!

As the runway became much more visibly pronounced and the tarmac appeared underneath on either side, Grewal prepared for the eventuality that his landing gear might collapse. When the rubber of the tires hit the ground and
didn’t
collapse, he was already breathing a long breath of relief. A few seconds later the engine flamed out. The
LCA
slithered to a stop halfway on the runway.

He removed his oxygen mask and helmet as several vehicles rolled up to his crippled aircraft. Firemen ran on either side, showering the wing with fire-retardant foam. He turned to the floor of the cockpit and saw the source of the smoke. He used his gloved hand to pull out a piece of metal shard lodged just inches from his left boot. The rubber on his boot had been scarred by it. One additional inch to the right and it could have severed his foot. He glanced at the metal shard in his hand as ground crews snapped open the shattered cockpit glass.

He had been lucky. His wingman had not. The war had already taken a toll on his squadron. And it had
just
begun.

V
erma took a deep breath. His inner voice may have a point, he conceded. The battle numbers supported it.

              Modern war was rarely, if ever, a game of numbers as it used to be in the past century. Quality and training offset massive numerical advantage. The Pakistani air-force was not even close to resembling the strength of their Chinese ally. The
PAF
had neither the numbers to fight three-for-one against India nor the quality advantage. And propaganda statements to the contrary, its training and efficiency had suffered during the decade long bleeding against the Pakistani Taliban. The latter had attacked airbases over the years inside Pakistan and had leveled many Pakistani aircraft where they sat on the tarmac. In return, Pakistani combat pilots had been busy striking home soil with bombs and rockets. They were in
no
position to take on a battle-hardened, albeit depleted, Indian air-force.

The battle for vortex-two had already cost the Pakistanis dearly. The gambit of drawing out Indian pilots into combat was a deadly one. The importance of airborne-radar systems if often over-played. And while it was true that in presence of large fighter forces it could prove lethal, there was little that it could do when its supporting aerial forces were weak. And so the
PAF
had lost one of its Erieye airborne-radar aircraft,
eight
of its precious F-16s and
six
of its obsolete Mirage-IIIs in that battle. In return, they had taken down three Indian Flankers, one
LCA
and had heavily damaged another
LCA
.

The morale within the
PAF
commanders would plummet at the near-complete wipeout of their first large-force attempt against the Indians. Verma observed as vortex-one, flying out of Peshawar, had dispersed its assembling fighter force into smaller groups just after vortex-two had gone dark. It was now withdrawing further west,
away
from the aerial frontlines.

Verma walked over to his seat and strapped himself in as the large Phalcon aircraft turned to port and departed station-keeping to rendezvous with its refueling tanker aircraft further east.

So what is next? Will they stop challenging us in the skies?

Unlikely.
Verma reminded himself. This was a war to the end. There was no after-the-war for the Pakistanis after this. If the
PAF
ran to protect its aircraft and Islamabad lost the war, the first to hang from lamp-posts in the streets of Rawalpindi would be their air-force commanders. No, they wouldn’t give up
that
easily. They
will
send smaller groups of aircraft against friendly ground forces as the latter move across the border into Pakistan. That will be their game. No more big battles. But a
lot
of little ones.
They will change tactics. They will adapt.

Verma rubbed his eyes.
And so will we! 

──── 22
────

P
athanya ran out of the tents as thunder ripped through the frigid air. The cold winds hit him square in the face. He could see his breath condensing before his eyes. The scene outside was utter chaos. Men ran past and vehicles were rolling on all the major logistics routes.

Another thunderclap passed by. This time he knew where to look. North by north-east. Sure enough, a cylindrical booster section of a Brahmos missile arced across the sky as it went transonic. The small flicker of light from its exhaust disappeared to the early-morning fog…

“What the
hell
was
that?
” Vikram shouted over the thunder as he and Kamidalla caught up with Pathanya. Vikram stopped mid-syllable as another thunderclap reverberated through the air. Seconds later it too disappeared into the fog on its way to some target inside Pakistan.

Pathanya turned to face his two subordinate team-leaders with a frown laced with a sort of militaristic fait-accompli: “it’s begun.”

Pathanya let that sink and then went into overdrive: “get ready to move out while I figure out our mission status. I want
everyone
ready to leave with the logistics of our
original
mission. If
that
mission still stands, we will execute it. If it has been scrapped, I still want us ready to provide options to the Battalion commander!”

He got two nods and no questions. So he walked past the two men and headed towards the command tent to find Ansari, Gephel and the
RAW
officers embedded with this task force. If they were going after Haider, now was as good a time as any to get started…

“F
luids, people. Fuel and Water.” Kulkarni walked over to the large plywood board covered in maps. On it, the friendly forces were marked with pins and units
ID
s were written on paper tags nearby. He pointed to the dust-off point and then turned to face the hundreds of assembled tank and vehicle commanders standing in the large tent. 

              “We are going to be pushed hard for resources and reinforcements out there,” he pointed to Pakistani territory on the map. “Our biggest worry is
not
ammunition for the main guns, but the smaller details. Fuel for the tanks and water to drink. Command advises us that despite their best attempts to keep us hydrated and fueled, we must be prepared for the worst.” Kulkarni looked around at the faces of the men under his command. “And I agree.”

              Kulkarni was indeed worried about the logistics of the upcoming offensive. It was
always
the same. It had been the same when he had been fighting Chinese T-99s in Ladakh. Without fuel, the tanks were simply sixty-ton steel pillboxes, immobile and vulnerable. Without water, the crews who manned them would be in no condition to fight in the desert
long
before they ran out of ammunition.

              In Ladakh, however, Kulkarni and his fellow commanders had had
one
advantage: they hadn’t been going anywhere far. The
PLA
had been on the offensive there since the very first day. All Kulkarni’s tank detachments were doing was holding back the tide. They could rely upon whatever logistics made it up to them.

              Not so out here.

              The Thar desert would sap the strengths of his forces. Native water resources would be scarce until they reached their final objective areas in urban terrain. Same went for fuel. Each Arjun tank had enough fuel to take them on a one way trip down the road for two-hundred kilometers. But that was on a road. And there were no roads here. Besides, even if one existed, Kulkarni wasn’t stupid enough to have his tanks roll on them straight into ambushes. No, they would have to stick to the desert. They could not move in straight lines either. Maintaining tactical formations and strategic flanking maneuvers would dramatically eat up the onboard fuel. So would the rough desert terrain and the incessant waiting on combat readiness. Two hundred kilometers of fuel would translate to only a few dozen kilometers of combat maneuvering once the first bullets went over their heads. They would need fuel. And lots of it.

              And
that
represented the Achilles heel of the whole plan.

              For
every
tank that would move forward, there would be a
dozen
supporting vehicles that would be needed to keep them fueled, armed and running. Brigadier Sudarshan’s two Arjun regiments had over a hundred tanks on roster. They would require several-hundred supporting trucks and other mechanized vehicles to keep them in the field. But only
half
of these were available. The Indian army was not equipped for high-intensity operations, especially those involving deep armor strikes inside enemy territory. The buck kept moving down the chain of command to field commanders like Kulkarni, who had to deal with the consequences…

              “We will load up the external fuel barrels on each and every tank,” Kulkarni continued. “One pair each. They will extend our range. Use that fuel first, but for god’s sake, remember to punch them off at the
first
sign of combat! The enemy can’t destroy our frontal armor, so they will aim for those exposed fuel barrels! Understood?”

              He got nods from all his officers as they made notes from the briefing. There was a lot to take in. Locations, times, call-signs, radio-frequencies, attached forces, aerial units, artillery, objectives, enemy units, threats and rules of engagement in civilian areas…

              “And water. Stack up as many bottles and cans of drinking water you can scrounge from the supply units. Pile them up wherever you can. Under your seat, on the sides or outside. I want each of your crews to be able to survive in a closed-hatch mode for over forty-eight hours on stretch without passing out for lack of water. Keep your men hydrated at all times. We may encounter significant resistance from the Pakistanis once they start realizing the threat we pose. They will aim for our logistics. Expect to go without being supplied with food or water for extended stretches. I plan to have
every
available space in my tank lined with bottles of water. I suggest you all do the same.

              “Moving on to nuclear conditions. The supply units outside have trucks pulling up with
N-B-C
filtration masks and suits for you and your crews. Disperse them and make sure the sizes work for each of your crew. Don’t expect to get adjustments once we move out. No need to wear the suits when we leave, since our tanks will keep us safe inside. But keep them handy in case we have to step out for repair, rearming or refueling work.” Kulkarni noted the looks amongst his young officers. “Questions, gentlemen?” 

              One of the captains in the back row of seats raised a hand: “Sir, are we
expecting
the war to go nuclear?”

              Kulkarni nodded. It was a legitimate concern. Why else had the Brigadier asked him to disperse the individual contamination suits in the field? “The Pakistanis armed their terrorists with a nuclear warhead with the sole aim of
leveling
Mumbai. Thousands are dead as a result of that failed attempt. Now, nearly a month later, we are preparing to roll over Pakistani soil in
thousands
of armored vehicles and troops. Of
course
there is a nuclear threat. Corps
H-Q
has issued a warning. Expect that threat indicator to climb higher as we pummel over the Pakis. They have
nothing
to lose.”

              “We are combating savages!” Another officer noted from a corner of the room. “
Let
them use their nuclear card! These motherfuckers tried to desrtoy Mumbai and kill millions of my countrymen! We
will
roll over them!”

              “That’s quite enough, gentlemen.” Kulkarni said, bringing the chatter to a halt. He had been quite aware of the low morale amongst many of his men for some time now. Especially those with family or relatives in Mumbai who had been displaced, missing or had been killed in the chaotic aftermath of the tsunami that have struck Mumbai from the offshore nuclear explosion. This was as good a time as any to remind his men of the rules of engagement:

              “I want
zero
screw-ups once we roll over. We will engage and
destroy
legitimate Pakistani forces
without
remorse or regard. But
once
we reach civilian areas, I want the utmost care and restraint in what you shoot at. I want
no
revenge attacks! Is that understood?”

              He got a near-unanimous “sir!” from the group. Only time would tell how that order would pan out. He looked at his wristwatch: “we have a two hours before we jump off. Get your men kitted out and your tanks ready. Dismissed!”

              The silence of the room was replaced with the rustle of men as they got up and talked to each other. Kulkarni watched them leave and wondered how many of these men he would bring back, alive.

P
athanya looked at the heavy backpack he had put together and sighed.
It
weighed more than
him
. And that didn’t even include his rifle or the shoulder and thigh-strapped equipment.

Just get on with it already…
He told himself and leaned over to pick up the heavy backpack. He lifted it with a grunt and lofted it over his back. He then picked up his favorite boonie hat and fitted it snugly over his head. The
INSAS
rifle with the under-barrel-grenade-launcher was leaning on the nearby wooden crates. That was one of the last things he picked up. Until now the magazine had been stowed separate from the rifle for safety reasons. He picked the rifle up and slapped the magazine in but made sure the safety was off. Bringing it up to shoulder level, the red-dot sight came up in front of his retinas. All good.

When he stepped outside the tent, he found Vikram, Kamidalla and the rest of the pathfinders lined up and waiting. Vikram had his single-ocular night-scope tilted on its hinge above his head. Kamidalla was armed with his preferred Dragunov scoped-rifle whilst the others had a variety of arms with them suited for their specific role. Pathanya nodded approval and waved to the drop-zone in the open field past the tents. The clearing had been leveled by the army engineers with their bulldozers and was now serving as the helipad for the Paras deployed here. Right now it was empty except for two men in berets. Pathanya immediately recognized them both.

“Pathfinder good to go, major?” Ansari asked.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Excellent.” Ansari checked his wristwatch: “panther is inbound.” Pathanya nodded. Jagat had taken them into Deosai in Pakistani-occupied-Kashmir when they had apprehended Muzammil and eliminated his top lieutenants. Now he was to take them into Pakistan proper. Pathanya could not think of a better man for the job.

The whipping noise of the helicopter rotors filled the air. Pathanya and the others saw three Dhruv helicopters approaching low from the east. Ansari looked at Gephel who kept his peace. Ansari walked past the pathfinders, holding on to his beret in the rotor downwash. Gephel patted Pathanya on the shoulder as he walked by. No words were exchanged. They didn’t need to be.

As the helicopters landed on the muddy clearing, Pathanya saw Jagat in the cockpit. He turned to his team and waved them forward. He patted Kamidalla and waved to the second helicopter. He did the same to Vikram and pointed to the third. He headed to Jagat’s bird. Boarding through the side-door, he stowed his backpack inside. A minute later the whine of the rotors increased and the three helicopters of Panther flight dusted off and headed west into Pakistan.