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Authors: Mukul Deva
Tags: Fiction
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reason whatsoever.’
‘That goes without saying, sir. It will have to be someone who is highly trained and motivated; someone who can stay the course for a long, long time on his own resources and, more importantly, with inner confidence.’
‘Pity we don’t have James Bond on our side.’ Sami gave a half-hearted laugh.
‘Or Jason Bourne.’
The three Force 22 officers were silent, their eyes again drawn to the terrible scenes being telecast on the screen in the far corner.
‘Or Iqbal,’ Tiwathia said softly. ‘He had the motivation and the training... he was even the right age to have infiltrated the YPS.’
‘More importantly, Vikram,’ Anbu added, ‘Iqbal had already seen through the lies and the deceit. He was fully aware of the dark underbelly of terror and he knew it had nothing to do with religion.’
‘We all know that he was mentally strong…’
‘Yes. Remember how he went back across the LOC alone and took down Maulana Fazlur Rehman at Muzzafarabad? Can you imagine the guts that must have taken?’
Another long silence fell upon the three men. It ended only when Vikram whispered, more to himself than anyone else, ‘Damn! I really wish we had brought Iqbal back with us. Then he would not...’ His voice trailed away. Even the battle-hardened commando was unable to voice the thought that the man who had saved his life was probably dead.
SIX
For a long time Tanaz couldn’t believe she was alive. The first two bullets fired by the Pakistani NCO had slammed into the stock of the Uzi in her hands, reducing it to a useless piece of mangled metal. The third had clipped the back of her hand. It had raced along the length of her arm, leaving a long, bloody furrow right up to her shoulder. The wound itself was neither dangerous nor fatal, but the loss of blood could be both. Shaking her head to rid herself of the wooziness, Tanaz sat up groggily. Gritting her teeth, she tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of her burqa and wrapped it tightly along the length of her arm. The biting pain sent a wave of giddiness through her. She pulled herself together with an effort and looked around for Iqbal.
Then she saw the station wagon with its opaque windscreen.
‘Iqbal!’ Tanaz cried out in alarm, her pain forgotten as she ran to the vehicle. Iqbal lay slumped to one side. Through the folds of his shawl, the hole punched into his chest was clearly visible. Fresh blood oozed from it in a shocking, never-ending stream. Tanaz reached out and felt the warm stirring of Iqbal’s breath on the back of her hand; the pounding in her heart receded slightly as she realized he was still alive.
She knew it was imperative that she stop the bleeding and get Iqbal away immediately. It was only a matter of time before someone landed up to investigate the gunfire. Working as fast as she could, Tanaz snatched up a fresh field dressing from the rear seat of the station wagon and used it to staunch the bleeding from Iqbal’s chest wound as best as she could. The sight of the open wound and so much blood sent fresh waves of nausea through her.
Stop it! her mind screamed. She knew they would not get out of this alive if she did not take charge of the situation immediately. Gradually, reason and training seized control, forcing her mind into overdrive as her hands began to mechanically finish applying the bandage.
The station wagon is finished! Even if it’s not, do I have time to change the tyre? How long before someone else lands up? Should I use the army jeep?
She was still struggling with Iqbal’s makeshift bandage when she heard the deep, guttural sound of engines. Grabbing the Uzi from the floor, where it had fallen when Iqbal had passed out, Tanaz jumped out of the station wagon and spun around to face the new threat coming round the bend.
T he four vehicles thundered down the track, carrying a wreath of dust with them. They came to a halt just short of the station wagon. The first and fourth vehicles in the
‘That goes without saying, sir. It will have to be someone who is highly trained and motivated; someone who can stay the course for a long, long time on his own resources and, more importantly, with inner confidence.’
‘Pity we don’t have James Bond on our side.’ Sami gave a half-hearted laugh.
‘Or Jason Bourne.’
The three Force 22 officers were silent, their eyes again drawn to the terrible scenes being telecast on the screen in the far corner.
‘Or Iqbal,’ Tiwathia said softly. ‘He had the motivation and the training... he was even the right age to have infiltrated the YPS.’
‘More importantly, Vikram,’ Anbu added, ‘Iqbal had already seen through the lies and the deceit. He was fully aware of the dark underbelly of terror and he knew it had nothing to do with religion.’
‘We all know that he was mentally strong…’
‘Yes. Remember how he went back across the LOC alone and took down Maulana Fazlur Rehman at Muzzafarabad? Can you imagine the guts that must have taken?’
Another long silence fell upon the three men. It ended only when Vikram whispered, more to himself than anyone else, ‘Damn! I really wish we had brought Iqbal back with us. Then he would not...’ His voice trailed away. Even the battle-hardened commando was unable to voice the thought that the man who had saved his life was probably dead.
SIX
For a long time Tanaz couldn’t believe she was alive. The first two bullets fired by the Pakistani NCO had slammed into the stock of the Uzi in her hands, reducing it to a useless piece of mangled metal. The third had clipped the back of her hand. It had raced along the length of her arm, leaving a long, bloody furrow right up to her shoulder. The wound itself was neither dangerous nor fatal, but the loss of blood could be both. Shaking her head to rid herself of the wooziness, Tanaz sat up groggily. Gritting her teeth, she tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of her burqa and wrapped it tightly along the length of her arm. The biting pain sent a wave of giddiness through her. She pulled herself together with an effort and looked around for Iqbal.
Then she saw the station wagon with its opaque windscreen.
‘Iqbal!’ Tanaz cried out in alarm, her pain forgotten as she ran to the vehicle. Iqbal lay slumped to one side. Through the folds of his shawl, the hole punched into his chest was clearly visible. Fresh blood oozed from it in a shocking, never-ending stream. Tanaz reached out and felt the warm stirring of Iqbal’s breath on the back of her hand; the pounding in her heart receded slightly as she realized he was still alive.
She knew it was imperative that she stop the bleeding and get Iqbal away immediately. It was only a matter of time before someone landed up to investigate the gunfire. Working as fast as she could, Tanaz snatched up a fresh field dressing from the rear seat of the station wagon and used it to staunch the bleeding from Iqbal’s chest wound as best as she could. The sight of the open wound and so much blood sent fresh waves of nausea through her.
Stop it! her mind screamed. She knew they would not get out of this alive if she did not take charge of the situation immediately. Gradually, reason and training seized control, forcing her mind into overdrive as her hands began to mechanically finish applying the bandage.
The station wagon is finished! Even if it’s not, do I have time to change the tyre? How long before someone else lands up? Should I use the army jeep?
She was still struggling with Iqbal’s makeshift bandage when she heard the deep, guttural sound of engines. Grabbing the Uzi from the floor, where it had fallen when Iqbal had passed out, Tanaz jumped out of the station wagon and spun around to face the new threat coming round the bend.
T he four vehicles thundered down the track, carrying a wreath of dust with them. They came to a halt just short of the station wagon. The first and fourth vehicles in the
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