“That said,” Bhosale continued, “I need you to pack your bags and get yourself up to Srinagar in a hustle. You know our plans. But I need a man with your experience to be the master of ceremonies when the curtains part. The current man in charge is clearly in over his head on all this!”
“That’s surprising.” Verma noted. He personally knew the man Bhosale was referring to, and that man was a competent commander.
“Not his fault.” Bhosale conceded. “He had family in Mumbai and he hasn’t heard from them in days. The man’s morale has plummeted. I had to relieve him. Can’t have a man in that emotional state leading our guys into combat. Get yourself to Srinagar and take charge. I have notified Ravi that you are to be delegated to his command for the time being. You will get further details from him when you get there. Get moving, ASAP!”
“Roger that, sir! I will be on the way within the hour.”
10
“Where are you taking me?” Gephel said as he grabbed on to the rails on the Gypsy.
Ansari swerved around the bend on the road that cut into the Ladakh mountains east of Leh. “You will see.” He replied as they bypassed yet another army truck convoy heading down the road.
Gephel shook his head and looked to the side of the road as they drove on. The relatively flat road was bordered on either side by snow interspersed with rocks, canvassing an otherwise desolate mountain range. The cold winds cut through the thinly-covered fabric skin of the vehicle and made an otherwise arduous journey even more painful.
Gephel wondered how the old silk-route travelers of past centuries had navigated such difficult terrain. There were no roads back then. No satellite navigation systems and no help if you got lost in the endless rolling mountains of Ladakh, devoid of all plant life except in a few valleys. Over the last few decades, the army and air-force had established themselves here. And so had the Chinese in Tibet. The road heading east from Leh was as filled with activity as could be imagined. No civilians were out here except those working with the government. Every few kilometers they would come across a sprawling army camp or a convoy of trucks parked by the road. For Gephel, the valley of Gyantse had once been an ancestral home. But he hadn’t been back there since his family had fled to India. Decades later, he wondered about his cultural lineage. What was left of it, at least. The Tibetan culture, his culture, had been decimated by the Chinese over the past decades. Would he ever even see his home again? He knew Gyantse only from his parent’s and grandparent’s words. Would his children even have access to that small verbal luxury? What use were future generations when they had no access to their own culture?
“What are you thinking?” Ansari asked without taking his eyes off the road. Gephel realized he had been lost in thought for some time. He turned to face his friend.
“Nothing.”
“This place reminds you of home, eh?” Ansari asked empathetically. He knew Gephel and his past. After all, Ansari hadn’t pulled Gephel’s name out of a hat for Basu when they started the Pathfinder missions four years ago.
“Of course it reminds me of home!”
“You ever wonder what it would have been like if your family hadn’t come over in 1959?” Ansari asked as he finally took a turn off the road on to a dirt track and continued driving.
“Not really.” Gephel replied offhandedly and then turned to face the desolate mountains again. “I got to see what my people had to live like over there. I have yet to see such misery elsewhere. I hope I never do. The Chinese will pay for what they did… but perhaps not in this lifetime.”
“We are here.” Ansari applied the brakes and the Gypsy lurched to a halt on the snowy-gravel. Gephel looked around and saw several command-trailers parked on the relatively flat terrain nearby. They were covered with white snow-flake camo-netting through which their many radio and electronics antennae projected into the cold, grey Ladakh skies above.
“We are expected. Come on,” Ansari grabbed his gloves from the dashboard and exited the vehicle. Gephel did the same, following Ansari as they made their way through the freezing, slushy-wet mud towards the command-trailers. They passed several soldiers along the way, all of whom were kitted out in heavy snow jackets. But as Gephel wondered where he was, his eyes spotted the two parked Light-Combat-Helicopters further away, covered inside white painted, modular semi-cylindrical hangers. He saw the sleek outline of the parked helicopters showing as the entrance flaps of the modular hanger were rolled up for some work. He could see ground crews working on one of the choppers.
“Our rides?” Gephel asked Ansari.
“No. Just the escorts. Come on.”
As Gephel continued to follow two steps behind Ansari, he mumbled a comment he knew only Ansari was in earshot of: “sneaky bastard!”
“I know.”
“And who authorized this?” Gephel asked. Ansari did not answer but instead pointed to the several other Gypsy vehicles parked on the other side of the clearing. Gephel noticed a wooden sign pegged into the mud by the locals. It said: ‘FARP ZULU 114-HU’
Gephel now knew where he was. The location was one of several Forward-Area-Rearming-Points, or FARPs, operated by the resident attack-helicopter unit of the air-force in Ladakh. This unit had been formed in-situ during the China war and specialized in the use of the high-altitude Light Combat Helicopters, or LCHs. These helicopters were advanced vehicles designed specifically for high altitude combat. The LCHs were small, sleek and sported advanced digital pattern white-brown camouflage to negate infrared returns. They were capable of operating under all but the most difficult weather conditions and during the war, had proven deadly to both enemy armor units in Ladakh as well as unmanned enemy drones flying above the battlefield. As such, they had developed a deadly reputation amongst both friendly and enemy forces in these mountains. The 114 Helicopter Unit had been in theater ever since.
Ansari opened the door of the large command trailer and waved Gephel in. As both men entered the spacious interiors of the vehicle, they were met there by several air-force officers in their flight-suits, bent over a small map table. Other stations including radios were currently unmanned.
“Colonel Ansari,” the air-force group-captain held out his hand and Ansari shook it. He noticed the senior air-force officer looked much older than his age: yet another veteran of the last war.
“Group-captain Dutt, this is Colonel Gephel. He is my deputy-commander.” Ansari introduced Gephel in the same breath. Dutt nodded and motioned both men to come to the side of the map table. “Gentlemen, welcome to 1-1-4 H-U. I was informed today by the western air-ops commander that my men and I are currently removed from recon operations planned in support of the upcoming strikes and are instead assigned to your SOCOM task force. Does that sum it up?”
Ansari nodded with a smile, so Dutt continued: “Needless to say, my boys and I are very curious to know why we have been taken off the roster just before the balloon goes up and instead assigned to your task force.”
Ansari took the cue and opened his briefcase with the satellite imagery of the target areas. He handed these out to Dutt and the other pilots in the trailer. Dutt frowned as he looked over the color images.
“Forget your precious recon missions, group-captain. I have the kind of mission that will make your pilots drool!”
Dutt looked up from the images to Ansari and then to his other four pilots: “Fair enough, colonel. You have our attention.”
“What the hell do you mean they are empty?”
Malhotra turned away from the speaker on the table and looked at his officers. He picked up a pair of the satellite images and compared them yet again. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. But these camps are empty as far as I can tell. These images don’t lie. The camps were active up until three days ago when we threatened the Pakistanis with strikes. Now there isn’t a soul in them. All buildings look abandoned.”