Choedrak was the next up on the ladder. It swayed precariously, but the winchman’s hand was there to haul him in, while the pilot took the helicopter up and turned the nose south again. A second mortar landed right inside the prison and exploded beneath them.
Heavy machine-gun fire from the ground cut through the fuselage, killing the starboard gunner. Choedrak took the weapon and kept firing at troops moving in on the prison perimeter. He saw a Tibetan commando raise his weapon above his head in a salute as the helicopter cleared the prison wall. It was the finest salute Choedrak had ever seen: a Tibetan fighting for his country, proud, brave, determined, and holding his post so others could escape. A happy man about to die.
The pilot, too, sensed he had only minutes to live. He kept the helicopter low and fast, skimming the rooftops and twisting to avoid the high buildings. Another round of machine-gun fire hit the tail, striking the rudder control which at once became sluggish. He kept her height at barely 100 feet. He saw the roadblock set up by the SFF units north of the Kuru Sampa, already under attack by two Chinese armoured cars coming down from Samchen Dong Lam. One APC was stopped in a jarring explosion, hit by a rocket-propelled grenade from the Tibetans. The helicopter flew overhead in a deafening roar, following the line of the bridge, an agreed signal to the men on the ground that Togden was on board and they should move on to the next stage.
The SFF explosives unit detonated the charges laid under the bridge. The road collapsed into the river, leaving their own men on the northern banks cut off from escape, but blocking the Chinese pursuit.
‘Out now,’ the pilot ordered. The aircraft was barely airworthy. He just managed to control its descent again, keeping her steady above the road, recognizing the Tibetans on the ground and holding off Chinese armoured vehicles. ‘Everyone,’ he repeated, turning in his seat. ‘Not a man left on board.’
As the last paratrooper jumped off, he regained enough height to move the wrecked machine towards the PLA barracks. He could have landed her on the road and surrendered. But that would have been the act of a coward. He saw his fellow Tibetans, distant shapes now, taking to the mountains. He got the helicopter to 150 feet, then let it drop, guiding it down until the last few feet to make sure that it shattered in the middle of the highway, spewing out oil and burning fuel, wrecking the thoroughfare with twisted parts and lumps of aircraft metal which would block the PLA attack for the vital minutes that Togden and Choedrak needed to get away.
Briefing
British rule in India officially began in 1858, although the East India Company had been extending its grip there since the 1760s. Through trade and conquest, it controlled areas from the southern coastal region to what is now northern Pakistan. By the early twentieth century, there were growing demands for independence, pushed forward by the nonviolent campaign of Mahatma Gandhi. The culmination was the partition of India in 1947, with Islamic Pakistan ruled by the Muslim League and secular India governed by the Indian National Congress. The unresolved issue of Kashmir led to the first Indo-Pakistan War, and India’s development was plagued by other insurgencies on its borders.
During the Cold War India remained non-aligned, but forged a close relationship with the Soviet Union. Its economic policies were protective and socialist, and the United States viewed it as hostile. In the nineties, the country lost its secular umbrella and elected a government based on Hindu nationalism. It became a nuclear power and proclaimed China its long-term threat. Tibet simmered. The war in Kashmir continued and India remained the world’s biggest democracy.
Operational Directorate, South Block, New Delhi, India
Hari Dixit, the Indian Prime Minister, slapped his hand on the conference table in his office and angrily pulled out a chair. ‘Why do I have to find out what is happening from the Chinese?’ he snapped at the two men standing in front of him. ‘It’s your job to tell me.’
Mani Naidu, the director of the Intelligence Bureau, which handled internal intelligence, and Chandra Reddy, Special Secretary of the Research and Analysis Wing, responsible for external intelligence, were unlucky enough to be the first members of the National Security Council to arrive for the meeting.
Twenty minutes earlier, Dixit had been holding meetings at his official residence at 7 Race Course Road. He was a tough medical doctor in his early sixties, who through sheer political brilliance and some brawn had moulded a coalition to keep his party in power. Three years earlier, he had suddenly risen to political fame, from the obscurity of being Chief Minister in Andhra Pradesh. His policies had concentrated on disease prevention, health education, housing, education and information technology, and had become a model for Third World development. The press hailed him as the only genuine leader India had had since Jawaharlal Nehru, a man who could balance the needs of the poor with the national aspirations of the world’s greatest democracy.
The unexpected visitor to the Prime Minister’s residence was the Chinese Ambassador, who came in person, unannounced, his lower lip quivering with rage. ‘Unless my government has an immediate explanation as to why Indian troops have invaded Chinese sovereign territory,’ he spluttered, ‘I am instructed to tell you that China will consider itself to be in a state of war with India.’
The British High Commissioner telephoned. The Russian Ambassador sent a hand-delivered note. Dixit blocked calls when he heard that the American Ambassador was also trying to get through. He ordered a meeting of the National Security Council at the Operational Directorate, which was a military crisis centre near the Prime Minister’s office in South Block. On the way, Dixit spoke to his Foreign Minister, Prabhu Purie, who told him: ‘It appears a renegade unit of the Special Frontier Force was responsible, sir, but the Chinese are refusing to accept this explanation.’
The telephone line from the Prime Minister’s white Ambassador car was encrypted and secure. The car had been custom-built in Calcutta by Hindustan Motors with bullet-proof tyres and windows, and an armour-plated chassis. Special Protection Group (SPG) officers changed the number plates at least twice a week.
Two SPG cars pulled out in front. The one closest carried a scanner to detect missile attacks. Two more cars flanked the Ambassador behind and an ambulance followed the convoy. The driver and an SPG commando with a Sten gun were in the front, while the Prime Minister sat alone in the back.
The route varied each time he travelled from his residence to his office. This morning the convoy headed along Akbar Road and on to Vijay Chowk, just below Raisina Hill at the foot of the Central Secretariat complex. The final leg took it up towards the elegant red-stone buildings of South Block, designed by Edwin Lutyens in the final days of the Raj and now the nucleus of government for the world’s biggest democracy.
The car turned into gate eleven near Rajaji Marg, and Dixit saw his two most senior intelligence officials drive in just before him. As he stepped out of his car, Dixit could only wonder whether he was to preside over an era of yet more war.