Pathanya noticed that he wasn’t alone on the jogging track this morning. He was soon catching up to a group of Paras jogging in unison past the greenery at the Counter-Insurgency and Jungle Warfare School, or CIJWS, as the army called it. He was currently posted here, helping the school supplant its high-altitude special-operations and counter-insurgency training methods with combat experience lessons. He and a few other Paras were here because of what they had seen and done in the war.
Those of us who had survived, that is… he reminded himself as he passed by the jogging soldiers and continued on his lonely path.
Half an hour later, he was back at his hut and saw that his orderly had set up the steaming tea on the table inside. As always. He slowed his jogging and trotted to a stop. His shirt was dripping from sweat and his legs burning, especially his left thigh. He grimaced at the pain whilst catching his breath.
“Enjoying the morning, Pathanya?” a voice said behind him as he walked up the steps of his hut. He turned to see an older man in the army field dress walking up to him. He had the SOCOM insignia on his shoulder patch. He also had a smile on his face and the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. Pathanya stood in attention and saluted; the senior officer returned the gesture.
“At ease, Major.”
Pathanya noticed the man was of Tibetan descent. The older man ignored Pathanya’s curiosity and turned to see the green tree leaves, the chirping of the birds and the colorful morning sky.
“Not as lively up in northern Bhutan, is it?” the Lieutenant-Colonel said with a smile. That piqued Pathanya’s curiosity, but he kept his peace. His records were available at SOCOM. So it was not particularly surprising that the officer knew about his experiences and role in the war.
Hell, the entire nation knew what he had done thanks to some investigative journalist who had spilled the beans a year after the war had gotten over. So why was this officer spiking his curiosity?
“You don’t know me, Major,” the older man said quaintly. “My name is Lef-tenant-Colonel Gephel. I did some unusual work during the war while you and your boys were slugging it out in Bhutan.”
Unusual work… Pathanya thought. He had learnt soon after the war that there had been teams of operatives culled from the regiment for some “nasty” operations, as Colonel Misra had said to him once. That meant inside Tibet. So while Pathanya and his men had been inside Bhutan for about ten days of intensive operations, these men had been inside Tibet far longer. Some in the media had even gone as far as to allege that these men of Tibetan descent had been used inside Tibet to instigate the very rebellion against Beijing that had ultimately led to open war between the two nations.
Were they really responsible for instigating that war?
Pathanya had never been able to convince himself suitably on that issue. During his recovery, he had found it easy to blame them. But over time, he had let that question go as realization dawned that the complexity and precipitous nature of events preluding the war with China was beyond his grasp. Besides, if these teams had been used, someone higher up must have authorized them? Could that authorization be the reason that defense-minister Chakri had mysteriously resigned from his position on the PM’s cabinet a few months after the war? If so, weren’t these men just following orders? As he was?
Could this man be one of them?
He noticed finally that Gephel was holding out his hand. He shook it and Gephel didn’t let it go:
“I have been wanting to meet with you ever since I read about you and your men. Despite the fact I work there, it still surprises me on how compartmentalized information really is inside SOCOM. Hell, I know for a fact that you have no clue what I did during the war any more than what I did about yours. Except that yours made it to the evening news and in newspapers while mine didn’t!” Gephel chuckled.
“Probably better that way too!” he continued. “I doubt many in Delhi would be happy to have the media talking about my role in that nasty mess. Anyway, I wanted to meet you in person, Pathanya. You and your men prevented Bhutan from falling to the Chinese.” He shook his head. “We should have seen that coming, really. But we didn’t.” He finally released Pathanya’s hand.
“I am afraid I don’t fully understand that myself, sir.” Pathanya replied.
“Don’t think about it too much, Major. I just wanted to meet you before I leave for Ladakh to help survey our recently established control there.” The smile went away. “The wounds haven’t yet healed for any of us. Hell, I doubt they ever will. All I know is that I will get to smell the gravel of my birthplace once again. It has been more than three years since I last did that!”
“Yes sir.” Pathanya now felt more certain about who this man was. “Were you originally from Ladakh, sir?”
“Not really,” Gephel said soberly. “My family originally escaped from Gyantse in Tibet around the time when the Dalai Lama did the same in 1959. Never knew what that place was like. Grew up in a refugee camp in India. So as you can imagine, Pathanya, I had always wanted to go visit my hometown.” Gephel smiled again. “And during the war with the reds, the army was only too happy to oblige!”
1
The small fishing boat heaved with the waves, struggling to maintain its course. The frothing sea water of the Arabian sea splashed against the wooden hull as the vessel cut through the waves. Afridi flinched as a spray of water headed for his eyes. He tasted the salty water and spat it out, turning away from the railing he had been holding on to.
“Cursed weather!” He straggled to what constituted as the bridge on this small ship. He grabbed the ladder leading up to the small room and looked around. The entire boat was awash and all surfaces were slippery. Waves were breaking above the bows of the ship now, engulfing the tarpaulin covers on their cargo containers. He glanced at the ropes keeping the containers tied down and satisfied himself that they were going to hold. Then he started to climb up the ladder.
“Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” He blared as he lifted himself off the ladder and on to the floor of the small room. The two men there turned to look at him.
“If we go any faster, we will break the boat’s back!” The captain of the boat replied in his frail voice. He was the owner of this boat and had been for many years. The boat heaved again and fell over the crest of a large wave. Water splashed high enough to hit the glass of the bridge. Afridi looked at the old man’s eyes and saw the fear. But not of the waves or the weather. The old man had been through countless storms over his long life. No, this fear stemmed from something that scared the old man even more.
Afridi smiled cruelly and removed the AK-47 hanging off his shoulders. He put the weapon on the small map table and looked at the old man.
“Are you afraid of this?” He pointed to the rifle laying on the table. Both men in the room beside him remained silent. He nodded appreciatively. Good. Fear was always useful.
“Today you will accomplish what Allah has wished from you devout Muslims. You will accomplish what he desires and will find a place by his side when the time comes,” Afridi said grandly. He was prone to hyperbole. Especially when he held the power to make people listen. His rifle ensured that power.