PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) (6 page)

Looking over the door gunner’s
shoulder, Mirza could see the first rays of sunlight appearing over the
mountains. He turned back to the para commandos. Their faces were etched with
fatigue, but also relief. The mission was complete.

With
a clang, a line of bullet holes appeared in the fuselage. A round tore through
the door gunner’s leg, knocking him backwards. More bullets impacted above
them, smashing into the engine compartment.

Mirza
leaped from his seat. He grabbed the machine gun, hanging limp in the doorway.
He pulled the gunner’s headset off and jammed it on. As the helicopter banked
wildly, he heard the screams of the loadmaster over the noise of the radio and
the engines.

“Paki
attack helo on our six,” the pilot bellowed over the headset.

Mirza
caught a glint of the early morning sunlight reflected off the gunship’s
canopy. “I’ve got visual. It’s a Cobra.” He hit the butterfly trigger on the
PK machine gun
and spat a line of
tracer toward it.

The
Cobra pilot took evasive action, throwing the nimble craft into a dive.

“He’s
gone low,” Mirza reported.

“We’re
going high then.” The Mi-17’s engines screamed as the pilot hauled upon the
collective sending it skyward. “He doesn’t have the power to follow us.”

Mirza
stuck his head out the doorway into the buffeting wind. He could see the Cobra
behind them but could not swivel the gun far enough around.

The
helicopter lurched. An alarm wailed over the headset. “Shit, we just lost an
engine!” the pilot said.

They
dropped fast. Mirza saw the Cobra climbing, moving in for the kill. “Push the
nose twenty degrees to the right!”

The
pilot turned the chopper and Mirza lined up his sights. The machinegun bucked.
The rounds went wide. He fired again to no effect. The gunship was climbing and
they were losing altitude. Within seconds, the Cobra’s cannon would blast them
out of the sky.

“I’m
losing power in engine two,” the pilot announced.

Mirza
fired a long burst, walking the tracers onto the Cobra. The 7.62mm rounds
bounced off its armored canopy. He could almost make out the faces of the pilot
and gunner. He thumbed the triggers again; hoping that one of his rounds would
find a vital component.

As
he fired off the last of his ammunition, the impossible happened. The Cobra
exploded in a ball of flame. The blast rocked them as an Indian MiG-21 swept
past with a thunderous roar.

“The
cavalry has arrived,” Mirza announced over the radio.

“We’re
not out of trouble yet,” the pilot replied. “Engine two is on its way out. Get
everyone strapped in.”

Mirza
abandoned the machine gun and turned his attention to the passengers. The para
commandos were all tightening their belts. Within seconds, he’d secured himself
to his seat. “Brace for impact!”

The
chopper hit hard. The landing gear tore off. It flipped onto its side, smashing
the rotors to pieces as it slid along the ground. The pilot had put them down
on top of a hill. Only when they came to rest a few yards from a steep slope
did Mirza breathe.

He
flicked open the clasp on his safety belt and surveyed the damage. The stench
of aviation fuel kicked him into action. “Get the doors open!” He stuck his
head into the cockpit. The glass canopy had splintered but held. Both pilots
gave him a thumbs up as they crawled out of their seats.

Himesh
and the medic were with the wounded gunner. Together, they carried the man to
the back.

The
loadmaster had managed to wedge open the rear doors. He helped maneuver the
wounded man from the wreck.

Mirza
waited for the pilots to get clear, then checked everyone was out before
sprinting away. He stopped when he reached Himesh and the wounded gunner.
“Is he going to live?”

The
captain had powered up the satellite phone and was checking for a signal. “He
will if he gets help. But that’s not our problem. We need to get to New Delhi.”

The
sound of vehicles snapped the para commandos into action. They moved fast,
setting up a defensive perimeter.

A
pair of Indian MiGs screamed overhead as the four-wheel drive pulled up and
soldiers jumped out. They were Indian Army. “Well, at least we’re on the right
side of the border,” Mirza said.

CHAPTER
8

CHANDNI
CHOWK, NEW DELHI

The Lashkar cell leader Al-Jahiz
led his team of four through the back streets of Chandni Chowk. They had
swapped vehicles after crossing the border into India, changing the van for
another a local contact had supplied. Once in New Delhi, they abandoned that
vehicle on the outskirts of Chandni Chowk and walked into the shantytown.

Now,
early morning and already this derelict part of the city throbbed with life.
Beggars, homeless youths, shoppers, and desperate merchants clogged the
streets.

The stench of poverty, refuse,
and death was suffocating. Al-Jahiz glanced at his team and took in their
shell-shocked expressions. He spat in the gutter. “This is how the infidel lives.”

Jawid
stared at a legless beggar perched on a wooden cart. “Disgusting.”

“A
direct reflection of their lack of morality. Follow me.” Al-Jahiz left the
alley and merged with the foot traffic on a wider street. A smile almost broke
free at the gaggle of street urchins playing cricket with a makeshift bat and
using a trash can for wickets.

Spotting
them, the kids surged forward with hands outstretched and voices demanding
change.

They
reminded him of seagulls fighting over a scrap of food. “Go away! Get lost,”
Al-Jahiz snarled in Hindu, plowing through the pack. He ignored them as they
followed for a dozen yards before switching from demands to abuse, then
returning to their game of cricket. All except a young teen with a gaunt face.
Nothing Al-Jahiz did or said got rid of the skinny urchin.

“Best
guide in Chandni Chowk, mister. Atal can get you anywhere and get you anything.
You want
tuk-tuk
, I get tuk-tuk. You want cell phone, I get you cell phone.
You need shoes, I know a man who does shoes. Atal can get you anything you
want.”

“Enough!
Do you know where New Nawab Guest House is?” Al-Jahiz snapped, realizing he’d
say anything to stop the boy’s unceasing jabber.

“Yes.
I told you I can get you anywhere.”

“Then
take us there.”

“OK,
mister! Atal take you to New Nawab Guest House.”

The
youngster guided them through a bewildering maze of alleyways, courtyards, and
market streets. As they moved deeper into the slum, they saw more foreigners:
Pakistanis, Arabs, even Chinese.

Atal
waved his hand down a street. “You pay now. I take you the rest of the way.” He
stood waiting with his hand extended.

Al-Jahiz
flicked him a copper coin.

“What’s
this?”

“Take
what you get.” He searched the street ahead for a landmark.

“You
are cheap, mister.” With his hand extended, his fingers motioning for more,
Atal followed the Pakistanis down the street. “Come on, mister, you pay more.”

“Go
away,” Al-Jahiz snarled.

“I
go. But you give me more. I can follow all day.”

“I’ll
give you something more.” He hit Atal with a right hook and snickered as the
kid collapsed into the gutter.

With
a savage kick to the ribs, Al-Jahiz pivoted and continued with his team down a
side street. A hundred yards along the road, he threw up his arms in
frustration. He took out a phone and dialed a number. “It’s me. I can’t find
the house. Send someone out to meet us.”

A
moment later, a scruffy looking Indian appeared on the street. Al-Jahiz
struggled to hide his disgust. The man was filthy; his knotted beard speckled
with scraps of food. He was either destitute, a desperate criminal, out of his
mind, or perhaps all three.

The
man waved them to where an orange wooden door blocked an alley. A hand painted
sign above it proclaimed ‘Nawab Guest House’. “Are you Jahiz?”

“Yes.
Karim has been expecting us.”

“He’s
in here.” The man pushed open the door and waved them down the walkway between
two buildings into a small courtyard.

Al-Jahiz
checked the street behind them and spotted the kid glaring at him as he closed
the door. In the courtyard, he eyeballed two men playing cards. They stared
back with cold lifeless eyes. More of the same, destitute criminals wearing
filthy clothes.

He
and his team followed trash-beard through a metal door and entered a two-story
grey building. As they passed a room, he caught a glimpse of plastic bins and
shelves of jars. Sniffing, he sneezed. It reeked of heavy, burning
disinfectant.

“This
way.” The man led them up a flight of stairs.

Karim
stood at the top, his arms held wide. “Welcome, my brothers.”

Al-Jahiz
grasped the plump Saudi by the shoulders and hugged him. “Nice place you got
us.”

“It
smells foul, but it’s secure. We’ve prepared your team’s room.” He led them
down a hallway into a prayer room. It was clean with freshly painted walls and
woven mats laid over the concrete floor. In the corner, four vests lay on a
table. Each was blue, with magazine pouches on the front and the word ‘POLICE’
stenciled on the back.

“The
detonators and weapons are in another area,” Karim said. “I don’t trust the
criminals not to sell them.”

“But
they can be trusted not to sell us out?”

“Their
loyalty has been bought.”

Al-Jahiz
nodded and turned to his team. “This is where you’ll stay until we are ready to
strike.”

“How
long will we have to wait?” asked Jawid. The Afghan’s beard had been neatly
trimmed. He almost looked respectable.

Al-Jahiz
clasped his shoulders. “It will not be long, brothers. Glory will be yours.
Rest and I will have food and water brought to you.” Leaving the team in their
makeshift mosque, he and Karim headed down the corridor to the dining area.
“Where are your men?”

Karim
placed a jug of water and some naan bread on a tray. “Surveillance on the
kidnap target.”

“The
woman.”

“Yes,
the lawyer
.”

“She
deserves to die.” Al-Jahiz settled on one of the four battered chairs
surrounding the equally decrepit looking table. He sniffed the air. “This place
smells like a…”

“Like
a morgue.”

“Yes,
that’s exactly what it smells like. What in Allah’s name are they doing in
here?”

“Harvesting
organs from the homeless.”

Al-Jahiz
snapped his mouth closed and asked, “You’re joking, yes?”

“I’m
afraid not. They take them from the poor and sell to the rich.”

“That’s
vile. We can trust these, these flesh merchants?”

“ISI
seems to think so. They’ve used these criminals for years. Which reminds
me—” He withdrew a cell phone from his pocket. “—this is the only
phone our contact will call. Now that you’re here, he will want to talk to
you.”

“Me?”

“You
are the commander, remember. Now if you excuse me I will feed your men.”
Grinning, he picked up the tray and left the room.

Al-Jahiz
studied the phone. The history had been wiped. There were no recorded numbers
or messages. With a shrug, he dropped it into his pocket, then managed a smile.
Karim was right. He was the commander. This was his chance to strike. It was
his time to be the sword of Allah.

Karim
returned a moment later. “Your men are very motivated.”

“They
want nothing more than to give their lives for jihad.”

A
knock sounded on the door and they glanced at one another. “Come in,” said
Al-Jahiz. One of the Indian criminals entered dragging a battered sports bag.
He dumped it on the table.

“These
are the uniforms you asked for.”

Al-Jahiz
had trouble hiding his contempt of the slovenly criminal. Not only was he
filthy but a massive gut bulged from under his sweat-stained singlet.

“This
is Neeraj. He’s the leader of our friends,” said Karim.

“The criminals?”

Neeraj
licked his lips as the Saudi counted a handful of rupee notes and handed them
to him. “I prefer the term entrepreneurs. Always good doing business.” He
tucked the money beneath his singlet and left, shutting the door behind him.

“And
you say you can trust them?” Al-Jahiz asked as Karim unzipped the bag and
removed a bundle of khaki clothing.

“As
long as we pay him. Let’s just hope no one makes a better offer.” Karim held up
a shirt. On the breast pocket was a tag that read ‘POLICE’. “We have enough for
all the men.”

Al-Jahiz
smiled. “The Colonel was right to choose you to path-find for this mission.”

“He
chose both of us. Together, we are unstoppable, my brother. Together, we will
deal the infidel blow after blow in the name of Allah.”