Mukul Deva

The sentry took one long, silent look at the dead man lying in the pool of blood. He did not bother to check his breath or pulse. The sentry had seen too many dead men not to be able to recognize death when he saw it. ‘Come on. We need to bury him. Come and help me.’

‘Bury him? Isn’t he from the Pakistan Army? Do you think it is okay to bury him here?’ Even as he spoke Iqbal realized it was not a very smart remark and his voice trailed off.

The sentry just gave a short mirthless laugh. More like a bark. ‘What do you think we should do? Take him back to Chakoti, hain?’ He gave that barking laugh again. ‘Do you really think those buggers care?’ He waved a vague hand in the direction of POK. ‘They even refused to collect their dead when the Indian Army was handing them over at Kargil. Just because that would have meant acknowledging that they are Pakistanis.’ The sentry spoke in a very matter-of-fact way yet the anger and cynicism came through loud and clear.

As the third transmission echoed in his headset, the North team leader turned and signalled to the men crouching around him. Coming alive almost as one, the fourteen fighters swarmed across the wall and raced across the garden towards the house lying still and silent before them. The night vision gear strapped around their heads lent them an eerie, outlandish appearance.

None of them could have known that one of the occupants on the first floor would choose to get up and head for the toilet just then. The man was crossing one of the windows overlooking the front garden when he spotted the dark, ghostly shapes rushing silently across the lawns. The man was no genius, but it did not take him even a second to realize that they could mean nothing but trouble.

The solitary shot rang out in the still morning air with extraordinary loudness. Hard in its wake followed the loud cry of alarm as the shooter alerted the other occupants of the house. But this was no ragtag bunch of soldiers. They were superbly trained and reacted with all the speed, skill and ferocity at their command.

Sporting the typical sandy-greenish-yellow camoflague paint commonly used by military vehicles in this area, the Army jeep thundered up. The jeep’s canopy cover was rolled forward. There were four soldiers perched in the open rear seats and two in the front cabin. The four men at the back cradled the standard POF (Pakistan Ordinance Factory) manufactured PK-7 short assault rifle in their hands. Patterned on the Heckler & Koch G3 automatic rifle, externally the fixed-stock PK-7 resembles the short-barrelled G3, however its caliber had been changed to 7.62 x 39 mm (M43) and the internal operating mechanism had been adjusted for use with a lower recoil impulse cartridge.

At the moment the weapons were placed casually between their legs, with the barrels pointing safely skywards, but neither Iqbal nor Tanaz had any doubts about the speed with which they could be brought into action by a trained soldier or the lethality of the heavy 7.62 mm slugs that they could spew out with blazing rapidity. Each of the standard magazines fitted on the PK-7 rifle cradled twenty rounds; and those eighty rounds in those four rifles could be unleashed within seconds. The deck was firmly stacked against the couple on the run; especially with Iqbal already wounded.

‘How is the old man now?’ the Ameer asked, turning to face him.

‘Not so good.’ The doctor hesitated before he continued, unsure what the fate of the bearer of bad news would be. ‘He is slipping away fast.’ He looked apologetic. ‘We have tried everything but there has been too much internal damage. Maybe I could have done something if I had the facilities of a full-fledged hospital available to me. Right now, here . . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘I want to see him.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘OK.’ The doctor helped the Ameer to his feet and began to walk him outside. Halting at the door the Ameer rid himself of the doctor’s supporting hands, took a deep breath, straightened his back and stepped out unaided. He was enough of a leader to know that in this part of the world any show of weakness was unacceptable. He was smart enough to know that weakness was a clear invitation for the enemy to close in for the kill; Allah knew that a man like him had enough enemies. Commanding his body to ignore the pain he followed the doctor to the hut across the alley.

When he reached the hut the Ameer could hear moans of pain, and the smell of spirit and blood assaulted him as he went inside. There were two men hovering around the frail, elderly mullah. More than half of Hamidi’s upper body was drenched in blood. He seemed to be just about holding on to life. Miraculously his face had been left untouched by the American missiles.

Raider Two could be seen lining up the hostages. Starting from one side she began to gun them down; delivering one shot each to their faces, ensuring that each screamed as she or he saw death coming. Acrid gun smoke furled up in the air.

As Raider Two proceeded the killing became more brutal. She shot the sixth hostage first in the lower jaw. His soundless scream rang out. Only then did she put one between his eyes. The eighth was shot twice in the knees before her coup de grace. The eleventh, the American cousin visiting Israel, was begging for mercy when she put the muzzle against his stomach. There was a soundless click as the firing pin slammed down on an empty chamber.

The kneeling hostage looked up. Amazed. Shocked. Then he vomited.

By now Raider Two was directly in front of the security camera overhead. Probably she was aware of it and had positioned the hostages to ensure it caught their slaughter in gory detail. Dropping the now empty assault rifle she unsheathed a wicked knife from her ankle holster.

They were at her door when his mobile rang: an unidentified number. Too tired to even wonder who it was, Ravinder took the call.

“How many times did we try to warn you?” The voice was gentle, almost friendly. But there was no denying the steel in it.

“Who is this?” Ravinder felt a cold shiver trickle down his spine.

“Does it matter?” The same, almost paternal, tone. “We tried to warn you to lay off. Many times. But you just don’t seem to get the message, sardarji. Now see what you have forced us to do?”

“Who is this?” Louder. Ravinder’s agitation was peaking rapidly. Surprised by his tone, Jasmine stopped crying. Ravinder felt her gaze on him.

“This time,” the caller continued as though Ravinder had not spoken, “to drive home the message, we have taken your daughter’s friend.” Ravinder’s breath slammed out of him. “Next time, if you don’t keep your nose out of our affairs, it will be your daughter.”

“Who the . . .” Ravinder felt his heartbeat accelerate, explosively. The pain in his temples was now acute.

“Jeeeaaaay Benazir.”

A consummate politician, Benazir raised her hands above her head and began to clap. The crowd clapped with her, caught up in the hysteria of the moment.

“Nara- i- Takbeer, Allah O Akbar.”

“Nara- i- Haidri, Ya Ali.”

“Awam Hero Hero, Baqi Sab Zero Zero.” (The people are heroes. Everyone else is zero.)

The popular slogans, currently doing the rounds in Pakistan, erupted from her. Echoed sonorously by the cheerleader. And repeated thunderously by the crowd. The hysteria was sky high now. No one noticed Bombers 1 and 2 inch toward her, about eight feet apart. And they were still twenty feet from the dais.

Finally holding up her hands for silence, Benazir began to speak. “These are the slogans that greeted me when I arrived in Rawalpindi. I know this is the city of brave and sacrificing people.” An appreciative roar from the crowd.

The best thing about my journey as a professional coach and mentor has been the opportunity to work with some incredibly smart people, certainly the sharpest knives in the kitche. Logical, since organisations generally invest in those who have the maximum impact of productivity and profitability. Consequently, it is not surprising that I learnt as much, if not more , from the people I have coached or mentored, as they did from me.

Having worked with thousands of people from three (or four… it is becoming harder to keep track) generations, from a dozen industries, countries and cultures, I am often asked – how are they different?

The short answer is, they are, in many ways. Knowing these differences helps us caliberate the way we deal with them. After all, that is the bedrock of cross-cultural functioning; as essential attribute to success considering the global vilage we live in.

Co-authored with Karen Leong and Wendy McDonald, this book shares amazing stories from behind the scenes of organising a unique global, online leadership summit. A must-read for those keen to learn, and / or to organise an online summit.

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M.O.D.E.L. The Return of the Employee does to the Holy Writ what Kurt Cobain did to the suicide letters – OUTLOOK BUSINESS

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Raider Two could be seen lining up the hostages. Starting from one side she began to gun them down; delivering one shot each to their faces, ensuring that each screamed as she or he saw death coming. Acrid gun smoke furled up in the air.

As Raider Two proceeded the killing became more brutal. She shot the sixth hostage first in the lower jaw. His soundless scream rang out. Only then did she put one between his eyes. The eighth was shot twice in the knees before her coup de grace. The eleventh, the American cousin visiting Israel, was begging for mercy when she put the muzzle against his stomach. There was a soundless click as the firing pin slammed down on an empty chamber.

The kneeling hostage looked up. Amazed. Shocked. Then he vomited.

By now Raider Two was directly in front of the security camera overhead. Probably she was aware of it and had positioned the hostages to ensure it caught their slaughter in gory detail. Dropping the now empty assault rifle she unsheathed a wicked knife from her ankle holster.

Despite the man lying dead before me, or may be because of that, I laugh at the thought, but there is no humour in the laugh, just disgust.

Yes. I have seen many people die; most of them far more gory and meaningless deaths. After all battles and wars never bode well for anyone, least of all those fighting them. That is why I think it would be very fair to say that death does not bother me at all, so long as I am not the one who is doing the dying.

Sudden flashes in the alleys of my mind.
Unbidden, unwanted memories intrude.
‘I don’t know anything sir.’
Clubbed down by the unforgiving butt of a rifle, the young boy is groveling in the dust He is barely into his teens. He looks so underfed that I am surprised the rifle blow has not killed him.

Soon, the trickle of refugees into India had become a deluge. Soon, every possible Indian facility along those borders was swamped. The hospitals were overflowing with men who had had limbs chopped off; women who had been raped, disfigured, and had their breasts cut off. Even children had not been spared. The bestiality displayed by the Pakistan Army cannot be expressed by mere words. Mutilated and mangled, millions flowed into India.

“We were grappling to come to terms with what we saw, as much as we were trying to cope with the daily increasing flood of starving, battered and mutilated people.” The expression on Captain Sutradhars face conveyed it all. “I still remember Ted Kennedy standing in the hospital ward when he visited us in July 1971. There was not even an inch of room available in the hospital; every possible corner had been taken up by a mass of humanity … by what had once been normal, happy human beings.” The good doctor was now crying openly.

To be honest with you Arjun, we don’t yet have a clear picture but we would certainly like them to lead in a more inspiring manner and, equally important, we would really like to enhance the quality of their lives.’

‘Right.’ I marshaled my thoughts, brought up my most intelligent, consultant look and got ready to help them see a clearer picture. Only then would I be able to evolve solutions. Only then would they value the results. ‘If I understand you correctly, you’re saying that you’d like to see your leaders do less, but achieve more?’

‘Come again.’ Win leaned forward, aroused.

‘Do less and achieve more?’ Lou could not contain himself either. ‘Is that possible?’

‘How is that possible, would be a far more useful question.’ I gently corrected.

‘Eh?’ He looked nonplussed.

‘What’s the difference, Arjun?’ This was the first time that I had heard Coleen ask a question. I could see that she was intrigued. And I also noted that Win was looking pleased. I sensed she was as pleased by the quality of Coleen’s question as she was by the fact that Coleen had started speaking up.

Unwittingly he checked his watch. Twenty past midnight. It was almost as though his watch was on speed. Wasn’t that always the case when on a mission?

Within the next twenty-three hours and forty minutes one of his targets would be dead. Possibly less. The RIP message had said within twenty-four hours… hadn’t it?

Raghav re-opened the mail and read the RIP threat again.

RIP! Nice name. Raghav’s lips twisted into a bemused smile. Very appropriate… considering they were trying to make a lot of people rest in peace. The ones whom they’d killed at least. The ones still alive, but in their gun sights, were certainly not getting any peace. He was unable to stop the laugh. Whoever had thought it up, definitely had a sense of humour. Wacky? So army! Yeah, the acronym was very army… like the damn code words and nicknames they used to select. Unwittingly memory swept him back… back to the day he’d joined his unit.

‘What do you mean by “warlike thinking”?’ A CEO asked me, when I was explaining S.T.R.I.P.T.E.A.S.E. to him. ‘Sounds interesting, but seems pretty negative in nature.’ I tried to explain what I meant by telling him the reason why the armed forces switched from the 7.62-mm calibre weapons to 5.56-mm. There were a number of tactical, technical, economic and commonsensical reasons but a very important one was that a reduction in the weapon’s lethality ensured that it crippled and maimed more than it killed.

Do remember that a wounded person is a far greater liability for the enemy than a dead one since he ties up more able-bodied soldiers—to evacuate him, look after him, replace him and so on. Some armed forces overcome this problem by actually following the policy of killing the badly wounded—either officially (though without fanfare) or due to planned circumstances (by simply not catering for adequate medical facilities). Though hellish on morale, such policies were, are and can be enforced with draconian measures.

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We had almost reached the door of our apartment when the strap broke. (It was, as she called it, her workday bag. She had (so help me God) seventeen different bags, for different occasions, to go with different dresses with different moods. I remember them all so vividly. After all I had spent hours with her, in countless markets all over the damn world, helping her search for them. There was a traveling bag, a casual party bag, a formal party one, a regular workday bag, a special workday bag. (For when she had something special happening at work) one for weddings – a different one for day weddings, even (cross my heart and hope to die if I lie), one for funeral). And diverse as they all were – in colour, shape, size, material and design, there was one thing that all these bags had in common.

‘Annie, your ruddy bags are always stuffed to the gills. Just what is it that you women do carry in them…’
She would just give me that child-like smile of hers.)

A surprisingly touching statement from a man who has lived by the gun.

Deva is high among the fast increasing tribe of Indian writers.

It is unusual for a writer of ‘thrillers’ to feel passionately about his books.

Different people vent their frustrations in different ways. Mukul Deva’s characters do it by shooting each other dead; the man himself lets his writing about such mindless killing serve as an emotional outlet.

The third installment of Deva’s four-part series, Blowback gives you that feeling throughout — of an army man’s deep-seated dissatisfaction with internal security in India. It reflects the military’s anger of political inaction, or worse, vote-bank favouritism. Even as he refers extensively to real terrorist threats, Deva offers multi-pronged, absolutely workable solutions to solving our security issues.

Mukul Deva who hails from La Martiniere College Lucknow has just written his 15th book,
POUND OF FLESH, which has hit the stands in the Indian sub-continent. In an exclusive
interview to Ajit Chak he talks about his life – which is as full of twists and turns as his
thrillers.
• Mukul Deva is today known as a very successful fiction author but what do you see
yourself as – writer, coach, mentor, keynote speaker, facilitator or entrepreneur?
Actually I see myself as all of those, since I enjoy each one of these diverse aspects of my
life, and I put in my best into all of them. However, if you want me to choose any one
thing, then at this point in my life I see myself basically as a Change Maker, as someone
who helps others to discover their strengths and passions, and then live up to them. My
experience of having worked with over 8500 people in over 13 countries has taught me
that all of us are born with multi-potentialities.
• It has been a long journey from La Martiniere Lucknow to being an entrepreneur and
fiction writer with companies in India and Singapore?
When I look back at everything, I think the transitions have been logical and seamless. My
decision to join the army largely came about since I dropped school early, and like all
youngsters, thirsted for adventure and excitement. Upon leaving the army, it was only
logical that I set up a company, which helped me build on my training in handling people
and security affairs. Till this point in my life I was using my skills to earn a living. However,
once I started writing books, I moved onto coaching, mentoring, keynote speaking and
facilitation, I started leveraging on my passion. My practical experiences in the army and
as an entrepreneur fueled most of my earlier books.

The basic qualification to be recruited as a constable in the Indian Police Force has been brought down from 10th standard to 8th. On the contrary, the terrorists are becoming tech savvy; they are educated and are imparted quality training. The very paradox has made India suffer from numerous terror attacks. So what should be done, how can India become safer, what are the immediate challenges that army, police forces and our government face? The answers to all of these are there in the latest book, Blow Back by Mukul Deva, whose previous books are also on terrorism.

Mukul Deva completed his education from La Martiniere College, Lucknow, the National Defence Academy, Pune, and the Indian Military Academy, Dehra Dun. Mukul was commissioned in the SIKH LIGHT INFANTRY of the Indian Army in 1981. After retirement, he opened the security service MSD Security which, in the ensuing decade, grew into a dynamic, professionally managed company.

With FIVE successive bestsellers in five years Mukul is acknowledged as India’s literary storm trooper and the pioneer of the Indian military action thriller and techno-thriller.

The outgoing American President tries to leave his stamp on posterity after two tenures marred by internal conflict and war. The Middle East is a tinderbox waiting to ignite, while Afghanistan and Iraq are already exploding as the guns continue to boom and bombs go off with unfailing regularity.