National Security Offices, Islamabad – The Report Arrives
September 10, 2019
The room was cloaked in shadow, faint pools of amber light from a solitary desk lamp barely pushing back the gloom. The stale air was heavy with the acrid scent of burnt tobacco and old paper – smoke lingering from long-forgotten meetings. The walls, lined with dark wood paneling, seemed to absorb the tension that hung in the air.
The Director General National Security Operations, Lt. General Haroon Khan, sat behind a polished oak desk, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the classified report now resting under his fingertips. Each word was a fresh wound.
The Baluch Terrorists had struck again – this time allied with a Militant faction from across border near Kandahar.
His fingers curled into a tight grip around the paper's edge, the veins in his hands standing out like cords. His jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath the skin as he processed the information.
The document was brief, clinical in tone, but devastating in consequence. Satellite intercepts, intercepted radio chatter, and human intel converged into a single, chilling line:
The local terrorist leader responsible for the train bombing has been located in Kandahar. Scheduled to meet Mullah Ahab at his training camp tomorrow.
The name Ahab was familiar – a phantom whispered about in corridors of power; a myth cloaked in fact. Ruthless. Elusive. Deadly.
He reached out and pressed the secure phone's receiver to his ear. "Mark this urgent for the Pakistan Air Force," he ordered, voice low and precise, each word measured and deliberate. "We have full authorization from the National Security Committee. No delays. No mistakes."
A beat of silence as the line clicked. "This ends now."
The weight of his words hung in the air, a promise of swift and decisive action. The Director's eyes, hard and unyielding, reflected the gravity of the situation. Failure was not an option – not with ghosts from the Jaffar Express still haunting the nation's memory.
The Mission Brief
PAF Base – JF-17 Squadron Briefing Room
The briefing room buzzed with suppressed tension. Walls were plastered with satellite images, heat maps, and intelligence grids. A massive table bore the weight of strategy, littered with annotated maps and red markers. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the faint tang of sweat – a testament to the long hours spent planning.
The Officer Commanding Flying Wing, Group Captain Tariq, cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the murmur of voices. He addressed the four pilots selected for the mission.
"Target: Militant training camp, forty clicks southwest of Kandahar. Primary objective: eliminate terrorist faction leader. Secondary: Take out Mullah Ahab and disrupt terrorist operations. Ground intel confirms high-value targets present. Precision rules of engagement: no collateral. "
He gestured to a series of images projected on the wall – thermal scans of the compound, the unmistakable shape of vehicles, tents, arms caches. A grim slideshow.
"Satellite surveillance confirms the arrival of key targets earlier this evening. Drone coverage in real-time. Minimal civilian presence. Rules of engagement: precision, speed, no collateral."
The room was silent. The gravity of the mission weighed on every shoulder.
Then a voice rang out. Firm. Unwavering.
"I volunteer for the mission."
Every head turned. Squadron Leader Sohail Mirza stood tall, expression unreadable. The gravity of the moment settled like dust. The OC Flying's eyes darkened in brief disapproval – Sohail's move was reckless, a breach of protocol.
The OC's brows furrowed. "That's not protocol, Mirza."
Sohail held his gaze, defiant. "Sir, I have personal stake. I know the terrain. I know the consequences if we fail."
There was a pause. The room shifted. Memories flickering behind their eyes. They remembered the train bombing. They remembered little Beenish.
Sohail – Shadow to his peers – was no ordinary pilot.
He was born into uniform. He was a man driven by a deep sense of duty and justice. Born into a military family, he had always been destined for a life of service. His father, a decorated war hero, had instilled in him the values of honor and sacrifice from a young age. Colonel Shahid Mirza, decorated for his bravery in the 1965 war, had died with a radio in one hand and a rifle in the other.
Sohail's childhood was marked by rigorous training and discipline, preparing him for the challenges that lay ahead. Having lost his mother early, his sister, Maryam, had been his closest confidant, her laughter a beacon of light in the often-harsh world they inhabited. The bond between them was unbreakable, forged through shared experiences and mutual respect. When Maryam married and had her daughter, Beenish, Sohail's heart swelled with pride and love. He cherished his niece, her innocence and joy, a reminder of the beauty in life. The train bombing that claimed their lives had shattered Sohail's world. The loss was a wound that refused to heal, driving him to seek justice with relentless determination. Every mission was personal, every target a step closer to avenging their deaths. His nickname, "Shadow," reflected his ability to move unseen, striking with precision and leaving no trace.
Beenish had been only eight when the Jaffar Express exploded. A playful soul who loved stars and strawberries. They found her schoolbag, burnt at the edges, with a drawing still folded inside – a family of three, hand in hand, along with what remained of her constant companion, the one-eyed rabbit.
The pain had calcified in Sohail's chest. What survived was focus. Precision. Fury forged into control.
After a long pause, the OC Flying exhaled slowly and nodded once. "Approved."
The Airstrike Over Kandahar
September 11, 2019
At dawn, the air was brisk and biting, the desert plain stretching beneath a bruised sky. The horizon was a canvas of muted colors, the first light of day casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. The pilots moved with military precision, stepping out of the underground Air Defence Alert (ADA) bunkers in their fitted G-suits, the soft tapping of their boots on concrete echoing through the hangar. The smart and attentive ground crew awaited silently; their hands steady as they helped strap each pilot into the cockpit of the sleek JF-17 Thunder jets. Respectful salutes marked the final moments before takeoff.
With a thunderous roar, the fighters launched into the sky, slicing through clouds like silver arrows, their afterburners glowing like fierce hearts beneath cold metal shells. The roar of the engines was a symphony of power and precision, a testament to the skill and determination of the pilots.
"Strike team, confirm formation," Sohail's voice cut crisply over the comms.
"Thunder Two, locked in."
"Thunder Three, on point."
"Thunder Four, formation secured."
The rugged terrain below gave way to the target: a compound of mud-brick buildings surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. The compound was a stark contrast to the barren landscape, a hive of activity and danger. "Target acquired," Sohail confirmed. The drone flying above was relaying live video to the base.
The first missile tore through the air, a comet of destruction that slammed into the compound's main building, igniting a towering fireball. The explosion was a brilliant flash of light, followed by a deafening roar that echoed across the valley. Gunfire erupted – Taliban and BLA fighters scattered, firing wildly into the sky.
"Engaging secondary targets," Thunder Two reported, precision-guided bombs carving a path through fleeing militants.
Through the haze, the BLA leader was spotted sprinting toward a convoy vehicle. "Take him out," Sohail ordered with quiet finality. A laser-guided missile streaked down, slamming into the vehicle and erupting in flames. The explosion sent a plume of smoke and debris into the air, a grim testament to the mission's success. "Target eliminated," came the cold confirmation.
But then – a flicker in the wreckage. A figure rose, limping, cloaked in dust.
Mullah Ahab.
He turned and disappeared into a tunnel cut into the mountainside.
"Engage?" Thunder Three asked.
Sohail hesitated.
But the tunnel swallowed the man whole.
The OC Flying's voice cracked through the comms: "Mission parameters met. Return to base."
PAF Base – Squadron Debriefing Room
The debrief was mechanical. Primary objective achieved. High-value militant eliminated. Coordinates. Damage assessments. Strategic value. All filed. All noted.
But Sohail sat apart – alone in a dimly lit corner of the room, elbows on the table, hands folded.
"Mullah Ahab escaped." The words burned in silence. His jaw worked slowly, his mind elsewhere. The room's fluorescent humming seemed to mock the so-called success.
In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Sohail saw Maryam's smile – calm, gentle, gone.
He remembered Beenish's tiny fingers clasping his hand tightly for comfort at the train station, then waving from the train window, as the train pulled out. His last memory of the bright light in his life. Now, extinguished forever.
Behind closed eyelids he saw the train, then the flash.
The loud explosion and the all-consuming fire.
The silence that followed.
He unclenched his fists.
This wasn't over. The report showed a checked box. He saw a debt unpaid
"There won't be an escape next time."
The hunt had begun.