PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella)

PRIMAL MIRZA

JACK SILKSTONE

BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE

PRIMAL Origin

PRIMAL Unleashed

PRIMAL Vengeance

PRIMAL Fury

PRIMAL Mirza

The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text
copyright © 2014 Jack Silkstone

All
rights reserved.

No
part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published
by Jack Silkstone

www.primalunleashed.com

CHAPTER 1

LADAKH
RANGE, NORTHERN INDIA,

JUNE
1998

The icy
Himalayan wind ripped over the ridgeline
,
buffeting the long line of soldiers shuffl
ing
forward one tenuous step at a time.
Corporal Mirza
Mansoor, s
econd in the
march,
focused on
the leader. In the failing light
,
he could
barely
see
the faint glow of the Cyalume stick
attached to the heavy pack of the soldier in front of him.

The tube of
iridescent liquid was one of
the
few safety
measures employed on the selection course for
Special Group
,
India’s most elite military unit. Nearly a hundred candidates
began
the
grueling
training.
O
ver half had failed to make it through
the three brutal weeks of testing
and reach
the final gateway, a thirty-mile forced march through the Himalayan Mountains.

Mirza
winced as a small rock pushed through the worn tread of his boot and hit the
raw blisters on his foot. He glanced down and, finding a smoother piece of
trail, refocused on the man in front of him. Despite the constant pain, he felt
confident. He had performed well in all phases of the selection process, and
his current position would guarantee one of the few coveted positions in the
elite unit.

Rounding
a large boulder, he spotted the
march
leader checking
his map in the shelter of a rocky outcrop. Their gazes met, and he gave
Sergeant Chopra a nod. The other man’s face remained impassive as he turned his
attention back to checking the route. Mirza pulled out his own map and did the
same.

Both men were Squad
Leaders in India’s Special Frontier Force, a battle hardened unit, responsible
for defending India’s northern territories. Originally established to counter
the million strong Chinese army poised on the other side of the Himalayan
border, the unit was primarily manned by Tibetans and Gorkhas. Hardy mountain
warriors with dark hair, jet black eyes, and seemingly endless stamina.

Mirza was a second
generation Gorkha. His father had died serving in the Frontier Force leaving
him to be raised by his mother, an Indian from the south. As a result of his
mixed heritage he had a leaner build than his fellow candidates; something that
so far had not impacted on his performance.

Studying the contour
lines on the map, Mirza found his location and traced the route over the final
leg of the march. Ten miles remained. But they were the most demanding. The
trail followed the narrow razorback for another mile before winding its way
down the steep valley walls to the camp. Putting the map away, he looked up and
saw the sergeant disappearing into the gloom.

With darkness
closing in, he needed to keep moving. Reaching into a pouch, he retrieved the
last piece of boiled candy. It had been saved for over a week for this very
moment; extra energy for the final leg home. Leaning forward, he shifted the
weight of his sixty-pound pack, unwrapped the sweet, and popped it into his
mouth. Then straightening, he hobbled forward, forcing the stiffness from his
tired muscles.

***

Over the past hour,
the temperature had plummeted to below freezing. The wind now carried flakes of
snow. Mirza wrapped a scarf around his face to protect it from frostbite and
began the steep descent into the valley; treacherous with a heavy pack. Each
step ached as he plodded down the rocky trail.

He had lost sight of
Sergeant Chopra. The sergeant had set a cracking pace he couldn’t match. Now,
he and the remaining candidates behind him were forced to navigate their way
off the mountain in complete darkness.

He stopped at the
top of a particularly steep section of the trail. It was covered in loose scree
with a sharp incline into a rocky gully. He paused, searching for the safest
route. As he began the descent, he caught a glimpse of a faint glow among the
rocks off to the side.

He shook his head in
an attempt to banish the fatigue from his eyes and checked again. There was
definitely a glow emitting from behind a dark cluster of rocks well below the
track. It looked suspiciously like one of the Cyalume sticks.

He glanced down the
valley. The lights of the camp could be seen in the distance. The end of the
march and a guaranteed position in
Special Group
was tantalizingly
close. With a sigh, he shrugged off his heavy pack and climbed down. When he
reached the glow he grimaced at the sight of Sergeant Chopra’s crumpled body
wedged face-up between two jagged rocks.

Mirza loosened the
wounded man’s pack straps. As he pulled him free, the shivering sergeant
moaned. Blood had congealed from a sharp gash on his forehead. His boot stuck
out at a ninety-degree angle. “You’re going to be all right,” Mirza reassured
him.

He looked back up at
the trail and spotted the glow of at least three additional Cyalume sticks. He
called out. Within a minute, another two soldiers appeared out of the darkness.
Together, they carried the wounded man up to the track and laid him next to
Mirza’s pack.

“We need to keep
moving, Corporal,” said a man from Mirza’s SFF company. “If we go now, we can
still finish in time to be selected. Others will come that cannot earn a spot,
they can look after him.”

The third soldier
who’d helped them had already picked up his equipment. “He’s right,” he said
and continued the march.

Mirza looked back up
the mountain. He couldn’t see any more green lights approaching. A shiver
ripped through him. The temperature was still dropping. He glanced back at
Chopra. If he left the sergeant on his own, he would die from exposure. “No, I
will carry him.”

The other man shook
his head. “Even if you make it in time, you won’t pass. You have to finish with
all your equipment.”

Mirza drank some
water from his pack and dumped it off the track. “Keep going, it’s my decision.
I found him, I’ll take responsibility.”

He lifted the
wounded man onto his shoulders. The other candidate shook his head and stepped
off into the darkness.

***

Mirza staggered
through the gates of the barracks, the sergeant over his shoulders in a
fireman’s carry. With each step, his feet screamed in agony. Blood squirted out
through the side valves of his boots. His right leg cramped. He stumbled and
fell to a knee. Strong hands pulled the sergeant from his shoulders and
lowering the unconscious man to the ground. There were shouts for a medic and
stretcher-bearers. He watched as they carried the casualty away. Then he
struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the parade ground.

“Corporal, you all
right?” a medic asked.

“Yes.” He walked
stiffly toward the powerful lights that shone on a soccer pitch-sized square of
asphalt. The fifteen men who arrived ahead of him sat there in ranks, their
equipment unpacked and laid out. Cadre staff wearing white armbands and
carrying clipboards moved along the ranks checking the kit.

He ignored the
officers watching him from the side of the parade ground and took his place at
the end of the third rank. Unlike the others, he had only his belt webbing and
rifle. He had abandoned his pack on the mountain when he’d made his choice to
save the sergeant.

“Name?” one of the
staff asked.

“Mirza Mansoor,
4571298.”

“Where’s your bergen, soldier?”

“On the mountain, sir.”

“I thought as much.”

The instructor continued to the next soldier as
stewards arrived with steaming mugs of soup and blankets.

They waited for another hour until the last of
the candidates limped in through the gates. Mirza sat in silence, wrapped in a
blanket.

At a minute past midnight, the Special Group
training commander took the podium. In a clear voice he read out ten names.
Mirza’s heart swelled with pride, three members from his unit had made the cut.
The fact that he had not was something he’d already come to terms with.

The commander offered his congratulations to
the ten men and dismissed the formation.

Mirza climbed to his feet and hobbled to where
his SFF comrades had gathered. The three men who had passed stood and accepted
congratulations, their faces stern.

“I am very proud of you all,” Mirza said. He
shook each of their hands starting with those who had passed. “Your time will
come,” he told the two who had just missed out.

“CORPORAL MANSOOR!” The sergeant major’s voice
boomed across the parade ground.

Mirza instinctively snapped his heels together.
“YES, SERGEANT MAJOR!” He executed a drill turn and marched as best he could
toward the headquarters building where the man waited. The senior soldier
directed him inside, down a corridor, and into the commander’s office.

Upon entering the office, Mirza stood at
attention. While his eyes were locked on the wall before him, he’d noted the
three men in the office. Two he knew, the commander and his executive officer.
The third, he had never seen.

“I was very surprised not to see you in the
first ten, Corporal Mansoor,” the commander said. “Very surprised indeed.”

Mirza did not respond. He stared straight
ahead.

“However, I have been informed that you
abandoned the selection to rescue a fellow candidate. I have also been informed
that Sergeant Chopra, whilst badly injured, is likely to survive.”

He gave a slight nod. “That’s good news, sir.”

“Yes it is. He’s a fine soldier. But that’s not
the reason you are here, Corporal.” The officer motioned to the third man.
“This is Captain Arjun. He’s been monitoring the the selection process and has
requested a moment of your time.”

Mirza turned to face the captain. He was tall
and broad-shouldered, with dark brown eyes and a large nose. He leaned against
the wall of the office with a casual indifference and an easy smile.

The captain gave him a nod. “Hello, Corporal.”

“Sir.” He continued to stand tall.

There was an awkward silence as everyone waited
for the captain to continue.

“If you don’t mind, chaps, I’d like to talk to
the corporal alone.”

The commander glanced at his executive officer
then back to Captain Arjun. “That’s a little unorthodox don’t you think?”

“Not at all. What we’re about to discuss is
compartmented. Now, if you don’t mind, Major, I’d like to borrow your office.”

Once the two officers exited, Arjun directed
Mirza to one of the chairs and made himself comfortable behind the commander’s
desk. “You must be exhausted,” he spoke in Farsi.

Mirza dropped stiff-legged into the chair.
“Yes, sir, you could say that,” he said in the same dialect. He had no idea who
this captain was. However, the fact he could order a major out of his own
office and spoke fluent Farsi intrigued him.

“Yes, I’ve followed the selection process with
great interest,” he switched to English. “Pretty arduous activity if I say so
myself. Not the sort of shenanigans that I’d be up for.”

Mirza nodded.

“I won’t babble on for too long. I know you’re
tired and think it would be prudent for you to have someone take a look at
those feet of yours.” He glanced at the bloody boot prints on the floor. “What
do you know about Special Group?”

 
“They’re the action arm of RAW, sir. They
specialize in covert operations.”
Research and Analysis Wing
was
India’s primary external intelligence agency.

“Correct. As such,
they’re very selective in who they chose to fill their ranks.”

Mirza nodded grimly. “I’m very aware of that,
sir.”

“Yes, you would be. My apologies. The point I
wanted to make is there are other branches of Special Group that are even more
selective.” He smiled. “I work for one of them.”

“And what organization is that, sir?”

“I work in the Intelligence and Planning Wing
of Special Group, within the Special Projects Planning Branch or SPEC-B to be
more accurate.”

“Look sir, I’m a soldier. I’m not looking for a
desk job. If I can’t be in the field with Special Group, then I’d prefer to be
back at the Frontier Force.”

Arjun laughed. “You’ve got the wrong idea,
Mirza. SPEC-B is a small tightly knit unit. We recruit talented individuals
from across the Indian military for the purpose of conducting highly sensitive
operations against threats to national security.”

“What exactly do you mean by sensitive?”

“High-risk with strategic outcomes,” he said.
“We work alone or in small teams, often without support, more often behind
enemy lines. If we ever get caught, the government denies we ever existed.”