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from home. His father had passed away a year back and his mother was now staying with his doctor brother in the US. Shezad had spoken to both of them that evening like he did every day since his mother had moved to the US. The phone call kept him sane and rooted to a reality which he loved. His mother always guided the topic of discussion to his marriage. Shezad avoided prolonging that part of the conversation. His brother had got married a couple of years back and now had a son. Shezad didn’t see himself as a husband or a father. There had been women, of course, but never someone he had wanted to spend his life with. Shezad had always been a loner; he loved all things military. His heroes were great military men like Rommel and Napoleon, and the former he absolutely admired. The Desert Fox’s picture had always adorned his study table since his thesis on the old warrior for his staff college course at Leavenworth. The paper had argued the relevance of Rommel’s military strategies for a military force in a desert scenario in the 21st century. He had been awarded the highest grade in class for that. But for all his academic activities and excellence, Shezad preferred to be at the sharp end of things. His attitude towards set-piece battles had changed during his time in the Kargil operation. He had been evacuated and decorated, but two days after his evacuation, his platoon had been massacred. They had died in an air attack by the Indian Mirage fighters. The impotency of a guerrilla force stuck in a set-piece battle where the enemy was able to use its superior weaponry while his men could not expect any help had set him on a path to develop and execute attacks which would require small teams to inflict heavy damage on enemy assets. The experience in Kargil had also made him realise that not all orders needed to be followed and he, as a leader, had a right to improvise. When ordered to take over thecontrol tower of the airport without disrupting the operations of the air traffic controllers or endangering the circling aircraft, Shezad had decided that he would do the job, and not let someone else decide how. So he had coolly gone and switched off the power to air conditioners and auxiliary equipment so that the ATC staff, who had barricaded themselves inside were forced to open the tower doors. The operation had got over in fraction of time and the air force personnel had taken over the controls and bought in the General’s aircraft. His CO had wisely decided not to pursue the issue. In late 2006, on a posting with the SS division of ISI, he had chalked out the Mumbai attacks as a part of the infamous ‘Karachi Project’. When the plan was dusted and reopened in late 2007, he had been invited back by the SS division as a consultant for the operation. Now he looked forward to taking part in one directly. He had been waiting for a chance with a group of specially trained team. The phone call from the ISI Colonel a day earlier meant that another operation was ready. He was looking forward to the briefing the next day.
    Squadron Leader Hamza had just been flown in from Muridke the same evening. Sitting quietly in the mess guest room, Hamza nursed a glass of whisky and water. The Black Label was kept in the bottom of his kit bag. Haram or not, it felt good. He felt good. He was tired of training assignments. And when he saw that he was the only passenger on the Pakistan Air Force (PAF) chopper from Muridke, he knew that he was in for some real action. An adrenalin junky, Hamza was a natural Special Forces type. He took pride in his supremely athletic body and had finished on top of his SSG class. And now as a Pakistan Air Force Special Forces man, he loved his life. For the last fifteen days he had been posted to a camp run by the LET and was a training officer there. He had already had a strike team of twenty people ready. He too looked forward to the briefing tomorrow.
    Brigadier Hasan greeted both officers as they walked