Major General Saladin "Saala Typhoon" Aamzaada

Somewhere along the Indo-Peccavistan border, 197X:

Major General Saladin 'Saala Typhoon' Aamzaada of the Peccavistan Army is not a happy man. He scans the horizons with his infrared binoculars. All he can make out is sand dunes. But his mind percieves the more sinister presence that his eyes cannot. Out There lurking in the darkness is the Enemy, treacherous and menacing, threatening his beloved watan.

The top secret reports from Islamapur say that the Enemy is re-operationalising their air force base nearby, abandoned since the glorious war of 1965. Rumours abound of a squadron of the next-generation soviet fighter-bombers, their radar and computer systems upgraded by the Israelis. There is even a suggestion that there are Israeli pilots on the base. This causes a tremor in the Typhoon's knees. Everyone knows the vegetarians of the Enemy are no match for the beef eaters of Peccavistan, but those Yahudis are another kettle of kosher fish altogether.

There is some movement in the desert. Aamzaada adjust his binoculars. A camel slowly appears on the horizon, travelling towards them.

Saala Aamzaada shakes his head in relief. Every second full moon, at this ungodly hour of the night, the trained beast somehow finds its own way across the border, praise be to the Creator. This is the messenger his men have awaited this night.

His men go out and gently bring the camel in to the make-shift camp. He watches as they unload the beast, and extract the secret communications from where they are hidden. Aamzaada shakes his head. These perverted Pathans, he thinks, remembering the days he had been posted in the mountains to crush one of their usual rebellions.

He had enjoyed their women though, he remembers fondly, they were real wildcats.

"Janaab-e-aala," the private interrupts his reverie. "The Jasoos has sent something for you."

Saala Aamzaada takes the parcel and opens it. Inside, sitting smuggly, is a bottle of his favorite scotch: Black Dog. The General smiles.