By Ali K. Chishti
Reports from the border areas.
March 7, 2025 – Somewhere near the Pak-Afghan Border
The wind’s kicking up dust again, stinging my eyes as I squat behind a crumbling mud wall. Out here, near the Pak-Afghan border, you don’t hear birds—just the low growl of engines and, sometimes, that damn hum. It’s been a year since I last scribbled about drones tearing up this place, and now they’re everywhere, like flies on a corpse. Pakistan’s gone all in—new toys from Turkey, homegrown rigs, and whispers of more to come. This ain’t just a border skirmish anymore; it’s a war with wings, and I’m stuck in the middle, notebook smudged with dirt, trying to make sense of it.
Day 1: The Turkish Raiders
I’m in Waziristan today, or what’s left of it. The boys in uniform are buzzing about their new gear—Bayraktar TB2s, those Turkish killers that turned heads in Ukraine and Nagorno-whatever. Got ’em back in ’23, maybe earlier if you believe the rumors. Six, seven, maybe a dozen now, who knows? They don’t tell me numbers, just point to the sky. Saw one take off from Airbase last week—sleek, mean, buzzing like a hornet for 27 hours straight. They are Pakistan's eyes over this damn rugged hell-hole. They say it nailed a TTP camp over in Barmal last December, 70 guys turned to ash. Clean, they called it. But I heard from a guy in Paktika—shaky hands, wild eyes—that it wasn’t just militants. The hum doesn’t care who’s below. They do the job.
Then there’s the Akinci. Bigger, nastier, like the TB2’s older brother who doesn’t mess around. Rolled in around April ’23, six or seven of ’em, and they’re flying the B variant now—750 horsepower each engine, hauling 1,500 kilos of death. Saw one near Khost last month, a shadow against the moon, dropping something that lit up the valley like a damn firework show. TTP’s been quieter since, but not quiet enough. Kabul’s still letting ’em hide out, and the border’s a sieve. These drones hit hard—real hard—but it’s like swatting flies in a swarm. More keep coming after killing hundreds.
Day 3: Balochistan’s Bleeding Edge
Hitched a ride south to Panjgur yesterday. Balochistan’s a different beast—hotter, emptier, angrier. The BLA’s been raising hell, hitting Gwadar and Turbat last year, spitting in CPEC’s face. Pakistan’s answer? The Shahpar-III still in induction phase grapevines? our own bird, fresh off the line in ’24. Unveiled it at some fancy Karachi expo, IDEAS or whatever—1,650 kilos of takeoff weight, 24 hours in the air, packing “Burq” missiles. Watched drones fly over the desert two days back, a dark speck that turned a rusted truck into a fireball. They say it’s better than the TB2, cheaper too. Maybe. Hit a BLA guy in November, big shot, they claim. Locals didn’t cheer—heard mutters about a party gone wrong instead. One more "missing person".
The Akinci’s here too, prowling with those Turkish eyes. China’s pushing for its own guards on CPEC now, and the BLA hate it—call the drones “Beijing’s chains.” Shahpar-III’s the pride, though—our tech, our rules. Still untested in a real scrap, but the brass swears it’s the future. I dunno. It flies, it kills, but the BLA’s still out there, digging in.
Day 5: What’s Next?
Back near Peshawar now, choking on truck fumes and rumors. Word’s floating around—more drones on the way. Turkey’s Bayraktar TB3’s the hot gossip, a naval version for the navy boys. Short runway, ship-ready, maybe for that new landing dock they’re eyeing. Could be 60 of ’em if the deal’s fat enough—Indonesia’s getting some, why not us? Then there’s China. Wing Loong II’s old news, 48 of ’em since ’18, but chatter says Wing Loong III’s in the cards—bigger, longer range, meaner. No contracts yet, but Beijing’s always got a hook in us.
And the Shahpar? They’re dreaming bigger—Shahpar-IV, maybe, or some stealth thing tied to Project Azm. Saw a sketch once, twin engines, sneaky curves. Probably years off, but the tech’s creeping up. Out here, though, it’s the now that matters. TTP’s plotting, BLA’s bombing, and Kabul’s laughing. These drones—TB2, Akinci, Shahpar-III—they’re keeping the lid on, barely. Future’s a gamble, and I’m not betting yet.
Nightfall: The Hum Again
It’s dark now, stars poking through the haze. That hum’s back—can’t tell if it’s ours or theirs. Every night’s the same: waiting, listening, wondering who’s next. Pakistan’s stacking its deck—Turkish raiders, homegrown hawks, maybe more on the horizon. It’s a war of machines now, and I’m just a guy with a pen, dodging the fallout. The dust settles, the drones don’t. Tomorrow’s another day in the grind.
AI assistance was taken for this piece.
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