Operation Kartikeya: Round Five in South Asia

Airavat Singh

The BR Team is proud to present an excerpt from Airavat Singh's latest book "Operation Kartikeya: Round Five in South Asia". This is the second chapter in the book. The book may be purchased online.

Chapter II

GWALIOR (Central Air Command)

The Physics of airflow is one of the secrets to the fascinating art of flying. Karan had not known this as a child, even while running down the many hills and dales of Nainital at breakneck speeds; back then air had appeared to be nothing but emptiness. Later he had received a model airplane from his father and had watched with awe as it’s rotor took it high up in the air, allowing it to fly with unrestricted force and to dangerous speeds—model remote-controlled airplanes were too expensive for his father. Many times he had watched it dive too sharply, spin out of control and crash into the ground. His father had been kept busy making it airworthy time and again. As an IAS officer in the UP cadre, Shivraj Singh had been posted all over that state as well as to other parts of the country. Karan thus had no attachment to his father’s native land of Rajasthan or indeed to his mother’s home state of Himachal. Losing her at an early age had pushed father and son close—each clinging to the other for support.

Strapped into his Mirage, Karan was flying at subsonic speed towards a dark mass of approaching clouds, his wingman close to his right. He had not put his mask on as yet—it wasn’t required at this altitude and for this gentle speed. The steady hum of the air conditioner put his mind at ease as he remembered his adventures with the model airplane of his childhood. He had learned then that air had its own mass that seemed to increase at higher speeds—he had seen his small plane stop and fight to maintain acceleration at high speeds. His father had remarked then that it was like fighting through viscous fluid, a feeling that Karan only understood when he first reached Mach speeds in the Academy. Balancing his love for flying with the bitter reality of his father’s retirement had meant that joining clubs or flying schools was out and the only option left was the NDA route into the air force.

He pushed the throttle forward and slipped on his oxygen mask when all of a sudden the radio crackled with life. “Bravo One, this is Tower. MiGs from A’mdbad have cancelled due to rough weather. Request you return to Base, over.” That was the control tower at the Gwalior Air Base from where Karan and his wingman, Flt Lt YB Singh had taken off at 1600 hours. They had planned a ‘two versus two’ air combat with MiGs from Ahmedabad Air Base.

“Tower, this is Bravo One. Met gave us an all clear. Request details of weather over.”

“Weather is clear over Base. A’mdbad experiencing high velocity winds with rain. Combat zone is clear, over.” That meant that the airspace where the four jets were to engage was still clear, although Karan could see menacing clouds just ahead.

“Roger. Will fly over the weather and return to Base, over.”

There was slight hesitation before the uncertain voice from Gwalior replied, “Roger, Bravo One.”

Both jets were touching Mach 1.5 as they plunged into the dark clouds. They were now flying blind.

“Bravo One I see you clear on my radar,” reported YB Singh.

“We’ll take it over cloud cover, Bravo Two. Maintain speed below Mach 2.”

“Roger.”

The Heads Up Display showed all the gauges and the radar picture, which were highlighted against the dark backdrop of the clouds, as Karan pulled back on the stick and increased throttle. He watched the Gs climb rapidly to 4 and then 6 as the jet fought gravity and the drag induced by the winds.

All aircraft are designed to fly with the help of lift, a phenomenon where the curved top part of the wings causes air to move faster over it than under the flat bottom, which in turn causes the plane to rise into the sky. Increasing the angle of this rise increases lift but at higher acceleration the mass of the air resists the metal jet tearing through it. This resistance is drag. It usually reduces flight performance, but the experienced Karan let his Mirage’s nose drop and with the sudden reduction of the angle of ascent, the jet leapt free from the sluggishness induced by drag. He pulled up once again and within seconds, the altitude reading 17, the jets broke through the clouds into clear sunlit sky.

“Beauuutifulll!” exclaimed YB Singh. They had been flying due west and the sun was behind them. It would be dark in less than an hour but without the romantic interlude of a colourful dusk—the thin air did not scatter white light at all unlike the dusty and dense air on the ground.

The jets automatically accelerated in that thin air and Karan eased back on the throttle lever. He looked back at his wingman and located him far behind to his right. It must have been a scary experience flying blind through the swirling dark clouds, thought Karan, although they had both done it previously. Yet two jets flying Mach speeds so close to each other was pulse-quickening even in broad daylight.

“Good job Yudi,” he rasped reassuringly to his junior.

“Thank you sir.”

“How’s your fuel?”

“10.5 sir. Enough for two more hours I think.”

“Roger. We’ll go down to 10k, level out and turn, then down to 600metres. Over.”

“Roger.”

Sq. Ldr Karan flipped his jet over, pulling the joystick left and back, and emerged from bright light into the eerie darkness of the black clouds. At once the lights of the gauges and the HUD lit up the cockpit—like lamps and candles light up dark houses during Diwali. He switched on the external lights of the Mirage and watched the Gs rise from 2 to 6 while the altitude dropped faster than he could read it. Karan willed his hands into moving the stick and levelling the jet, and as the blood rushed back into his brain, he checked the Gs falling back to 2 and then 1.5—he believed that he had touched close to 10Gs in that descent. His G-suit too was deflating and relaxing its grip on his legs and waist.

“Bravo Two, come in.”

No answer from the Flight Lieutenant.

“Bravo Two I’m at 9.5. State your altitude and position.”

“Roger! Roger!” burst out a breathless YB Singh. “Altitude is 9 and sir I can see your lights.”

Karan turned and looked down both ends of his Mirage. The other jet was to his left rear—seven o’ clock in pilot lingo.

“Form up on my wing, Bravo Two. We’re heading for Base.”

“Roger, Bravo One.”

They made a steady turn at 4Gs and eased throttles as they took in the dark and hazy visuals. The rain was pouring down with fury on the thirsty plains below and Karan removed his oxygen mask as they dropped well below Mach1. He could just make out his wingman’s lights but little else. “Let’s take them down to 3 but gently,” recommended Karan.

“Roger, Bravo One.”

They pointed their noses down and dove gently through the air at a minimal angle. That fact along with their subsonic speeds ensured that they did not hit anything less than -1G. Karan experienced that familiar sinking feeling where his lower body almost seemed to be floating and he kept a sharp eye on the gauges. The altitude read 5 and he could make out pockets of ground lights for brief moments. At 3000 metres he levelled his jet and looked back to see his wingman. Even through the rain he could see right into the glowing cockpit … what the! His cheeky wingman was giving him a thumbs-up.

“Ya, I see you Yudi. Well done. Down to a 1000 now?” he teased.

“Uh, whatever you say sir,” came the uncertain response.

At a 1000 metres they could clearly make out various ground features and the numerous towns along their flight path, allowing them to increase throttle and race through the darkness for Gwalior.

Karan and Yudi landed in tandem at the well-lit Maharjpur Air Force Station, where they learnt that the rain had preceded them and they thus needed to taxi straight on into the hangars. At minimal throttle, with rain dripping down their enormous wings, the two Mirages looked like ungainly monsters on spindly legs as they rolled over the runway and onto the ramps. Karan had already switched off his a/c and he peered through the heavy rain at the ground crew directing his movement with flashlights—although the hangar just behind them was awash with bright light. Karan’s jet took its place between two other Mirages and after performing shutdown, its driver unstrapped himself and climbed down the ladder. The roar of YB Singh’s jet echoed in that spacious hangar, which had been built with reinforced concrete, capable of surviving air dropped shells and missiles. When that Mirage was shutdown the sharp roar gradually died down to an insignificant whine as Flight Lieutenant Yudh Bir Singh hopped from the ladder down to the ground. That Manipuri lad was especially agile, thought Karan, for after sitting motionless for two hours while undergoing high physical stress and mental strain he could still retain the permanent humorous expression on his face. Indeed he did not lose his enthusiasm as he jogged up to Karan’s side.

“You lost it briefly during the drop down, right?” accused Karan only half-jokingly.

“No way sir, I was there all the way,” replied Yudi in his special rendering of Hindi. “I was just trying to locate you before I turned level.”

Karan smiled and put his right arm over Yudi’s shoulder, both pilots carrying their helmets in their left hands, as they walked towards the mission debriefing room.

“There was just one problem sir,” continued the Manipuri, switching to English as he got more technical. “The Radar screen flickered and went blank for a few seconds.”

“Really? Exactly for how long?” asked the concerned Sqn Ldr.

“Maybe one-and-a-half seconds.”

“Where did this happen?”

“When we cleared the clouds, just then for a second or so,” repeated YB Singh.

“The main screen or the display?”

“No, just the main screen. Display was working fine,” maintained Yudi as Karan knocked on the door of the debriefing room. Without pausing he pushed the door open.

“Come in Raja Karan Dev Singh!” boomed a familiar voice.

“Oh God! Not you Khalsa!”

Five hours later those two officers sat next to each other at the bar of the Officers Mess, nursing their respective drinks. Squadron Leader BS Sandhu swirled the ice in his vodka and took a swig, “Aaahh! Good stuff yaar. The only other time I really enjoyed my drink was last week at TACDE.”

“Same here. We guys were on yellow alert, flying formation and taking all the birds up.” Karan was drinking his usual scotch on the rocks.

“Jamnagar was on bloody red alert!” scoffed Sandhu. “They were saying that we’ll use the Mirages here since Sandhu has done an EW course and electronic jamming will be required for covering the MiGs.”

“It was real serious buddy,” whispered Karan and leaned forward confidingly. “The CO told me to be ready to fly to Delhi with him and two others—for the nukes.”

The two Sqn Ldrs were referring to the crisis a week earlier on the 21st of June that had placed most northern airfields on a state of alert. Subsequent statements from the US and Indian foreign offices, followed by warnings and assurances from India’s Defence Ministry, revealed the enormity of the crisis—of course they held to the lie that the warheads were meant for the longer range missiles with Pakistan. That country and China of course vehemently denied all charges, with the latter blandly repeating its commitment to the NPT and MTCR (in case anyone remembered the earlier drama of the M-18 missile transfers) while the former inanely parroted the achievements of its indigenous missile and nuclear programmes. While the worldwide indignation and alarm was unlikely to die down anytime soon, the crisis had pushed India and the US even closer, with speculation that the two countries were examining the feasibility of the Missile Defence System still undergoing trials in the US.

“The CO was still called up to Delhi,” remarked Sandhu, referring to the Commanding Officer of No.1 Squadron, Wing Commander M Chatterjee.

“Probably a staff posting coming up?” ventured Karan.

“Where will that leave us?” remarked Sandhu even as he beckoned the barman for another round.

The Tigers Squadron had recently lost a number of qualified flyers due to a series of postings and retirements. One Sq Ldr and a Flt Lt had been attached with the Andaman and Nicobar Command in the Bay of Bengal, while another Sq Ldr had retired prematurely with the aim of going into commercial flying—while he was still young. To make matters worse both Karan and Sandhu had been sent on their short assignments simultaneously.

“At least I was back within a week,” remarked Karan as he took in his refill. “You had a three week thing and you turned it into four!”

“TACDE is a tough assignment Karan, as you know very well!”

Both Karan and Sandhu had attended the Tactics and Air Combat Development Establishment at Jamnagar in Gujarat, the premier school for India’s top fighter pilots. This time around Sandhu and another Flt Lt from No. 7 Squadron, had played the opposition role for the current batch of pilots. The TACDE pilots fly strike aircraft like the MiG-27s and MiG-21s, which are pitted against air-superiority multi-role fighters like the Mirage and the MiG-29.

“Now these two new guys have joined up,” continued Sandhu. “You and I have to train them before they step into the trainers. That’s another two weeks gone.”

“Relax,” muttered Karan as he finished his drink and stood up. “Chatterjee will be back. Or they’ll send us a new CO and other operational pilots pretty soon. Till then we’ll just have to get by.”

No. 1 Tigers Squadron is the oldest Air Force Squadron in the Indian continent. Over the last decade it has consistently been judged to be among the best, if not the best, operational squadron on the basis of several diverse criteria. Nostalgic former ‘Tigers’ (No. 1 Sq has given the IAF no less than eight Chiefs of Air Staff) claim the glorious traditions of the past, continued down the decades by a long line of heroes, as the reason for the present greatness. Successive generations are inspired by these traditions and strive that extra bit to live up to them—or so they claim.

Their detractors claim otherwise—in fact they believe that these very former ‘Tigers’ favour their old squadron when they reach higher staff positions. By way of example, the decision by the IAF top brass to overturn the government order on forming fresh squadrons for the newly purchased Mirage 2000s in the mid-80s. The best squadrons should get this new high-performance fighter, they had insisted. Thus it was that Nos. 1 and 7 received the Mirage 2000s while the newly raised Nos. 51 and 52 were handed the MiG-21s that the ‘best’ squadrons had been operating.

Sober reality silently points to these new aircraft as a major reason for consistent high performance by the Tigers and the Battle Axes. Both squadrons maintain a serviceability rate in the high 90s—that is at any given time they can put 90% of their jets in the air. Other squadrons strive to reach a rate in the 80s while many end up in the low 60s—the reason being their mostly older aircraft. Purchased in the mid-80s and constantly and judiciously upgraded over the years, the Mirage 2000 is a fairly young fighter. Moreover the design and configuration make it a high-safety, high-performance jet.

Dassault-Breguet, the French manufacturers, had developed this jet in the late seventies as competition for the American F-16. Ironically enough the Mirage III, an older aircraft manufactured by Dassault, was subsequently purchased in large numbers and in second-hand by the Pakistan Air Force! Of course the Mirage 2000 had nothing in common with its older namesake except the delta wing—and subsequently it went way ahead of the F-16 in performance and functions. The French also had this unique attitude to suffixes. Unlike the rest of the world they did not designate some of the newer variants by the alphabet series, but by functions. Thus the Mirage 2000P was a penetration fighter while the Mirage 2000N was designated so because of its nuclear delivery capability.

To add to the confusion the manufacturers designated all export variants as Mirage 2000E, while later individual buyer countries were assigned their own suffixes. India thus has the Mirage 2000H since 1985, and although the suffix is still used, after the regular upgrades of its various systems the present fighter is the state-of-the-art Mirage 2000-5!

Nevertheless—whatever the traditions, the glorious heritage or the brand new equipment—a squadron is only as good as its technicians, airmen and pilots. Karan Dev Singh for his part, would make sure that the ‘cub’ walking next to him turned out to be a fully operational ‘Tiger’ in the stipulated time period. The Sq Ldr and Flying Officer M Balasubrahmaniam, fresh out of flying school, were headed for the simulator room.

“Used simulators at MOFTU?” ventured Karan briskly, looking down at the shorter rookie. MOFTU was the MiG Operational Flying Training Unit, where rookies were first introduced to modern jet fighters after getting their wings and before being assigned to squadrons.

“Yes sir. For take off and landing,” replied Balasubrahmaniam.

“Well this is way bigger than that,” scoffed Karan as he stepped into the room. “However today you just familiarize yourself with the controls, and you can stay and observe as I take a crack at a full mission. Okay?”

“Wow!” was Balasubrahmaniam’s first remark as he took in the dark, spacious and air-conditioned room. “That is the simulator?” was his next utterance as he gaped at a large cabin boxed in by three large screens.

“Nothing like the desktop deal at MOFTU, eh?” remarked Karan as he walked across and saluted Wing Commander S Kukreti, one of the instructors at the Base. “I’ll show him the controls sir, while I take in a regular escort mission.”

“You want to use up your quota or …”

“Just twenty minutes of European scenery, sir!” quipped Karan with a smile. “France to England trip—if you could fill in the details I’ll show him the cockpit configuration.”

Wg Cmdr Kukreti rattled off instructions to the programmer while Karan nudged the Flg Ofr into the cockpit. The joystick, throttle, gauges etc were all exactly the same as those on an actual Mirage. Balasubrahmaniam rolled the stick to either side and grunted when he felt its resistance—same deal with the throttle lever.

“You’ll hear the actual roar of the engine, and sounds of the landing gear, missile launches, bomb releases, reheat … every little thing,” boasted Karan. “Of course, not when you are in the cockpit mode. Then the sounds will be suitably muffled. But the responses on the stick and throttle are pretty realistic, so be careful in your first time.”

“Ya, we are ready Karan,” announced Kukreti from his desk. “Strap yourself in.”

“And the next time you’ll need this,” continued Karan nonchalantly as he put on a helmet and looked at the eager young Tamilian briefly, before the lights were dimmed to nothing and the three screens came alive.

“Okay here’s the briefing,” called out Kukreti. “You take off from an airfield in France with a wingman, rendezvous with four Tornadoes headed for England, and provide them with air cover till they reach the coastline.”

“Uh, which particular airfield sir?”

“The manufacturers take out such details from the original software before export. Sorry!”

The runway stretched out on the main screen, with the control tower being displayed on the right screen and minor vegetation on the left screen—as Karan switched on the systems and increased throttle with brakes on. Fifteen seconds later, after getting the all clear, the brakes were off and the three screens came alive with moving images. Karan kicked into reheat and rose over the horizon. He then flipped into “wingman” view to watch his on-screen aircraft and instantly the deep sounds of the engine filled the simulator room.

“The original software only has a horizon and the aircraft movements programmed within,” he remarked to his rookie comrade after switching back into cockpit mode. “The other features can be filled in by software programmers like regular building blocks.”

“We’ve put in geo-scenery from theatres across the sub-continent,” added Wg Cmdr Kukreti as he sized up the short young Flg Offr. “Some of the original stuff came bundled with the hardware, like this mission.”

Karan was silent now as the scary realism of the simulator and the jet responses enveloped him. He had checked his weapon load and found two air-to-air missiles and the internally built twin cannon. Standard for air escort. Karan was all concentration now as he began to put the jet through its paces—pulling Gs, checking instruments, applying speed brakes, reaching max altitude.

“See the responses!” exclaimed Karan as he fought to manoeuvre the jet at high speeds. The Gs being pulled were fictitious of course—but that was no loss. His own tense frame and focused mind showed why high quality simulators were so eagerly sought by air forces across the world.

His HUD, glowing on the screen in front showed four blips coming closer and closer. The next bit was pre-programmed as British and French voices confirmed the rendezvous, and the very realistic Tornadoes showed up on the left screen; flying in close formation. The roar of those jets could be heard by the three observers and not by Karan who was now sweating under his helmet. The a/c for that room was being rendered ineffective by the glowing screens and by the hard-at-work processors in the system.

Kukreti silently slipped away to his desktop computer and lightly tapped on the keyboard. All at once a loud explosion rocked the room and a cacophony of voices drowned out its echo, even as Karan swore and flipped his jet hard right. Kukreti had induced an engine flameout in Tornado no. 3—that is one of its twin engines had burned out, causing the pilot to momentarily lose control and veer into the path of his wingman. That jet instinctively pulled up and came smack in front of Karan’s Mirage who had a second at most to: save himself, keep control of his fighter, and avoid hitting his wingman. The manoeuvre was successfully executed by Karan. Minutes later the dark waters of the English Channel were stretching out into the horizon, the troubled Tornado pilot had relit his left engine and the formation was on its way home. Wing Commander Kukreti was out of his chair. Flying Officer M Balasubrahmaniam was still staring in amazement.

“Wow! That was so real!” he exclaimed as Karan shut down the simulator and took off his helmet.

“And this was only a demo,” the Sq Ldr responded now as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You know, like game manufacturers give for free to draw customers to the real thing.” That drew a blank from the Tamilian. “You must have played sim games on a computer at home or at cyber cafes, college …” persisted Karan.

“I’ve only used computers at the academy,” mumbled Balasubrahmaniam as the dim lights in the room came on.

Right, thought the embarrassed Karan, I get it—lower-middle class.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” interrupted Kukreti. “You can have your first crack at this baby, okay?”

“Right sir. Thank you,” said Karan as Balasubrahmaniam saluted the departing Wg Cmdr.

The civilian programmer shuffled behind them and turned to switch off his desktop computer.

“Hey, hold on a second,” snapped Karan as he walked up to that computer. “Show me what other terrains you have in there.”

“Sir, you’ve seen all there is,” said the programmer even as that list was displayed on the screen.

“Haven’t the Hyderabad people sent the stuff we had ordered?” asked Karan as he scanned the list. A software firm based in Hyderabad had been awarded the contract for building terrains relevant to South Asia. “Well anyway, I’ll take a crack at it later.”

He turned towards Balasubrahmaniam and beckoned him out of the simulator room. “Right, you’re on your own tomorrow onwards. Okay, Balasu …  Balu! Yes, Balu that’s much better. That will be your personal call sign.”

“Khalsa, you look like a bloody PT instructor!” taunted Karan as he stepped into the squash court.

Sq Ldr BS Sandhu, after tying his white shoes and pulling up his white socks, finally brushed his white shorts and white T-shirt before following his opponent inside. “We’ll see who gets to do PT here,” he quipped as he adjusted the white patka on his head.

Karan, dressed in white shorts and blue T-shirt with smart black keds, began thumping the dark green ball on the wooden floor. Within seconds he was swinging his racquet and swatting that ball against the main wall of the court in the process warming up himself and the ball. Seeing his opponent ready and jogging on spot, Karan changed angle and the ball bounced off the wall to Sandhu.

“Best of three?” asked the Sikh.

“Sure,” agreed Karan. We aren’t exactly old, he assured himself, just taking it easy on a Sunday.

Forty-five minutes later they were both seated in a jeep, tired but happy after a quick shower—especially Sandhu who had taken the match 2-1. The first game had gone to Karan at 9-3 while the second was hard fought and finally went to Sandhu at 10-8. Karan found it hard to keep pace with his stylish but heavier shoes and so Sandhu easily took the last game at 9-2.

“Your breathing is all wrong,” teased Sandhu as he drove to his quarters.

“Right, you’re the expert on breathing,” laughed Karan as he turned to look out at the rain. It had started pouring in the middle of game two. It was that steady relentless monsoon rain, which promised more to come in the next few days.

The two pilots had changed into casuals and they ran towards a building and then jogged up to Sandhu’s flat. That large, squat building contained four spacious flats—Sandhu’s was on top right, facing north.

“I’ll get some chow,” muttered Sandhu as Karan sprawled out on a sofa and picked up the Sunday papers. ‘Normal Monsoon in the south’ said one headline ‘..after the abnormalities of excess in one area and shortfall in another for 2004, this year is turning out to be … ’

Karan turned to Sports, found nothing exciting there and quickly sank into the Business pages. He fancied himself to be a bit of a player, where new technology and exciting stocks were concerned but of course without the means, i.e. money, to actually ‘play’. The happy sounds of eggs being fried interrupted his thoughts, followed seconds later by voices approaching from the kitchen.

“Hello Karan, had a good game?” asked Kiran politely. This was Sandhu’s wife and the superficial similarity in their names had led to some rib tickling when they had first met at Gwalior. Whereas ‘Kiran’ meant ‘ray of light’, ‘Karan’ was a more complex name. ‘Karn’ in Sanskrit means ‘ear’ but the name originates from a mythical Indian hero who had been born with magical ear-pendants granted by the Gods, which protected him from all bodily harm. Hence his name Karn, which preserved its form and evolved into the Hindi ‘Karan’. ‘Karn’ as the general term used for ‘ear’ has evolved into the Hindi ‘kaan’.

“Yes, I took it easy as always but today your husband seemed to be ready for war!” replied Karan as he attacked the fried eggs and toast.

“He’s always been very competitive,” remarked the pretty young Kiran approvingly.

Karan didn’t need to be reminded of that. Sandhu was two years his senior and had a couple of hundred hours more of flying time. Both pilots had been in the same batch at TACDE the previous year—till that time Karan was considered to have better situational awareness than his senior. At any rate his air-to-ground weapon delivery abilities were far better—and at TACDE it showed. Karan turned out to be the best Fighter Strike Leader.

“Why don’t you get something to eat,” Sandhu told his wife as he sat opposite Karan.

The coveted Sword of Honour however goes to the best Fighter Combat Leader, remembered Karan wistfully, and there he got a raw deal. With his MiG-21 flight, Karan was set up against Mirages commanded by Sq Ldr V Solanki of No. 7 Squadron. Karan’s wingman developed engine trouble during the engagement and additionally his number three managed to get dog tailed by a Mirage. As a result of this engagement Karan lost valuable points and eventually came up fourth as FCL, while Sandhu received the Sword of Honour.

“You read this piece about J&K?” asked Sandhu as he placed his empty plate on the glass table. “Explosion in Poonch town outskirts … suspected RPG attack … however damage was too extensive …” he read out slowly.

“Couldn’t be a RPG,” agreed Karan. “How about a UAV improvised to carry a bomb?”

“Hmm, targeting could have been done by terrorists in the surrounding hills.”

“For that matter they could have used a drone launched from a aircraft,” ventured Karan as he tossed aside his own paper. “We’ll ask intel about it.”

“I’ll call the Group Captain at home,” said Sandhu firmly as he stood up while his wife came in and sat next to Karan.

“How’s Jolly?” asked Karan, referring to their five year old son.

“Still sleeping,” replied Kiran with a smile. “Sunday, you know! There’ll be cartoons next and …”

“No TV yaar, how many times do I have to tell you!” yelled out Sandhu. “I’m taking him to the skating rink.”

Kiran ignored him and pointed the remote at their brand new TV set. As a family man Sandhu got these spacious family quarters and some other perks—what he did not get were savings. That was a bachelor’s privilege, thought Karan righteously; he could get anything his heart desired. The most glaring example was his Esteem that showed up grandly against Sandhu’s modest Santro.

In terms of career things hadn’t been so rosy some time back—ever since TACDE. Sandhu was set to become the Squadron Operations Officer to fill a vacancy temporarily occupied by Wg Cmdr Kukreti as a secondary duty. Karan had options like a staff posting or a Squadron Command—for both of which he would have to be posted out. And after TACDE he had not imagined either to be a possibility, especially since he still had some years and many hours to go before he was eligible for promotion.

And then, like bright sunlight piercing the dark clouds, had come the opportunity to participate in the final test run of the LCA. His good performance there now meant that he had a strong possibility of being selected for a test pilot course and of eventually moving on to test the LCA trainers—with all the perks and privileges to look forward to. His future career too would have brighter prospects … the wild gesticulations of Sandhu distracted Karan, who went over to the kitchen.

 “Shit! You know what happened last night?” he whispered with a sense of urgency. “A bloody clerk was caught sending photos of the Base to Pakistan—by e-mail!”

“A civilian clerk?”

“Mohammad Din! Resident of Gwalior caught by the infotech cell of the Gwalior police!” quipped the outraged Sandhu. “Just imagine! This guy takes snaps all around the Base, has them scanned in the city and then coolly e-mails them from a cyber joint!”

“Question is how long has this gone on,” remarked Karan. “And how did he slip in a camera here?”

“Question is why, yaar, why?!” gesticulated Sandhu. “What will they gain from this? They don’t have the ability to strike us.”

“The Paki aim has always been sabotage,” said Karan. “And such detailed knowledge would have been very useful. Thank God he was caught before anything could happen.”

“Anyway, the Group Captain wants us there while the cops bring him in. They want to discover and wipe out any network that was sustaining our friend.”

The administrative setup of Gwalior Air Base was modelled on the setup at the regional Commands and at Air HQ in New Delhi. At the top came the Air Commodore, assisted by a Vice-Air Commodore and various Deputies handling Operations, Planning, Maintenance, Intelligence etc.—and each with their support staff. Then came the numerous personnel of the two Operational Squadrons and the air defence, maintenance, and other ground units.

The shockwaves of the spying incident went through this structure to the Central Air Command and all the way up to Air HQ. The administration at the Base was still reeling for almost a week after that because of the revelations that the clerk, Mohammad Din, was a committed recruit for the former Lashkar-e-toiba, a terrorist organization in Pakistan, and had been so for over three years! He even had an Arab alias, as most of the new breed of Jihadi Muslims do, of Abu Fateh. His network was traced by the Gwalior Police to a madrasa in Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh and a city with a considerable Muslim population. Whereas in the past madrasas were unmonitored, small-scale institutions where Muslim boys received religious education—the new-age madrasas preached bigotry and religious hatred while providing basic training in terror tactics and links to Jihadi groups in Pakistan.

Terror groups from Islamic countries in the past had been similar to extremists from other societies in that they made sporadic outbursts and were isolated from one another, their cause being tied to their respective lands and they being provoked by the policies and actions of bigger powers—till the Soviet intervention in Afghanistan in the 1980s. In their intense desire to “do a Vietnam” on the Soviets, the Americans gave a new life to these groups. In close collaboration with Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, they trained, armed, financed and motivated these groups for over a decade till the Soviet withdrawal. In that period, US Congressmen suddenly found immense wisdom in the Koran, heads of western intelligence misquoted from that Book and repeatedly praised and called for jihad, Senators wore Afghan outfits and danced on top of captured Soviet tanks, inane movies glorified the deeds of the “mujahideen” …

Worse still these clowns convinced the jihadis that they had defeated and more or less destroyed a superpower—whereas the break-up of the Soviet Union had more to do with a relentless arms race with the US and a rapidly failing economy—Afghanistan was only a sideshow. Where the happy Yanks left the Pakistanis took over. Using the now well-established madrasa-guns-drugs-finance quartet, they trained a new breed of mujahideen (and terrorists from other countries) as a convenient tool for destabilizing strong neighbours—and later as an instrument of foreign policy. Over twenty years, from 1981 till 2001, a terror cyclone with its centre in Pakistan spread violence over neighbouring India and Afghanistan. Offshoots of this cyclone spread terror in Central Asia, South Russia, the Middle East and North Africa until one struck the North American continent with unexpected ferocity. The Yanks then returned to put down the centre of these disturbances, which in their eyes was Afghanistan. For Pakistan they had advice—join us and dump the jihadis on your western border.

While those jihadis were eventually crushed, their brethren active on the eastern border received instructions to “do something big”. The December 13th attack on the Indian Parliament was the culmination of a series of increasingly bold attacks on India’s secular democracy. The Pakistanis expected strong reactions from India in J&K and on the borders, which would enable them to motivate the jihadis against the old enemy and divert their hostility from the US towards India.

The Indian leadership however guessed that game plan early on and instead chose to mobilize their forces to serve a variety of aims. Firstly to assert their resolve in taking the war on terror to it’s logical conclusion; secondly to make Pakistan pay a real price for its misadventures by making them expend scarce resources on a parallel mobilization; thirdly to block large-scale infiltration from that side; and lastly to put pressure on the Anglo-American block to take action against Pakistan. The Americans were taken aback by India’s move and eventually did respond. They took action against groups in Pakistan, gave a clean chit to the Pakistani establishment, and urged the military rulers to set their country on the path to reforms and modernization.

After their victory over the jihadis, the Americans chose to stay on because their real interests lay in the two regions of South and Central Asia—not in any one country. They continued their military presence there; to establish economic and strategic ties with most countries in the region, isolate Iran, and arrange a rapprochement between India and Pakistan; the first aim causing varying degrees of alarm to Russia, China and even Pakistan. That last country, with it’s zero economy, no long-term foreign policy, and no real friends in the world, was an ideal tool to serve American interests. The only real ability it had was in subterfuge and obfuscation, and it used American intervention to alarm China and deepen the relations with that country, while at the same time preparing a suitable policy to counter any future border mobilizations by India.

India was thus left on its own to tackle this threat, with the additionally galling advice to tackle the ‘causes’ of terrorism first—advice echoed by the covert supporters of these groups. Thus India’s problems had only seen a quantum increase as a result of the war on terror. Apart from the Muslim pockets, ethnic terror groups and caste-based groups also received sophisticated arms as a spin-off. The Indian Army had thus been forced into a state of war in many parts of the country, the Indian Navy was kept on its toes in a bid to prevent infiltration of men and arms by the seas, while the air force periodically went on a state of high alert and supported either service—as demonstrated in Kargil 1999, US vs. Taliban 2001, Operation Parakram 2002, Andaman 2004 and the recent Gilgit 2005.

The threat of sabotage and infiltration within the services was an unforeseen and dangerous development. The Mohammad Din problem would not just go away.