Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘Gori Kalaiyaan to Mukti four, Gori Kalaiyaan to Mukti four – come in Mukti four…’

  Tinka jumps up and runs to the wireless controls.

  ‘We’re here, Gori Kalaiyaan!’

  ‘Who’s this, now?’ Kuch Bhi Carvalho’s voice sounds bemused.

  Maddy and Shaanu push forward eagerly.

  ‘It’s us, sir!’

  ‘There you are, Chakkahera! Okay, our GOC is flying into Dacca in a bit. Nikka Khan is going to surrender to him today.’

  Tinka and the two young men look at each other in delight.

  ‘That’s tremendous news, sir!’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Carvalho sounds exhausted but happy. ‘The tip-off about the meeting at Governor House helped tremendously, otherwise the bugger could have dithered for days! You saved a lot of lives, well done! Now, the reason why I wanted to speak to you … we’ve received confirmation reports from the villagers around the area you went down in, Chakkahera – you did indeed down three Sabres.’

  Ishaan snaps to attention.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Kuch Bhi’s voice grows indulgent, more indulgent than they have ever heard it sound.

  ‘You need to get to Delhi ASAP – Air Headquarters will conduct a full psychological check-up to make sure you’re fit to fly … you’ve been through a lot…’

  Ishaan’s eyes go to Tinka’s. She smiles. He smiles back.

  ‘I’m just fine, sir!’

  ‘Let me finish.’ Carvalho’s voice is severe. ‘And on 26 January, you will be awarded an MVC, maybe even a PVC. If that happens, you’ll be the first IAF recipient to get it while still alive.’

  Speech deserts Ishaan. Tears rush, hot and strong, to his eyes. He dashes them away, hugging first Maddy and then Tinka.

  Kuch Bhi winds up, sounding positively fatherly now, ‘Also, I don’t want to get your hopes up too much, but the doctors seem more positive about young Raka’s condition – we may all yet be eating Aggarwal Sweets for Christmas.’

  • • •

  The meeting between the Indian and Pakistani generals is short and distinctly unsweet. General Nikka Khan is handled politely but firmly by his Indian counterpart, the General-Officer-Commanding of the Eastern Command, a tall, smiling Sikh who tells the Butcher of Bengal in no uncertain terms that his little dream of calling for a ceasefire and then having the UN come in and order the supposed aggressor India to withdraw from all Pakistani territory is just that, a dream.

  ‘Be realistic, General,’ he tells him, not unsympathetically. ‘You’re in a bad position here. Our armies have breached every bastion and are in firm possession of the city. If you try to hold out for anything more than an unconditional surrender, India will simply withdraw and leave you at the mercy of the Muktis. That won’t go very well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I want more time to think,’ Nikka says hoarsely.

  ‘By all means.’ The Sikh shrugs. ‘Here is the surrender document, all typed out and ready to sign. Think over it for half-an-hour.’

  He and his men withdraw to the verandah outside, ask for a phone call to be put through to the prime minister’s office in New Delhi and settle down to snacks and tea.

  After a hearty meal of luchi, mutton cutlets, aloo posto and mishti doi, the call comes through. The GOC gets to his feet and reports that he has left Nikka alone with the document in his office.

  ‘To let him stew over it, ma’am,’ he explains. ‘I’m very hopeful he’ll sign without a fuss.’

  ‘Just make sure he doesn’t kill himself in there or something,’ replies the prime minister tersely. ‘If he does, his officers will immediately cry foul, and fighting will break out in the streets again, and hundreds more will die. Please don’t underestimate the intensity of these people’s hatred for each other. We’re balancing on the edge of a knife here. It’s a delicate situation, General.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ says the GOC and hangs up hastily.

  Rushing back into Nikka’s room, he breathes a sigh of relief. The Butcher is still staring down at the document with unseeing eyes.

  ‘Just sign it, General Khan,’ the GOC says softly.

  Nikka picks up the pen with shaking hands, scrawls across the paper and sits back with a shudder.

  ‘I want the surrender ceremony to happen here,’ he whispers. ‘Quietly.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says the smiling Sikh firmly. ‘It will happen where everybody can see – at the Ramanna Race Course. The cars are waiting. Come, let’s go.’

  • • •

  ‘It’s like a dream,’ Tinka says softly. ‘Everything’s working out so well – Raks on the mend, the war over in just sixteen days, I just wish I didn’t have to leave you.’

  They are sitting on the sunny, cemented stairs that lead down to the much pitted and cratered Tezgaon runway, watching the IAF pilots run around the place. Maddy has rushed off with a group of other excited Fighters to finally have a look at AFS Tezgaon from ground level. They’re busy taking photographs and collecting trophies – a little ghoulishly, according to Tinka, but she’s in too good a mood to give them a lecture.

  She has been granted permission to fly all the way to Islamabad on Nikka’s plane – along with his top aides and a smattering of international journalists. Nikka is to arrive any minute – the surrender ceremony has just been concluded at the Race Course. Neither Tinka nor Shaanu had been interested enough to go. I don’t want to see anybody’s nose being ground into the mud, she had said – and he had just wanted to be with her.

  Now Ishaan glances down at her, his eyes teasing. ‘Bullshit, you’re dying to see Islamabad.’

  She wrinkles her forehead. ‘Sort of,’ she admits. ‘But actually, I just want to go home.’

  Make your home with me.

  He feels the words so intensely that for a moment he thinks he’s said them aloud. Worried, he scans her face, but she is just staring out at the runway, her expression pensive.

  ‘If killing Bilawal Hussain wins me a PVC, it can’t be a bad thing, right?’ The words are torn out of him.

  Tinka squeezes his hand. ‘I spoke to his wife on the phone, a while ago. She wants to meet me. She’s driving up to Islamabad. She said she has no personal animosity against you and the girls would want to know how their father died.’

  He stares down at her, confused. Then his grey eyes flood with gratitude. His hands grip hers with painful intensity.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She hugs him. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  He pulls away, a little uncertain. ‘What’s ani-mos, though? That word you said?’

  Tinka hugs him again. It’s dangerously addictive, she has realized, hugging him. Every time she does, she feels like she’s received energy enough to power an airbase.

  ‘Oi, get a room, will you?’ The old wheezing voice makes them jump apart. They turn, not very sheepishly, to discover Julian Arnott and Leo Stepanov, weighed down with travelling bags, smiling down at them benignly.

  ‘Hullo children,’ Leo says in a very fatherly tone.

  Tinka springs to her feet and hugs them both.

  ‘I knew that dress would get you into trouble,’ Julian says to her severely, as Ishaan comes forward to shake hands with them, the tips of his ears bright red. ‘It was just too seductive.’

  ‘When’s the wedding?’ Leo grins.

  ‘Soon,’ Ishaan assures him, without missing a beat. ‘Very soon.’

  ‘Ishaan!’ Tinka’s face is incandescent.

  ‘What?’ He turns to look at her, very casual.

  ‘You can’t just—’

  Ishaan smiles and turns back to Leo.

  ‘You must come,’ he says. ‘We’ll need a photographer.’

  ‘What are you talking ab—’

  ‘Oh shut up, wench.’ Julian squeezes her arm. ‘Let the lad be masterful! He’s a decorated hero, or will be soon enough – ah, here comes your admirer!’

  Sure enough, Nikka’s motorcade has arrived. As it zooms past them to the IAF de Havill
and Dove parked a distance away, Tinka turns to Ishaan.

  ‘So, I’ll see you, then,’ she says lightly.

  He nods. ‘Yes. You’ll…’ He pauses, his eyes raking her face. ‘You’ll come to Delhi? From Islamabad? Not run off to America or something?’

  She laughs. ‘Yes! I mean no, I mean I’ll come straight to Delhi.’

  ‘Good. I’ll come see your father.’

  She frowns. ‘Shaanu, no—’

  ‘Hello hello, is this the Gnattie from Kalaiganga?’

  The deep jovial voice makes them both turn around. A well-fed-looking man with a ruddy, weathered face and a walrus moustache is looking at Ishaan quizzically. He is dressed for flying, his uniform bears the stripes of a Squadron Leader, and his nametag proclaims him to be Deepak Jolly.

  ‘You Faujdaar?’

  Ishaan snaps to attention. ‘Yes, sir!’

  Jolly puts out his hand. ‘I’m flying this baby to Isloo. We’ve heard a lot about you at Hashimara, young man. Did you really take three Sabres out of the sky? Confirmed kills?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Excellent! Recommended for a PVC, eh?’

  ‘My CO said so, sir.’

  ‘And dating a supermodel.’ Jolly looks at Tinka with open admiration. ‘Bhai wah! Yaaaaar, you’re a star.’

  Shaanu grins. ‘Yes, sir!’

  Jolly chuckles. ‘Superb! Tell me all about it on the flight!’

  Ishaan and Tinka look at him, confused.

  ‘I’m not on this flight, sir,’ Ishaan says regretfully.

  ‘Nonsense!’ declares Jolly. ‘I’ve got an empty seat – and I demand you take it!’

  ‘But, sir, my orders are to stay put and proceed to Delhi tomorrow…’

  ‘I’ll get you back before midnight!’ Jolly says. ‘C’mon!’

  Shaanu turns to look at Tinka.

  ‘Come,’ she says softly.

  Ishaan turns backs to Jolly.

  ‘It would be an honour, sir.’

  • • •

  ‘So there we were, cornered in the bedroom…’ Shaanu pauses, worried about how this may sound, then carefully clarifies, ‘Not that there was any hanky-panky going on, of course, nothing like that, she was just trying to protect me – when suddenly, there was a knock on the door! Pakistanis!’

  He stops – this is a major point in the story – and he’s a little hassled that Jolly’s only reaction to it is a small, muffled grunt. He had been so gung-ho during take-off, selecting Baaz as his call sign with a wink at Shaanu, but since then he’s grown quieter and quieter. Ishaan shoots him an irritated look, then continues.

  ‘And then this huge chopper tail rammed through the glass window like something out of a James Bond movie! All the glass shattered – of course we were shocked – but our shock was nothing compared to what the Pakistani buggers went through!’

  Again, no reaction from Jolly. Not only is he not hanging on to every word that Ishaan is speaking, but humiliatingly, even his eyes seem to be drooping. Slightly concerned now, Ishaan reaches out and touches his shoulder.

  ‘Sir?’

  Deepak Jolly slumps over his seatbelt, his eyelids fluttering back to reveal eyes that have rolled back into his head.

  ‘Sir!’

  Ishaan lunges forward, grabs Jolly’s clammy fist and finds a thread of a pulse. Cursing, he flips on the R/T.

  ‘Baaz to Base,’ he says, praying he’s still in range of Tezgaon ATR. ‘Emergency – our pilot’s ill!’

  There is an agonizingly long pause.

  ‘Baaz to Base? Baaz to Base!’

  Finally, a voice comes crackling over the airwaves.

  ‘How very unfortunate.’ It is Bangla-accented and vaguely familiar. ‘What appears to have happened to him?’

  ‘Unconscious. Pulse weak, skin clammy, whites of his eyes showing,’ Shaanu rattles off the symptoms impatiently. ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Sounds like he’s a goner.’ The voice tut-tuts chattily. ‘Poor Squadron Leader Jolly.’

  Ishaan stares at the R/T in confused frustration. ‘What?’

  ‘So how are you still flying?’ Smoothly, the voice becomes business-like.

  ‘Good question!’ Shaanu scans the controls. ‘We’re on autopilot, I think – but that’s okay. I can fly this plane if I have to. If you help me.’

  ‘You’re a pilot?’ the voice asks, then grows sharper. ‘I thought there were no other pilots on the flight!’

  ‘Flying Officer Ishaan Faujdaar, IAF,’ Ishaan replies crisply. ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘Baazzzz!’ For some reason the voice makes the hair at the back of Shaanu’s neck stand up on end. ‘You shouldn’t be on that plane, bugger.’

  A cold finger of premonition runs down Shaanu’s spine. He knows this voice.

  ‘Macho da?’

  There is a small pause and then a cold, creepy and very drunk chuckle fills the small cockpit. ‘Yes. It is I – Major General Maqhtoom Khan.’

  Consternation floods Ishaan. ‘What are you doing in the Tezgaon ATR tower? And how did you go from major to major general?’

  The Mukti chuckles. ‘I gave myself a promotion in anticipation of what I’m going to do next.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Shaanu rears up to his feet inside the cramped cockpit. ‘And what is that, maadarchod?’

  ‘I drugged your pilot.’ The Mukti giggles. ‘Or, to be more exact – Harry did. They had a glass of fresh coconut water together before take-off…’

  Ishaan slams down both palms on the control panel.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because Nikka must die.’ As Macho da’s voice grows dreamy and sing-song, the sense of being trapped in a nightmare grows even strongly on Ishaan. ‘So we nobbled his pilot – and we jammed a massive firecracker up the arse of his little plane. Something Front Room has been working on for several months. It should blow up in…’ he pauses, checking something, ‘twenty-seven minutes exactly.’

  Fuck.

  Ishaan curls and uncurls his fists helplessly, staring at the laboriously breathing Jolly and, with a sickening feeling, at the ocean appearing below them. Jolly had taken off in a southerly direction and should have turned his nose westwards towards Islamabad a few minutes after take-off. Already woozy from whatever fiendish drug Harry Rose had plied him with, he hadn’t done this. They are now flying over the Bay of Bengal.

  ‘I like you, Baaz,’ Macho da says, his voice growing fainter as the signal weakens. ‘You’re a good soldier. And your girl’s a pretty thing. Ah well, can’t be helped. Collateral damage and all that. Khuda Hafiz.’

  SIXTEEN

  I am a warrior, fighting is my Dharma,

  I will train my mind, body and spirit to fight,

  I will excel in all devices and weapons of war –

  present and future, I will always protect the weak,

  I will be truthful to bluntness,

  I will be humane, cultured and compassionate,

  I will fight and embrace the consequences,

  God, give me strength that I ask nothing of you.

  (Code of the Warrior,

  National Defence Academy, Khadakwasla)

  SEVENTEEN

  Staring broodingly out of his window, General Nikka Khan notices that the plane is flying over water. Too sunk in sullen despair to comment, he listens with dim detachment as the pilot’s vibrant voice speaks through the speakers.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been a slight glitch – this aircraft needs to be landed immediately. Please put on your seatbelts and assume the brace position.’

  Even as Nikka feels about for his seatbelt, a female figure runs past him into the cockpit and slams the door shut behind her.

  ‘What’s wrong with the plane?’

  Ishaan looks around. His grey eyes are shining with a queer, pulsing gleam that Tinka’s never seen before. She stares at him, then notices Jolly, slumped over behind him, and sucks in her breath hard.

  ‘Ah, you’re here,’ Shaanu says, in an oddly c
alm voice. ‘I was going to announce for you to come to me.’

  ‘Ishaan, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he says unhurriedly. ‘Jolly’s unwell.’

  ‘What!’ She lays her hand on the pilot’s clammy forehead. ‘How?’

  Ishaan doesn’t reply.

  Tinka stares at him. There’s more to the situation, she can tell.

  ‘And?’ she demands.

  He shrugs, fiddling with the R/T.

  ‘And there’s a bomb on the plane.’

  She slumps against the plastic bulkhead.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’ Ishaan nods grimly. ‘Macho da’s little mission is finally unfolding. We just spoke. He says we have twenty-seven minutes before this thing blows.’ He glances down at his watch. ‘Make that twenty-four.’

  ‘Shit.’ She stares down at the laboriously breathing Jolly for a moment, then turns to Ishaan. ‘Shaanu, we have to save Nikka. If he blows up now, in an Indian plane, the fighting will break out again. Thousands will die.’

  He stares at her, the queer glow in his eyes growing tender. ‘You are so … predictable.’

  She pushes her hair off her face, her palms are clammy. ‘Can you land this thing?’

  He grins. She gets the oddest feeling that he’s enjoying himself. ‘Oh, yes. But I’ve got to do it quick.’

  She balls her hands into sweaty fists.

  ‘But where will you land it?’

  ‘I’ve radioed a general request for emergency landing,’ he says, his eyes back on the controls. ‘There are at least two aircraft carriers and a helicopter carrier bobbing about in the Bay right now. It’s a regular party – somebody’s got to have a runway we can use, especially with Nikka, so many Americans and even a Russian on board. They should be getting back to me, any moment.’

  Tinka’s face lightens. ‘Brilliant!’

  The R/T squawks to life. A young American drawl fills the cabin.

  ‘This is the USS Enterprise calling Baaz. Come in, Baaz.’

  Ishaan leans in.

  ‘Baaz to Enterprise. Give me some good news, man!’

  ‘Baaz,’ the young voice drawls. ‘I am the LSO aboard the USS Enterprise…’

  ‘Lasso?’ Shaanu says lightly.

  ‘Landing Signals Officer. We have been granted permission to land you.’