Shaanu throws up his hands in relief.
‘Yessss!’
‘Have you ever landed a plane on an aircraft carrier before?’
‘No,’ Shaanu admits. ‘But I hear there’s not much to it!’
‘Typical Air Force talk,’ says the voice reprovingly. ‘Landing on a carrier is a specialized, hazardous business, requiring very specific training—’
‘Typical Navy speak,’ Shaanu retorts immediately. Then he sobers. ‘I know it’s tricky, brother – I’m counting on you to bring me home.’
‘I’ll do my damnedest to help. What aircraft are you flying?’
‘De Havilland Dove.’
‘That’s good. The Dove has short-field landing capability, but we’ll still need to do a barricade landing – d’you know how that works?’
But before Ishaan can reply, the R/T squawks again and a gravelly, guttural voice fills the cockpit.
‘Novorossiysk to Baaz. Come in, Baaz. Come in, please.’
‘What the hell?’ Shaanu stares down at the R/T blankly. ‘Novo … uh … russi? Yeah, this is Baaz. Tell me!’
‘Baaz…’ the Russian voice crackles. ‘You have on board the Pakistani general?’
‘Yes!’ Shaanu replies, but before he can say anything else, the American voice comes back on the R/T.
‘Repeat – do you know how a barricade landing works?’
Shaanu nods. ‘Yes, if it’s the same as our barrier engagement process, but talk me through your on-board procedure.’
‘Okay. Basically, when you approach the stern of the ship, you’ll see something like a large tennis net stretched out across the flight deck. That’s the barricade – it’s to help you decelerate. It’s about twenty feet high, and the webbing’s reinforced with steel. Just slam right into the thing.’
‘Like a lousy tennis shot.’
Shaanu’s voice is so flippant that Tinka looks at him worriedly. Isn’t he taking all this too lightly? Then she looks down at his hands. They’re rock-steady.
‘Your Dove is lighter than our C-2 Greyhounds, so we’re confident we can catch you. As soon as you know you’re engaging, chop your throttles and stand on your brakes. But if you feel you’re not stopping, keep speeding and go round again for a second try.’
But that’s so confusing! Tinka thinks, feeling sick to the stomach. Should he focus on slowing down, or on taking off again? How will he decide? Don’t they need special training to do all this?
Ishaan just nods. ‘Okay.’
‘O-kei.’
Shaanu and Tinka stare at each other in dismay. The guttural Russian voice is back! Comprehensively drowning out the American, it says, ‘The Novorossiysk is an atomic submarine, part of the 10th Operative Battle Group, Pacific Fleet, deployed out of Vladivostok with the express purpose of preventing American and British ships from getting closer to Indian military objects. We possess a good number of nuclear-armed ships and atomic submarines, but our missile range is 300km or less. How can we help you, Baaz?’
‘If you’re a submarine, you can’t,’ Shaanu says brutally.
Tinka shoots him a reproachful look.
‘What?’ he demands, indicating the R/T helplessly. ‘Is this a war-zone or a free-for-all party? Where did Lasso go?’
Right on cue, the American’s voice fills the cockpit again.
‘Of course, there is a chance that the explosive device on your plane may go off on impact…’
Oh wow! thinks Tinka, quite at the end of her tether. What a little ray of sunshine he is.
‘So it’s imperative that you land very very softly. That’s tough because you’ve never done this before and may misjudge the distance. It takes a pilot about twenty landings to get it right – but that’s a chance we’re all gonna have to take.’
She throws up her hands at this, but Ishaan just nods coolly. ‘Okay.’
‘That’s it. We’re waiting for you. There’s a bomb-defusing squad on standby and a helo for General Khan.’
And with that, the R/T goes quiet.
Ishaan turns to look at Tinka and smiles encouragingly.
‘I’ll get you down safe, don’t worry.’
She shakes her head.
‘I’m not worried. Except…’ She looks down at the sweating Jolly. ‘Is this poor man going to die?’
‘Nobody’s going to die,’ Ishaan replies, his eyes back on the controls. Then he jerks his head towards the rear of the plane. ‘How are things back there?’
She shrugs.
‘Sweaty and silent. They’ve guessed something is hideously wrong, I think. How much time do we have?’
‘Twenty-seven minus…’ Shaanu glances at the dials. ‘Ten. So that’s seventeen more minutes to go – unless Front Room messed up somehow.’
‘Could Macho da be bluffing?’ she says suddenly. ‘Oh, God, please let him be bluffing!’
‘It’s possible,’ Shaanu admits, frowning ‘He’s such a dark, twisted fucker, I wouldn’t put it past him. Well, we’ll know soon enough.’
He leans forward and speaks into the R/T.
‘Baaz to Enterprise, circling overhead. Come in Enterprise.’
The LSO’s voice replies comfortingly, ‘Right below you, Baaz, baby. Come to mommy.’
I should be afraid, Tinka thinks as she looks below and sees the warship – 75,000 tonnes of reinforced metal, stubby, grey and curiously flat-headed – like an ugly piece of disembodied tarmac cutting through the churning waters below. I should be absolutely petrified. Why aren’t I afraid?
She knows the answer, of course. She’s not afraid because she’s with Ishaan. And Ishaan, clearly, is on top of this.
He’s speaking into the PA now.
‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen, as you can probably see, we’re flying right over the pride of America’s Seventh Fleet, the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Enterprise! Touchdown in ten seconds … hold on tight now. Ten … nine … eight…’
The ship is too close too quick, Tinka thinks as the plane drops sickeningly, he’s going to overshoot it.
‘And … one more time!’ Shaanu’s voice is cheerful and unperturbed. He noses the plane up and circles over the Enterprise again, which from this distance seems way too small and is moving far too much on the heaving seas.
In the front row of the tiny cabin, Nikka Khan starts to mutter some long-forgotten suras from the Holy Quran.
The plane descends again. People moan with their heads between their thighs, a shriek emerges from Nikka Khan’s throat, Tinka shuts her eyes tight…
They hit the ship with a deafening, bone-rattling thud and careen madly down the deck at full speed. The steel reinforced net slaps onto the snout of the plane, darkening the cockpit and obscuring Shaanu and Tinka’s vision. She clutches him, shaken and disoriented, feeling like she’s plummeting down a tunnel into total oblivion.
‘Slow down!’ Nikka shouts thinly, his eyes bulging. ‘We’re going too fast – who’s the fool in command?’
The barricade won’t hold us, Tinka thinks, nauseated. We’re going to pitch into the water at the other end, explode…
She stares up at the cockpit’s perspex, waiting hypnotized for the net to rip … she can see the fibres tearing … parting…
And then there is a tremendous backward jerk as the barricade finally manages to constrain the plane. Everybody screams.
With a slow, horribly grating moan, the Dove slithers sideways, slows down and shudders to a stop.
There is a moment of complete, shell-shocked silence.
Then, as whooping and applause break out in the cabin, Tinka gets to her feet and tries to hug Shaanu, but he pushes her away.
‘Get out, Tinka.’ His voice is sharp. ‘Get out and run.’
‘Shut up,’ she whispers firmly, locking her arms around his waist and kissing him hard.
Wordlessly, he hugs her back. His hands are shaking.
Behind them, there is a mad scramble for the door. Nikka and his officers exit in unseemly haste, tripp
ing a little over the shredded barricade. The journalists follow. As soon as the doorway is clear, uniformed men enter the cockpit, lift the still-breathing Jolly and bear him away. Tinka and Shaanu come out behind him, and are greeted by a tall, young man the colour of dark chocolate.
‘Nicely done, Baaz,’ he says, showing very white teeth.
‘Lasso!’ Ishaan exclaims. ‘Good directions, boss!’
‘Good flying,’ replies the LSO. Then adds patronizingly, ‘For an Air Force booter.’
They clasp hands, grinning.
‘The bomb squad’s going in,’ the LSO continues, nodding at the scene unfolding behind them. ‘That area’s being evacuated – come away please – what the – excuse me, sir, step away from the ’craft please, what do you think you’re doing?’
Because a lanky figure has clambered on to the wing of the Dove and is busily snapping photographs of the bomb squad at work.
Tinka gives a little gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s Leo,’ she says. ‘Getting a scoop. Oh, typical!’
The LSO hurries away towards the intently clicking photographer, gesticulating furiously. As Tinka and Shaanu turn to each other, laughing, Julian Arnott comes stumping up.
‘I like this young man,’ he declares. ‘Tinka, if you don’t marry him, I will!’
‘Hands off my man, Julian,’ she says, her voice trembling just a little, as she takes in how fragile the old man looks. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’
‘Well, of course, I’m safe!’ he replies. Then he points towards the front of the ship, where a chopper is being readied for take-off. ‘The fool’s missing the best photograph, as usual – of that dastard Nikka fleeing the scene, his tail between his legs.’
He stumps away to get Leo, and Tinka and Shaanu turn to look at the chopper. Nikka is standing outside it, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief and asking querulously about the estimated time of departure. Tinka stares up at him indignantly.
‘Did he even thank you?’ she asks Shaanu.
He laughs. ‘No!’
Her eyes kindle.
‘The dog! But he will,’ she says determinedly. ‘I’ll write a story, now, tonight – people must know how brave you were!’
He rocks on his heels, grinning.
‘You do realize that everybody will say you’re biased?’
‘Why?’ she demands.
‘Because I’m your…’ He stops, his forehead wrinkling, and cocks one eyebrow. ‘Hmm, what am I of yours exactly?’
Her cheeks go hot, but she pulls his ear with remarkable aplomb.
‘Slave,’ she suggests. ‘Sex Toy. Puppy.’
He laughs and pulls her to him.
‘You mean hero,’ he whispers into her ear. ‘Saviour. Husband.’
Tinka is laughing, but at this, she goes still. She pulls back a little, shaking her hair out of her eyes and looking up at him wonderingly.
‘Seriously?’
‘Uh huh.’ He nods, grey eyes sparkling. ‘Come live with me in my two-room quarter and do private dances for me under my shower every night.’
Her lashes flutter down to her cheeks, but she raises her chin gamely.
‘Jat.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
She wrinkles her forehead. ‘Will I get to see bare-chested boxing practice?’
‘Arrey!’ His arms tighten about her. ‘What a question! Promise! Every single nigh—’
A cheer goes up behind them. Ishaan looks up, grinning.
‘I think they’ve managed to defuse the bomb. Hey, Lasso!’
The LSO is hurrying past them, but he stops.
‘Defusing proved impossible,’ he reports crisply. ‘The damn thing’s unnecessarily, obscenely potent and the circuitry’s super-complex. Whoever designed it is a monster – and also, fiendishly clever!’
Shaanu thinks back to Front Room, his shuffling gait, his blank, saintly eyes, that kurta flapping over bare, defenceless-looking thighs, and for once, is at an absolute loss for words.
‘But we did manage to tinker with it enough to delay the explosion for a further ten minutes. So now we can chuck it in the drink and sail a long, safe distance away before it blows.’
‘That’s good!’ Shaanu nods, fervently. ‘Well done, USA!’
But the LSO is looking behind him, smirking. ‘And here comes the USSR. We did consider the possibility, given Maqhtoom Khan’s background, that the bomb could have a Soviet-style fuse. We knew the Novorossiysk was nosing about in the vicinity, of course, though we were pretending we didn’t, so we contacted them. Here they are, now…’ He grins. ‘Lemme go rub in the fact that we don’t need their help.’
He lopes ahead, rubbing his hands together gleefully, to where the Soviet squad, a dour, stocky, ruddy-cheeked crew, is already examining the canister containing the bomb, talking to each other in guttural, animated Russian, shaking their heads and pulling long faces.
‘Thanks for dropping by, gentlemen,’ the LSO says condescendingly. ‘We won’t be needing your assistance howev—’
‘Glupyy,’ says one Russian, interrupting him rudely.
‘Idiyot,’ says a second, in execrable English.
‘Gandu,’ chimes in a third, making the conversation very global indeed.
The LSO blinks. ‘Excuse me?’
The first Russian speaks up again, very slowly, like he is talking to a moron.
‘This … bomb … have waterr-trirggerred fuse. If you thrrrow in the waterr, it blow at once. Vairry big kaboom.’
• • •
‘Gentlemen, the only way to get this damn thing off our boat is to stick it into a C-2 and cat-shoot it outta here. The pilot will take it up, reach an altitude from which he can abandon the aircraft safely, then para-jump using a static line.’
Smoothly, the crew of the Enterprise sets the plan into motion. The Grumman C-2 Greyhound, a small Carrier Onboard Delivery ’craft with multi-engine turboprops, is wheeled to catapult station number 1 and rigged up swiftly and smoothly.
‘That seems like the Avro 748s I flew in Kanpur,’ Ishaan says interestedly, as the pilot, a youngish boy with short, sandy hair comes striding up, popping a stick of gum into his mouth.
‘All the best, buddy.’ Ishaan puts out a hand.
The pilot smiles briefly but doesn’t take his hand, walking up to the C-2 and getting into the cockpit. The bomb squad moves in to secure the canister into the belly of the C-2, and then suddenly, their leader gives a sudden cry.
‘The delay didn’t work!’ he shouts hoarsely. ‘The circuit’s reconfigured itself! This thing will blow in one hundred and eighty seconds!’
Tinka always remembers everything that happens after that in stark, slow motion.
The four propeller blades of the C-2 start to whirl.
The pilot bursts out of the cockpit and staggers to the ground, his face ashen.
‘I can’t,’ he pants. ‘It’s suicide.’
Everybody stares at everybody else, slack-jawed in horror, and then, as one, they start to run as far away as possible from the doomed plane.
As people stream past him, taking cover from the coming explosion, Ishaan Faujdaar starts to walk towards the rigged and ready plane.
She clutches at his shirt.
‘Where are you going?’ She means to say it in a normal voice, but it comes out like a scream. ‘Ishaan, don’t … please…’
He turns.
‘But then all these people will die.’
Tears roll down her cheeks.
‘They’re Americans. And Pakistanis, not your people.’
He cocks his head to one side and smiles whimsically. ‘People are just people.’
She’s sobbing now.
‘Don’t…’
But he is already looking beyond her at the doomed C-2.
‘Doggggfighhht,’ he mutters lightly, squaring his shoulders.
‘Shaanu…’
He turns.
‘Oh, listen, make sure Sneha does a B.Ed., okay?’
Then he puts her aside and runs lightly to the plane.
The fleeing crew watches him pass in stunned disbelief, then stumble and almost fall as Tinka barrels through them, screaming.
‘No, Shaanu, no … Wait for me!’
He swings into the plane and stops at the door to watch her run to him.
Tinka runs faster than she has ever run in her life. She feels every muscle straining as her feet push down upon the metal deck, then rise up again to move forward, step after massive step. Her hair gets in her eyes, her mouth opens, her hands reach out…
Ishaan holds out his hand to her.
She smiles up at him, relieved, a happy implet with darling dimplets. It’s going to be okay – he’s waiting for her, they’ll go out together! She reaches out for him with both hands, he bends forward…
And then his right hand smacks full into her chest, between her breasts, sending her spinning backwards.
She looks down and blinks, reeling with disbelief and betrayal, as she falls back onto the ground in an awkward spill.
The deck is cold and hard. She gasps, winded, and looks up, her vision blurring from the tears welling from her eyes, and sees the beloved grey eyes staring down at her, sparkling with regret and apology and love.
And then he’s gone.
A second later, the steam cat shoots the C-2 straight into the brilliant blue sky.
The deck combusts into spontaneous, heartfelt applause; Americans, Russians and Pakistanis raise their arms in a farewell salute.
Freed from the catapult, the C-2 climbs till it vanishes, all sight and sound of it gone, and there is nothing to see but empty sky and nothing to hear but a surprised seagull or two and the lazy slap of water against the flanks of the USS Enterprise.
Tinka hugs her knees, her entire body wracked with sobs, then tilts back her head and says goodbye.
Above the brilliantly blue Bay of Bengal, Ishaan’s plane soars like a bird of prey. It is a bulky, weighty thing, but it proceeds to do a series of improbable zoom climbs – first one, tentatively, then two, then several in a row. It weaves crazily through the air, and if you were up there, at that altitude, you would have heard the pilot whooping with the sheer joy of being alive.
Sunshine catches the strengthened perspex of its cockpit, glittering like a benediction, the slanting rays reminiscent of the bhavishyavanis depicted in the Amar Chitra Katha comics that have taken the nation by storm. Then there is a blinding burst of orange flame and the plane is gone.
Baaz Page 36