The Glourious Basterds

My apologies to Quentin Tarantino

“... Cap...Captain, Sir Thok Diya”. This is what I heard the CISF guy holler out to me, as I made my way past Immigration. I said “what” ?, Sir, Hamare, Fighter jets crossed over and dropped bombs in Pakistan”. It was enough to transport me to another world. For a minute or so I was just dumbstruck, trying desperately to get connectivity in Calicut Airport while I made my way to my steed, the Boeing 737. I couldn’t connect to the web at all and ... duty called… and it was time to go to Kuwait. How did I miss all this in the morning ride to the airport... Ah! I was finishing up with the last episode of Madam Secretary on Netflix in the cab... shit luck. 

We boarded, briefed, calculated the thrust required for the take off weight of 78 tons, fed the details in to the flight computer with the route and flight details, cross checked the fuel... 18.5 tons for what would be... a five and a half hour flight across the Arabian Sea and halfway to the Middle East. My copilot briefed me, since it was his sector for the day, I would be PM..Pilot Monitoring  and he would be PF Pilot Flying. Again shit luck. Safety brief done, we pushed back, started engine Number two, then one, said our byebye to the hard working Engineer and his sweaty tow truck crew on the intercom, followed procedural routine... slowly taxied to the main taxiway, backtracked at 20 knots down the entire length of Runway 10-28, turned around and lined up. Almost exactly the way it’s been, for the last six years.... very different then what the twelve Mirages and their Escort aircraft would have done, a few hours earlier. 

Once airborne, my copilot Sushant  engaged the autopilot and we settled for the climb. It took 23 minutes to reach our cruising altitude of 36000 feet. I handled the RT, radio telephony, took the necessary clearances, cross checked the parameters on the smart Multi functional displays, instantly telling me “Howgowzit”

Once at crushing level, we finished our cruise checks and I pushed my seat back about three notches, and pinged the crew. She came in with the menu, same stuff different person, different day... omelette and tea for me and some ‘special meal’ of boiled vegetables... uplifted for my co joe. We were soon oceanic, which meant that we were now more than two hundred miles of the Indian coastline, making our way right down the middle of the Arabian Sea. The Oman Coast, quite a distance away, would start showing up only after another hour and a half, and we would be led there by this superior navigation system from outer space called the GPS, the Global Positioning System, with an accuracy of a few feet. I knew my ETA, Expected Time of Arrival, almost five hours before I would arrive, give or take a minute. The winds were across from 11 o’clock at 170 kmph, with our flight control system effortlessly adjusting the heading of the nose, to track correctly on the route on ground. 

I then aimlessly picked up my phone never expecting any messages as there was no connectivity before we departed, and I had at some point switched to airplane mode, just to avoid oversees charges at destination. This too was routine, same story, different day. I glanced through the various messages that had come through and I read a few details about the early morning strike on my veterans group. In an instant, I was soon transported to early 2002, when after the attack on the Indian Parliament on 13 Dec 2001, a few colleagues and I, were airlifted from a flying training base in South India, to an active frontline base, in an effort to augment the local Squadron. The idea being that, in the event that hostilities broke out, we were expected to strengthen the rolls of the Air Defence and Strike Squadrons, on our Western Border. They didn’t break out and we went through the northern winter, then the summer and finally realised in Autumn, that nothing is going to ever come of it. We lost so many troops in those ensuing months to various factors. Shit Luck. I tried to recall and then imagine in my head, how yesterday’s limited strike in to Pakistan, would have shaped up at the tactical level. The Mission, the Preamble, the Composition, Orders, Tactical Battle Area planning, the coordination, the intelligence input, the weapon to target matching, the radar orbat, the equipment positioning, loading, the coordination with the refueller, the AWACS picture, the mission briefing with the entire “Package” and finally the flawless execution. All this in complete secrecy while the nation was crying blue murder. For the benefit of the uninitiated, it’s quite nice and almost like multiple ballets and sonnets dancing and playing out to clock work precision. The LGB, Laser Guided Bomb is accurate. In fact, one has to do a lot of stuff wrong to not get it right. A mention to the professionalism of the Special Forces operator on the ground with his portable laser designator, who would have sneaked in days earlier, not moving, hardly breathing, collecting intel and relaying it back to his command post while being firmly embedded in his own little office, or perhaps the unseen UAV internal pilot, who laced the target with lasing equipment/pod, in the final moments of the mission to guide the parcel to its intended target. Kudos to the Air Defence Escorts along with the Jammers who intentionally popped up on radar, to invite attention, putting themselves in harms way,  so as to allow, the strike element to go through, unhampered, exactly as it stated in the escort brief. 

Just one thought rang clear in my head... “You Glourious Basterds”  you....you... freakin Lucky, Glourious Basterds. I don’t expect any of you to understand and you simply can’t. The profanity here, is more a celebratory and congratulatory greeting to my brethren... my “Boys in Blue”, who now have, eternal boasting rights, to say... Fady Sir ... “Been there... Done that “, for, I have never been there and never ever, done that. In Fact, I am almost 48 now, and no other fighter pilot has done that in so many years. The lot of us, were always bragging from the safety of our side. I have worked and prepared long hours as part of various teams on numerous occasions, air combat exercises, playing out tactical and strategic war gaming scenarios, studied and answered fortnightly tutorials and tests on it at Staff College, Got my Masters, but this Nope. Never Ever... shit luck. 

But now as a veteran, I swell with pride, stand grateful with my countrymen and watch from the side, as you roll in again and again, and call “live” ... diving in towards your designated targets in the days ahead. I wish you my share of good luck, good josh, calmness, courage, fear, discipline, guts and promise to say a lil prayer for your safe return. 

While you enjoy the Hunt, this open season, ole fady will be ferrying passengers and cargo across the pond. 

“Good Hunting Chaps... Make us Proud”