Catch 22

 First Officer Jamy believed the system was broken. Captain Fady believed the system had always been broken, which meant it was functioning exactly as designed. They were somewhere above central India at thirty-seven thousand feet, flying a machine capable of landing itself in zero visibility while debating whether Crew Scheduling was a department or a psychological experiment.

“It’s intentional,” Jamy said. “They know exactly what they’re doing.”
Fady nodded with the steady gravity of a man who had long ago stopped expecting justice from rostering software. Autopilot engaged. Autothrust active. LNAV and VNAV glowing like obedient deities. The airplane was doing everything correctly, which left the humans dangerously free to think.
The interphone chimed.
Cabin crew.
“Captain, just to inform you… passenger in 19B is upset about the departure delay. He says there was no announcement from the flight deck.”
Fady blinked once. Slowly. There had indeed been no announcement. There had not been an announcement for years.

“Noted,” Fady replied.
He had once made announcements.
Once, long ago, he had delivered what he considered an eloquent, articulate explanation about weather deviations, ATC flow control, and the delicate ballet of sequencing arrivals. His tone had been calm. His vocabulary impressive. His pauses intentional. It had been a masterpiece.
Unfortunately, he had not pressed the PA switch. He had transmitted it on 121.9. To Ground.

And, inadvertently, to three other aircraft waiting for pushback.

There had been a pause on frequency long enough to measure existential collapse.
Then someone had keyed up:
“Uh… Captain, beautiful speech. We’re all inspired.”
Another voice:
“Copy your motivational seminar.”
Since that day, nothing left Fady’s lips except procedural necessities and atmospheric adjustments.
Altitude distension, he called it.
The cabin could read it as they liked.
“Passenger wants to know why the captain didn’t address the delay,” the crew member added gently. Fady considered several possible explanations:, Philosophical restraint, Selective communication policy, Trauma.
He settled for: “We’re airborne now.”“Copy, Captain.” The interphone clicked off. Jamy stared ahead, shoulders trembling slightly.“You could’ve just made one short announcement,” he offered carefully. Fady looked at him with the serene calm of a monk who had renounced amplification. “No.” And that was that.

The First Officers, collectively over the years, had adapted. They didn’t mind the silence. As long as Fady gave them enough warning. Because Fady had developed a system. At approximately ten thousand feet after takeoff, once the sterile cockpit period ended, he would remove one earcup from his headset and say, with solemn professionalism: “Your controls for two minutes.” This was Jamy’s cue.

He would “step out” only mentally meaning he would take radios and monitoring , while Fady accessed what he referred to as “situational awareness enhancement.” From his flight bag emerged a carefully curated 1990s mix. Stuff he used to listen to in NDA, Synth. Bass. Questionable percussion. Nothing loud. Just enough. Fady believed rhythm improved cruise fuel management. Jamy believed rhythm improved Fady. They never discussed it.

At cruise, the earlier grievance about 19B dissolved into broader injustice.

“Gupta’s moving to Training,” Jamy said.
Fady nodded. “Promotion by disappearance.” They reviewed fuel figures. Everything precise. Which felt suspicious.
“Vietnam is hiring,” Jamy tried again.
“Everyone is hiring somewhere,” Fady replied. “Until they aren’t.”
A small chime interrupted them.
Seat belt sign for light turbulence.
Professional mode re-engaged instantly. Announcements were technically required.

Jamy looked at Fady expectantly.
Fady looked at the seat belt switch.
He pressed it. The ding echoed through the cabin. He did not speak.

Somewhere in 19B, disappointment intensified. Later, as they approached top of descent, Jamy ventured:

“You know… passengers like hearing from the captain.” Fady adjusted the heading bug by one unnecessary degree. “They hear the engines. That’s enough.”
“You were very articulate that day.”
Fady stared forward. Silence on 121.9 still echoed in his memory. “I peaked,” he said softly.

Descent briefing commenced.
“Minimums 23.”
“Checked.”
“Autobrake three.”
“Set.” The satire evaporated. Precision remained. They intercepted the localizer. The autopilot performed elegantly, as if slightly smug.
At minimums, Fady disconnected it. Hand-flew the rest. The landing was smooth , almost suspiciously so.
Reverse thrust deployed with confidence bordering on poetry.
As they vacated the runway:
“Nice one, Captain,” Jamy said.
“Aircraft did most of it.”
There was no irony in his voice.

At the gate, engines wound down. Screens dimmed. Systems powered off like obedient soldiers dismissed from parade. Passengers disembarked. 19B left with unresolved emotional closure. The cabin crew would later report, “Flight was good. Just no announcements.”
Fady accepted this as a performance review. As they gathered their bags, Jamy checked the roster.
“Same sector tomorrow?”
“Until they change it,” Fady said.
“They’ll change it.”
“They always do.”
They walked into the terminal , one man who believed the system was broken, and another who had stopped addressing it publicly.
Above them, another aircraft leveled at thirty-seven thousand feet.
Somewhere in that cockpit, a captain was pressing the PA switch.
And somewhere else, a frequency fell silent.

Just another day in the life of a line pilot who couldn’t refuse the duty. In some ways Uber drivers were on a different level. They had the power to say No. Fady envied them.

Be Safe. Fly Safe.

Vayu Shakti 1999

 It was the end of winter and the beginning of 1999, which in the Rajasthan desert meant the sun had begun rehearsing for cruelty but had not yet committed to it fully. The mornings were almost tender. The wind carried a polite chill. The sky over Pokhran stretched in an uninterrupted blue that suggested permanence, confidence, and a slight disregard for human planning. It was the kind of sky that made PowerPoint slides look achievable.

Up north, in icy silence, other calculations were already being made.

Down here, in sand and spectacle, the Indian Air Force prepared for Vayu Shakti. Air Power in capital letters, preferably bold font, preferably televised. Guns. Missiles. Precision. Geometry behaving on cue. The brief sounded simple, in the way that briefs always do when written indoors.

The desert listened and made no promises.

The range lay wide and patient, a beige amphitheatre designed by geology and temporarily leased to doctrine. Heat shimmered before noon. Flags marked target areas and flapped bravely in winds that did not subscribe to operational timelines.

Actors and aircraft arrived in waves. The stage was set. The script was flexible.

Almost everyone met everyone at the Jaisalmer Bar. It was located at the extreme right hand corner in the Officers’ Mess, a rectangular survivor of successive Station Commanders, each arriving in a Peak Cap, full of vision, mission statements, and a dangerous belief in interior design.

Every one of them had tried to “leave his mark.”

And every one of them had.

Unfortunately, none had left the same mark.

The result was less “heritage charm” and more like a “coup attempt.”

One Commander had believed in Pastels. Another in Executive Brown. A third had briefly flirted with something called Desert Contemporary, which looked suspiciously like leftover paint from the MES. No one finished what he started. So one wall was motivational cream, another bureaucratic green, and a third, behind the trophy cabinet, remained defiantly 1977. 

Paint peeled in shades best described as Administrative Fatigue. Ceiling fans rotated with the slow determination of officers awaiting promotion. They did not cool. They contemplated. The sofas were a museum of abandoned policies. Floral upholstery from the “soft power” era. Heavy fake leather from the “assertive command presence” phase. And one lonely modern grey couch, purchased during a brief reform movement, that matched absolutely nothing and looked as though it deeply regretted its posting.

The bar counter leaned slightly to port, as if bracing itself for the next renovation proposal. It had survived three “modernisation drives,” two budget reallocations, and one Commander who insisted that blue LED lighting would “bring in a retro vibe.” The LEDs flickered briefly, then retired voluntarily.

Every evening, the same blue overalls assembled. Flying jackets hung from chairs like shed reptile skins. Bore-well water left white streaks on boots and occasionally on senior moustaches. Paneer arrived with religious punctuality, unaffected by command tenure. Chapatis had personality… some puffed with pride, others lay flat in quiet protest. The local tea was strong enough to restart minor aircraft systems and possibly the moral compass of the Accounts Section. And through all of this, the Mess endured. A glorious, unapologetic patchwork of unfinished legacies.

Each passing Commander had tried to bend it to his style. Instead, he merely added another chair, another shade, another confused curtain pattern before being posted out. The Mess did not resist change. It simply absorbed it… badly.

There was, of course, a special category of visitor to this magnificent architectural compromise: the MiG-27 squadron chaps from the East. They suffered from one operational tragedy… no proper heavy armament range back home. This meant that every few months they would launch themselves westward in heroic ferry formations, like a migrating tribe of heavily armed optimism. Briefing rooms would echo with confidence. Maps would be made, xeroxed decisively. Weather would be “manageable.” Technical state would be “within limits.” They would depart in glorious formation. And then… reality would begin.

Somewhere over central India, the first snag would occur. A caution light would blink with quiet mischief. A hydraulic line would develop philosophical doubt. An engine instrument would decide it had done enough for the day.

By the time they reached the midpoint of the country, the once-imposing formation resembled a tactical diaspora. One aircraft parked in Kanpur, another contemplating life in Gwalior. One more awaiting spares somewhere. By the end of it, they were sprinkled across the subcontinent like reluctant confetti.

The few who actually made it all the way to Jaisalmer deserved a drink. And that, precisely, is what they did. They would arrive sunburnt, slightly dehydrated, and carrying the emotional weight of three aborted legs and six tech log entries. They walked into the Mess not as mere pilots, but as survivors of a mechanical selection process. Egg on toast would be consumed. Beer would be evaluated critically. Stories would grow in altitude with each retelling.

“We launched eight,” one would begin gravely.

“How many reached?” someone would ask.

A pause.

“Operationally… sufficient.”

Then there were Mirage pilots who were test pilots and test pilots who were Mirage pilots. Yes there was a difference… but thats for another day. 

Irrespective of which sub group one belonged to in the “fraternity”, they were keepers of the faith, had stiff upper lips and impeccable sunglasses discipline. They carried themselves with the quiet assurance of men who believed they were elite. Which, to be fair, they were. At least presently.

What they preferred not to advertise too loudly was that many of them had come from the feeder MiG-21 squadrons, where avionics consisted largely of a compass and an artificial horizon, and where survival instincts were developed early and decisively.

But once they strapped into the Mirage, something subtle occurred. Posture improved. Vocabulary shifted. Words like “platform,” “test points,” “telemetry,” “systems philosophy,” and “energy management” entered daily conversation.

They would listen patiently to the MiG-27 tales of hydraulic despair while nodding with controlled sympathy.

“Yes, yes… very rugged aircraft,” they would murmur.

There was always that faint air of having transcended something. As though the Mirage cockpit came with an invisible finishing school.

Yet, on occasion, usually after the second drink, the MiG-21 roots would resurface.

A story about dead-stick recoveries and relights. An anecdote certainly involving questionable radar returns. A fond remembrance of engines that required encouragement. The stiff upper lip would tremble… just slightly.

In truth, all tribes met at the same bar counter. The MiG-27 nomads. The Mirage aristocracy. The instructors. The survivors of ferry missions.

The Mess did not discriminate.

It merely provided eggs to order, paneer tikka, resilient tea, beer, and a safe space for exaggerated heroism.

Among these flight suits stood two pilots of FOXBAT formation, chosen, selected, or perhaps condemned to validate a unique proof of concept.

Sqn Ldr Battersea—or Bats—was Foxbat-1. He looked faintly misplaced in the desert, a very composed Bengali gentleman who had once played Tom Cruise in his prime as an instructor at the National Defence Academy. Poetry and discipline had once negotiated a truce within him. He loved music, preferably country and rock, properly structured. In another life, he might have played at a bar. In this one, he flew a MiG-29. He led the formation with quiet authority. He rationed enthusiasm. He trusted geometry because geometry, unlike committees, did not reinterpret itself mid-meeting.

Flight Lieutenant Fady, Foxbat-2, carried youth in a disciplined container. His jaw was sharp. His flying, sharper. A Peak Cap worn differently, Ray-Bans chosen with intent. Style existed, but professionalism dominated. He trusted the aircraft, and he trusted his formation leader. He also trusted repetition. He held formation like a moral obligation: one disciplined wing span apart, no drift, no drama.

Both played guitar. Both sang. Often after debriefs, when the desert cooled to copper and egos shrank to manageable size, they walked beyond the Mess perimeter. Boots crunched softly. Sometimes guitars accompanied them if morale required technical reinforcement. They spoke of Aerodynamics and Music and India and the Service, and politics. Fady would soon attend an instructor’s course. Bats had been there, done that, with chalk in hand, converting enthusiasm into survivable competence.

“Being an instructor is mostly about patience and commitment,” Bats would say.

“And about trying every day and never giving up,” Fady added, remembering his father’s words. “Your student will learn in spite of you,” and that was comforting.

Day one: Air Marshal Chester Blaster, Senior Air Staff Officer, SASO, stood before the pilots in what Jaisalmer Mess insisted on calling the green room, though nothing within fifty kilometres could credibly be described as green. Short, compact, moustache perfectly regulation, a TACDE veteran, he spoke with flourish. When he began explaining air-to-air geometry, it sounded practical, doable and almost destiny.

“To showcase capability,” he said, “we must first have something to shoot at.” This was, even by Air Force standards, an innovative thought.

The solution reached by his Ops Staff at Command HQ involved, meteorological balloons as gun targets, M-6 flares dropped by a MiG-27 to simulate heat-seeking targets, and a radar-reflective drum released by an An-32 crew with parachutes for air-to-air radar launches. On the screen, the PowerPoint presentation looked elegant. Arrows curved obediently. Targets descended in dignified dotted lines. On sand, it looked hopeful.

The balloons had lived most of their lives as six inches of defeated rubber in cardboard cartons. In operational mode, they expanded into fluorescent spheres the size of gym balls. Fifty each. Pink and orange. Colours not generally associated with lethal force projection. They would sway in the desert breeze, tethered to the earth near a yellow bulldozer and other equipment described in paperwork marked “appendices,” which is where complicated ideas go to feel important.

The AOC-in-C, Air Marshal Reechaa, stood tall and composed like a camouflaged flamingo in a desert oasis. His silence carried value. He would one day rise to be Chief. 

At Pokhran, he just watched the proceedings quietly, absorbing lessons that no case study would ever fully capture.

Then there was the Air-1, Air Commodore BC Tibbber, with his baritone voice. He led what flew and therefore owned what happened. In the Air Force, that explanation required no embellishment. He may not have agreed with the employment of weather balloons as adversarial entities, but he was a good officer and a thorough gentleman. In uniformed services, that is sometimes the bravest possible posture.

Day 2: Flexibility vs Economy of Effort

It began with precision and encountered reality before lunch. The ground party had run out of sutli (string), while tying up and hoisting the balloons. 

To be fair, Fifty balloons require rope. One hundred balloons require lots of it, and the ones that are the providers, the Logistics branch, had not been consulted.

So when FOXBAT arrived at the scene that morning, tucked in tight close formation 100 feet over the desert sand, the targets swayed bravely at approximately five feet above ground… an altitude tactically advantageous for the Army, far less impressive for air-to-air gunnery. From the cockpit, they looked ambitious. From the tower, they looked tragic. In PowerPoint, Fady had found them inspirational.

Bats rolled in for a dummy pass. The CCTL line danced enthusiastically. Fady followed, steady and aligned.

“Clear dummy.” Air Cmde BC Tibber, replied on RT in his deep voice and clear English. He was perched high above the desert with a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings from the RSO tower.

Then came the live pass. That’s when faecal matter hit that rotating cooling device.

“Hold fire! I say again, ABORT!” Air-1 shouted on the RT.

“Bats”, pause….gathering himself, 

“that is the SASO holding the bloody balloons! Check your switches safe and fly for endurance!”

“What the hell… the SASO holding the balloons?” An image flashed in front of Fady’s eyes as he was about to roll in. 

“SASO holding the balloons?!” The image flashed in front of Bats’ eyes as he abandoned the dive and pulled up.

Bats pulled up. Fady broke cleanly and climbed back into position. Below, ground crew achieved record sprint times. The SASO stood alone, quite literally holding Air Power in his hands. One hundred balloons. Fluorescent. Heroic.

What had happened was simple. The ground party had run out of sutli to tie up and hoist one hundred balloons. While the conundrum was being resolved, Foxbat formation had arrived overhead, punctual as doctrine demands. A readily available Mi-17 (the one that had flown the Air Marshals to the range from Jaisalmer) was quickly dispatched to a nearby village called Jetha Chandan to procure additional sutli.

Air Power thus extended its reach into Rural Supply-chain Management.

So while Foxbat waited with engines at endurance settings, an airman was negotiating with a small-time hardware store owner, in the middle of the Thar, on what would be the reasonable value of a few hundred balls of string, considering the Mi-17 had its rotors engaged and national prestige lay idling at operational RPM! That man would never know his contribution to Air Power that morning. 

Day 3: Improved balloon altitude.

Someone found sufficient string. The balloons rose to heights that suggested ambition, but the debrief was not very encouraging.

Post-landing, as Bats and Fady switched off their aircraft, they were met by an officer in a blue Maruti Gypsy. Now, one must understand this species known as the Typical “Staff Officers”. Begin Quote “He is a man past middle life, spare, unwrinkled, oddly intelligent, cold, passive, and permanently non-committal. He has eyes like a codfish, polite in contact, yet entirely unresponsive. The sort of man who could nod sympathetically while mentally drafting your transfer order” End Quote.

He whisked them away for a “hot” debrief.

In the green room sat the Air Ranks, arranged like solemn garden statues, along with a few waiters hovering uncertainly. Water was offered to the sweaty pilots… then promptly ushered away, as though hydration might dilute accountability.

“So, Sqn Ldr Bats, what in your opinion, got the balloons?” the SASO enquired.

Before Bats could even clear his throat, the senior officer graciously supplied three options.

“One: your GSh-30 gun got the balloons. Two: your pull-out was low and the jet wake behind you got the balloons. Or… something else happened?”

The pause after “something else” hung in the air like a radar lock.

Bats straightened up and scanned the room. Eyes everywhere. Expectant. Measuring. There was absolutely no question of accepting a low pull-out. That way lay paperwork. Possibly seminars.

He began in full instructor-style debrief mode.

“Sir, the balloons were in my sight. Tracking was steady. There was no danger. So I took the shot.”

Bloody brilliant!!! Fady thought to himself. That’s why he trusted Bats. What a fighter pilot!

Unable to take it any longer, BC (the Air-1) spoke, gritting his teeth, his deep voice rolling across the room like distant thunder.

“No, Bats.”

A pause.

“There was one lone, curious crow in the entire desert. Obviously, it had never seen such a motley of colours. Before you chaps arrived overhead, this fellow had already got to the balloons and pecked at a few dozen… before you could even commence your dive.”

Silence.

Bloody brilliant!!! Fady thought again. How, exactly, had they trained a silly crow to attack MET balloons in Jaisalmer? Brilliant!! Employability of all available assets in a rapidly changing scenario. That’s what the Air Power précis had said.

“Hmmm.”

Day 4:  Introduced character.

The An-32 crew released the radar-reflective drum with professional dignity and on TOT. The parachute was expected to blossom gracefully and descend predictably.

The parachute declined participation.

The drum accelerated toward earth with determination. Radar returns on the two Foxbat scopes were brief but educational. It impacted decisively. Dust rose. The desert accepted the offering without comment.

The next sortie featured M-6 flares. The MiG-27 released one cleanly and exited the danger area. It ignited beautifully. Then the wind intervened.

The flare drifted. Then it drifted more. It reconsidered its career. It then extinguished midway, then reignited, then descended onto the desert floor—still burning enthusiastically.

“Foxbat-2, contact flare.” Fady transmitted.

Fady locked it steady. Tone stable. Discipline intact.

The flare burned on the ground with thermal optimism. It was no longer going to be air-to-air.

“What a pity,” Fady murmured.

“Fady, keep tracking.” Bats replied.

So Fady did. Geometry remained impeccable. Only the battlefield had relocated vertically. What the hell… Fady tracked.

Day 8: Days Five, Six, Seven had redeemed doctrine. Many R-73s left rails with authority and found their targets. Smoke trails etched confidence into the sky. The concept worked.

As the finale approached, someone in Command HQ decided that Sukhoi-30s should replace the MiG-29s, because they looked larger and therefore more persuasive. It must have been one of those Staff Officers. Bats and Fady cursed him and all his generations to follow.

But then, fighter pilots rarely hold a grudge. What’s done is done. The next day was the ferry back to Pune. So that night the two drank and laughed, and drank to the SASO’s good health. After all, the SASO holding balloons was no mean feat, that too alone in the desert sun and five feet above ground!

They grinned about the sutli run by the chopper, laughed about parachutes with independent thought. They debriefed on the art of tracking a flare that had voluntarily buried itself forever. They laughed because they had witnessed and participated in something extraordinary, from its genesis to the final show.

It was funny because it was safe.

Soon the geometry would change. Soon the sky would not forgive approximation. Targets would not drift against blue emptiness. They would hide against rock and snow, dug into heights that mocked performance charts and weapon envelopes. There would be men on the ground looking up, waiting.

Within weeks, the mountains of Kargil would demand something far less theatrical.

The Air Force would be called in support of ground troops clawing uphill under fire. High altitude would thin engines and patience alike. Weapons designed for plains would have to relearn their purpose among ridgelines and razorback shadows. Geometry would no longer be tidy, it would be vertical, compressed, unforgiving.

There would be no time for doctrinal comfort. Innovation would arrive not as a slogan, but as necessity. In record time, under operational pressure, the Mirage and Test Pilots from ASTE along with OEM Tech support would integrate the Litening laser designation pod, and marry it to aircraft not originally configured for such precision. “Dumb” bombs would acquire intelligence. Old iron would learn new language. All this would become capability. Capability would become effect. And effect would matter.

What had been rehearsal in Pokhran would become application in Kargil. Muscle memory would translate into survival. The MiG 27s would come in and pound the adversary in large numbers while the M-2000 replaced spectacle with Precision. The same Air Force that once tracked a drifting flare across desert sand would now carve accuracy into mountainsides to protect its own. The MiG-29s would provide over watch and cover, their R73s tested and ready. 

The desert had allowed humour. The mountains would demand resolve. History had already filed its flight plan.

And this time, there would be no sutli, no long rope and no cutting slack

Memories Still Linger…