This part Written by: Omer Rafique
The multi-part saga of a potential doomsday scenario
Somewhere over the Arabian Sea: 9:15 p.m.
“Uqab Two, Uqab Leader.”

“Go ahead, Lead.”

“Two, maintain left hand orbit. Two thousand feet. Check armament switches on.”

“Roger Lead. Two thousand feet. Switches are on.”
Thirty-four year old Squadron Leader Mohsin Ahmad reached up with his gloved left hand and snapped the metallic latch of the dull green oxygen mask into the right side of his white flying helmet. He rechecked his shoulder and waist harnesses, ensuring he was tightly strapped into the British Martin-Baker zero-zero ejection seat. His right hand was on the control stick, with his right thumb on the trimmer button located at its top edge. He moved his left hand back onto the throttle, placing his left thumb gently on the Radio/Transmission button located at its side. The toes of his feet were sitting on the rudder pedals. He was wearing his green flying overalls, and g-suit, with the squadron insignia sewn onto its right sleeve and a small Pakistani flag velcroed onto the left sleeve. His eyes quickly scanned the cockpit instrument panel, from left to right, confirming all systems were performing within parameters. “OK. Let’s go,” he mumbled to himself.
Mohsin and his student pilot/wingman were maneuvering Pakistan Air Force’s newly acquired Super-7 aircraft over a tiny island, forty miles southeast of Gwadar. The night was cool and clear, with absolutely no clouds in sight. The full moon provided just enough light for the two pilots to see ahead of them, without being spotted. The stars were reflecting off the water, making it difficult to differentiate the sky from the sea. Uqab formation, belonging to the no. 32 Fighting Eagles squadron of the PAF’s Combat Commander’s School, had taken-off from their home airbase in Gwadar, Baluchistan at 9:05 p.m. Sherdil formation, consisting of two Mirage V aircraft, belonging to the no. 22 Ghazis Squadron, based at Masroor airbase, Karachi, was to rendezvous with them at exactly sixteen past the hour. Both Mohsin and his wingman were anxiously waiting for the Mirages to show up.
It was the last day of the PAF’s ten daylong annual exercise called Saffron Bandit. Uqabs’ assignment was to provide fighter escort cover to the Mirages, as they carried out a simulated night attack against a ship deep in the Arabian Sea. The PNS Multan had been posing as the Indian aircraft carrier INS Gorshkov for the length of the exercise. Four Pakistani F-16s, simulating IAF Mig-29K fighters guarded the Gorshkov.
Mohsin picked up the Mirages on his aircraft’s six inch by six-inch Italian FIAR pulse doppler radar screen, located in the center of his cockpit instrument panel. The approaching aircraft were flying in close formation, at speeds of mach 0.8, five hundred feet above sea level. Each Mirage was carrying a 4.7-meter long French AM-39 Exocet active radar guided anti-ship missile, under its fuselage. Each Exocet missile contained a 165-kilogram high explosive charge. Enough firepower to bring the mighty Gorshkov to its knees.
Sqn. Ldr. Mohsin quickly radioed the fast approaching Sherdil formation, and instructed them to continue on their heading towards the target. He gradually started to maneuver his own formation, one thousand feet above and to the right of the Mirages. Once in position , he gently moved the throttle one inch forward with his left hand, adjusting his aircraft’s speed to match that of the Sherdils. All four pilots were keeping their eyes, ears and radars wide open for bogeys. Mohsin turned his head towards the left, looked down, and was able to barely make out the outlines of the two Mirages below him against the dark sea. He checked back over his right shoulder and confirmed Uqab Two flying in perfect single echelon formation, at a distance of ten feet, off his starboard wing. From this point onwards, all four aircraft would maintain complete R/T silence, as they flew at near supersonic speeds, straight ahead towards the enemy ship.
The two formations had been flying for less than fifteen minutes when Mohsin Ahmad noticed four blips moving towards them on his cockpit radar screen. The enemy had detected the attack, and had scrambled its F-16s. Mohsin quickly calculated their positions, and realized the enemy aircraft had not reacted fast enough. “By the time the F-16s reach a close enough distance to fire their AIM-9L Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, Sherdil formation should be long gone,” he silently concluded. To further ensure the safety of the Mirages, Mohsin decided to actively engage the lead pair of approaching enemy aircraft.
Since they had already been detected, there was no point in maintaining radio silence any longer. “Uqabs stand-by for afterburners,” he commanded in a casual matter-of-factly manner. “A/Bs go,” as his left hand moved the throttle past full military, and into the afterburner position. The Russian RD-93 turbofan engine worked exactly as advertised. Within a second, Mohsin felt a strong kick in his back as the afterburners engaged. Everything was moving in fast motion now. He gradually moved the stick back, and put his aircraft into a sixty-degree climb, while carefully monitoring the enemy aircrafts’ movements on his radar screen. Lose sight, lose fight. Lose height, lose fight. Two rules every combat pilot learned in fighter flying 101. His wingman had his eyes locked on Mohsin’s aircraft, and was mimicking his every move. Both aircraft were now climbing at supersonic speeds, and heading straight towards the two lead F-16s, in an attempt to gain a position of advantage before the fight started. They had to engage the enemy long enough to allow the Mirages to fire their anti-ship missiles.
The next ninety seconds consisted of Squadron Leader Mohsin Ahmad maneuvering his airplane through eight g’s, dog fighting the F-16s, rattling out nonstop instructions in English mixed with nonstop vulgar obscenities in Urdu to his formation, while simultaneously evaluating the performance of his student pilot.
Mohsin was at eighteen thousand feet, in a hard right turn pulling four g’s, and about to get behind one of the F-16s, when he heard Sherdil Leader’s voice,“Uoo-qabs. Sherr-dil Farr-may-shin. DCO. Kudah Hafiz. Appy Aunting.” Mohsin always had difficulty understanding the thick Pushto accent of his good friend and course mate Squadron Leader Tahir “Gul” Khan. He glanced over at the digital display of the stopwatch on the cockpit Head-Up-Display. “Tahir must have a damn clock in that Pathan head of his,” Mohsin murmured to himself. They had just flown a hundred and eighty miles into the Arabian Sea, in pitch dark, and Tahir had only missed his time over target by a microscopic six seconds. He couldn’t help smiling, under his oxygen mask, at his friend’s habit of using newly learnt English slang phrases in his radio calls; “Happy hunting” being the latest. Tahir’s transmission was an indication to Mohsin that the Mirages had fired their missiles successfully, and were safely exiting towards Masroor airbase in Karachi. There was no point in continuing the engagement with the F-16s any longer. Mohsin had to start planning the exit of his team.
“Two, can you disengage and exit in fifteen,” Mohsin inquired over the radio. “Affirmative Leader,” came the quick reply, mixed with heavy strained breathing. Exactly fifteen seconds later, Mohsin heard the now familiar voice of his student, “Lead, Uqab Two exiting.” It was an indication to Mohsin that his student was in control of his fight, thus being able to exit exactly when Mohsin had ordered him to. “Good work,” Mohsin instinctively complimented his wingman.
Mohsin noticed his target F-16 pull straight up into a vertical climb, in an attempt to get Mohsin off his tail. This was the exit opportunity he had been waiting for. Mohsin continued with the hard right turn, disengaging him from the fight. He flicked the stick forward, putting his aircraft into a negative-g pushover. The Super-7 was now in a controlled steep dive, on a northerly heading, going straight towards the sea. Mohsin gradually moved the throttles back, as he noticed the airspeed indicator crossing twelve hundred kilometers per hour. Suddenly, his aircraft’s Rear Warning Radar detected a radar sweep for a missile lock-on. The second F-16 had disengaged from Uqab Two, and was about to fire a Sidewinder missile at Mohsin’s aircraft. The Super-7’s Electronic Warning System came into action, automatically activating the pre-programmed release of chaffs and flares from the extended chaff adapter, located near the tail. The chaffs and flares worked perfectly and misdirected the Sidewinder that had been fired at him. Mohsin locked his eyes on the altitude indicator. Nine thousand, eight thousand, seven thousand; the digital display on the HUD was rapidly changing to indicate the loss of altitude. Within seconds his airplane was crossing five thousand feet. Mohsin pulled the aircraft out of the dive, leveled-off, and re-engaged the afterburners. The three-second spool-up time of the engines seemed like an eternity, and Moshin felt as if the momentum of the dive would carry him crashing into the water. The A/Bs came online, and the Super-7 quickly regained the airspeed it had lost while attempting to level off from the dive. He was now safely out of the reach of the enemy aircraft. The F-16s realized they had been defeated, and were not pursuing. The mission was successfully over. Mohsin leveled off at three thousand feet, and started looking for his wingman.
“Uqab Two, Uqab Leader.”
“Go ahead, Lead.”
“Two, confirm visual.”
“Affirmative Lead, you are ten o’ clock, low, two miles out.”
“Roger Two. Join right wing, ten feet, angels five, 700 kph, heading 310.”
“Two joining. Five thousand, seven zero zero, three one zero.”
“I should have gotten the second F-16,” Mohsin murmured to himself. “But still, not bad for a night’s work.” He lifted his left hand off the throttle to switch on the wingtip and tail beacon lights of his aircraft. The air conditioning system of these new Chinese aircraft was much better than their predecessors. But Mohsin was still sweating heavily from the heat of the dogfight. He took a deep breath, detached the oxygen mask from his flying helmet, and cleaned the large beads of sweat from his face with his left hand. He slowly rotated his neck to relax his muscles. Now it was time to enjoy the view. He gradually nudged the stick backwards and sideways, simultaneously climbing and banking his aircraft to an altitude of five thousand feet on a northwesterly heading of 310 degrees. His right thumb vigorously moved down on the trimmer, settling the aircraft at a speed of seven hundred kilometers per hour. He could see the reflection of his student pilot’s blinking taillight on the side of his canopy. He decided to look over his right shoulder to ensure his wingman wasn’t moving into formation too quickly.
Uqab Two joined up in close formation, keeping a distance of ten feet from his leader’s right wingtip. While approaching the coastline, Gwadar was much more difficult to pick out than Karachi. Mohsin could barely see the lights of the small city slowly appearing over the dark horizon. This was the final training sortie for his twenty nine year old wingman, Flight Lieutenant Qaiser Abbas. Once they landed, it would be up to Mohsin to decide whether his student was fit to graduate from the demanding four month CCS program; Pakistan Air Force’s equivalent of Top Gun.
Gwadar was now only ten miles away. Mohsin Ahmad started pulling the stick back slowly with the fingertips of his right hand. As the nose of the aircraft reached forty-five degrees above the horizon, in almost slow motion ballet-like precision, he lightly nudged the left rudder pedal with the toes of his left foot, and simultaneously started to move the stick fully to the left. He looked over his right shoulder to check the position of his student. Both aircraft were now upside down. His wingman was stuck on his right wingtip like a leach. “Shabash. Shabash. Good. Bahut Achay. A little closer. That’s it. That’s it,” Mohsin encouraged his student, by whispering to himself. As a fitting tribute to ensure his student did not become over-confident of his own abilities, Mohsin Ahmad pressed the R/T button, and with a smile on his face, still upside down, half way through his barrel roll maneuver, in his fighter jet over the dark Arabian Sea, screamed out at the top of his voice, “Uqab Two. Bahen choud, stay in position.” “Roger Leader,” came back the feeble reply.
Night maneuvers in close formation, at low altitudes over the sea, were not only dangerous, they were illegal. It was tough to differentiate between the dark sea and the dark sky under such conditions, and pilots could get spatially disoriented. Doing a barrel roll in tight formation with a student pilot, just by the seat of the pants, while looking backwards, was a death wish. But this was Sqn. Ldr. Mohsin Ahmad’s trademark; famous throughout the Air Force, and reserved as the final maneuver for students he had decided to clear for graduation. His wingman was well aware of this, and was smiling from ear to ear.
Uqab formation completed the maneuver and settled down at five thousand feet again, on a heading of 310 degrees. “Uqab Two, you have the lead. Congratulations! Now, take us home,” Mohsin acknowledged his student’s competent handling of the Super-7. “Roger Leader. Overshooting you from the right. Join left wing, one hundred feet,” came back the excited reply of his enthusiastic student.
Squadron Leader Mohsin Ahmad, as a child, grew up in a middle class neighborhood in the industrial area of Korangi, Karachi. His now deceased father supported his family as an owner of a small video shop. Mohsin often concluded that he would have made more money than his military salary, had he just continued with his small family business. But the Air Force had trained him well. His military flying career had been short, but distinguished and extremely satisfying. He had been a chief test pilot of the new Super-7 aircraft in China, a senior pilot in an F-16 squadron, and was now an flight commander and instructor in Pakistan’s world famous Combat Commanders School. He was arguably the best pilot, in one of the best Air Forces in the world, flying its best airplane. Ironically, neither his father’s income nor Moshin’s military salary had allowed him to purchase a car. He had thus never learned to drive. But his two thousand flying hours had given him something most Pakistanis could only dream about: hundreds of bird’s eye views of his beloved hometown of Karachi, from all directions, heights, and in every kind of weather. He had recently accepted a position in Dubai, as a Boeing 737 co-pilot in Emirates Airlines. “I spent the last fifteen years serving my country,” he reminded himself. “Now its time to serve myself, and fly the friendly Arab skies. And to buy a nice car.” His only regret was that he had never had a chance to test his skills in actual air combat. With only six months to go in the military, he imagined his dream of a real dogfight would remain unfulfilled.
Mohsin Ahmad could not have been more incorrect about his immediate future.
Delhi, India:
It was already 9:30 p.m. Vijay Chauhan had been waiting in the VIP Taj lounge of the Indira Gandhi International Airport for over an hour. It was well after office timings. He was out of his Army uniform, and dressed in faded blue jeans, white long sleeves Ralph Lauren shirt, and his favorite pair of Nikes. The drive from downtown Delhi had taken forty-five minutes. It had taken another fifteen minutes to park his car and reach the lounge. He calculated it would take another hour to get the visitors settled into their hotel rooms. “Three hours of a perfectly good evening wasted,” Vijay mumbled to himself. He had reserved rooms for the guests at the adjacent Centaur Hotel. The Army did not provide its officers with such luxuries, so he himself was staying at the 61 Cavalry mess. Vijay hated this part of his job. Being an aide and a personal staff officer to a General may have appealed to many a struggling Captains stationed in the boondocks, but he could have done without it.
Vijay settled into the luxurious cushioned brown couch of the newly renovated VIP lounge. The place was filled with the wealthy, good-looking, well-dressed and sophisticated elite of India. Many of these elites were under the age of five. The only occupants who did not fit this bill were the few politicians who were regularly moving in and out of the lounge. Within one hour, Vijay had gone from the third world streets of Delhi, into the second world compound of the airport, and now into the first world of the VIP lounge. “If foreigners were to land at the airport and just visit the this lounge, and go back” he thought to himself, “They would consider India the most prosperous country in the world.” “Why are the VIP lounges of third world countries as clean, as rich and as air-conditioned as the VIP lounges of first world countries?” he asked himself. “Yet the downtowns of third world countries are much poorer, more crowded and much dirtier than those of first world countries?”
“Enough philosophizing.” Vijay motioned towards the waiter dressed in starched whites. He ordered an extra large glass of the complimentary mango juice, and dug into the free stack of the jumbo-sized imported cashews in front of him. He reached forward and picked up a copy of the Asian edition of Time magazine lying on marble coffee table. With his eyes half closed, he leaned back into the couch, started flipping through the magazine, and tuned his ears onto the soft music of Zakir Hussain’s tablas playing quietly through the lounge speakers. “If you can’t beat them, then might as well join them,” Vijay concluded with a smile. “It isn’t every day a Captain gets to enter this kind of place. Might as well make good use of the time.”
Deep down inside, Vijay Chauhan understood quite well that he was as wealthy, as good looking, as sophisticated and as air-conditioned as any of the occupants of the lounge. The Indian Army, due to its very low pay, was no longer the first choice profession of India’s upwardly mobile youth. Most of Vijay’s colleagues and superiors consisted of middle class individuals, who, without their military training, would have been complete misfits in the VIP lounges of India. Vijay was one of the exceptions to this rule. His upper class childhood and his time in the trenches had given him the unique ability to communicate, with equal ease, in perfectly accented English with the Indian yuppies in his age group, and in perfect Rajasthani with the soldiers in his unit. It was an ability that intimidated even many of the Majors and Colonels he served with. Most of who had spent their whole careers trying to master the social skills Vijay had been gifted with, as his inheritance.
“Ladies and Gentleman, may I have your attention please. KLM flight 465 has landed. Passengers will be exiting at gate 4 in Terminal 2,” the announcement echoed in the VIP lounge. Vijay looked at his wristwatch and decided that if he could get the visitors settled into their hotel within an hour, he may still be able to meet up with his friends at the ASC polo club for a late dinner. He walked in the direction of the large lounge door that exited towards the tarmac. “Captain Vijay Chauhan. I am here on official business,” Vijay showed the lounge security guard the airport pass hanging around his neck. The security guard looked him up and down. “Are you going to the airplane?” he asked. “Yes. The KLM flight from Amsterdam that just landed,” replied Vijay. “Can I see your military ID?” the guard ordered, just as Vijay was about to step out of the door, onto the tarmac. Vijay let out a breath of exasperation, reached into his back pocket, and took out his wallet. He flipped it open and showed his picture in uniform to the guard. “Thank you, Sir,” the guard pointed him to the passenger bus waiting at the door. Vijay quickly glanced back to make sure he hadn’t left anything in the lounge, and then stepped into the bus.
The KLM 747 was parked on the tarmac edge, close to the terminal building. The stair truck slowly pulled up to the first class door of the aircraft. Once the stairs were in place, a stewardess opened the aircraft door, from the inside. Slowly, the tired passengers started to step out of the aircraft. The VIP bus pulled up next to the passenger stairs. Vijay decided to stay inside the bus until all the passengers had exited. Lieutenant General Jagmohan Singh had told him, earlier in the afternoon, that their guests would be the last ones to leave the airplane. “Two Americans. Blond hair and blue eyes. They will be better looking than you and me. And a lot better looking than the rest of the passengers,” the hearty Sardarji had informed him with a loud laugh, in a mixture of Punjabi and English. “Speak for yourself, old man,” Vijay had instinctively started to utter out load, but then decided to keep quiet. Discretion was the better part of valor, especially when talking to his boss and future father-in-law.
It took fifteen minutes for all the passengers to leave the aircraft and board the passenger buses, taking them to the large passenger lounge catering to the non-VIPs. Vijay looked up towards the aircraft door and saw the tall Dutch stewardess, dressed in blue, pointing the two guests towards the VIP bus. General Singh’s description wasn’t quite accurate. The younger of the two was a tall man with thinning blond hair. But the elder one was short and stocky with curly brown hair. “Are you with Sierra Technologies?” Vijay asked politely, as the guests reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, we are,” the younger man replied in a thick New England accent. “I was sent by Lt. General Jagmohan Singh to receive you,” Vijay motioned them towards the bus.
The quite drive to the hotel, in Vijay’s car, took only a few minutes. The hotel receptionist was surprised to see that none of the guests carried any luggage, other than their two carry-ons. Vijay ensured the two men were satisfied with the hotel, and had everything they needed. He shook hands with them to bid them farewell. “Thanks for the ride,” the elder of the two finally spoke, as he walked towards the elevator. In a hurry to get to the dinner, Vijay did not bother to reply and started to quickly jog towards the hotel door. Halfway to the door, he turned around, and walked back to the receptionist desk. “I forgot to ask you your name, Sir,” Vijay inquired. The blond-haired man, a bit surprised to see his host return so quickly, politely answered, “I am Moaz. Michael Moaz.” “Captain Vijay Chauhan. It was a pleasure to meet you,” replied Vijay.
Vijay turned around and walked away, assuming he would probably never see these two individuals again for the rest of his life.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia:
The tap on the shoulder caught the man by surprise. He turned around to address his questioner. The short man in the blue suit with the neatly trimmed beard did not look familiar. Being a public figure, he was used to people coming up to him and noticing him, without him having any idea of who they were. “Hello,” he replied with his characteristic smile that had been mastered over a long political career. “Seems like you haven’t recognized me,” Rafi said. The man in the long black sherwani quickly looked over at the meeting table, counted the attendants, and surprisingly concluded, “Rafi?” “Yes,” replied Rafi Qureshi, not quite sure how to react in a situation like this. “It has been a long time, Ali Saheb,” Rafi said, finally leaning over to embrace his old friend and one-time mentor. “Yes, too long. I have been keeping up on your progress. You have done well for yourself, Rafi,” the man said approvingly. “So have you,” replied Rafi Qureshi, wondering whether the man standing in front of him realistically understood how well Rafi had actually done.
Chaudhry Ali Akbar Khan and Rafi Qureshi attempted to catch up on twenty years of lost time in fifteen minutes. “Are you here for the OIC meeting?” Rafi asked. “Yes, the General, and me” Ali Khan pointed towards General Suran at the table. “How was the meeting?” Rafi asked again. “The usual. A lot of speeches, but nothing solid,” Ali Khan replied. “You know we are looking for an ambassador to the US as well as a science minister.” The sudden job offer caught Rafi off guard. He attempted to figure out whether Ali Khan realized how much of a demotion it would be for him to accept such a position. “I will let you know if any candidates come to mind,” Rafi politely declined the invitation in the same subtle manner in which it had been offered.
Prince Talha walked up to Ali Khan and whispered something in his ear. “It’s time to be seated,” Ali Khan motioned Rafi to the meeting table. Prince Talha was the only one in the whole group who knew each guest personally. He had organized and financed the whole meeting. So Rafi was surprised when Talha stepped past the head chair and occupied the seat to his right. This left the seat at the head of the table vacant. Suddenly, the guard outside the entrance opened the doors of the tent. Everyone simultaneously looked in that direction, and could not contain their surprise when they noticed an old lady carefully stepping inside.
Laila Ashwani seemed caught in a time trap. Her loose robin’s egg blue colored long-sleeved dress seemed more suited for a formal setting in the sixties than the meeting she was attending. The neckline was decorated with a shiny set of artificial flowers. She was wearing two sets of pearl necklaces around the layered skin of her frail neck. Her oversized bright earrings were disproportionately large for her small ears. Her aging silvery white hair, light brown skin with an overdose of make-up, on a short somewhat heavyset frame, made here look like a Middle Eastern version of Barbara Cartland. Rafi couldn’t keep himself from staring at the eccentrically attired grandmother.
Laila Ashwani noticed all her guests’ fixated gazes on her as she sat down. “Gentlemen, bismillah,” she instantly came to life, and started the proceedings in a crisp voice that beguiled her age. Her eyes circled around the table, slowly identifying and acknowledging each member of her carefully chosen team. The seventy-two year old Christian Palestinian was confidently sitting at the head of the most powerful group of Muslim men ever assembled, under one tent, since the heyday of the sixteenth century Sulemanic Ottoman Empire.
[To be continued...]