A New India

Departure from New Delhi

The VIP terminal at Indira Gandhi International Airport was quieter than usual.

Prime Minister Rohan walked briskly through the private corridor, flanked by Foreign Minister K.P. Singh and Finance Minister Harish Mehta.

Outside, the massive Air India aircraft stood on the tarmac, its engines making noise in anticipation of the long journey ahead.

A final round of salutes and handshakes took place as the Prime Minister bid farewell to senior cabinet ministers and military officials who had gathered to see him off.

Singh adjusted his glasses and muttered, "Twelve hours in the air. I hope you've packed patience, sir."

Rohan smirked. "You act like this is my first long flight."

Harish chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, but this one ends with the kind of reception where if you blink wrong, it makes the headlines."

Rohan sighed, taking the last step up the aircraft stairs. "Then let's give them something worth reporting."

The Air India aircraft soared above the subcontinent, slicing through the dark skies as it made its way westward.

The cabin had been converted into a workspace diplomatic aides shuffled between compartments, relaying last-minute details, while security officers coordinated with their American counterparts.

Rohan sat by the window, gazing at the endless stretch of night.

Singh was across from him, a pile of documents on his lap, scanning briefing notes for the tenth time.

"You've read that same page three times now," Rohan said, amused.

Singh looked up, adjusting his glasses. "And yet, every time I read it, I find another reason to worry."

Harish, who was sprawled in the seat next to them, sighed dramatically. "You two need to relax. This is a state visit, not a hostage negotiation."

Singh gave him a withering look. "Do you have any idea how much planning goes into these things? Every second of our arrival has been choreographed down to the last handshake."

Rohan raised an eyebrow. "Including my first words after I step off the plane?"

Singh hesitated. "Ideally, yes."

Harish let out a short laugh. "Well, that's a shame, because we all know he's going to say something entirely unscripted."

Rohan smirked. "Now, why would I do that?"

Singh groaned. "Because you enjoy giving me headaches."

The steward approached, breaking the moment. "Prime Minister, we are approximately forty minutes from Washington. U.S. airspace clearance has been confirmed. We will begin our descent shortly."

Rohan straightened up, fastening his seatbelt. "Here we go."

Singh sighed, closing his file. "Time to put on the performance of a lifetime."

The aircraft pierced through the thick cloud cover, descending smoothly towards Andrews Air Force Base.

The sky was a soft blue now, dawn breaking across the horizon.

Inside the cabin, final preparations were underway.

Rohan adjusted his coat, while Singh nervously checked his tie in the reflection of his watch.

Harish, ever the least concerned, merely stretched his arms and muttered, "Let's get this over with."

The wheels touched the tarmac with a soft jolt, and almost immediately, the aircraft taxied towards a designated reception area.

From the small window, Rohan could see the full pageantry of the U.S. state protocol in place rows of uniformed honor guards, the Marine band standing at attention, and a cluster of high-ranking officials waiting at the foot of the stairs.

"Quite the welcome," Harish murmured.

Singh exhaled. "Showtime."

The aircraft doors opened, and a rush of cool morning air filled the cabin.

Rohan stepped forward, pausing for a brief moment at the top of the stairs before descending.

At the base of the staircase stood Charles Whitman, the U.S. State Department's protocol chief, a tall, thin man with a practiced smile.

"Prime Minister Rohan, welcome to the United States," he said, extending his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Whitman. It's a pleasure to be here," Rohan replied, gripping his hand firmly.

As they shook hands, the U.S. Marine band launched into a crisp rendition of Jana Gana Mana, the Indian national anthem.

Rohan stood still, hands at his sides, listening as the familiar tune played across the airfield. As soon as the last note faded, the band immediately transitioned into The Star-Spangled Banner, marking the official diplomatic welcome.

Beyond the immediate ceremony, the small honor guard stood in formation, their white-gloved hands resting firmly on ceremonial swords.

The discipline, the precision it was all designed to send a message of respect.

Next in line was U.S. Secretary of State James Carlton, a broad-shouldered man with a diplomatic air about him.

"Prime Minister, an honor to have you here," he said, shaking Rohan's hand.

"The honor is mine, Secretary Carlton," Rohan replied. "I trust we have much to discuss."

Carlton smiled. "Plenty. But first, let's get you settled in."

A discreet nod from a Secret Service agent signaled the transition to the motorcade.

The long line of black Cars stood ready, their sleek exteriors reflecting the early morning light.

As they moved towards the vehicles, Rohan glanced at Singh. "So far, so good?"

Singh gave a short nod. "For now."

Harish leaned in. "Try not to say anything that makes the headlines before lunch, will you?"

Rohan chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"

As they slid into the waiting car, the motorcade began to move.

The journey had officially begun.

-----

Somewhere in India

The clock on the wall of Rao's office read 2:45 AM.

The corridors of the R&AW headquarters were empty, save for a few night staff moving quietly between rooms.

Rao sat at his desk, rubbing his temples as he went over the notes from his meeting with the Prime Minister.

A dim desk lamp cast a shadow over classified documents spread before him intelligence reports, intercepted communications, and maps of Tibet.

A knock on the door broke the silence.

Rao looked up. "Come in."

His secretary, Gopal Verma, entered, his face betraying no emotion despite the late hour.

He had been working with Rao for years, one of the few men Rao trusted completely.

"Sir, you wanted me?" Gopal asked, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses as he approached the desk.

"Yes," Rao said, straightening in his chair. "It's time. Draft an encrypted message for transmission. Use the Class Cipher 74 encryption and send it through Channel Sigma to our field units."

Gopal nodded, pulled out a small notepad, and picked up the typewriter positioned on the corner of Rao's desk.

His fingers hovered over the keys. "Message?"

Rao exhaled, then dictated, his voice firm and deliberate.

'PHASE TWO AUTHORIZED. TRANSITION TO ACTIVE INTELLIGENCE MANIPULATION. CONFIRMATION REQUIRED. FOLLOW INITIAL PARAMETERS. REPORT ONLY VIA APPROVED BACKCHANNELS. REPEAT PHASE TWO AUTHORIZED.'

Gopal's fingers moved swiftly over the keys, the click-clack of the typewriter the only sound in the room.

Once finished, he tore the page carefully and inserted it into an encryption device, a bulky machine that scrambled the text into an unreadable string.

With precision, he fed the encrypted message into a dedicated secure line that relayed it through pre-established safe houses and cutouts in Kathmandu and Lhasa.

Within minutes, the message was out. Phase Two had begun.

------

Priya was seated in a dimly lit safe house on the outskirts of Kathmandu, sipping a cup of black tea as she scanned through a coded newspaper column one of the ways her CIA contacts relayed discreet messages.

The moment the small radio transmitter on her table buzzed, she knew something important had come through.

She reached for the device, adjusted the frequency, and waited as a series of numbers and letters crackled through the static.

She scribbled them down in her coded ledger, then carefully decrypted the text.

Her eyes skimmed the message, and her expression hardened. "Phase Two authorized."

She knew what that meant.

No more just gathering intelligence this was now about manipulation, influence, and pushing events in the desired direction.

She took a deep breath, then leaned over to her Nepalese contact, Dorje, who was seated across from her.

"It's time. The narrative shift needs to happen immediately. Our channels in the Tibetan exile community must emphasize Chinese betrayal focus on the economic exploitation and the Panchen Lama's role."

Dorje nodded. "We'll make sure the message spreads through the monasteries. The monks will speak, and the people will listen."

---

Arjun had been lying low for three days in a remote Tibetan village under the guise of a spice trader.

His small radio unit, hidden in a wooden storage crate, came to life with a faint buzz as the encrypted message arrived.

He retrieved his cipher book, aligned the transmission sequence, and slowly decoded the message.

As the letters formed words, his lips curled into a slight smirk. Phase Two.

Pasang, his Tibetan contact, noticed his reaction. "What's happening?"

Arjun looked up, tucking the message into his coat. "We're moving forward. Intelligence gathering is done. Now, we start influencing events."

Pasang nodded gravely. "What's the first step?"

Arjun pulled out a hand-drawn map of Chinese supply depots and marked three strategic locations. "We feed selective intelligence to the resistance fighters, just enough for them to stage minor disruptions. We can't be seen as orchestrating attacks, but we can nudge them in the right direction."

Pasang hesitated. "That will bring more Chinese crackdowns."

"That's the point," Arjun replied. "The heavier they crack down, the more they alienate the people."

---

In a small, secluded apartment in Lhasa, Karan sat with his shortwave radio tuned to a specific frequency.

When the message arrived, he decrypted it on a notepad using a pre-memorized cipher.

He read the words carefully, then burned the paper in an ashtray, watching the letters turn to embers.

He turned to his informant, Tashi, a Tibetan merchant with deep connections in both Chinese and local business networks.

"We need to start feeding controlled leaks," Karan said. "Begin planting rumors that Chinese officials are embezzling money from infrastructure projects. The goal is to create internal mistrust within their ranks."

Tashi exhaled sharply. "If they find out I'm involved—"

"They won't," Karan assured him. "Keep it subtle. Suggest that local Chinese administrators are skimming off supply budgets. Let the whispers spread."

Tashi nodded. "If enough people believe it, Beijing itself will start investigating."

---

At a secluded monastery near the Bhutanese border, Sudhir sat with Tibetan exiles who had been monitoring the Chinese military's movements.

He had been waiting for this signal.

As the message came through on his secured radio receiver, he calmly decoded it and turned to the monks seated before him.

"It's time," he said. "Phase Two means the perception battle begins."

One of the monks, an elder named Rinpoche, looked up. "What do you need us to do?"

"Spread the message about the Panchen Lama," Sudhir said. "Not direct accusations just questions. Let the people start asking whether he's truly acting in their best interest or serving Beijing."

Rinpoche smiled knowingly. "Doubt is like fire it spreads when fed."

---

Rao remained in his office, sipping cold tea as he scanned the reports coming in from relay points across Nepal, Tibet, and Bhutan.

Everything was in motion.

Phase Two had begun without a hitch.

Gopal re-entered the office, carrying a fresh set of updates. "Sir, all teams have acknowledged receipt. No anomalies in transmission."

Rao exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Good. Now we wait and watch."

He glanced at the large map of Tibet pinned to the wall, dozens of marked locations connected by red string.