Rebirth in 1970 India

Chapter 5: Earthquake in Pakistan

16 August 1970

The previous night, Vikram had returned in darkness, footsteps muffled by the sandy hush of Sargodha's quiet alleys. The air was still warm but had lost its edge. He moved past shuttered shops and homes veiled in sleep, unmoving as the stars glittered above.

Inside his small rented room, he latched all bolts, drew the blackout curtain, and set his fresh identity papers—handwritten in clean Urdu ink—beneath the soft glow of an oil lamp. He exhaled and sat down beside a chipped wooden writing table, the weight from the day's silence lifting for the briefest moment. Hunted men didn't afford themselves much rest, but tonight, even his breath carried satisfaction.

He had pulled off the impossible—thirty-four fighter jets from Pakistan's most secure air base sold to the System overnight. A complete extraction. No alarms. No trace.

And dawn would bring the reckoning.

### Panic in the Air

By sunrise, PAF Base Sargodha convulsed.

The first technician through the open hangar doorway stumbled backward, gasping. Inside, the aircraft bays yawned, cavernous and empty. Not a tire mark. Not a bolt or bolt ring. The wax-polished floors gleamed with ghostly silence.

Sirens blared. Radios cracked into static-laced emergency channels. Men in khaki uniforms sprinted between buildings, files clutched to chests, boots thudding across concrete. COs barked orders no one knew how to follow. Helicopters hovered above the base perimeter, sweeping in wide arcs, unsure of what to look for.

The scene was chaos in uniform.

Mechanics dropped tools in disbelief. Junior pilots stood frozen, eyes scanning, as if jets might reappear with daylight. A few slapped their cheeks as if waking from a dream. Others swore it was confusion—"It must be a drill. They're parked elsewhere."

But the truth was rapidly undeniable. Two giant hangars were hollowed out like corpses drained of blood.

Those on duty overnight were yanked from bunks and hauled into offices, lined up under barking interrogators. Outside the command building, armed guards formed hasty checkpoints across roads and exit gates.

Inside his office, Air Commodore Imran Mashood sat hunched over his desk, pale with dread. Scattered dispatch papers lay forgotten at his side. The wall-clock struck seven as he picked up the secure phone with hands that trembled.

> *"This is Mashood. We have an incident."*

The reply from **Air Marshal Abdur Rahim Khan** was clipped and groggy.

> "Why are you calling direct? What's happened?"

Mashood's voice cracked. "All aircraft… Sir… Hangars empty. Thirty-four. Gone."

At first, silence. Then sputtered curses. Then hard, metallic focus.

> "I'm coming. Don't move a damn thing."

Within the hour, Air Marshal Rahim arrived by chopper, storming through the silent hangars with a growing entourage of officers. Dust-motes danced in shafts of sunlight where once the wings of jet fighters gleamed. His face darkened by degrees.

The war room crackled with arguments. Accusations flew—sabotage, treachery, bribed guards, a breach from inside.

But there were no footprints. No unlocked panels. No vehicle logs. No blast residue. Only absence.

A vacuum where power had once sat perched like waiting hawks.

### Shockwaves

By midday, President Yahya Khan was briefed. The corridors of General Headquarters in Rawalpindi filled with disbelief.

> "Find the leak. Use force if you must."

Orders came down in cold waves. All personnel stationed at or near the hangars—engineers, watchmen, radar technicians—were detained without ceremony.

Some wept. Others protested innocence. A few simply collapsed where they stood.

Within hours, trucks arrived to transport dozens out for interrogation. More than a third of the base's soldiers quietly slipped away—fled into city backstreets, sold uniforms for bus fare, or hid in the slums of Sargodha. Many never to be seen again.

Outside the gates, gossip bloomed and spiraled.

Some whispered that Indian agents had used **black magic**—spirit flames and shadow cloaks. Others claimed the Americans had activated secret technology to disable Pakistan's rising air power as punishment.

More than one soldier blamed divine wrath.

But none could fathom the truth: thirty-four jets swallowed in silence.

### Meanwhile, in Shadow

Miles away, Vikram lay on a hard mattress beneath a creaking fan. Heat coiled above like smoke, but he barely noticed.

He heard sirens in the distance, truck engines roaring down the nearby highway. Boots thundering on tarred roads. Another reaction. Another domino unanswered.

He poured himself tea from an old kettle, took a long sip, and listened to the chaos bloom.

Everything had unfolded as expected.

### The Departure

By mid-afternoon, Vikram began his quiet withdrawal. Wearing a plain grey kurta and dark shawl, he took only what he needed. He moved through unused paths, along cracked canal roads and wild farmland littered with drying cotton. At intervals, he changed pace, swapped routes, mingled with ox-cart caravans or fruit-bearing workers.

In a less experienced hand, the journey would've drawn pursuit.

But to the streets of rural Punjab, he was invisible.

For two days, he traveled north and west—avoiding trains loaded with paramilitary forces, steering past police checkpoints. With each hamlet passed and language dialed down, the noose of suspicion remained behind him.

### Karachi Arrival

20 August, 1970 — grey skies and the hint of rain overhead as he walked into Karachi, Pakistan's coastal heart. Dirty buses honked and groaned. Tea stalls sizzled. Porters dragged carts through packed backlanes where coconut trees leaned like sentries.

Vikram now wore the face of **Zain Khan**—a quiet-eyed university student with shy habits, round glasses, and a soft-spoken dialect scraped from listening to a dozen students weeks earlier.

The documents were flawless. So were the mannerisms.

At Karachi Central, crowds drifted through vast waiting halls under jolting ceiling fans and banners clinging to the monsoon air. Iron benches clinked with footsteps and gossip.

Vikram approached the counter with a gloved hand and purchased a first-class ticket to Peshawar, which would pass through Lahore.

The attendant didn't even blink.

### The Encounter

The train departed with a metallic groan, steaming slowly past the city's worried heartbeat. Soldiers, visibly unsettled, checked compartments at random, rifles slung beneath nervous eyes.

Inside his sparsely occupied carriage, Vikram leaned toward the window, arms folded, watching suburbs give way to crumbling brick walls and buffalo fields dotted with children.

That's when she entered.

A young woman in a sea-blue shalwar kameez, eyes sharp and thoughtful, hair braided loosely beneath her dupatta. She sat opposite him with fluid grace, placing a modest satchel at her side.

She didn't speak. Not at first.

Her gaze roamed across the passing countryside, brows occasionally drawn as if in thought. Her quietude was deliberate—equal parts poise and vigilance.

Vikram pretended to read a folded newspaper — the headline across the front in bold black print:

> _"Shocking Security Collapse at Sargodha Air Base: Fighter Jets Missing, Air Command Under Scrutiny"_

He couldn't help the faint smile curling one corner of his lips.

The rhythm of the train settled like a second heartbeat, the golden light of the late afternoon filtering through cracked windowpanes.

Then, her voice.

> "Are you going to Lahore?"

He glanced up, allowing just the right delay, then nodded. "Yes. And you?"

> "Lahore as well."

Polite. Neutral.

> "Business or family?" he asked, keeping the tone casual.

She gave a small shake of the head. "I was visiting my sister in Karachi. Heading home now. My brother was supposed to come with me—got called away suddenly."

"Strange times," Vikram remarked. "People always seem to be running."

A flicker of a smile touched her lips. "That's why I like trains. Everyone's running, yet somehow, you stay still for a while."

They exchanged names—Zain Khan and **Zoya Khan**. She offered hers with graceful clarity, her voice calm but layered with something deeper. She asked no pointed questions but let silence work comfortably between sentences.

> "What about you, Zain?" she asked. "Why Lahore?"

Vikram used the same old trick: a truth structured with lies. "I visited a friend—he's leaving soon for London. I might follow, if things go well."

> "London," she said wistfully. "My cousin lives there. Sends letters. Big life stories—milk comes in glass, she says. The gardens look like paintings."

He chuckled. "True or not, best to never let facts ruin a story."

Zoya smiled appreciatively. Then her tone shifted, just slightly—honest.

> "My parents were killed. Four years ago. A bomb in the market… one of those things governments call accident of war."

A beat.

> "My sister and I—we manage. Some days are better."

Silence lingered.

Vikram offered only a soft, "I'm sorry."

Zoya didn't reply—didn't need to. Her silence spoke more than a dozen words. But despite that quiet pain, her composure never wavered. There was steel in her calm.

The train rolled on.

As stations blurred past—bare platforms, sugarcane fields, grazing animals—Vikram fetched tea during a short stop. He returned with toasted nuts in paper cones and handed one to her without a dramatic word.

Zoya blinked. Then, quietly: "Thank you."

As dusk turned the horizon to smoky gold, something unspoken settled between them: an unexpected companionship. Not trust—not yet—but understanding.

Two travelers sharing borrowed names, on a train slicing through a fragile country.

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