Retribution. That was the word hanging heavy in the air. Unspoken, but felt in every taut muscle, every sharp breath, every glance exchanged between men who had seen war and knew what it demanded. Tonight, we weren’t just fighter pilots—we were executioners, carrying the weight of a nation’s vengeance on our wings. This was not about power, prestige, or a show of dominance. This was justice, delivered at 40,000 feet with precision-guided fire. Four days ago, they hit us. It wasn’t a conventional strike—not an open declaration of war, but something worse. A coward’s attack. A military convoy, ambushed in the dead of night. IEDs ripped through the lead vehicles, followed by relentless small-arms fire from across the border. They had waited, prepared. It wasn’t just a terrorist cell acting alone—this was orchestrated, trained, and supported by something larger, something state-sponsored.

The aftermath was brutal. Twenty-one soldiers dead, fifteen injured. Some never had the chance to return fire. The ones who did fought until the last round left their rifles. A nearby airbase sent a Mi-17 helicopter for MEDEVAC, but by the time it touched down, there wasn’t much left to save. The nation was furious. The people wanted blood. The government debated. The media screamed. And behind closed doors, in the war rooms of Air Headquarters, men in uniform drew a different kind of battle plan. A plan that had no name. A mission that would never be acknowledged. A strike that would leave no fingerprints. Air Force Station Ambala had been on high alert since the attack. We knew a response was coming—it was just a matter of when. Rumors flew through the base like static over an open channel. Some said the Prime Minister was still deciding. Others claimed the NSA (National Security Advisor) was pushing for an immediate strike. We weren’t in those rooms. We didn’t care about the politics.

All we knew was this—if the order came, we would fly.

By 1900 hours, the tarmac was already buzzing. Crews were prepping aircraft, triple-checking loadouts. Fuel lines ran to every Rafale, their sleek bodies lined up like silent predators. We weren’t told what to expect, but we had our suspicions.

2200 Hours – The Calm Before the Storm

The base was alive, but in a way only men about to enter battle could understand. There was no shouting, no unnecessary movement—only quiet efficiency, a controlled storm brewing under the surface. I stood by the window of my office, watching the tarmac where my squadron’s Rafales waited under the floodlights, their sleek fuselages reflecting the orange glow. They were waiting. We were all waiting.

Somewhere in Delhi, inside a room filled with men in crisp suits and brass epaulettes, a decision was being made. To strike or not to strike. I already knew the answer. They had no choice but to let us fly tonight. Four days ago, twenty-one of our men were butchered in an ambush. The media was still running footage of the burning wreckage, of bodies covered in bloodied tarpaulins, of grieving families holding framed photographs of soldiers who would never return home. And here we were—the executioners. The men who would deliver the message. A message written in fire, sent at Mach 1.8, and delivered at 40,000 feet. The intercom buzzed in my desk , The voice at the other end crackled. "Commander, CO wants you in the briefing room." I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening into a fist before I relaxed them again.

It was time.

2215 Hours – Mission Briefing Room, Air Force Station Ambala

The clock ticked too slow. Every damn second felt like an eternity, stretching over the room like a funeral shroud. The men sitting around the long table weren’t just my squadron—they were the best of the best. Handpicked. Battle-tested. My Tigersharks. Tonight, there was no easy banter. No lighthearted insults. No Kasper cracking his usual jokes. That was the biggest sign that things were different. Kasper—the glue that held the squadron together—was unusually quiet. He sat with his arms crossed, staring at the screen, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. He was my deputy, my 2IC, my wingman in the air and on the ground. He was the reason our squadron didn’t lose their minds in the pressure cooker of war. When men faltered, Kasper brought them back. When someone lost a friend, he was the first to buy them a drink, pat them on the back, and make a joke filthy enough to make a chaplain blush.

Not tonight.

The room was dimly lit, a deliberate choice. No distractions. No unnecessary details. Just the mission. A single table stood at the center, long and battle-worn, its surface scarred with cigarette burns and the weight of countless classified briefings. Around it sat men who didn’t officially exist tonight—no squadron patches, no insignia, nothing that tied us to the outside world. Ghosts in flight suits. The air was thick with the acrid sting of cigarette smoke and tension. No one spoke. No one needed to. The mission briefing lay open in front of us, but it wasn’t the paperwork that set the tone. It was the man standing at the head of the table.

Air Commodore Vikramjit Singh Majithia. Callsign: Tusker.

I had met men like him before. Legends. The kind of officers who weren’t made—they were forged. But Majithia wasn’t just another war-seasoned commander. He was a tall, broad-shouldered Sardar with a salt-and-pepper beard and a presence that could still a room with a glance. A strict disciplinarian, a relentless perfectionist, a no-frills, no-nonsense leader. The kind of man who would tear you apart for a mistake in the cockpit but fight like hell for you outside of it. He stood there, arms crossed, his dark eyes scanning each of us like a blacksmith measuring molten steel, deciding who was battle-ready and who wasn’t.

"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice gravelly, steady, and completely devoid of ceremony. "You’ve all flown into hell and back. But tonight—" He paused, letting the silence sink its claws into the room. "Tonight is different."

I straightened in my seat. "Tonight, we fly clean, we fly fast, and we come back ghosts." A few exchanged glances. No medals. No reports. No recognition. Just the job. Tusker had been here before. Many times.

The man was a legend in transport ops, the best damn pilot the IL-76 ever had. There were stories about how he once flew blind through a Himalayan blizzard, delivering supplies to a stranded battalion when every other aircraft had turned back. That was how he got his callsign—Tusker—a charging force of nature that didn’t stop for anything.

But tonight, we weren’t ferrying supplies. We were carrying something far heavier.

Lives.

Majithia unfolded his arms and leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. The light caught the fine lines on his face—the kind only earned through years of war, of decisions made in the cold glow of radar screens and cockpit HUDs.

"We do this right, or we don’t do it at all." Silence. Then Kasper shifted beside me. "Understood, Sir."

One by one, we nodded.

Majithia exhaled, slow and measured. Then, in a rare moment of camaraderie, he let the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

"And for God's sake, boys—let’s make it look easy."

Inside the briefing room, the smell of aviation fuel and cigarette smoke clung to the walls. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered slightly, buzzing in the quiet hum of anticipation. A large digital clock above the whiteboard ticked away, each second slower than the last. The men around me weren’t just my squadron. They were my brothers. Some of them had been in covert ops earlier . Others had flown over hostile airspace during tense standoffs. All of them had one thing in common—they knew what it meant to be sent where diplomacy had already failed.

No squadron patches tonight. No insignia on our flight suits. This mission didn’t exist.

At the head of the room stood Air Commodore Majithia, our Station Commander. His posture was rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning each of us, measuring, calculating. Behind him, a Strategic Operations Officer from Air Headquarters—a man in a crisp uniform, too clean, too formal, an outsider to those of us who lived our lives between afterburners and missile locks—adjusted his notes.


The Strategic Operations Officer from Air Headquarters clearing his throat. The bastard had never flown a day in his life, but tonight, he was one of the men holding the kill switch. "Gentlemen," Majithia’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "This doesn’t leave this room. You are about to execute a mission that is as critical as it is classified. This is not a routine airstrike." A pause. His eyes swept over us. “Folks,” he said, voice steady but edged with something deeper. Something colder. “I say again, What we discuss here does not leave this room.” He let the words settle before continuing.

"This is retribution." A ripple of tension passed through the room. He turned to the Strategic Officer, who tapped a key on his encrypted MacBook Pro, bringing up a satellite image on the screen. The SOO tapped a key on his laptop. The screen flickered—a satellite image appeared. A compound. High walls. Radar domes. Hardened bunkers.

A breathless pause. Then, Kasper’s voice—low, quiet, and utterly devoid of humor. "Looks cozy. Should we send a housewarming gift?" It was the weakest joke he’d ever cracked. But in this room, in this moment, it was the only thing keeping us from being consumed by the weight of what we were about to do. I glanced at him. He held my gaze, just for a second. And that was all I needed.

He was ready. We all were. “This is your target. Nest.” It was deep inside enemy territory. Well-defended. Active. “The bastards thought they could hit us and walk away,” Majithia continued. “That they could orchestrate a cowardly attack and hide behind politics. But that’s where they’re wrong.”

The room was silent. We knew what he meant.

A few days ago, a devastating attack on Indian soil had left scores dead. The intelligence pointed to this facility—a nerve center for enemy operations. The politicians in Delhi had spent days debating the response, but we all knew what needed to be done.

Hit them. Hit them hard. Make sure they never forget. The SOO cleared his throat. “The operation will commence at 0245 hours, pending final clearance from the PMO. You will be wheels up the moment the green light is given.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. The wait for the go-ahead was the hardest part.

Majithia turned to me. “FlyBoy, you’re leading the strike package. This is a high-altitude, precision-targeting operation. No unnecessary engagements. Get in, hit them, and get out.” I nodded. No dramatics. No chest-thumping. Just a quiet acknowledgment. “You’ll be flying low and fast—below radar detection levels until the final approach. Terrain masking will be crucial. Expect enemy SAM sites to be live.”

Kasper, my wingman, leaned forward. “What about their CAP?” Majithia’s jaw tightened. “We’re expecting J-10s on high-alert. There’s a fifty-fifty chance they’ll scramble in time to intercept. If that happens, engage only if necessary. This isn’t a dogfight, gentlemen. This is about delivering a message.”

The mission profile flashed on the screen—Ingress through the southwest corridor, pop-up strike, egress through valley terrain, RTB.

"Your loadout will be Spice-2000 Penetrator bombs, MICA-EMs, and Magic-II heat seekers. You are to take out the primary control center and enemy weapons storage."

There was a moment of silence. The finality of it settled over us like an unseen force.

Majithia’s eyes met mine. “Make sure they remember who we are.We are the Indian Air Force. ”


2330 Hours – The Weight of Command

I turned to my squadron. "Listen up." My voice was steady. Controlled. It had to be. "Four days ago, twenty-one of our brothers were murdered in cold blood. These people think they can hit us and walk away. They think we’ll hesitate." I let the words hang for a second. "They are wrong." A shift in the air. The room got even quieter, heavier. "Tonight, we deliver a message. A message written in steel, in fire, in missile strikes that leave nothing but dust behind." Kasper exhaled softly. Others straightened in their chairs, jaws tight, fingers curling into fists. "We are not here for revenge. We are here for justice. We are here to remind them what happens when they cross the line. They will know what happens when they wake the Tigersharks."

As we walked towards the mess hall, I turned to Kasper. "You’re my second. You call it if I go down." His lips pressed into a thin line. Then he nodded once. "Not happening tonight , Boss." I nodded as he spoke . "We fly together. We fight together. We come back together.That’s what you always tell me." The mess hall was empty, save for a few officers sipping black coffee. The smell of strong brew mixed with the faint scent of aviation fuel lingering on my flight suit.

I didn’t feel hungry. No one did before a mission like this.

Instead, I walked out onto the tarmac, the cold night wind biting through my jacket. Out there, under the floodlights, sat Shakti—my Rafale, her sleek frame catching the glow of the base lights. She was more than just a machine. She was my companion in battle, the only thing that understood the silence before a storm. Kasper walked up beside me, arms crossed. “They’re still waiting on the go-ahead.” I exhaled. “It’ll come.” “Yeah, but by then, I might be old enough to retire.” I smirked. It was a weak attempt at humor, but that was Kasper’s way. We had both seen too many nights like this—not knowing if we’d be wheels up in minutes or sitting around, waiting for politicians to decide what we already knew.

Then— The siren blared. A single, shrill note that sent a jolt through my spine. Across the tarmac, ground crews snapped into action. Fuel lines were pulled away. Chocks removed. Canopies opened. My comm crackled in the Motorola Walkie Talkie in my hand . "FlyBoy, green light from the Boys Upstairs. We’re a go." I exhaled sharply. Finally. And from behind me, Kasper muttered just loud enough for me to hear:

"Guess we’re sending that housewarming gift after all."

2130 Hours – National Command Centre, New Delhi

The room hummed with tension, a silent but palpable force pressing against the walls, against the men inside. The National Command Centre (NCC) was a fortress—deep underground, reinforced with steel and concrete, an unbreakable shell designed for moments like this. Moments where nations teetered on the edge of war.Inside, the war room was a theatre of control and chaos, a battleground of intelligence feeds, satellite imagery, and classified communiqués. Banks of monitors lined the walls, showing live satellite feeds of enemy installations, thermal scans from high-altitude surveillance drones, and real-time radar tracking of hostile air movements.
At the long central table, the country’s most powerful men and women sat, their faces carved from stone, their eyes sharp and unwavering. The Chief of Defence Staff, Chief of Air Staff, Chief of Army Staff,The Navy Chief, National Security Advisor, Defence Minister and the who’s who of the spooks , the intelligence head honchos . Behind them, aides moved like shadows, relaying intelligence updates, whispering into ears, handing over classified dossiers.
But the only person who mattered was the man at the head of the table.
The Prime Minister.
2135 Hours – The Weight of a Nation
The PM’s hands were steady, but his mind was a battlefield.For the past four days, he had carried the weight of a country demanding justice. The opposition was screaming. The media was relentless. But nothing weighed heavier than the photos on his desk.Burnt-out vehicles. Blood-streaked sand. Twenty-one men in uniform who would never go home.
Sons. Fathers. Brothers.Husbands.
He had spent the last forty-eight hours locked in high-level meetings, listening to diplomats warn of “escalation,” of “regional instability,” of “international repercussions.” The bureaucracy wanted restraint.
But the soldiers? The soldiers wanted war.His eyes flickered across the room.
The War Room beneath South Block was a fortress in its own right—cold steel, reinforced concrete, and enough classified intelligence floating around to write the next world war. The walls, lined with strategic maps and live satellite feeds, pulsed under the soft glow of digital screens, each one displaying a different piece of the puzzle.But no one was looking at the screens. All eyes were on him.The Prime Minister sat at the head of the long, polished table, his face an unreadable mask of control. His fingers tapped against the leather folio before him—the document that would set the wheels of retribution in motion.
In front of him, spread across the table, were twenty-one photographs.Not statistics. Not numbers. Faces.Fathers. Husbands. Sons. Men who had gone out to serve their country and had come back in coffins draped in the tricolor.His jaw clenched.For the last four days, he had listened to everyone.
The External Affairs Minister had warned him about international repercussions. The diplomatic corps had been busy drafting statements, speaking in measured tones about “strategic patience.” The Intelligence Bureau had confirmed beyond doubt that this was a state-sponsored attack, and yet, the world would call for restraint.
But restraint had cost twenty-one lives.And now, justice would be delivered at 40,000 feet, with precision-guided steel.
The National Security Advisor cleared his throat.
"Sir, Air Headquarters is standing by. The strike package is prepped. The pilots are in their cockpits. The Rafales are armed, fueled, and ready for takeoff from Ambala. But they need your word."
Silence.
The room felt too small, too stifling.The Chief of Air Staff, a man who had flown countless combat missions, leaned forward. His voice was controlled but edged with quiet steel.
"Prime Minister, we have a window. We cannot afford to lose this element of surprise. If we do not act now, they will disperse. The next attack could be bigger. We need your go-ahead."
The Defence Minister, usually the loudest voice in any security meeting, was silent.He didn’t need to say anything.His expression said it all.
2115 Hours – Prime Minister’s Private Chamber, South Block, New Delhi
The Prime Minister sat alone in his office, his elbows resting on the polished mahogany desk, his fingers interlocked beneath his chin. The weight of 1.4 billion people rested on his shoulders, but in this moment, all he could hear was the quiet hum of the city outside and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
His mind was a storm, raging with thoughts that refused to settle.
For four days, he had been at war—not with the enemy, but with himself.
The diplomats in the Ministry of External Affairs had cautioned restraint. They had spoken of United Nations resolutions, diplomatic fallout, and economic repercussions.
"This will alienate our allies.""This could lead to sanctions.""We need to act smart, not strong."
The intelligence chiefs had been firm.
"We have irrefutable proof. They were behind this.""They think they can hit us and hide behind deniability.""If we don’t act now, the next attack will be worse."
The generals,admirals and air marshals had been unflinching.
"Give the order, sir. Let us do what must be done."
And then there was the public—millions of people demanding retribution.
Protests in the streets. Political opponents calling him weak.News anchors dissecting his every move, debating whether he would rise as a leader or fall as a coward.He closed his eyes. This was his moment in history.He had seen what happened to leaders who hesitated.Wars had been lost not because armies were weak, but because decisions came too late.He thought of his predecessors, of the Prime Ministers who had led the nation before him. Some had been bold, others cautious. Some had acted, and history had judged them. Some had waited, and history had condemned them.
And then he thought of the twenty-one dead soldiers.The images were etched into his mind, even with his eyes closed.Burnt-out vehicles. Blood-soaked uniforms. Men who had died waiting for orders that never came.
Waiting for a leader to act.His jaw clenched.There would be no hesitation tonight.
The Prime Minister sat behind his heavy oak desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished surface. The weight of history hung in the air, pressing down on his chest like an unseen force. For four days, he had listened to the intelligence briefings, the diplomatic assessments, and the military options. But now, the moment of decision had arrived. Twenty-one soldiers lay dead. The country was waiting. His mind was a battlefield, raging with thoughts of consequences and retribution. What happened tonight would define his legacy. His eyes flickered toward the secure red telephone—the direct line to Air Headquarters. One call, and the strike package at Ambala would be airborne. But before he lifted the receiver, he needed to hear from two men whose voices carried the weight of experience, of war, of consequence. He reached for his secure intercom. "Call the National Security Advisor and the Chief of Defence Staff to my office. Immediately." The Prime Minister sat back, exhaling slowly, preparing himself for the conversation that would decide the fate of men he would never meet, men who would either be avenged or left as ghosts waiting for justice.
2145 Hours – The Trio
The door opened, and two men entered the Prime Minister’s chamber. The National Security Advisor (NSA) walked in first—a master strategist, a former spymaster, a man who had spent his entire life in the shadows. He was in his late sixties, his face lined with experience, his eyes sharp, analytical, and utterly devoid of emotion. His job was not to feel. His job was to calculate. He had advised four Prime Ministers, navigated diplomatic crises, brokered secret deals in back channels, and sanctioned operations that would never see the light of day. Behind him, the Chief of Defence Staff (CDS) entered—a soldier’s soldier, a battle-hardened warrior who had commanded men in war and had watched them die. He was in his fifties, broad-shouldered, with a jaw set in iron. Unlike the NSA, he was a man of action. He spoke in commands, not suggestions. He Saluted the PM.
The door closed behind them. The three most powerful men in the country stood in silence. Then the Prime Minister spoke. "Tell me the truth. No politics. No diplomacy. Just the truth. What happens after I say yes?"
The NSA was the first to respond. "Sir, there will be consequences." The Prime Minister’s fingers tightened against the desk.
"God Damn It ! I know that. Walk me through them." The NSA exhaled, his voice measured. He was a man who had never panicked a day in his life. "The world will react. Our neighbour will deny everything, as they always do. They will cry foul in front of the UN, claiming an unprovoked attack. Their military will scramble jets, but we are watching every move they make. We control the skies tonight."
The Prime Minister nodded. He knew this part. He had played this game before. "And the international response?" The NSA leaned forward. "Mixed. Some allies will quietly support us. Some will call for restraint. The Americans will issue a carefully worded statement but won’t interfere. The Russians will remain neutral. The Chinese… well, they will use this as an excuse to increase their influence in the region." The Prime Minister stared at his desk. The political chessboard was shifting before his eyes. A single call could change global power dynamics overnight. "And our own people?" The CDS spoke for the first time. His voice was gravel, his tone carrying the weight of a man who had buried too many brothers-in-arms.
"Sir, our men are waiting." The Prime Minister looked up. The CDS’s eyes were not cold, but they were tired. Tired of waiting for permission to fight. "Sir, with due respect , If you hesitate," the CDS continued, "if you let this attack go unanswered, the message is clear—we are weak. Every soldier in uniform will know that when their time comes, their deaths will be counted as statistics in a file. But if you act—"
The Prime Minister’s stomach clenched. "Then what?" he asked. The CDS’s voice was unwavering. "Then we prove that we do not wait for justice. We deliver it." Silence. The weight of the words settled. The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. His mind was made up.
The Prime Minister turned to the NSA and the CDS, looking at both men, searching for hesitation.
There was none. "This is the right call?" he asked. The NSA spoke first. "It is the only call." The CDS spoke next. "Yes, Sir. It’s time."
2255 Hours – The Prime Minister’s Reckoning
The room was heavy with silence, the kind that comes before a storm, the kind that crushes everything in its path before unleashing destruction.
The Prime Minister stood tall, his eyes burning with an intensity that made even the most hardened warriors in the room straighten their spines.
His voice, when it came, was not just an order—it was a declaration. A vow. A battle cry.
"India will not cow down anymore."
The words hit like thunder, reverberating through the chamber, each syllable dripping with fire, with fury, with the weight of a billion people behind it.
The NSA and the CDS stood frozen, their backs straightening instinctively, as if the air itself had shifted. This was not a Prime Minister giving a speech. This was a leader unleashing a reckoning.
"For too long," the Prime Minister continued, his voice rising, "we have been expected to turn the other cheek. To absorb the blows. To mourn our dead while our enemies celebrate. They think we are a nation of peace, a nation of patience. And we are."
His hands curled into fists of iron, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his neck stood out.
"But let them be warned—our patience is not our weakness. It is our strength. And when it runs out… we do not forget. We do not forgive. We strike. And when we strike, it is with the wrath of a billion souls."
The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in, suffocating under the weight of what was being spoken.
"If someone enters our home and kills our bravehearts—our people—then we will not stop. We will not rest. We will hunt them down to the ends of the earth. We will find them in their caves, in their bunkers, in their fortresses and even to hell. And we will burn them to ash."
His eyes locked onto the CDS, onto the NSA, onto the men who would carry out his will.
"This is the new India. This is an India that does not wait for justice. This is an India that delivers it."He took a step forward, his voice now a command, a war cry, a promise written in fire.
"Our enemies have made a grave mistake. They thought they could bleed us and walk away. Tonight, we remind them—this is not the India of yesterday. This is an India that stands. That fights. That does not bow. That does not break. That does not run."
The NSA, a man who had seen and sanctioned dozens of covert operations, a man who rarely let emotion dictate his expressions, felt something stir deep in his chest.The CDS, a warrior who had spent his life commanding soldiers, watching them die, leading them into the fire, felt something he hadn’t felt in years.
A fire. A purpose. A promise.The Prime Minister’s eyes flickered to the red telephone.
He exhaled once, as if shaking off the last remnants of hesitation.The PM exhaled. He reached for the red telephone—the direct, secure line to Air HQ.
For a moment, his fingers hovered over the receiver.There was no turning back after this.
This would be his moment in history.
"This is the Prime Minister." A heartbeat.
"Yes, Sir," came the steady voice of Air Chief Marshal R.K. Walia, awaiting the final word.
The Prime Minister’s grip tightened around the receiver.
His next words would send fire into the skies and turn the night into a beacon of vengeance.
"Air Strike Approved." No hesitation. No second-guessing.This was war.
He set the receiver down, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been lodged in his chest for hours.
As he set the receiver down, his fingers curled into a fist of ironThen, without hesitation, he picked up his pen and signed the document in the leather folio.
The hunt had begun.
2300 Hrs - The War Room : The Call That Shook the Nation
Air Chief Marshal R.K. Walia was not a man who flinched. He had stared death in the face, pushed machines beyond their limits, and danced on the edge of the impossible.Before he was the guardian of India’s skies, before he sat at the head of the Indian Air Force, he had been a test pilot at the Aircraft & Systems Testing Establishment (ASTE)—the elite fraternity of warriors who pushed India’s most advanced warbirds to their breaking point, so that others would never have to.His hands had once gripped the control stick of prototype aircraft, flying them into the unknown, feeling the airframe groan under pressure, watching dials flicker dangerously in the red. Every test was a gamble, every flight a leap into uncertainty.And yet, he had always returned.Because fear had never been part of his vocabulary.He had flown MiGs, Mirages, Sukhois, Jaguars—every machine the Air Force had ever trusted with war. He had screamed across the sky at Mach 2, his mind calculating a thousand variables at once. His instincts were sharper than any radar, his reflexes honed by years of surviving in the unforgiving cockpit.And when he wasn’t testing aircraft, he was leading men into battle. Walia did not believe in barking orders from an office.
He was the kind of commander who would strap into a fighter jet alongside the youngest rookie and show them what it meant to own the sky.He had led strike missions deep into enemy territory, had felt the tremor of missile locks on his aircraft, had executed breakneck maneuvers to shake off enemy SAMs, had watched as the flaming wreckage of hostile jets spiraled into the earth beneath him.
He had seen war. He had survived it. And he had learned from it.And now, as Chief of Air Staff, he was the architect of India’s vengeance.
A shrill, piercing sound shattered the tense silence of the War Room. The Red Telephone—the direct line from the Prime Minister’s Office—buzzed ominously on the polished mahogany table, its ringing slicing through the charged air like a blade.
Every eye in the room snapped toward it. Every breath was held. Air Chief Marshal R.K. Walia—a man who had spent decades commanding fighter squadrons, a warrior who had sent men into battle and welcomed them home, or mourned those who never returned—stared at the phone for a brief second. A second that felt like eternity.
Then, with a steady hand, he lifted the receiver.
"This is the Prime Minister." The words rang out, calm yet carrying the weight of a nation’s fury.
"Yes, Sir." His own voice was firm, unwavering—a soldier awaiting his command. Then came the words that would change the course of history.
Deliberate. Final. Absolute.
"Air Strike Approved."
A beat of silence. Then, the war room erupted into controlled chaos—orders were relayed, signals transmitted, the wheels of war now turning. The hunters had been unleashed.
And before the night was over, justice would be delivered from the skies.
Air Chief Marshal R.K. Walia set the red telephone down with finality, his fingers lingering on the receiver for a brief second. The order had been given.
The war had begun.
There was no time for hesitation.He turned swiftly toward another secure line, this one directly patched to Western Air Command—the nerve center that controlled India’s air operations along its most volatile front.
He lifted the receiver and spoke with barely contained urgency.
"Western Air Command, this is the Air Chief. Patch me through to Air Marshal Devraj Singh. Now."
Air Marshal Devraj Singh, AOC-in-C (Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief), Western Air Command, had been standing by for this moment, his eyes fixed on the massive operational map covering the wall of his command center.
He was a warrior first, a strategist second.A former Jaguar strike pilot, Singh had spent decades perfecting the art of precision bombing. He had led deep-penetration missions, taking his aircraft past enemy radar, through narrow valleys, and straight to high-value targets.
Tonight, however, he was not in a cockpit.Tonight, he was in command of the skies.
His face remained stone-cold, unreadable, but inside, his mind was a flurry of calculations. Weather conditions. Radar sweeps. Enemy CAP (Combat Air Patrol) status. Everything had to be perfect.
A secure phone buzzed on the console before him. His aide picked it up, listened for a second, and turned to him.
"Sir, it’s the Chief of Air Staff."Singh picked up the receiver.
"Sir."
"Devraj, the PM has approved the strike. It’s time."
Singh didn’t blink."Understood, Sir. Patching Ambala now."
With a single nod, he signaled to his communications officer, who immediately linked the call to Air Commodore Majithia, Commanding Officer (CO) of Air Force Station Ambala—the man responsible for launching the Tigersharks Squadron into battle.
2305 Hours – Western Air Command, Delhi
Air Marshal Devraj Singh, the AOC-in-C (Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief), Western Air Command, barely hesitated. The man was a seasoned warrior, a battle-hardened veteran who had spent years strategizing air campaigns. He wasn’t just a commander; he was a tactician, a master of the chessboard in the sky.
Once a Jaguar deep-penetration strike pilot, Singh had flown low-level bombing runs that left enemy radars scrambling. Cold, methodical, and always two steps ahead, he was known for his relentless pursuit of perfection in aerial combat strategy. His hands tightened into fists as he processed Walia’s words.
"Sir, understood. Patching Ambala now. Also—" Singh paused, his eyes flicking to the AWACS readiness board, "—I’m taking command from the skies. I want a full aerial view of this strike in real time. Request permission to get airborne on the Phalcon AWACS."
Air Chief Marshal Walia didn’t even hesitate. "Granted. Get up there, Devraj. I need your eyes in the sky."
Singh turned sharply to his staff. "Prepare the Phalcon AWACS for immediate launch. I’ll be wheels-up in ten." As Singh strode toward his waiting aircraft, he punched another secure line, this time connecting to Ambala. The operation was now in full motion.
2315Hours – Air Force Station Ambala, Haryana
The Mission Command Center at Ambala was a storm waiting to break, its walls humming with the energy of encrypted communications, live tactical feeds, and the hushed urgency of men and women on the edge of war. Every screen in the room flickered with real-time telemetry, surveillance images, and radar sweeps—a living, breathing organism of battle readiness.
At its center, Air Commodore Vikramjit "Turbanator" Majithia stood like an anchor in a tempest, his arms folded, his dark eyes locked onto the operational map dominating the wall. He was a man who had flown into warzones where the sky itself seemed to want him dead, where radar locks and missile alerts were as common as breathing.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he wasn’t just launching an air operation. He was launching vengeance.
Then, the secure phone buzzed sharply, the shrill sound slicing through the tension in the room.

Majithia turned, his movements precise, his instincts already bracing for what was coming. He picked up the receiver, pressing it to his ear with a grip that was iron, steady—controlled fury held in check.
"Majithia here." A familiar voice came through—calm, clipped, but edged with urgency.
"Tusker, it’s Devraj. We have the green light. Strike is a go." Majithia’s jaw clenched. For a fraction of a second, he felt the weight of the moment press into his chest like a force of gravity. Then, the feeling passed. His voice came out like steel. "Understood, Sir. Tigersharks are already prepping. We’ll have them airborne as per plan." His men—his warriors—were already strapping in, throttles primed, afterburners ready to rip open the night sky. But Singh wasn’t done. His next words made Majithia’s pulse skip half a beat. "I want you up there, too." Majithia’s fingers tightened around the receiver. He hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of pure instinct. He had expected to command from the ground, to coordinate from the war room. But now?
"Sir?" Singh’s voice sharpened. "You’re taking command of the Netra Electronic Warfare aircraft. I need you and your team airborne, running jamming ops and intercepting enemy signals. The strike package needs a clear path in and out—and I trust you to make sure of that." Majithia closed his eyes for a split second. Trust.
That word carried weight.
It was one thing to fly transport missions into hell. Another thing entirely to be the invisible force shielding the strike package, blinding enemy radars, feeding real-time intelligence to the men risking everything. This wasn’t just another flight. This was a battlefield without missiles, a war fought in the unseen spectrum of electronic warfare.
His mind made the shift. "I’ll be airborne in thirty after briefing the team, Sir." Singh’s voice remained clipped, pure authority, pure command. "Make it fast."
The line went dead.
Majithia let out a slow breath, then set the receiver down with deliberate finality.
0000 Hours – The Storm Breaks
He turned on his heel, his voice slicing through the war room like a whip crack. "Get the Netra prepped for immediate takeoff." A young operations officer hesitated, his brow creasing.
"Sir, but—" Majithia’s glare could have melted steel. "Do it. Now." The officer swallowed hard, nodded, and sprinted for the tarmac. Majithia wasn’t waiting. He was already moving. Majithia’s gaze snapped onto him, cold as tempered steel, unyielding as a cockpit canopy at 40,000 feet.
"Do it. Now."
The officer swallowed hard, nodded briskly, and bolted for the tarmac. There was no questioning that tone, no room for second-guessing. Orders weren’t requests. Not tonight.Majithia was already moving with the purpose of a man who had flown into warzones and come out the other side.
0025 Hours – A Pilot’s Reckoning
The night air was cool but heavy, thick with the scent of aviation fuel and the distant hum of idling fighter jets. Majithia strode across the tarmac with purpose, his flight suit half-zipped, his boots pounding against the cold concrete. He wasn’t just a transport pilot—he was a combat-tested air warrior. He had flown AN-32s and IL-76s through the most hostile airspaces on Earth—dodging heat-seeking missiles, banking hard against the pull of radar locks, delivering men and supplies into firestorms that few dared enter. He had seen flaming wreckage spiral into the desert below, heard the desperate voices of pilots calling out in their final moments. And he had sworn, with every mission, every flight, every ounce of his soul, that his men would not go down like that. Not on his watch. He wasn’t a fighter pilot. But tonight, he would fly like one.
0040 Hours – The Ghost in the Sky
The Netra stood waiting on the runway, a sleek, ghostly shape in the floodlights. Its modified Embraer airframe was no warbird, no strike jet— but tonight, it was something even more dangerous. Tonight, it was a weapon of its own. Majithia climbed the ladder two rungs at a time, sliding into the left seat. Inside, the crew stiffened as they saw him. Their CO wasn’t watching from the ground tonight. He was leading from the sky. "Power up all systems," Majithia ordered, voice even. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
"Yes, Sir. ECM coming online." One by one, the screens flickered to life—an invisible web of jamming signals, radar deception, electronic noise already spreading into the atmosphere.
Majithia exhaled, gripping the controls. The radio crackled.
“WarHammer, Be Ready to Get Airborne.” The Netra AEW&C, call sign WarHammer, wasn’t built to fire missiles or drop bombs, but tonight, she was just as deadly. Developed by DRDO in partnership with Embraer, she was the silent eye in the sky, a force multiplier designed to detect, track, and neutralize threats long before they could be seen. Her 360-degree AESA radar swept the battlespace, locking onto enemy jets, missiles, and even low-flying drones trying to sneak past defenses. But she was more than just a sentinel—her electronic warfare suite could jam hostile radars, disrupt enemy comms, and inject false targets into their systems, creating a digital fog of war.
At FL510, cruising above the strike package, she was the command post in the sky, linking ground controllers, fighter squadrons, and air defense networks in real-time, ensuring every pilot had unbroken situational awareness. "Ambala Tower, WarHammer requesting immediate departure, heading two-six-zero." The radio crackled. "WarHammer, Ambala Tower, you are cleared hot. Climb and maintain FL310. Call when established." Majithia acknowledged, his fingers tightening around the throttles. "Copy that, Ambala. WarHammer rolling." The twin General Electric CF34 engines roared, lifting the Netra into the ink-black sky. As she leveled off, her electronic warfare suite reached out, sweeping for enemy signatures, searching for the slightest flicker of a threat. Below, the Tigersharks were pushing toward the Initial Point, unseen, undetected. "WarHammer to Tigershark Lead—eyes on. You're clear all the way. Send them a message they won’t forget." The hunt had begun.
Outside, the first Rafale screamed down the runway, afterburners igniting in a blue inferno.
Then the next. Then the next. The sky was waking up. And the storm was coming.
0055 Hours – The Hunt Begins
Above the clouds, the Netra leveled off, its sensors scanning the battlefield below, intercepting enemy comms, scrambling hostile radars, blinding the opposition. Inside his helmet, Majithia exhaled slowly. His mission was clear. "Tonight, I am the ghost in the sky. The unseen force. The guardian. The hunter." Then, across the radio net, the voice of Wing Commander Rishi "FlyBoy" Parashar came through—calm, unshaken, ready for war. "Warhammer, this is Tigershark Lead. We are en route to target. Time to go hunting." Majithia’s lips curled into a grim smile. "Copy that, Tigershark Lead. The skies are yours. Happy hunting."
The hunt had begun.
0105 Hours – The Sky Awakens
At Ambala, the first Rafale screamed down the runway, afterburners igniting in a blue inferno. Then the next. Then the next. Above them, the Phalcon AWACS had already taken to the skies, its massive radar dish scanning everything within a thousand-kilometer radius. Minutes later, the Netra EW aircraft followed, its onboard systems already intercepting enemy frequencies, jamming radars, and opening up an invisible corridor for the strike package.
0145 Hours – The Chain is Complete
From thousands of feet above, inside the Phalcon AWACS, Air Marshal Devraj Singh peered at the massive tactical display before him. "All aircraft confirmed airborne. Strike package en route." A voice came over the secure net. "Warhammer to Overlord. . Electronic warfare systems active. Enemy radar blackout initiated." Singh nodded in approval, then switched to the squadron frequency. "Tigershark Lead, this is Overlord. You are clear all the way. Send them a message they won’t forget." A brief pause. Then, the calm, unmistakable voice of Wing Commander Rishi "FlyBoy" Parashar came through. "Roger that, Warhammer. Time to go hunting."
The hunt had begun. A heavy silence hung in the Prime Minister’s private chamber, thick and unshakable. The war had begun.
The NSA and the CDS exchanged a look—a moment of silent understanding between men who had seen history being made before, men who knew the weight of decisions that could not be undone.The Prime Minister sat still, his fingers resting on the now-signed authorization. The thick leather folio before him was just paper, ink, bureaucracy—but its significance was etched in fire and steel.
The air in the room felt different now. Heavier. Final.There was no applause, no celebration, no grandstanding. This was not a moment for speeches.
This was the moment before the storm.
Somewhere in the dark skies above the subcontinent, pilots were locking their visors, strapping into their jets, preparing to kill.Somewhere beyond the mountains, their targets were sleeping, unaware that retribution was already on its way.The NSA adjusted his tie, breaking the silence first. His voice was level, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet acknowledgment of the political firestorm that was about to unfold.
"Sir, the diplomatic fallout will begin by morning."
The Prime Minister didn’t blink.His answer was immediate, absolute.
"Let them talk."There was no bravado in his tone. Just certainty.
Let the world react. Let the enemy cry foul. Let the think tanks and analysts dissect his decision.It didn’t matter.
By the time the first statements were drafted, the operation would already be over.The CDS nodded once. His expression was unreadable, but in his eyes, there was something that hadn’t been there before.A flicker of respect.
"Sir, I need to be in the War Room."The Prime Minister exhaled, slow and steady.He could feel it now—the strange stillness that came after a choice had been made, the moment when hesitation no longer existed.He wasn’t just a politician anymore.He was a leader.Without another word, the three men turned and walked toward the War Room—a few rooms away, but a world apart from where they had stood just moments before.As the doors opened, the room inside was alive with movement.Maps glowed under dim lights. Tactical officers relayed real-time updates. Screens flickered with satellite imagery, radar feeds, and encrypted communications.The Prime Minister stepped forward, his presence commanding the space without a word.This was no longer a decision.This was war
Monitors flickered, showing the Rafales rolling onto the tarmac. Tactical teams began coordinating airspace management, intelligence officers checked for last-minute updates, and the NSA began drafting statements for the inevitable political fallout.But the Prime Minister sat still, watching the screen as the fighter jets prepared to take off.No amount of diplomacy, no round of talks, no carefully crafted words at an international summit could do what was about to happen in the next forty-five minutes.This was the only language they understood.The Defence Minister, a veteran of political battles, leaned in. His voice was low, unreadable.
"Sir, you just crossed a line."The PM’s gaze never left the screen."They crossed it first."
The war room was alive with movement, but the Prime Minister stepped away. He needed a moment—not as a leader, but as a man.His private chamber was dimly lit, the glow from the city outside casting long shadows. He walked toward his desk, reaching for his cup of tea, but his hand stopped midway.
The file was still open.The faces of the twenty-one men still stared back at him.
Major Arjun Pratap.Captain Rajveer Singh.Squadron Leader Aman Bhardwaj.
Their eyes burned into his soul.Their families would never know what was happening tonight. Not officially. This mission didn’t exist.But when they woke up the next morning, when they turned on their televisions, when the first whispers of the strike surfaced, they would know.They would know that their sons had been avenged. A knock at the door.
His Principal Secretary stepped in. His voice was quieter than usual.
"Sir... the strike package is airborne."The Prime Minister closed the file. He exhaled one last time "Then let them fly." And with that, he turned back toward the war room.

0045 Operation Vajra – Engines Hot

I climbed into the cockpit, the ejection seat straps tightening across my chest as I adjusted my helmet. The HUD flickered to life, overlaying mission data, target coordinates, weapon status.

"TigerShark Flight, comms check."
"TigerShark Two, loud and clear."
"TigerShark Three, loud and clear."
"TigerShark Four, loud and clear."

From the ATC tower, a voice came over the frequency. "TigerShark Lead, you are cleared for takeoff. Winds at one-five-zero, gusting at fifteen knots. Godspeed."

I pushed the throttle forward. The twin Snecma M88 engines roared, the afterburners igniting in a searing blue inferno. Shakti surged forward, pressing me into the seat, the HUD speed tape climbing fast—100 knots. 150. 180.

"Rotate." The nose lifted, and we were airborne. I raised the landing gear, adjusted to combat climb, and leveled out at 500 feet AGL, hugging the terrain. The others formed up in a tight diamond. "Warlock, this is TigerShark Lead. We are en route to target. ETA 40 minutes." "Roger, TigerShark Lead. Be advised—enemy CAP has not scrambled yet. Maintain radio silence and execute as briefed." The sky stretched ahead—black, infinite. This was it. No turning back. No room for mistakes.

And somewhere, far below us, the enemy had no idea what was coming.


0245 Hours – Ingress to Target

The world outside was a shifting blur of darkness and terrain, the ground mere shadows streaking beneath my Rafale’s belly. The MFDs (Multi-Function Displays) glowed softly, casting an eerie luminescence across my flight suit. At 200 feet AGL (Above Ground Level), we were practically skimming the earth, threading through valleys and hills to stay below enemy radar detection. I switched to FLIR (Forward-Looking Infrared)—a digital overlay mapping heat signatures in the cold desert night. The target was still ten minutes away. "TigerShark Flight, fence in." A chorus of clicks followed as my team armed their weapons. We were crossing the border. There was no coming back empty-handed. "TigerShark Two, confirm laser designator is hot."

"Laser hot, Lead. Standing by." "Overwatch, TigerShark Flight. Confirm enemy radar activity?" AWACS crackled back. “Negative major radar locks yet, but minor surveillance pulses detected. They’re sweeping, but they don’t see you.” We flew on in radio silence, our comms only open to encrypted burst transmissions. Even breathing felt loud.

Ahead, the desert stretched like an unbroken ocean of sand and shadow. And somewhere in that darkness lay Nest—our target.




0252 Hours – Target in Sight

"Target in sight. Laser is on." Kasper’s voice was calm, precise. The compound appeared through my HUD—a sprawling installation of interconnected structures, radar domes, and hardened shelters. The IR sensors pulsed with signatures—vehicles, fuel depots, ammo dumps. They had no idea we were here. "TigerShark Three, pop up to 500 feet and get a better lock. Keep it quick." As Three pulled up for a better targeting angle, I checked my payload.

Two Spice-2000 Penetrator Bombs. "TigerShark Flight, pickle on my mark." My HUD flashed green as the target lock solidified.

"Mark!" A dull thunk shuddered through my Rafale as the first bomb detached, followed instantly by Kasper’s. The Spice-2000s cut through the air like silent messengers of vengeance, streaking down toward their prey.

Six seconds.

Four.

Two—

Then—

Impact.

A blinding flash erupted below, a shockwave rolling outward, shaking even my jet at this altitude. The hardened structure crumpled in on itself before a secondary detonation followed—a chain reaction as fuel reserves ignited. "Direct hit, Lead! Multiple secondaries!" "TigerShark Flight, egress now! Climbing to angels fifteen." I yanked the stick back, pushing the Rafale into a steep climb. Just as I reached 15,000 feet, my RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) screamed a new tone—

Incoming radar locks. "Overwatch,WarHammer talk to me!"

"Multiple bogies inbound, zero-six-zero degrees! Four J-10s, closing fast!" Kasper exhaled. “Well, shit.”

0302 Hours – Dogfight Over the Border

BVR (Beyond Visual Range) combat was a high-stakes chess match at supersonic speeds. One wrong move, one second too slow, and the game was over. We had MICA-EM missiles, built for exactly this scenario—fire-and-forget killers that turned enemy jets into burning debris before they even knew they were dead.

I thumbed the weapon selector, heart rate steady. "Tigershark Flight, break formation. Defend and engage!"

Radar lock. J-10, twenty miles. "Fox Three!"

The MICA launched, a streak of fire vanishing into the night. The enemy pilot had no chance. Before he could even break, the missile found him—detonating mid-body, sending the wreckage tumbling through the void.

"Splash one." Then—missile lock warning!

The cockpit blared with the sharp, electric urgency of an incoming kill shot. "Break! Incoming!"

I slammed the throttle forward, dumping countermeasures—bright flares streaking behind me like dying stars. At the last second, I threw my Rafale into a gut-wrenching corkscrew maneuver, feeling the G-forces crush my ribs into my seat.

A streak of fire roared past my canopy—the enemy missile missing by meters.

Too damn close.

"Tigershark Two, I’m engaged! Get this bastard off me!" Kasper’s voice snapped through the radio, raw and focused. "Hang on, Lead! I’ve got him!" The night was alive with fire and death. Engines screamed, afterburners lit the sky in bursts of blue-white flame, and missile trails carved bright scars into the blackness. I yanked the Rafale’s stick hard, sinking into the fight, staying inside the chaos. The helmet HUD was a blur of red threat markers, missile warnings, and the sharp, clipped voices of my squadron. "Fox Two!"

I saw the Magic-II infrared missile streak away, a bright comet hunting its prey. The J-10 dumped flares, banking hard, but it was already too late.

A second later—impact.

The enemy fighter shattered mid-air, debris spiraling down like burning confetti. "Splash two!" Overwatch—our battle controller—came through, voice sharp and precise. "Tigershark Lead, Overwatch. Threat update—two bandits remain, both hot on your six." I flicked my eyes to the radar display. One of them had latched onto Tigershark Four. Damn it. "Four, break right! Now!" A heartbeat of hesitation. And hesitation kills. The lock tone screamed in my ears—enemy missile inbound. "Overwatch to Tigershark Four! Missile inbound! Defend! Defend!" Four finally reacted, snapping right, chaff and flares blooming behind him. But it wasn’t enough. The J-10 was pressing hard, too close, too fast. "Warhammer, Tigershark Four is defensive—need immediate support!" The Netra AEW&C command bird—Warhammer—cut in instantly. "Copy, Tigershark Lead. ECM suite engaging. Stand by." A second later, enemy comms erupted into static. Warhammer was frying their data links, scrambling their radars, feeding their targeting systems with ghosts. I saw my chance. I rolled left, forcing myself into a high-speed, knife-edge dive, pulling behind the J-10 hunting Four.

Now you’re mine. "Fox Two!" The Magic-II streaked away. The enemy fighter never saw it coming.

Impact.

The missile struck dead center, splitting the aircraft in two, its burning husk disappearing into the mountains below. "Splash three!" No time to breathe. The final J-10 came in fast, looking for blood. "Tigershark Lead, bandit on your tail! Defend!" Overwatch’s voice was calm, but urgent.

Now I was the hunted.

I slammed the stick right, rolling into a max-G turn, feeling the airframe shudder as I bled speed. "Warhammer, I need that last bandit blinded—now!" "Copy, Tigershark Lead. Engaging full-spectrum jamming." A second later, the world shifted. The enemy flickered in and out of radar, his lock breaking. He was blind. And now, he was dead. I pulled hard up, cutting throttle, bleeding energy in an instant. The J-10 overshot the turn—and now I was on his six. "Fox Two!" The Magic-II found its target. The missile punched straight into his fuselage, detonating in a flash of orange fire.

The last enemy fighter was gone. "Splash four! Bandits neutralized!"

The radio crackled.

I pulled my Rafale into a high-G loop, using its superior thrust-to-weight ratio to gain the advantage. My target overshot—his biggest mistake.

"Fox Two!"

The heat-seeker hit true.

"Splash three!"

The last enemy pilot realized he was outmatched. He disengaged, diving for home.

I could chase him down. I wanted to.

But my mission was complete.

"Warlock, enemy is bugging out. ."

"Confirmed, TigerShark Lead. Package is in the air."

"Tigershark Lead, Overwatch. Picture clean. No further threats."

I exhaled. We had won. But the mission wasn’t over. "Warhammer, Overwatch—confirm strike package status. Time to target?"

A pause. Then Warhammer’s voice, crisp and deadly. "Tigershark Lead, strike package is five mikes out. Stand by for final run." I looked ahead, into the black void beyond the mountains.

The real fight was about to begin.

0330 Hours – The Approach to Target

The radio was quiet now, except for the hum of encrypted comms and the distant chatter of air defense networks. No more threats on radar. No more enemy fighters in the sky. But the mission wasn’t over. Not yet. Below us, hidden in the black expanse of the mountains, was our objective—the Nest. A heavily fortified enemy command-and-control center dug deep into the valley, protected by surface-to-air missile (SAM) batteries, anti-aircraft guns, and hardened shelters.

We weren’t just dropping bombs on an outpost. We were shutting down a war machine.

"Warhammer, Tigershark Lead. Status update on enemy air defenses?" Majithia’s voice came through, crisp and in control.

"Tigershark Lead, Warhammer. ELINT confirms multiple enemy radar emissions from the target zone. We have active SA-6 and SA-17 SAM sites lighting up. AAA positions on the ridgelines. Enemy is awake and waiting." I gritted my teeth. The SA-6 Gainful was a medium-range missile that could reach us if we weren’t careful. The SA-17 Buk was worse—a high-speed killer designed to swat jets out of the sky.

"Copy, Warhammer. What’s our countermeasure status?"

"Tigershark Lead, SEAD package is on station. Falcon Squadron is five clicks behind, ready to engage hostile radar sites." Falcon Squadron. Our Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses (SEAD) team. Their job was simple—kill the radars before they killed us.

"Roger that, Warhammer. Standing by for their run." My eyes flicked to my tactical display, watching as four Mirage 2000s from Falcon Squadron roared in low, hugging the terrain.

And then, all hell broke loose.

0333 Hours – Wild Weasel in Action

"Falcon One, Fox Three!"

From five miles out, the first Mirage 2000 fired an ARMAT anti-radiation missile, its seeker locking onto the SA-6’s radar emissions. A bright streak of fire cut across the sky, heading straight for its target.

The enemy SAM site never had a chance.

A massive explosion rippled through the valley, turning the radar station into a fireball. "Falcon Two, Fox Three!" Another ARMAT launched, hunting the SA-17’s tracking array. The Buk’s operators tried to shut down their system, hoping to break the missile lock, but it was too late. The radar vanished in a plume of smoke and shrapnel. "Warhammer, Tigershark Lead. Confirm threat status?" "Tigershark Lead, Warhammer. Enemy air defenses are degrading, but AAA is still active. You’re clear for strike run, but keep it fast and low."

"Copy, Warhammer. Tigershark Flight, push to target!"

0345 Hours – The Strike Run

We dropped low and fast, hugging the terrain, staying beneath the enemy’s remaining radars. "Tigershark Lead, Overwatch. Final target confirmation—coordinates locked. You are cleared hot." "Roger, Overwatch. Initiating attack profile."

My hands moved on instinct, pushing the Rafale into a low-altitude attack run. Ahead, the Nest was coming into view. A maze of bunkers, communication towers, fuel depots, and ammunition storage.

"Tigershark Two, lock in your targeting." "Locked." "Tigershark Three, you’ve got fuel tanks on the west end." "Copy, Lead."

"Tigershark Four, take the control center." "Roger that." We were seconds from weapons release. The world seemed to slow. The HUD painted the strike points in red. The targeting reticle settled.
And then— "Fox Three! Fox Three!"

0336 Hours – Hell on Earth

The first Hammer 1000 laser-guided bomb detached, slicing through the air at terminal velocity. It hit dead center, turning the Nest’s main bunker into an expanding ball of flame.

"Direct hit!"

I pulled up, flipping my Rafale to watch the destruction unfold.

Secondary explosions ripped through the facility. Fuel tanks detonated, sending columns of black smoke billowing into the night. "Tigershark Three, direct hit on fuel reserves! Cooking off!" One by one, the targets vanished in waves of fire. "Tigershark Four, control center destroyed!"

The enemy base was disintegrating before our eyes.

Overwatch’s voice came through, calm but urgent. "Tigershark Lead, you’ve got two minutes until enemy reinforcements scramble. Time to exfil."

"Copy that. Tigershark Flight, RTB. Warhammer, escort us home." Majithia’s voice was firm. "Tigershark Lead, Warhammer. You are covered all the way. Let’s bring you home."
We turned east, afterburners flaring. Behind us, the Nest was nothing but a smoldering ruin.

Mission complete.

That meant missile-armed Su-30MKIs were inbound from another sector to provide cover for our exit.

The strike was a success. We turned south, back toward friendly airspace, the fires of Nest still burning below us.






0410 Hours – Return to Base (RTB)

Warhammer: "Tigershark 1, Warhammer. You are clear for approach. Runway 12. Wind at four knots, slight crosswind from the northeast. Welcome home."

The voice from Netra—Warhammer—was calm and steady. The kind of voice that had anchored us through the chaos hours ago. Now, it was our final tether to home.

I exhaled slowly, flexing my fingers around the stick.

Me: "Copy, Warhammer. Tigershark 1 on final approach."

My HUD glowed in the dim cockpit, painting a perfect glide path to the shimmering runway lights of Ambala, stretched out like a golden ribbon in the darkness. My muscles ached from holding formation for hours, and the adrenaline that had kept me sharp was wearing off, leaving exhaustion creeping in. But this wasn’t the time to relax. Not yet.

Behind me, Kasper—Tigershark 2—checked in, his voice laced with fatigue but steady as ever.

Kasper: "Skipper, Tigershark 2, on your six. Staying tight."

I could picture him in my mind—helmet visor down, hands steady on the controls, probably smirking even as exhaustion clawed at him.

Me: "Don’t scratch the paint, Kasper."

Kasper: "After the night we had? I should be getting hazard pay."

A chuckle escaped me, dry and worn. The kind of laugh that came when exhaustion and relief tangled together.

Ahead of us, the Netra AEW&C—Warhammer—had already landed. The silent guardian that had watched over us from above, feeding us intel, guiding us through the storm. Now, it was parked on the apron, its massive frame dimly lit under the floodlights.

I flared just above the runway, feathering the throttle. The moment my wheels kissed the tarmac, a dull thud reverberated through the fuselage. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped my lips.

Me: "Tigershark 1, wheels down."

Kasper: "Tigershark 2, touchdown. And just like that, we live to fight another day." I exhaled sharply, hands steady but my body weary.

Me: "Yeah… and tomorrow, Delhi will pretend none of it happened."

That was our reality. No medals. No parades. No front-page headlines. Just another ghost mission that never existed. I taxied toward the apron, the blue taxiway lights casting eerie streaks of light on the tarmac. The airfield was alive—ground crews in high-vis vests rushed forward, signaling, guiding, securing our jets. The moment I shut down, I popped the canopy, and the cold night air rushed in—crisp, laced with the lingering burn of jet fuel. The scent of home.

Kasper pulled in beside me, his cockpit still sealed. His voice crackled over the comms one last time.

Kasper: "Well, FlyBoy… that was one hell of a night."

I rubbed a gloved hand across my face. Me: "Yeah. Next round’s on you." Kasper: "Damn right it is. I’m drinking till I forget half of this." I unstrapped and climbed down, my boots hitting the tarmac with a finality that sent a strange shiver through me. Mission complete. I reached out, brushing my fingers against Shakti’s fuselage—an unspoken thank you to the warbird that had carried me through hell and back.

Then, from the shadows of the Netra’s open hatch, a figure emerged. Air Commodore Majithia.

He walked with the quiet authority of a man who had seen the worst the skies had to offer and had walked away every time. His flight suit was slightly wrinkled from hours of command, but his eyes were sharp—always watching, always calculating.

Kasper and I straightened as he approached. Not out of protocol, but out of respect.

Majithia stopped in front of us, looking from me to Kasper. A brief silence settled, the kind that weighed more than words.

Then, without a word, he lifted his hand. A high-five. His style. I smirked as I met his palm with mine, the slap echoing in the stillness of the airfield. A warrior’s acknowledgment. Kasper followed suit, grinning as he clasped hands with me before turning to Majithia.

Kasper: "So, do we at least get a ‘good job’ from the big man?"

Majithia let a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. A rare expression from the squadron leader, but one that carried weight.

Majithia: "You two did exactly what you were supposed to do. That’s all that matters."

I chuckled, shaking my head.

Me: "Sir, I’ll take that as high praise."

Majithia folded his arms, his gaze flicking between us.

Majithia: "You should." He exhaled, eyes scanning the dark horizon before settling back on us. "Now get some rest, Tigersharks. Debrief at 0900." Kasper clapped me on the shoulder as we turned toward the barracks, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "You hear that? We’re officially not screw-ups."

I laughed. "Careful, Kasper. Keep talking like that and Majithia might actually start expecting more from you."

Behind us, Majithia shook his head with a faint chuckle, watching as we disappeared into the night. He turned on his heel, heading toward the ops building, his presence as commanding in departure as it was in battle.

Kasper exhaled, shaking his head.

Kasper: "Debrief at 0900? Does he not realize we just pulled off the impossible?" I chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder as we started walking.

Me: "We did our job. That’s all that matters." Ahead, the first streaks of dawn began to creep over the horizon. The night was over. The ghosts would fade with the morning light. And tomorrow, the world would pretend none of it ever happened. But we would remember. Somewhere across the border, a lesson had been taught. And tomorrow, when the politicians played their games, we would already be prepping for the next mission. Because this was our war. And we would always be ready to fly.