OF A LAZY SUMMER DAY... It was a lazy early summer day in 1984. I was the Operations Adjutant at a MiG-21 fighter base in the deserts of Rajasthan, near the Pakistan border. As temperatures rose rapidly during the day, station flying briefing would start before sunrise so that the first combat training sorties could take off at the crack of dawn and wind down before noon, it being too hot to carry out training sorties in temperatures that would soar to 52 °C by late afternoon. Coupled with the unbearable temperatures was also the fact that the MiG-21 air-conditioning system is notoriously inefficient on the ground, being dependent on ram-air, which would only be available after take off. My office was in an underground concrete structure which also housed the station Operations Room right next to my office. The Ops Room housed a Fighter Controller radar console and other Ops Room paraphernalia. On a lazy day like this one, the complex had just three people, the Fighter Controller lazily gazing at his radar, smoking a Charminar, a Sergeant who managed the office, all the files and other staff, pottering about his work and there was I, the station Ops Adjt, engaged in some random work, all except two fighter aircraft having already landed back. Tyagi came the voice of the FC from next door. Yeah I replied. Tyagi jaldi aa came his voice again, with some urgency. I kicked my chair back and went next door with longer than normal strides. He had a finger on the orange phospor screen in the dimly-lit room, the other hand stubbing out his just-lit Charminar. This guy is going to cross the border into Pakistan! Call him back! I dont have his frequency! I then saw a trace flying in a sector of our local flying area, but heading towards the border. Suddenly realizing what this could turn into, I ran, turning corners holding door frames, skidding to my desk, to look up the flying programme. The trace was Mayfair1 and Mayfair2, up there on a tail-chase exercise - Mayfair1 would carry out increasingly violent manoeuvres attempting to shake off Mayfair2, while Mayfair2 would attempt to stay behind Mayfair1 keeping him in his gunsights or within his AAM missile lock. I called Air Traffic Control to tell them to call them to turn around but ATC informed me they were on a training frequency which ATC didnt have! Wondering how this could be happening, I picked up the phone to call the Commanding Officer of the fighter squadron at the base, while shouting out to the FC to ask him cloud cover. While the phone on the other side was ringing, the FC replied seven to eight octa Cumulus - seven-eighths to complete sky overcast with cottony Cumulus clouds. Meaning the guys up there could certainly see no ground. The phone was thankfully received by the CO himself. I barked out Sir, switch on an aircraft R/T and tell Mal hard right 180. He immediately caught on to the situation, rushed to his staff car, to drive hell-for-leather to the nearest underground blast pen housing the closest fighter. Where he would rush up a ladder into a cockpit, switch on the Radio Telephone, change to training frequency and bark out Mal hard right 180, reheat! - turn right 180 degrees at highest rate of turn (generally around 6g) with afterburners on. In a combat situation fighter pilots do not use call-signs but each others nick names. Fighter pilots also use right and left instead of starboard and port. Meanwhile in the Ops Room: FC: Crossed the border. 120 km from us. FC: 125... 130... 135... 140... FC: Fighters scrambled... abe F-16 hain na un pe? (His radar had just picked up a track taking off from a Pakistani base across ours) FC: Turned! FC: Aaja... aaja... aaja... muaaah... FC: Safe FC: Gaye saale wapas FC: Cigarette de yaar! (shaking his head side to side) FC: Abe kaun chu**ye hain ye? As I fished out a packet from my pocket, I was thankful the MiG-21 at Mach 2.05 couldnt be caught by an F-16 at Mach 1.6. We had just lit up a cigarette each when my phone rang. It was the Station Commander asking, as cool as ever I believe theres some excitement up there...? All under control, Sir, I replied... Well, the Chief doesnt seem to think so! Hes despatched a Dakota to us - he wants to meet the formation leader. Long range Air Defence radars all along the border had picked up a fighter track flying into Pakistan and returning! Mindful of an international diplomatic situation that would certainly develop, the Chief of Air Staff had been informed. Sir I replied, got into my jeep and raced down a taxi track to the ATC. Mayfair1 and Mayfair2 landed safely. After they had jettisoned their brake chutes off the runway, I called on the Radio Telephone Welcome back Mayfair formation. Please keep your passports ready. Immigration will meet you on 09 apron Shit! came the reply, sotto voce. Mayfair1 was flown back from Delhi by late evening after a pleasant dressing down and a cup of the finest Darjeeling with the Chief, to be welcomed at the Station Officers Mess with a mid-week party and a bottle of champagne courtesy the Station Commander...
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 06:20:12 +0000
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