June 20, 1971
The welding torch hissed, spitting a cascade of orange sparks onto the wet concrete of the Ocean Star warehouse.
Rudra stood with his arms crossed, watching a mechanic cut a square hole into the side of a rusted 20-foot shipping container.
"Malik, I still don't understand," the mechanic shouted over the noise. "Why are we putting shelves inside a shipping box? It will reduce the cargo space."
"It's not a shipping box anymore, Patil," Rudra yelled back. "It's a store."
Rudra walked over to the prototype. He had bought ten of these battered steel containers for scrap prices from a Greek freighter that had run aground.
To everyone else, they were junk. To Rudra, they were the future of military logistics.
"Behram," Rudra called out. "Explain the logic."
Behram Pestonji, looking out of place in the grime of the dockyard, consulted his clipboard.
"Standard Army logistics involves unloading crates from a truck, stacking them in a tent, and then unstacking them to find supplies," Behram recited. "It takes six hours to set up a field depot. And in the rain, half the supplies get ruined."
Rudra slapped the steel wall of the container. Clang.
"This," Rudra said, "is waterproof. It is theft-proof. We fit it with internal racks for ammunition, bandages, and blankets. When the truck reaches the front line, we don't unload. We just use a crane to drop the box. Bam. Instant warehouse. Ready in five minutes."
"The Vajra Mobile Depot," Rudra grinned. "Brigadier Grewal is going to lose his mind when he sees this."
Just then, a black phone on the wall of the foreman's cabin rang. It was the only working line in the warehouse.
Rudra answered it.
"Mr. Pratap," Homi Wadia's voice crackled on the line. It was smooth, cultured, and laced with danger. "The birds have landed. They are wet and waiting."
Rudra's expression hardened. The "Birds" were ingots of silver and crates of Japanese electronics, smuggled in by dhow to a quiet beach south of Alibag.
"My trucks are ready," Rudra said. "Location?"
"Mile marker 42. The old fisherman's cove. Midnight."
"Done."
Rudra hung up. He turned to Balwant, who was cleaning his nails with a knife.
"Balwant," Rudra said. "Put the 'Emergency Medical Supplies' stickers on Truck Number 4. We are going for a drive."
Alibag Highway. 02:00 AM.
The monsoon rain was blinding. The wipers of the Tata 1210 truck groaned against the deluge.
Balwant drove with white-knuckled focus. Rudra sat in the passenger seat, a map on his lap. In the back, under a heavy tarpaulin, lay crates that officially contained "Cotton Bandages" but were actually packed with Homi Wadia's contraband—silver bars destined for the Bombay jewelry market.
"Police checkpoint ahead," Balwant grunted, slowing down.
Through the rain, the red barricades of the Maharashtra Police were visible. Lanterns swung in the wind. Three constables and a Sub-Inspector stood under a dripping canopy.
"Relax," Rudra said, lighting a cigarette. "We are patriots, remember?"
The truck hissed to a halt. The Sub-Inspector walked over, tapping the glass with his lathi. He looked miserable and hungry.
"Papers," the Inspector barked as Balwant rolled down the window. "What is in the back?"
"Medical supplies for the Refugee Relief Committee," Rudra said, leaning across Balwant. He handed over a file.
Inside was a genuine-looking (but forged) permit stamped by the Ministry of Defense, complete with the Ashoka Pillar emblem.
The Inspector shined his torch on the permit. He looked at the "Urgent" stamp. Then he shined the torch on Rudra's face.
"Refugee relief? At 2 AM?"
"War doesn't sleep, Inspector," Rudra said coldly. "Brigadier Grewal is expecting this convoy in Bombay by dawn. If you want to call him and explain why his bandages are late, I can give you his number."
The mention of a Brigadier and the confidence in Rudra's voice made the Inspector hesitate. He walked to the back of the truck. He lifted the tarpaulin corner. He saw wooden crates marked with Red Cross symbols (which Rudra had painted yesterday).
The Inspector stood there for a long moment. He could ask to open a crate. If he did, the game was over. Rudra's hand drifted toward the glove compartment, where a thick envelope of cash sat—Plan B.
But the Inspector was tired. He didn't want trouble with the Army.
"Go," the Inspector waved them through, stepping back into the shelter. "Jai Hind."
"Jai Hind," Balwant muttered, shifting gears. The truck lurched forward.
As they cleared the checkpoint, Balwant let out a long breath. "Malik, you have ice in your veins."
"Drive, Balwant," Rudra said, watching the checkpoint fade in the mirror. "We just earned our first ten kilos of gold."
June 21, 1971, The Oberoi Lounge.
Homi Wadia looked pleased. The delivery had reached his safe house in Zaveri Bazaar without a scratch.
"You delivered," Wadia said, sliding a small velvet pouch across the table. It wasn't the gold—that was in Dubai. This was a token. A single Swiss gold coin.
"The credit has been transferred," Wadia confirmed. "Ten kilos of gold, waiting in the vault of the Bank of Oman in Dubai. Account number 77-Alpha."
Rudra pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business, Mr. Wadia."
"You are a strange man, Pratap," Wadia mused. "Most men would ask for cash. Or diamonds. You ask for gold in a foreign land. You are planning to leave India?"
"No," Rudra stood up. "I am planning to buy the world and bring it back to India. But I need a wallet that the government can't see."
Rudra walked out of the hotel. He had the seed capital. He had the lawyer. He had the manufacturing plan.
But it was time to go to Delhi and plan for the future.