Chapter 5: Earthquake in Pakistan
16 August 1970
The previous night, Karan had returned to his rented room in darkness, his footsteps muffled by the sandy hush of Sargodha's quiet alleys. The air was still warm, smelling of parched earth and distant diesel, but it had lost its midday edge. He moved past shuttered shops and homes veiled in sleep, as unmoving as the stars flickering above in a sky devoid of patrolling wings.
Inside, he latched every iron bolt and drew the blackout curtains, sealing the room into a tomb of silence. Beneath the soft, flickering glow of an oil lamp, he laid out his fresh identity papers—handwritten in clean, rhythmic Urdu ink. He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally snapping. Hunted men didn't afford themselves much rest, but tonight, even his breath carried the weight of a monumental victory.
He had pulled off the impossible. Thirty-four fighter jets—the supersonic spine of a nation—had been "liquidated" into a digital void.
[Current G.P: 38,900]
[Causality Rating: S-Rank]
[World Logic status: "The Smuggling Theory" has overridden "The Ghost Theory"]
Karan sat at a chipped wooden table, watching the flame of his lamp dance. He wasn't just a soldier anymore; he was a glitch in the matrix of history. And as the sun began to peek over the horizon, he knew the reckoning would be louder than any explosion he had ever caused.
I. The Interrogation: The Shadow of Hangar
By 06:00 AM, the silence of Hangar 1 was not just an absence of sound; it was an accusation.
Air Marshal Abdul Rahim Khan arrived by chopper, the rotor wash kicking up a storm of dust that seemed to mock the empty concrete floor. He didn't walk into the hangar; he stormed it, followed by a phalanx of ISI officers and elite commandos with fixed bayonets.
In the Center of the vast, hollow space stood Major Bashir, the Hangar Manager. He looked small, his uniform wrinkled from a night of panicked pacing. He was already sweating, though the morning air was cool.
The Air Marshal stopped inches from Bashir's face. He didn't scream. He spoke in a low, terrifying vibration that was far worse.
"Major," Rahim Khan whispered. "Explain to me the physics of this space. I am looking at a bay that should contain twelve F-104 Starfighters. I see no tyre marks. I see no oil leaks. I see no signs of a struggle. Did they grow wings and fly to Tel Aviv while my guards were dreaming of their wives?"
"Sir... the logs..." Bashir's voice cracked. "The perimeter sensors remained green. We found the fuel lines capped. It... it is as if they were professionally decommissioned and moved. We suspect a massive coordination of heavy-hauliers."
"Heavy-hauliers?" The Air Marshal grabbed Bashir by the collar, hoisting the smaller man onto his toes. "To move thirty-four jets, you need a convoy five miles long! You need cranes that groan like dying bulls! You need a hundred men who don't talk! No, Major. This isn't a 'theft.' This is a sale."
He shoved Bashir back toward an ISI officer. "This is the Soviet model of rot. You and your cabal... You dismantled them, didn't you? Crated them as 'industrial scrap' and moved them out on the midnight freight trains. How much did they pay you, Bashir? Was a Swiss bank account worth the safety of your country?"
"I am innocent, Sir! I have nothing!" Bashir shrieked.
"Liars always have nothing until we start looking under their floorboards," Rahim Khan hissed. "Take him to the munitions sheds." I want the names of every officer on the 'Smuggling Ring's payroll by noon. If he doesn't talk, make him scream until the truth falls out.
II. The Collapse: The View from the Guard Post
Two hundred yards away, Corporal Imtiaz watched from his guard tower as Major Bashir was dragged away with a black hood over his head. Imtiaz felt a cold, oily knot of dread tighten in his stomach.
He had been on duty near the East Gate. He had seen nothing. No trucks, no cranes, no mysterious lights. But he wasn't a fool. He knew how the military worked. When thirty-four jets vanish, the "truth" is whatever saves the General's career.
He looked at his fellow guard, a boy barely twenty named Naveed. Naveed's hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold his G3 rifle.
"They're going to blame us, aren't they?" Naveed whispered.
"They don't need proof, kid," Imtiaz muttered, his eyes fixed on the black ISI vans pulling up to the barracks. "They just need bodies to hang at the gate", so the President doesn't fire the Air Marshal.
Imtiaz didn't wait for the order to assemble. During the midday prayer break, he leaned his rifle against a thorn bush, shed his olive-drab tunic, and climbed over the back perimeter fence. He wasn't the only one. By sunset, nearly eighty soldiers—mechanics, drivers, and guards—had deserted.
III. The War Room: A Nation on the Brink
By 02:00 PM, the shockwave reached the high-ceilinged "War Room" of GHQ in Rawalpindi.President Yahya Khan stood at the head of a long mahogany table, a half-empty glass of scotch his only companion.
"Thirty-four jets," Yahya whispered, his voice thick with a dangerous, simmering rage. "My own officers. Selling my strike capability like scrap metal from a junkyard. Do they think we are a failing colony?"
"Mr President," the DMI began, "the intelligence suggests the planes were moved in components. We've found unauthorised freight permits. They likely exited through Karachi Port, marked as 'Heavy Industrial Waste', destined for a shell company in Dubai. It is a level of systemic corruption we haven't seen since the '65 war."
"It is a death sentence!" Yahya roared, slamming his glass onto the table. The crystal shattered, shards flying across the Punjab border. "If Indira Gandhi finds out my Western Command is currently flying on half-wings, she will be in Lahore by the weekend! She'll think we're so busy stealing from ourselves that we've forgotten how to fight!"
IV. The Pulse of the People: The Anarkali Bazaar
The "Smuggling Scandal" leaked into the streets of Lahore like a slow-acting poison. In the crowded stalls of the Anarkali Bazaar, the "Mountain Ghost" stories were laughed off by a cynical public.
"Ghost? No, Yaar," a spice merchant whispered to a crowd huddled around a radio. "The Generals have villas in London to pay for. Why keep a jet for the country when you can have a gold bar for yourself?"
The sense of national betrayal was more corrosive than fear. The people didn't fear an Indian invasion as much as they feared their own government selling the doors off the house while they were still inside.
V. The Withdrawal: Transition to Zain Khan
Karan watched the news from a roadside tea stall. He wore a plain, slightly frayed grey kurta and a dark shawl, his face hidden in the steam of his cup.
[Alert: National Morale has reached 'Fragile' status]
[Economic Note: PKR has devalued by 8% in 4 hours]
He had successfully framed the entire military hierarchy. He moved into the heart of Karachi, shedding the "Rashid Khan" persona with the practised ease of a snake losing its skin. He emerged as Zain Khan—a quiet-eyed university student with round glasses and a soft-spoken dialect.
At Karachi Central, Karan purchased a first-class ticket to Peshawar. The attendant, his eyes red from the general atmosphere of paranoia, didn't even look at Zain's face.
VI. The Train: A Game of Borrowed Names
The train departed with a metallic groan. Inside his carriage, Karan watched the urban decay of Karachi give way to the sprawling, golden buffalo fields of the interior.
Then, she entered.
She wore a sea-blue shalwar kameez, her hair braided loosely beneath a dupatta. She sat opposite him with a fluid, deliberate grace. Karan was pretending to read a newspaper—the headline screaming in bold black: "SARGODHA SCANDAL: PURGE OF THE GENERALS BEGINS."
"Are you going to Lahore?" she asked.
Karan glanced up, allowing a calculated, three-second delay—the mark of a distracted student—then nodded. "Yes. Research for my thesis. And you?"
"Lahore as well. Going home."
They exchanged names—Zain Khan and Zoya Khan. She spoke of her sister in Karachi and her brother, a minor clerk who had been called away for "emergency audits" in the city.
"Strange times," Karan remarked, his voice neutral. "The news says the military is eating itself. Smugglers and traitors everywhere, apparently."
A flicker of a cynical smile touched Zoya's lips. *"That's what happens when the house is on fire. The owners start selling the furniture before the roof falls in. My brother says the smugglers are the only ones with a plan these days.**"
She looked at Karan, her gaze lingering on his hands—hands that were too steady for a "nervous student."
"My parents were killed," she said suddenly, her voice dropping as a military patrol moved through the corridor outside. "Four years ago. A bomb in the market... one of those things the newspapers call an 'accident of war.' My sister and I—we manage. But it makes you realise how quickly everything you own can just... vanish."
As dusk turned the horizon into a streak of smoky gold, the train slowed. Karan fetched tea and toasted nuts, moving with a slouch that hid his peak-human height. He handed a paper cone to her without a word.
"Thank you, Zain."
Karan's Internal Monologue:
She's right. The owners are selling the furniture. But they don't realise I'm the one who already took the house. As long as they hunt for 'smugglers' and 'bank accounts,' they'll never look for the student in seat 4B. But this girl... she sees the world in pieces. I have to be careful she doesn't see how I fit them together.
The train rolled on, its rhythmic clack-clack a countdown. In the distance, the lights of the Rohri military checkpoint began to flicker.