Listen To The Rhythm Of The Falling Rain

 

Ziro, a jewel of the Trans-Himalayan region, is where natural grandeur meets unforgiving terrain. Towering pines blanket the undulating hills, their lush green canopies shrouded in thick mist. Fields of golden paddy, interspersed with saang ghor — wooden/bamboo houses on stilts, stretch across the valley floor, their vibrant hues muted under a sky perpetually heavy with rain clouds. Rivers snake through the valleys, their currents swollen and angry during the monsoon, carving paths through an already rugged terrain. The air is cool and damp, tinged with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil.

But beyond its natural beauty and military significance, Ziro holds a special place in the hearts of music and culture enthusiasts worldwide. Every September, the valley transforms into a haven for art, music, and creativity with the Ziro Festival of Music, a celebration that has earned a reputation as one of India’s most unique outdoor festivals.

Set against the backdrop of the Apatani tribal village, the Ziro Music Festival is an auditory and visual feast. Bamboo stages rise amidst the verdant landscape, blending seamlessly with the surroundings. The festival’s ethos emphasises sustainability, with every detail — right from the architecture to waste management — crafted to leave no lasting impact on the fragile ecosystem.

Musicians from across the globe gather here, offering an eclectic mix of indie, folk, rock, and electronic music. The sound of live performances reverberates through the valley, mingling with the rustling of pine trees and the distant call of birds. The nights are illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns and bonfires, as the audience, wrapped in colorful shawls to stave off the evening chill, immerses themselves in the music under a starlit sky.

The festival is as much about community and culture as it is about music. It provides a platform for the local Apatani people to showcase their traditions, from their intricate handloom weaving to the earthy flavours of their bamboo-cooked delicacies. Visitors can sample pika pila, a traditional pickle, or warm up with a sip of apong, a rice beer brewed by the locals.

The Ziro Festival of Music is not just an event but an experience — a harmonious blend of music, nature, and tradition that leaves an indelible mark on everyone who visits. Whether you’re swaying to the rhythms of an international band, hiking through the misty hills by day, or exchanging stories with fellow travellers by a crackling fire, Ziro invites you to lose yourself in its spellbinding charm.

Even as the relentless rain of the monsoon blankets the ALG in Ziro, the promise of music, camaraderie, and cultural exchange shines brightly, making this remote valley a beacon for dreamers and wanderers alike.

Despite its breathtaking vistas, Ziro’s beauty is matched only by its challenging environment. The rains of the monsoon season, while nourishing the land, transform the region into a testing ground for human resilience. Landslides are frequent, blocking vital roads and cutting off remote villages from the outside world. The cold is penetrating, even in the warmer months, with icy winds sweeping down from the higher reaches of the Himalayas. It is in this context of natural splendour and adversity that the Indian Air Force assumes a pivotal role, serving as the lifeline for the region’s scattered villages.

For the pilots stationed at the ALG in Ziro, every mission is a test of skill, courage, and endurance. The terrain here is an aviator’s conundrum: high-altitude valleys interspersed with sharp ridges, unpredictable wind currents, and an ever-changing weather pattern that can shift from clear skies to dense fog within minutes.

Rain is not merely a nuisance but a formidable adversary. The visibility drops dramatically, the low-hanging clouds obscuring landmarks and rendering navigation perilous. The soaked ground makes the tarmac slippery, while crosswinds buffet helicopters during takeoff and landing, demanding absolute precision from the pilots. The roar of swollen rivers below adds to the tension, a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in the depths should anything go wrong.

The Mi-17V5 helicopters stationed here, though designed for rugged conditions, are not invincible. Their pilots must rely on a combination of training, instinct, and teamwork to navigate the region safely. Flying through the narrow valleys requires split-second decisions and flawless coordination, with even a minor miscalculation potentially leading to catastrophic consequences.

“Flying in Ziro is not for the faint-hearted,” Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar often told his juniors. “The mountains here have a way of humbling you, reminding you that nature is always in charge.”

The challenges faced by the pilots pale in comparison to the hardships endured by the villagers scattered across this remote region, many of whom live in isolated hamlets near the India-China border. These communities are often cut off from basic supplies during the monsoon, their access roads obliterated by landslides or submerged by overflowing rivers.

In such times, the Indian Air Force becomes more than just a military presence — it transforms into a beacon of hope. The helicopters stationed at Ziro’s ALG are lifelines, delivering critical supplies such as food, medicines, and fuel to these hard-to-reach areas. They also evacuate the sick and injured, ferrying them to the nearest medical facilities — a journey that would otherwise take days by land, if it were even possible.

The villagers, many of whom are subsistence farmers, hold the IAF in the highest regard. For them, the roar of a Mi-17V5 cutting through the valley is not just the sound of a helicopter — it is the sound of survival. Children run out of their homes to wave at the aircraft, while elders often gather at the village edge, hands raised in gratitude, as the crew unloads sacks of rice, bundles of blankets, and crates of medicines.

The relationship between the IAF personnel and the villagers transcends mere duty. Over the years, the aircrew stationed at Ziro have forged bonds with the local communities. They are not just pilots and engineers but also friends, listeners, and problem solvers.

“Sometimes, it’s the small gestures that matter the most,” Rohan reflected during a quiet moment. “A word of encouragement to a worried elder, a smile for a child clutching a bag of relief supplies — it reminds you why we do what we do.”

The missions are not without their moments of tension. On one occasion, Rohan and his crew had to navigate through treacherous weather to evacuate a pregnant woman experiencing complications. The flight was harrowing, the helicopter battered by turbulence as they weaved through valleys shrouded in mist. But the sight of the woman’s relieved family upon their safe arrival at the hospital made every risk worthwhile.

Beyond their humanitarian efforts, the IAF plays a critical role in maintaining a robust presence along the India-China border. The strategic significance of Ziro’s ALG cannot be overstated. Regular reconnaissance missions, troop transport, and equipment airlifts are carried out with the same precision and dedication as the relief sorties.

In these remote frontiers, where national boundaries blur into rugged wilderness, the IAF stands as a sentinel, ensuring that India’s sovereignty remains inviolable.

As the rain continued its relentless cadence, Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar gazed out of the waiting room window once more. The rain was not an obstacle to him — it was a challenge to be met, a reminder of the resilience demanded by this unique corner of the world.

Ziro, with its blend of beauty and adversity, had a way of testing those who lived and worked within its folds. But for the Indian Air Force, it was more than a posting. It was a duty, a calling, and, in many ways, a privilege to serve as the bridge between the high Himalayas and the people who called these remote valleys home.

On the waterlogged tarmac, the robust silhouette of a Mi-17V5 helicopter loomed large against the misty backdrop, an unyielding monolith in the throes of a relentless downpour. The aircraft, designed for the harshest environments, stood tall and steadfast, its military-grade steel frame enduring the storm’s fury with a quiet resilience. Despite its imposing presence, the weather seemed to have little mercy, pelting the rotor blades and tail rotor with sheets of rain. Protective covers enveloped the rotors, but water found its way through, trickling down the gleaming metallic surfaces, pooling in shallow puddles that mirrored the sky above — a bruised canvas of heavy clouds and muted light.

Every detail of the Mi-17V5 spoke of a life spent in constant battle against nature’s elements. Its sturdy landing gear, heavy yet precise, sat nestled in the wet asphalt, while the fuselage bore the scars of past missions — scratches and dings that spoke of the resilience ingrained into the craft. The rain created a shimmering sheen on its surfaces, making it look as if the machine were alive, breathing with the storm.

The №127 Helicopter Unit, also known as the “First Ranas,” is one of the most storied and distinguished units in the Indian Air Force (IAF). The name “Ranas” pays homage to the legendary warriors of India, invoking a sense of honour, valour, and an indomitable spirit that defines the unit’s history and operations. The First Ranas have earned a reputation for their exceptional skill, versatility, and unwavering dedication to their mission, becoming an integral part of the Indian Air Force’s helicopter wing.

The unit’s origins can be traced back to the early days of the IAF, where it was formed to meet the growing demand for rotary-winged aircraft in a diverse range of operations. Over the years, the №127 Helicopter Unit has been equipped with some of the most formidable helicopters in the IAF’s fleet, including the Mi-8, Mi-17, and the Mi-17V5, which is the unit’s current workhorse. Their deployment has spanned the length and breadth of India — from high-altitude operations in the Himalayas to challenging airlifting missions in the dense forests of the Northeast and even the rescue of civilians during natural disasters.

The Mi-17V5, the latest variant of the Mi-17 series, has become synonymous with the №127 Helicopter Unit. These helicopters are a blend of brute strength and advanced technology, capable of performing a wide array of missions, from troop transport to humanitarian relief and surveillance. Their robust twin-engine setup, powerful rotor system, and highly capable avionics make them ideal for operations in India’s varied and often hostile terrain.

At any given moment, a fleet of Mi-17V5s from the First Ranas stands ready on the tarmac of their home base, usually at Mohanbari Air Force Station (AFS) in Dibrugarh, Assam, or deployed at other forward bases across the region. These helicopters, with their distinctive dark green camouflage, are a striking presence — large, imposing, and engineered for the harshest conditions. Their rotor blades, wide and menacing, are capable of lifting heavy loads and ferrying troops across the most rugged landscapes.

The Mi-17V5s are outfitted with advanced avionics, capable of operating in virtually any weather condition. Whether navigating through dense fog in the north eastern hills, or flying through monsoons where visibility is near zero, these helicopters excel under pressure. Their ability to hover, land on short pads, and handle the region’s turbulent weather patterns makes them indispensable in an area like the Northeast, where the terrain is both beautiful and treacherous.

The pilots of the №127 Helicopter Unit are a class apart. Flying these powerful machines across treacherous mountains, dense jungles, and unpredictable weather conditions requires not only skill but a special kind of mental fortitude. Every sortie flown by the “First Ranas” is a test of resilience, as they navigate low visibility, fluctuating winds, and unpredictable weather changes.

Flying these helicopters demands precision and adaptability. The pilots of the First Ranas have honed their expertise through years of practice and operation in some of the most challenging and hostile environments in the country. The mountains and valleys of the Northeast, the dense forests, and the vast stretches of the Himalayas present a landscape unlike any other. These pilots must remain calm and decisive, regardless of the challenges the weather or terrain throws their way.

Hovering over narrow mountain passes or manoeuvring through valleys in thick fog requires a level of finesse that goes beyond technical knowledge. These pilots, often flying low to the ground, use the terrain as a reference, calculating every move, every turn, and every gust of wind. Their ability to gauge the exact moment to deploy the aircraft’s rotor system for the perfect lift-off or landing is a skill that only comes with experience. Precision flying in such conditions requires a delicate balance of intuition and skill.

Beyond their exceptional flying prowess, the pilots of the №127 Helicopter Unit share a deep sense of camaraderie. The trust between the pilots and their crew is palpable. When these pilots take to the skies, they do so with the unspoken understanding that they are part of something greater than themselves — part of an elite team that carries the responsibility of the nation on their shoulders.

The First Ranas have a legacy that dates back decades, and their history is one filled with instances of heroism, resilience, and unparalleled bravery. Over the years, they have flown in countless operations, often in response to national emergencies, natural disasters, and national defence duties. The unit has been involved in a number of critical missions — airlifting troops into hostile areas, providing logistical support during military operations, evacuating civilians from disaster zones, and conducting surveillance along India’s borders.

The First Ranas’ role in disaster relief is particularly noteworthy. Whether it’s rescuing people stranded in flood-affected areas of Assam or delivering essential supplies to remote villages cut off by landslides, the unit has repeatedly demonstrated its ability to respond swiftly and efficiently to the needs of the nation. Their presence in such critical missions, often in the face of life-threatening conditions, exemplifies the courage and selflessness of the men and women of the First Ranas.

Their participation in operations along the Line of Actual Control (LAC) is another testament to their strategic importance. The region, with its geopolitical sensitivities and challenging terrain, requires constant vigilance. The №127 Helicopter Unit has been tasked with surveillance missions in these areas, ensuring that India’s borders remain secure. The Mi-17V5s of the unit are deployed to fly high-altitude sorties, conducting reconnaissance, transporting troops, and responding rapidly to any escalation in tensions.

The bond between the aircraft and their crews is a special one. The pilots and aircrew of the First Ranas view their Mi-17V5 helicopters as more than just machines — they are partners in every mission, every flight. The helicopter’s power and reliability are matched only by the skill and trust of the crew that flies them. Every click of the rotor blades, every shift in the wind, every emergency landing — all are moments of triumph for the crew, a reminder of the extraordinary capabilities of both man and machine.

The First Ranas’ motto, “Always Ready, Always Serving,” reflects their tireless commitment to the mission, to each other, and to the nation. Every helicopter that takes flight from their base is a testament to the discipline, valour, and skill that defines the №127 Helicopter Unit. Whether it’s the challenging airlift missions in the dense forests of Northeast India, or the critical operations along the Himalayan front, the “First Ranas” stand as guardians in the skies, ever vigilant, ever prepared.

In the distance, a faint rumble of thunder echoed, barely audible over the hum of the wind. Yet, the aircraft remained motionless, an unwavering sentinel against the forces that sought to assail it. Around it, the ground crew moved with practised efficiency, adjusting their positions as they worked in tandem, almost as if synchronised with the rhythm of the storm. Each task was done with a sense of urgency, but there was an air of patience about it all — as though the crew had long accepted that nature dictated the tempo, not them.

Inside the waiting room of the ALG’s modest operations building, Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar stood near the window, watching the rain cascade down in relentless sheets. The steady rhythm of the downpour was interrupted only by the occasional streak of lightning, illuminating the scene outside for a split second before it faded into the darkness. His eyes, however, were not focused on the aircraft or the storm. Instead, they traced the erratic paths of the raindrops racing each other down the glass. Each droplet seemed to have its own journey, its own story — a quiet reflection of the disarray outside.

His reflection mingled with the rain-soaked streaks, a blur of motion and stillness. It was as though he had become a part of the scene — a quiet observer, suspended in time, caught between the immediacy of the storm and the deep contemplation in his mind. His posture, rigid as always, betrayed the undercurrent of restlessness he could not quite shake.

“Lieutenant, you still lost in your thoughts?” The voice of his fellow pilot , a familiar and steady presence, broke the silence. Flight Lieutenant Devendra Sharma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his colleague with a knowing smile.

Rohan didn’t turn, his gaze still fixed on the rain. “You ever think about how much we’re like this helicopter?” he asked, his voice distant, almost abstract. “Standing there, weathering everything the world throws at us. But underneath it all, we’re still waiting for something to change. Something… to move.”

Devendra chuckled softly, the sound warm in the cool, quiet room. “You always find a way to make things sound poetic, sir. But I get it. It’s the same for all of us, right? We do our jobs, we follow the orders, but sometimes it feels like the storm never ends. And we’re just… waiting for the right moment to take off.”

Rohan finally turned, meeting his co-pilot’s eyes. “Exactly. We’re just waiting for that break in the clouds. But it’s not just about flying; it’s about knowing when to take off, when to push forward, even when the conditions aren’t ideal. It’s about trusting the machine — and ourselves.”

Devendra raised an eyebrow, a hint of admiration in his gaze. “You make it sound like we’re not just pilots, but philosophers, sir.”

Rohan gave a half-smile, his usual stern demeanour softening ever so slightly. “Maybe we are, Dev. Maybe we are.”

A brief pause fell between them, the only sound the steady drumming of the rain against the window. Rohan’s mind wandered again, drifting back to thoughts he had been grappling with for days — missions past, decisions made, and the future ahead. The crew outside, like the helicopter, had learned to embrace the storm, to function within it. It was only a matter of time before they would take to the skies again, no matter what the weather held in store.

For now, though, Rohan stood there, waiting. The storm outside was just another reminder that patience was not merely a virtue; it was a survival skill. And just like the Mi-17V5 on the tarmac, he knew that when the moment came, when the clouds finally parted, they would be ready.

The Mi-17V5 helicopters, part of the renowned №127 Helicopter Unit, stood parked outside the Advance Landing Ground (ALG) at Ziro, their imposing silhouettes barely discernible through the thick mist that hung over the region. The ALG, a strategic airstrip nestled in the heart of Arunachal Pradesh, was surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Eastern Himalayas, where the weather was as unpredictable as the terrain was unforgiving. Here, the helicopters were more than just machines — they were vital instruments of defence, maintaining the Indian Air Force’s vigilant presence near the Line of Actual Control (LAC), which separated India from its neighbour to the north.

Though the №127 Helicopter Unit was based out of Mohanbari Air Force Station (AFS) in Dibrugarh, it had been stationed at Ziro to provide closer surveillance of the LAC, an area where strategic importance could not be overstated. The proximity to the border, combined with the rugged geography, made this part of the country one of the most sensitive in terms of national security. The Mi-17V5s, with their robust design and incredible operational flexibility, were perfectly suited for the demands of this challenging sector.

The aircraft’s massive fuselage stood resilient against the rain-soaked tarmac of Ziro, gleaming faintly in the dim light, as if waiting for the command to spring into action. Each helicopter’s twin-engine setup, with its powerful rotor blades and reinforced landing gear, was designed to endure the harshest conditions — from torrential rains and thick fog to gusting winds that often swirled unpredictably in the valleys. The protective covers on the rotors and tail rotor were a testament to the constant threat posed by the region’s elements, but even under these covers, the sheer power and scale of the helicopters were evident.

While the ALG at Ziro might have been temporarily their home, the helicopters had a much longer history with the №127 Helicopter Unit, stationed at Mohanbari AFS in Dibrugarh. The unit’s association with the Mi-17 series of helicopters had earned them a reputation for unparalleled skill in flying through the region’s volatile weather. Their operational expertise was born out of years of experience in one of the most challenging and strategically important sectors of the Indian subcontinent. Mohanbari AFS had served as the base of operations for the 127 HU, but the shift to Ziro was a response to the evolving strategic requirements in the area, as the Indian Air Force adapted to the increasing importance of the region near the LAC.

The pilots who flew the Mi-17V5s in this part of the country possessed a rare combination of skill, finesse, and mental fortitude. Flying in Northeast India was a unique challenge — weather conditions could change without warning, with thick clouds and fog swallowing visibility in seconds, while sudden thunderstorms would appear, almost as if summoned by the terrain itself. Yet, despite these challenges, the pilots of the 127 HU remained calm and focused, relying on their intimate knowledge of the region and the aircraft’s capabilities to navigate the treacherous conditions.

Their skill was not only technical but psychological. To fly these helicopters across unpredictable weather, sometimes in near-zero visibility, demanded an acute awareness of the limits of both the machine and the human spirit. Every flight was a testament to the pilots’ mental resilience — their ability to make decisions under pressure, trust their instincts, and maintain composure when the stakes were at their highest. The Mi-17V5, with its advanced avionics and robust build, was a remarkable machine, but it was the pilots who elevated it, flying with the finesse required to maneuver through narrow valleys, hover in turbulent winds, and land on makeshift pads that seemed to defy the laws of gravity itself.

This was not simply about transporting troops or cargo; it was about performing critical reconnaissance missions, providing emergency relief in times of natural disasters, and ensuring that the surveillance of the LAC was constant and unyielding. Every sortie flown by these helicopters was a step closer to maintaining the security and integrity of the border. Whether it was delivering supplies to remote outposts or conducting surveillance flights over hostile terrain, the pilots and their helicopters operated with the understanding that their work was indispensable to national security.

At Ziro, the Mi-17V5s were not just waiting machines — they were guardians of India’s sovereignty, ready to lift off at a moment’s notice in response to any threat. In a sector where every flight mattered, and where the unpredictable could strike at any time, the pilots of the 127 HU had earned the respect and trust of their colleagues, their commanders, and the nation. Each time they took to the skies, they carried with them the hopes of a nation, fully aware of the immense responsibility they bore.

The Mi-17V5 helicopters stood ready, their engines primed for action. The crews, whether stationed at Ziro or Mohanbari, were always prepared, always vigilant. They were the unseen sentinels of India’s eastern frontier, their presence a silent reminder of the Indian Air Force’s unbroken commitment to the security of its borders. The mountains of Arunachal Pradesh had witnessed many storms, both natural and geopolitical. And in these storms, the Mi-17V5s and their pilots remained steadfast — ready to face whatever the skies had in store.

Rohan was a picture of quiet resilience. At 28, he had already faced his share of unpredictable weather, high-altitude rescues, and hair-raising combat sorties. Yet, the rain always brought a peculiar challenge. It wasn’t the flying itself — he trusted the Mi-17V5 implicitly. It was the waiting. The interminable, nerve-fraying wait that seemed to stretch into eternity.

Behind him, the room was a mixture of weary silence and subdued chatter. His crew sat in mismatched chairs scattered across the room. Sergeant Kartik Malhotra, the flight engineer and Loadmaster , leaned back, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of a magazine he’d probably read a dozen times before. Corporal Vikram Joshi, the gunner, was engrossed in a game on his phone, occasionally smirking at his triumphs. Flying Officer Neha Sharma, the co-pilot, was seated at a corner table, scribbling notes in her logbook, her pen tapping rhythmically against the wooden surface.

Rohan’s thoughts were interrupted as Kartik spoke up, his voice cutting through the ambient hum of rain.

“Sir, do you think it’ll clear up by evening?” he asked, closing the magazine and sitting up straight.

Rohan turned, his face impassive. “The forecast doesn’t look promising. Monsoons here are unpredictable. If it eases up even a little, we might get clearance.”

Kartik nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced. “You know, sometimes I think the rain gods just have a personal vendetta against us,” he muttered, drawing chuckles from Vikram.

Neha, ever the pragmatist, looked up from her logbook. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. If the call comes in, rain or no rain, we’ll have to get airborne.”

Rohan smiled faintly. That was Neha — focused, efficient, and unflinchingly professional. He admired her no-nonsense approach, even if it sometimes clashed with Kartik’s humor and Vikram’s lightheartedness.

The waiting room fell into silence again, each member lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the rain seemed to intensify, hammering against the tin roof.

Just as Rohan was about to sit down, the shrill ring of the phone on the wall startled everyone. Neha was the first to react, leaping up and answering the call.

“Flying Officer Sharma speaking,” she said crisply. Her expression shifted subtly — her brows furrowing in concentration. “Understood, Sir. We’ll be ready in fifteen.”

As she hung up, all eyes were on her.

“We’ve got a mission,” her voice cut through the thick air in the operations room, pulling the team’s focus back to the matter at hand. The operations room, cluttered with maps and chatter, fell into a heavy silence as everyone’s attention snapped to him.

“Emergency supplies for a remote village,” she continued, her tone urgent but controlled. “Landslides have cut off their access, and they’re running out of food and medical essentials. Clearance will be granted if the rain lets up within the next hour.”

The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the unpredictable terrain they operated in. But for Rohan and his crew, this was nothing new. The first challenge was always getting the clearance to fly, and with the weather turning unpredictable, time was of the essence.

As soon as the briefing ended, the crew sprang into action. There was no time to waste. The earlier lethargy that had settled over the room evaporated, replaced by the purposeful, calculated energy that had been honed over years of high-stakes operations. The air was thick with purpose, as each member moved to their assigned task without a word wasted.

Rohan’s sharp voice rang out immediately: “Kartik, double-check the load configuration and make sure the cargo is secure. Vikram, inspect the weapons and survival kits. Neha, coordinate with the ground crew and update the flight plan.”

His crew members were already in motion, each one well-versed in their role. Kartik, the loadmaster, immediately moved to the cargo area, inspecting the pallets of emergency supplies. A mixture of food packages, water bottles, and medical kits were ready for transport. He methodically checked the weight distribution of the load, confirming the balance, as any miscalculation could throw off the aircraft’s stability in flight. He gave the green light once he was satisfied that everything was secure, the tight ropes ensuring no shift would occur during the flight.

Vikram, the weapons and survival equipment specialist, moved to the racks where survival kits were stowed. These kits were not just for comfort — they were a lifeline, filled with rations, first-aid supplies, flares, and signalling equipment. The nature of their mission could easily turn from routine to perilous, and having everything ready was crucial. Vikram methodically checked every item, ensuring all equipment was operational. He even ran a final sweep of the weapons system, adjusting some controls before nodding in confirmation.

Meanwhile, Neha, the co-pilot and mission planner, had already turned to the ground crew, liaising with them to get an updated weather report. Her eyes darted between the radar screens and the fluctuating reports of the rain’s intensity. She was in constant communication with the air traffic control to ensure clearance would be granted once the storm relented, coordinating in real-time. Her headset crackled as she spoke to the ground team, her voice crisp and reassuring as she relayed the final flight plan updates, ensuring all data was accurate and that no last-minute changes would be missed.

Rohan, ever the picture of calm in the eye of the storm, stepped back for a moment. His crew was scattered across the base, each one working with laser focus, but his thoughts lingered on the task ahead. Flying in these conditions — heavy rain, thick fog, and unpredictable winds — was never routine. It demanded everything they had: precision, vigilance, and unwavering teamwork. He walked slowly toward the flight line, where their trusted Mi-17V5 stood ready.

As the moment to board drew closer, the crew began to gather their gear. Rohan reached for his flight suit — dark green with a touch of faded brown from years of wear. The fabric was sturdy, designed for the harshest of conditions, and he slipped into it with practised ease. As the first signs of rain began to lightly tap on the tarmac, his hands moved to the small leather gloves laid out next to him. They were more than just protection from the cold or the rough control panels — they were an extension of him, worn in and moulded to his hands after countless hours in the cockpit.

The flight helmet was the final piece. Rohan put it beneath his arm , feeling the familiar weight settle, checking the communications gear which will soon be over his ears. The interior of the helmet was snug, lined with foam that kept out the cold and the noise. The external visor was slightly tinted, which would prove useful when flying in low-light conditions. As Rohan secured the helmet, he glanced at his reflection in the glass of the cockpit. His face was set, eyes intense, prepared for whatever the mission would bring.

Each crew member followed the same steps. Vikram, methodical as ever, slid into his suit, adjusted his gloves, and cinched the straps of his survival vest. Neha, her flight suit perfectly pressed, checked the communication gear and attached the helmet with a sharp click. She adjusted the mic inside the helmet, making sure it was clear for any instructions. Kartik, always a stickler for detail, was the last to join the group. His gloves went on slowly, each finger adjusting into place, ensuring nothing would distract him once they were airborne.

As Rohan took a final glance over the team, his mind sharpened. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” came the unified reply. The crew members responded without hesitation, every one of them ready to face the challenge.

Just as Rohan and his team donned their gear, the ground crew swung into action. The Master Chief Sergeant, a towering figure with a face that had seen decades of service, was overseeing the final preparations for the helicopter. His deep voice carried authority as he barked out instructions to his men. They moved with precision,removing the securing straps of the covers on the Mi-17V5, checking every inch of the rotorcraft.

The helicopter stood against the gray sky, its imposing silhouette cutting a stark figure against the overcast horizon. The Mi-17V5’s twin engines loomed like sentinels, their massive presence both reassuring and commanding. The air around the helicopter was thick with humidity, the ground still slick from the rain. Even though the storm had subsided, the weather remained unpredictable, making every moment before takeoff that much more critical.

Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar and Flying Officer Neha moved toward the helicopter, their footsteps in sync, each one aware of the gravity of the mission ahead. There was no rush — just a quiet, methodical urgency as they began the walk-around inspection. The ritual was always the same, no matter the conditions, no matter the mission. It was not just about checking systems; it was a mental preparation for what lay ahead. The walk-around was as much a part of their psyche as the pre-flight briefing.

Rohan took the lead, his eyes scanning the helicopter with a practised gaze, focused and precise. Neha walked alongside him, equally intent on her task, her fingers brushing against the surfaces of the aircraft, as if to familiarise herself with every curve and edge. They began at the nose, methodically moving around the fuselage in opposite directions, checking each component as if it were a vital organ of the aircraft. This was not simply a checklist; this was instinct honed by years of training.

First, they moved to the forward fuselage, where the cockpit met the nose. Rohan crouched slightly, inspecting the nose cone, checking for any dents or cracks that could compromise the aircraft’s aerodynamics. He ran his hand over the surface, feeling for any irregularities. He leaned in to check the navigation and communication antennas, ensuring everything was in place and functioning. Neha did the same on the opposite side, her eyes flicking between the instruments and the surrounding surfaces, noting any signs of wear.

Their hands moved in tandem as they carefully surveyed the rotor blades. The covers were still on, their fabric taut against the frame, protecting the massive blades from the rain and debris. Rohan nodded to Neha, signalling that it was time. Together, they moved toward the rotor, and with practised ease, they began to uncover the blades. The covers were removed, one by one, revealing the gleaming metal surfaces of the blades, still slick with moisture but otherwise unscathed. Rohan ran his hand along the leading edge of the blade, inspecting it for any chips or cracks that could jeopardise the aircraft’s stability during flight.

Neha moved to the tail rotor, her movements deliberate as she checked the tail boom for any signs of stress or damage. She leaned down, her eyes scanning the mechanical components for any irregularities. As her fingers brushed over the tail rotor, she could feel the slight vibration beneath her fingertips, a subtle reminder of the power that lay within the machine. She stepped back, satisfied with the condition of the rotor, but her focus never wavered.

Rohan moved on to inspect the main landing gear. He crouched low, running his hands along the hydraulic struts and checking the tires for any signs of wear or damage. The weight of the helicopter was distributed across these struts, and any compromise could lead to a disastrous landing. He tapped the tires lightly with his knuckles, listening for any changes in sound that might indicate an issue. The tires were solid, the tread deep. He gave a nod of approval, signalling to Neha that everything was intact.

Neha checked the helicopter’s undercarriage for any signs of leaks — oil, fuel, or hydraulic fluid. She knelt, inspecting the belly of the aircraft, running her flashlight over the belly panels and ensuring that all the fasteners were secure. There were no signs of leaks, no drips on the tarmac. She looked up at Rohan, her eyes meeting his with a shared sense of satisfaction.

Rohan then turned his attention to the tail section, where the tail rotor mounted to the aircraft. The tail rotor was a delicate mechanism, responsible for controlling the yaw of the aircraft, and any obstruction or malfunction could be catastrophic. He crouched, inspecting the rotor blades, feeling the air resistance as he moved them carefully by hand. The rotor was free of debris, and the mechanism appeared to be in perfect working order. He looked up at Neha, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the cockpit instruments as she checked the tail boom. Everything checked out.

By now, the ground crew, led by the Master Chief Sergeant, had begun their own inspection, moving methodically around the helicopter. The Master Chief Sergeant, a seasoned veteran with decades of experience, was as focused as Rohan, if not more so. His eyes scanned the entire length of the helicopter, checking the hydraulic lines, the rotor head, the exhaust system, and even the smallest details that most would overlook. His hands moved with military precision as he checked the tail rotor and the associated control linkages, ensuring that everything was free from damage or debris. He ran his hand along the tail rotor blades, checking for any nicks or cracks, but they were smooth, free of imperfections.

As Rohan finished his inspection, he stepped back and gestured for Neha to join him at the front of the helicopter. They exchanged a brief, wordless glance — both satisfied with the condition of the helicopter. There was always the risk of something being overlooked, but years of training had made these inspections second nature. Rohan glanced toward the Master Chief Sergeant, who gave him a sharp nod of approval. The helicopter was ready.

Rohan’s gaze shifted upward toward the sky. The clouds still hung heavy, but there were small breaks where the sky peeked through — a sign that the weather might clear soon. He turned to Neha, his voice steady and calm.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Neha gave a firm nod, her expression focused but confident. “All systems are go.”

“Let’s get airborne, then,” Rohan replied, his voice the final signal that the crew was prepared. He turned toward the helicopter, his hand brushing over the fuselage one last time, as if to acknowledge the machine that would carry them into the unknown.

The team knew their jobs well — every step, every check was essential for a smooth and safe flight. The Mi-17V5 was ready to carry its precious cargo, but it was up to the ground crew to ensure that all systems were functioning as they should. Once the walk-around was complete, the ground crew gave the final signal. The helicopter was cleared for takeoff.

The last few moments before takeoff were always the most intense. Every detail had been accounted for, but it was in these final seconds that everything felt real — the quiet anticipation of the crew, the hum of the systems coming online, the knowledge that they were about to take flight into unknown conditions.

Rohan stepped forward, his boots firm on the wet tarmac, and made his way to the helicopter. The rain had lessened, but the humidity hung heavy in the air, adding weight to the moment. As he reached the Mi-17V5, the massive machine loomed in front of him, its dark green body a familiar sight, but always awe-inspiring in its own way. It was not just the machine he trusted — it was the crew, the years of experience they all shared, and the bond forged in the skies that made every mission feel like a finely tuned operation.

He climbed into the right-hand side of the cockpit, the seat that was traditionally reserved for the pilot in command of the aircraft. Unlike conventional fixed-wing aircraft, where the commander sits on the left, the right-hand seat in a helicopter is where the commanding officer of the mission sits. This was an important distinction in rotorcraft operations, and for Rohan, it was second nature. In helicopters, the pilot’s perspective was different — the controls were mirrored, and the seating arrangement was intentionally designed to provide the commanding officer with a better view of the instruments and systems, as well as greater control over the aircraft in certain flight scenarios.

As Rohan slid into the cockpit, the familiar, comforting snugness of his harness wrapped around him like a second skin. His fingers moved instinctively, adjusting the straps with practised ease, ensuring that everything was tight and secure. He briefly glanced to his left, where Flying Officer Neha was already seated, her eyes scanning the comms systems. There was no need for words; their synchronisation was seamless — years of training and countless hours of flying had forged this bond between them. Their teamwork was a language all its own, spoken in glances and actions rather than words.

The cockpit of the Mi-17V5 was a world unto itself — compact, functional, and brimming with purpose. As Rohan settled into the right seat, the immediate feeling was one of control and readiness, a sense of being in the center of the machine’s pulse. The bulkheads around him were sturdy, an unyielding frame that separated him from the tumult outside, yet they held within them a symphony of instruments and technology, all designed to keep him connected to the airframe and to the world beyond. It was a space designed for purpose, not comfort, and yet, to a pilot who had spent countless hours within, it felt like home.

In front of him, the panel stretched out in an organized chaos of switches, dials, and digital screens — each serving a specific function in the delicate dance of flight. The primary flight instruments were grouped in a tight cluster: the altimeter, artificial horizon, and heading indicator, all nestled in the center, their needles twitching slightly with the shift of air pressure. Around them, smaller dials and readouts constantly flickered, their green backlit numbers providing vital information at a glance. Every indicator — every gauge — told a story, a narrative of readiness, of checks completed, and of the machine’s current health.

The soft hum of the avionics system buzzed faintly in the background, like the heartbeat of the helicopter itself. The various screens and monitors around the cockpit displayed critical system data in real time: the engine’s RPMs, fuel consumption, hydraulic pressure, and battery levels, all visible in the dull, greenish light. The cockpit’s lighting, subdued yet functional, cast a faint glow over the array of instruments, making the whole space feel like a well-oiled machine that was alive with purpose. As Rohan adjusted his harness and surveyed the controls, the cockpit felt alive, as if every switch, every dial, was waiting for the command to engage.

The avionics panel was a study in practicality — every button and knob had its place, each function designed for immediate access in moments of need. There were toggles for the lighting systems, switches for the auxiliary power, and dials for various instruments, each labelled meticulously with Cyrillic and English markings. The overhead panel was no less impressive — rows of circuit breakers, each labelled in a series of strange codes and symbols, stood at attention, their proximity to Rohan’s left hand an ever-present reminder of the complexity of the system he was piloting. His fingers brushed across a set of switches, their cool metal surfaces giving way under his touch, each click a confirmation that the systems were functional, ready for the rigours of flight.

The cyclic control stick, a tactile extension of Rohan’s hand, sat to his right, sturdy and firm, its ergonomic design moulded perfectly to the contours of his palm. He could feel the weight of the aircraft through it, every gust of wind, every subtle shift in the craft’s attitude relayed through the stick. The collective, positioned near his left hand, was no less important — a lever that controlled the lift and angle of the main rotor blades. With each small movement, Rohan could sense the rotor’s response, the subtle adjustments necessary to maintain the delicate balance of flight.

A pair of side-mounted screens flanked the center panel, displaying real-time data on weather patterns, flight routes, and terrain, the topography of the landscape stretching out ahead in vivid digital detail. These were the eyes beyond the cockpit, offering a map of the world as it was, while below, the controls ensured that Rohan and Neha remained tethered to the mechanical heart of the Mi-17V5.

Behind Rohan, the noise of the helicopter’s systems came alive — , the soft hum of the hydraulic systems, and the distant clicking of relays as the aircraft communicated with the ground systems. Even though the noise was constant, it was not overwhelming. It felt more like a living organism, every sound a reminder that the helicopter was prepared and ready to carry them through whatever the mission demanded.

To his left, Flying Officer Neha, the co-pilot, was focused, her own set of instruments illuminated in front of her, her fingers dancing over the switches and dials with practised ease. They were a team, each moving with a purpose, each contributing to the intricate process of flight, their actions synchronised like clockwork. Her gaze shifted between the avionics and the terrain displays, ensuring that the flight path was clear and that the mission parameters were being followed.

Rohan’s hands moved over the controls, ensuring that everything was properly calibrated. The collective, the cyclic, and the rudder pedals — all connected to the aircraft’s core, translating his every command into movement, into flight. His gaze flicked to the overhead console, checking the status of the navigation and communication systems. Each readout was green, confirming that everything was operational.

The entire cockpit seemed to hum with energy, and though it was a small space, it felt vast in its complexity. The control surfaces responded to even the lightest touch — Rohan’s fingers danced from one instrument to the next, flipping switches, adjusting knobs, and glancing at the digital readouts. It was a constant loop of checking, adjusting, and confirming, a dialogue between the pilot and the aircraft that required total focus.

In the final moments before takeoff, Rohan’s breath slowed, and he settled into the cockpit as though it were an extension of his own body. The intense focus and rhythm of the cockpit matched the speed of his pulse. The various instruments in front of him — each one a beacon of readiness — affirmed that the mission was not only possible but inevitable. The Mi-17V5 was a machine born for the challenges ahead, and the cockpit was its heart, beating in sync with Rohan’s resolve.

“Kartik, status on the load?” Rohan asked, his voice steady but taut.

“Load is secure, sir. We’re good to go,” Kartik replied from the rear cabin, his hands steady as he made the final checks.

“Vikram, how’s the survival gear?”

“All set,” came the crisp response.

“Neha, weather updates?”

“The rain’s easing up, sir. We’ll have clearance in five.”

Rohan took a deep breath, and with a final look at his crew, gave the signal. The Mi-17V5, its engines roaring, began its ascent into the sky, slicing through the thick fog and rain, carrying its crew and their vital cargo toward the isolated village. This was no ordinary flight. Every moment was critical, but for Rohan and his team, it was just another day in the sky. They knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, they were ready to meet them — together.

His eyes flicked over the control panel, instinctively checking each of the systems. The cyclic stick was positioned just where it should be, within easy reach of his right hand. The throttle was set in the standby position, and the collective lever stood ready to respond to his touch. His gaze lingered on the altimeter and the heading indicator, taking a mental note of their positions. Everything was in order.

To his left, Neha was adjusting the comms system, ensuring that the channels were correctly set and that the intercom was active. Her fingers moved quickly over the switches, checking and rechecking. The air in the cockpit was thick with focus, and the silence between them spoke volumes. They had both flown in far more dangerous conditions than these, but they were never complacent. Every flight was different, and every mission carried its own unique set of challenges.

Before he could even open his mouth, the faint crackle of the radio broke the stillness. It was Flight Operations calling, their voice sharp and clear over the radio.

“ Sierra Zulu One , this is Overlord , you’re cleared to proceed. Weather’s holding, over.”

Neha’s fingers instantly flicked over the radio controls, her voice calm and crisp as she responded.

“ Roger Overlord Sierra Zulu One , cleared to proceed. Copy on weather, over.”

She released the transmit button, and for a split second, there was a pause as the gravity of the clearance sank in. Rohan’s gaze met hers, and without a word, both pilots knew exactly what needed to happen next.

Rohan shifted his attention to the ground crew. The Crew Chief, a seasoned veteran with countless hours on the tarmac, was standing nearby, already making his way toward the helicopter. With a sharp salute, the Crew Chief climbed up onto the access ladder and approached the cockpit.

“Sierra Zulu One, we’re all set down here. Ready for engine start,” the Crew Chief called up, his voice steady and authoritative, the confidence of someone who had seen this play out countless times before.

Rohan nodded, giving a brief but decisive wave of his hand, signalling that it was time to begin the engine start procedure. He spoke into the intercom, his voice low and measured, but with an edge of urgency that had become second nature.

“ Sierra Zulu One, Crew Chief, ,commence engine start. Let’s get these turbines spooled up.”

“Roger that, Crew Chief . Starting engines now.” The Crew Chief’s voice crackled back through the intercom, and Rohan could hear the sounds of the ground crew hustling into action below. The Crew Chief’s voice carried the quiet but commanding confidence that came with years of experience. Rohan knew that once the engines were started, the momentum of the mission would be unstoppable.

Rohan’s fingers hovered over the engine start switches. He glanced at Neha, who gave him a quick nod, confirming she was ready on her end. With a final breath, Rohan pressed the starter button. There was a moment of quiet anticipation before the engines roared to life. The low rumble of the turbines grew steadily, filling the cockpit with a deep, resonant hum. The ground crew was already in motion, guiding the aircraft for takeoff with hand signals and verbal commands.

The engines roared to life, a deep, low rumble that vibrated through the entire frame of the helicopter. The noise quickly intensified, growing into a powerful hum as the turbines powered up. It was the sound of readiness, the sound of a mission about to unfold. The rumble of the engines reverberated in Rohan’s chest, but his mind was sharp, every nerve focused. He adjusted the flight controls, which were laid out directly before him — a mix of levers, buttons, and dials. His right hand hovered over the throttle, his left over the cyclic stick that would control the helicopter’s pitch and roll.

As he moved his hands to make adjustments, the rotor blades began to turn, the massive blades slicing through the air. At first, the motion was slow, deliberate, as the systems powered up and the blades gained momentum. But then, the movement became more fluid, faster, the blades whirring with increasing speed until they cut through the air with a steady, rhythmic thrum.

Rohan’s focus was absolute, his movements deliberate as he made minor adjustments to ensure the machine was responding correctly. The blades began to lift, the tail rotor joining in with its own whirring hum, creating a vortex of air that lifted the helicopter slightly off the ground. Every second felt charged with potential, the calm before the storm of turbulence that might await them once they reached the mountainous region they were headed to.

The main rotor blades began to turn slowly at first, their heavy metal arcs cutting through the air. The sound was almost rhythmic — a low, hypnotic hum as the rotors built speed. The helicopter shifted slightly on its skids, its tail rotor beginning to turn as well, pushing the tail of the craft in line.

Rohan’s fingers danced over the controls, adjusting the throttle as the engines reached full idle speed. The warning lights flickered for a moment before settling into their normal, steady glow — indicating that all systems were functioning correctly. He checked the temperature and pressure gauges, mentally ticking off the items on his mental checklist. The systems were all green, and the Mi-17V5 was ready to fly.

“All systems check good, Skipper ,” Neha’s voice broke through the hum of the engines, her tone crisp. She had already confirmed the avionics and checked their flight path for the mission. Everything was locked in. There would be no surprises today.

Rohan took a moment to look out of the cockpit. The clouds still hovered ominously in the distance, but the rain had finally relented. The visibility had improved enough to proceed, and he felt the familiar tension in his chest — the feeling that always came just before takeoff. His hand rested on the cyclic, ready to make the first small adjustments as they lifted off the tarmac.

“Alright, Neha, we’re good to go. Let’s get airborne.” His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable intensity beneath it. The mission was on. There was no more time to waste.

Neha gave a firm nod, her gaze fixed ahead. “**Roger, Skipper. You’re cleared to lift.”

The radio crackled to life, the voice of the pilot cutting through the static with practised precision. Rohan adjusted his headset, ensuring the comms were crystal clear. His thumb hovered over the transmit button as he glanced at Neha, who was busy monitoring the engine parameters and flight systems. She gave him a quick nod, her eyes locked on the instruments, ensuring everything was in order.

“OverLord, this is Sierra Zulu One. Request permission for takeoff. ” Rohan’s voice was calm, but there was an underlying sharpness to it, a tone that spoke of countless hours spent in the cockpit, honing the ability to communicate swiftly and clearly under pressure.

There was a brief pause on the radio, the silence punctuated only by the low hum of the helicopter’s systems, which seemed to settle as Rohan’s words hung in the air. Neha flicked a glance at him, waiting for confirmation.

Then, the familiar crackle of the radio came back to life. The voice of the tower controller was crisp and clear, though tinged with a note of professionalism honed by years of experience.

“Sierra Zulu One, this is OverLord. Permission granted for takeoff. Wind 320 degrees at 12 knots, visibility 5 kilometres, cloud cover at 1,500 feet. Be advised, light rain to the west. Good luck, and clear skies.”

Rohan exhaled, a fraction of tension leaving his shoulders as the clearance came through. There was no room for hesitation now. They were set, the mission was on.

“Roger that, OverLord. Sierra Zulu One, lifting off.”

Rohan’s hand moved with precision, gently pulling on the collective. The Mi-17V5 lurched slightly, its powerful engines pulling them upward. The helicopter rose, cutting through the heavy air as the ground dropped away beneath them. Rohan’s eyes flicked to the instruments one final time as they climbed, confirming the ascent was smooth.

Neha’s voice came through the intercom, her tone efficient and calm, as always.

“Altitude one thousand feet and climbing, heading 090. Winds are steady, Skipper”

Rohan acknowledged with a brief nod, his focus shifting back to the instruments in front of him. The helicopter felt alive under his hands, responding to every subtle adjustment with precision. Outside, the landscape began to shift as they climbed, the tarmac of the ALG shrinking behind them as they soared into the sky.

“Got it, Neha. Keep an eye on the weather radar for any changes. I’ll maintain heading.”

The intercom crackled again as Neha double-checked the weather radar. “No major changes on the radar. We’re clear for now.”

With the engines purring steadily, Rohan’s mind was already ahead of the mission. The journey to the remote village, with its treacherous terrain and unpredictable weather, would be demanding. But he trusted the machine. He trusted his crew. And most of all, he trusted his training.

The crew’s coordination was flawless — each member working together in harmony, each step a silent affirmation that they had done this many times before. The environment around them, thick with clouds and rain, no longer felt like a challenge — it was merely a backdrop to their work, an element they knew how to handle.

As the helicopter began to rise, Rohan felt the familiar weightlessness that came with lift-off, the subtle pressure building in his chest as they ascended into the thick cloud cover above. With each minute, the storm outside seemed to close in tighter, but in the cockpit, Rohan was calm, steady. The crew followed their procedures, the sound of Neha’s voice breaking through the hum of the engines as she updated the team on their progress.

The first few moments in the air were crucial. They would break through the clouds, navigate through the unpredictable winds, and establish their heading. Rohan’s eyes scanned the instruments with practised speed, confirming that the systems were functioning perfectly. In the distance, the ominous clouds stretched as far as the eye could see, a dark wall of rain that threatened to envelop them.

But this was what the First Ranas trained for — moments like these. The unpredictable. The dangerous. The unknown. Rohan’s grip tightened ever so slightly on the controls, his eyes never leaving the horizon. It was in these moments that the calmness of a pilot was forged, that the true weight of command settled into his bones. The mission was in motion now. There would be no turning back.

Rohan spoke again, his voice calm but firm, projecting confidence into the cockpit. “Neha, let’s stay on top of the systems. Kartik, you ready to manage the cargo when we land? Vikram, check the survival gear. Neha, get a final check on the flight path. We’ll be moving fast.”

Neha responded with a quick, affirmative “Understood,Skipper.”

As the Mi-17V5 sliced through the rain-soaked sky, Rohan’s mind cleared. The usual weight of the mission settled into his bones, but he felt it no differently than any other. The mountain peaks, the distant forests, and the looming clouds were all familiar. His hand steadied on the cyclic, the helicopter moving smoothly as he adjusted their course. With the mission underway, everything else was secondary.

With the helicopter now airborne, the world outside the cockpit shifted. The gray sky stretched out ahead, the dense cloud cover waiting to be breached. But Rohan knew one thing for sure: the crew was ready. This was what they had trained for. This was what they did. Every flight brought a new challenge, but they faced it as one — united, prepared, and resolute.

“Sierra Zulu One, airborne and on course,” he called into the radio, speaking now not just to OverLord, but to the world that stretched out ahead of them, a reminder of the mission they were on, the lives they would touch, and the skies they would navigate together.

The Mi-17V5 roared into the skies, its twin turboshaft engines humming with the raw power needed for the mission ahead. This wasn’t just another sortie. Below them, nestled within the folds of Arunachal Pradesh’s treacherous terrain, was a village completely cut off by relentless landslides. The villagers needed food, medical supplies, and hope. Sierra Zulu One was their lifeline.

“Sierra Zulu One, this is Overlord. Priority update: landing at the designated drop zone not possible. You’re cleared for hover-drop at grid coordinates 27°34'N, 93°50'E. Heavy rains have worsened conditions. Confirm receipt,” the tower’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Copy, Overlord. Sierra Zulu One. Hover-drop confirmed. ETA to coordinates, ten minutes,” Rohan replied, his voice calm but focused.

He turned slightly to his co-pilot, Flying Officer Neha Singh. “Neha, verify the coordinates and prep the approach plan. Kartik, check the load security — we can’t afford any drift during the drop.”

“Coordinates confirmed, Captain,” Neha responded, her hands swiftly working the navigation system. “We’ll be coming in hot. Winds at twenty knots, gusting higher near the ridge.”

Sergeant Kartik’s voice chimed in over the intercom. “Load secure, Captain. All straps double-checked. Supplies ready for hover deployment.”

Rohan adjusted the cyclic as the Mi-17V5 banked slightly, weaving through pockets of turbulence. The windshield wipers struggled against the onslaught of rain, streaking across the glass as if the heavens themselves were testing their resolve.

“Storm’s gaining strength,” Neha observed, her voice steady despite the vibration in the cockpit. “Radar shows severe wind shear near the drop zone.”

“Noted. Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Approaching sector alpha-bravo-three. Heavy turbulence. Adjusting to angels two-point-zero to compensate,” Rohan reported into the radio.

“Zulu One, Overlord. Acknowledged. Maintain caution. Updates on standby,” came the terse reply.

The helicopter began its descent, the mountains rising like silent sentinels around them. Below, the valley floor was a patchwork of mudslides, broken roads, and stranded villagers who craned their necks skyward at the distant hum of the chopper.

“Visual on the village,” Neha called out, pointing to a clearing obscured by mist and rain. “Grid coordinates match. That’s our target.”

“Skipper to crew, approaching drop zone,” Rohan announced. “Kartik, standby to deploy. Neha, I’ll need you on the comms for wind adjustments. Let’s make this clean.”

The Mi-17V5 hovered above the clearing, its rotors whipping the rain into a furious spray. The altimeter read a precarious 50 feet, just enough clearance to maneuver safely.

“Hold her steady,” Kartik said over the intercom, his voice calm but urgent. In the cargo bay, the rear ramp creaked open, revealing the sodden earth below. Crates of supplies, strapped to pallets for easy deployment, were aligned for quick release.

As the Mi-17V5 hovered above the makeshift drop zone, the village below emerged from the veil of rain, a cluster of thatched-roofed homes perched precariously on muddy hillsides. Landslides had scarred the landscape, carving out jagged gashes in the terrain, isolating the villagers in their tiny enclave. What once were pathways and streams had transformed into treacherous torrents of mud and debris.

Through the cockpit, Rohan and Neha could see faint movements — figures braving the downpour, emerging hesitantly into the open. The villagers, clad in drenched, tattered garments, shielded their eyes from the pelting rain, squinting upward toward the sound of salvation.

“Skipper to crew,” Rohan called over the intercom, his voice calm but firm. “We’re at the drop point. Kartik, confirm payload readiness.”

“Payload ready,Sir,” came Sergeant Kartik Malhotra’s steady reply from the rear. “Standing by to deploy.”

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Visual on drop zone. Beginning supplies release,” Rohan radioed, his gaze briefly meeting Neha’s. “Let’s make it count.”

The villagers below stood in a semi-circle near the edge of a landslide, a precarious spot where solid ground was becoming increasingly scarce. Their faces, etched with desperation and fatigue, told stories of sleepless nights and dwindling hopes. A middle-aged man with a weathered face clutched a makeshift stick, his hands trembling — not from the cold, but from days of uncertainty. Beside him, a young woman cradled a child bundled tightly in a shawl, the infant’s cries faint against the roar of the helicopter’s rotors.

Near the center of the group stood an elder, his face lined with deep wrinkles that spoke of decades of hardship. His hands, clasped tightly together, rose slowly toward the sky — a silent prayer to the gods he had long revered. But today, it was the Indian Air Force that seemed to answer those prayers.

“They see us, Captain,” Neha said softly, her eyes catching the expressions below. “They know help is here.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” Rohan replied, his hands steady as he maintained the hover.

“Deploy on my mark,” Rohan instructed, his hands firm on the cyclic as he fought to maintain stability against the unpredictable gusts.

“Mark!”

With practised precision, Kartik triggered the release.

The helicopter’s rear ramp lowered slightly, and Kartik began releasing the first of the supplies: food packets, tarpaulins, medicine, and drinking water. The bundled relief floated down beneath a controlled parachute, its descent met with outstretched arms and cries of gratitude from below. The crates slid down the ramp and into the clearing, parachutes blooming almost instantly to soften their descent. From the cockpit, Rohan and Neha watched as the supplies landed one by one, the villagers rushing out to retrieve them despite the downpour.

“Drop successful!” Kartik reported, his voice carrying a note of triumph.

A boy, no older than eight, broke from the group, his small frame splattered with mud as he stumbled forward to catch a falling supply pack. His face, though smeared with dirt, lit up with pure elation as he held the bundle close, his eyes wide with disbelief. He turned to his mother, who knelt in the mud, her hands pressed against her face in a gesture of overwhelming relief.

The elder, still standing in the center, now knelt on the wet earth, his frail body trembling as he looked skyward. His lips moved in silent thanks, a reverence reserved for gods but now directed toward the dark silhouette of the Mi-17V5 cutting through the storm.

“Skipper to crew, supplies deployed,” Kartik called out, his voice breaking the silence of the cockpit.

“Roger that,” Rohan replied, sparing another glance at the ground below. His heart tightened as he saw the villagers clutching the supplies, their faces marked with a mixture of joy and disbelief. “Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Drop complete. RTB request pending further instructions.”

“Copy, Sierra Zulu One. Good work. Await further tasking,” Overlord responded, their tone steady despite the chaos of coordination on their end.

As the Mi-17V5 began to ascend, the scene below shifted. The villagers, soaked to the bone but no longer afraid, waved frantically toward the departing chopper. A few clasped their hands in prayer, others knelt in the mud, bowing their heads. A small girl clung to her father’s leg, her tiny arm raised toward the retreating helicopter as though to say, *Don’t leave us again.*

“Captain,” Neha said, her voice quieter now. “They’re looking at us like… we’re gods.”

Rohan shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed ahead as the rain continued to lash against the cockpit. “Not gods,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with humility. “Just people doing what we can, when it’s needed the most.”

The rain continued its relentless assault, blurring the outlines of the village below as the helicopter climbed higher. But in the minds of the crew, the images of those faces — etched with despair turned to hope — remained vivid, a reminder of why they flew through storms, navigated impossible terrain, and faced each mission with unwavering resolve.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Supplies delivered. Mission success. Exiting drop zone,” Rohan keyed into the radio, the tension in his voice finally easing.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. Well done. Proceed to base. Cleared for angels three-zero,” the tower responded, their tone reflecting a shared sense of accomplishment.

The rain lashed furiously against the Mi-17V5, drumming on the fuselage like relentless waves on a rocky shore. The cockpit windows streaked with water, offering only intermittent clarity through the gloom. Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar kept his grip firm on the cyclic, his every move precise. Beside him, Flying Officer Neha Sharma monitored the instruments with hawk-like focus, her hands steady as she adjusted for the unpredictable gusts. Both pilots were relying not just on their world-class training but on an unspoken synergy honed over countless missions.

The drop had gone smoothly. Supplies had reached the stranded village below, and Rohan allowed himself the smallest sigh of relief. “Skipper to crew,” he called over the intercom, his voice steady but softer now, “Drop successful. Good work, everyone. Prepping for RTB (return to base).”

Neha gave him a nod, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Fuel levels are holding steady. We’re green for the trip back to Ziro ALG.”

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Supplies delivered. Mission accomplished. Request clearance for return,” Rohan radioed to the tower, his tone calm and professional.

The reply came quickly, crisp and clear: “Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. Cleared to RTB. Maintain angels two-point-five. Report when inbound.”

“Roger that, Overlord. Maintaining angels two-point-five,” Rohan responded, adjusting the collective to stabilise their altitude.

The helicopter began its turn back toward the base, slicing through the dense rain and turbulence. The valley below was a patchwork of mud and water, barely visible through the mist. The mood inside the cockpit was steady but lighter now. The mission was done, and the villagers had their supplies.

Suddenly, the RT crackled alive, interrupting their brief respite.

“Sierra Zulu One, Sierra Zulu One, this is Overlord. Stand by for urgent tasking,” came the sharp voice from Ziro Tower.

Rohan’s grip on the cyclic tightened. “Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Go ahead.”

“Zulu One, we’ve received a distress call from Forward Post Kilo-Seven. A soldier has suffered a critical injury — a fall into a mountain crevice. Immediate evacuation is required. Coordinates are grid 28°03'N, 94°13'E. Weather remains severe in the sector. Do you copy?”

Rohan exchanged a quick glance with Neha. Her expression was serious, but there was no hesitation in her eyes. This was what they trained for.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Copy coordinates. Request additional details on patient condition and terrain at Kilo-Seven,” Rohan replied, already checking the helicopter’s systems and fuel levels.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. Patient is a soldier in critical condition, suspected spinal and internal injuries. Terrain at Kilo-Seven is rugged — no safe landing zone. Hover extraction required,” the tower responded.

Rohan took a deep breath, his mind already running through the logistics. Fuel was sufficient for the detour, but the weather was worsening, and a hover extraction in such conditions would be nothing short of treacherous.

“Fuel levels?” he asked Neha, his voice calm but commanding.

“We’re good for the mission, Skipper,” she confirmed, glancing at the gauges.

“Skipper to crew,” Rohan keyed the intercom. “We’ve got a medevac situation. Forward Post Kilo-Seven. Patient in critical condition. Hover extraction required. Kartik, get the harness ready. I want everything double-checked. This will be a tight one.”

The Mi-17V5 surged forward, slicing through sheets of torrential rain that blurred the horizon into a gray void. The storm seemed almost alive, battering the fuselage with relentless ferocity. Every gust of wind that buffeted the helicopter felt like a test of skill and resolve, but inside the cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar and Flying Officer Neha Sharma remained unyielding.

Rohan adjusted his grip on the cyclic, his eyes darting between the rain-streaked windscreen and the instruments glowing faintly in the dim light. “Skipper to crew,” he called over the intercom, his voice calm and authoritative despite the chaos outside. “We’re on course to Kilo-Seven. Turbulence is heavy — brace for more as we climb.”

“Understood, Captain,” came Sergeant Kartik Malhotra’s steady reply from the rear. “Harness is prepped. Winch is green and ready.”

“Good. This one’s going to be tricky,” Rohan said, his tone tinged with focus. He glanced at Neha, who was monitoring the radar and terrain avoidance systems.

“Storm cells are converging,” Neha reported, her hands deftly adjusting the autopilot assist to counter sudden shifts. “Expecting severe downdrafts ahead.”

Rohan nodded, his jaw set. “Stay sharp. We’ll need to hold her steady for the hover. Overlord, Sierra Zulu One, adjusting altitude to angels three-point-five to clear terrain and weather. Confirm coordinates at Kilo-Seven.”

“Copy, Sierra Zulu One,” Overlord’s voice crackled through the radio, calm but commanding. “Coordinates confirmed. Terrain is rugged — hover extraction remains the only option. Emergency team on ground will guide. Weather advisory: extreme turbulence expected in sector delta-charlie.”

“Roger, Overlord. Sierra Zulu One proceeding as briefed,” Rohan responded, his hands adjusting the collective and cyclic in precise tandem to counteract the turbulence. “ETA to Kilo-Seven, ten minutes.”

The helicopter climbed higher, the altimeter ticking upward as they approached the mountainous region where Kilo-Seven was located. Below, the valley disappeared beneath a swirling veil of rain and mist, its beauty eclipsed by the unforgiving storm. Lightning illuminated the jagged ridgelines for fleeting moments, casting eerie shadows that danced across the cockpit.

“Skipper, wind shear detected,” Neha warned, her voice calm but firm. “Holding altitude, but we’ll need constant corrections.”

“Got it,” Rohan replied, his grip tightening. “Stay with me on the controls. We’re a team.”

For the crew, the minutes stretched endlessly. The Mi-17 bucked and swayed as if caught in an invisible fist, each jolt a reminder of the storm’s power. Yet, the helicopter pressed on, a testament to its engineering and the skill of its crew.

The Mi-17V5 climbed steadily into the turbulent skies, a symbol of resilience and hope against nature’s wrath, carrying its crew toward the safety of base and the promise of more missions to come.

The rain battered the Mi-17V5 mercilessly as it climbed through the rugged valleys toward Forward Post Kilo-Seven. Each droplet struck the cockpit glass with a ferocity that mirrored the challenges ahead, reducing visibility to mere streaks of gray and shadow. The wipers worked furiously, barely keeping up with the deluge, while the storm howled, buffeting the chopper in unpredictable gusts.

“Steady as she goes,” Rohan murmured, his hands firm on the cyclic, coaxing the aircraft to respond smoothly. His eyes darted between the instruments and the swirling gray outside, the rain punctuated by flashes of jagged cliffs illuminated by their landing lights.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. Status update,” the RT crackled, cutting through the drone of the engines.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Maintaining angels three-point-zero. ETA to grid coordinates is ten minutes. Current heading two-eight-zero,” Rohan replied, his voice steady despite the turbulence.

“Copy that, Sierra Zulu One. Be advised, weather is deteriorating in your sector. Strong gusts reported along ridges at forward coordinates. Proceed with caution,” Overlord responded, the urgency in the controller’s tone unmistakable.

“Roger, Overlord. Proceeding with caution,” Rohan acknowledged, his focus sharpening even further.

Beside him, Flying Officer Neha Sharma scrutinized the radar, her brow furrowed as she assessed the rapidly shifting weather patterns. “Captain, we’re picking up a stronger squall line ahead. Winds are clocking in at forty knots — gusting higher near those peaks.”

Rohan glanced at her, nodding slightly. “We’ll ride it out. Keep an eye on our drift; I don’t want us pushed too far into the leeward valleys. Skipper to crew,” he called into the intercom, “brace for increased turbulence. Maintain readiness.”

“Copy, Skipper,” Sergeant Kartik Malhotra’s voice crackled back from the cabin. “Harness secure and winch tested. We’re green back here.”

The helicopter surged forward, the terrain below fading in and out of view as sheets of rain whipped against the windows. The valleys beneath were treacherous — a mix of swollen rivers and jagged rocks waiting for any misstep.

Neha leaned slightly closer to the windshield. “I’ve got visual on a ridgeline, 10 o’clock. It’s closer than it should be. We’re getting pushed off course.”

“Correcting,” Rohan said, his tone calm as he adjusted the cyclic and collective. The helicopter responded, banking slightly to re-align with their intended path.

The radio came alive again. “Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. New update from Kilo-Seven. Patient condition worsening — respiratory distress. Priority remains critical.”

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Understood. We’ll expedite,” Rohan replied, pushing the throttle just enough to gain speed without compromising stability. “Neha, recalculate time to target. We’re shaving minutes wherever we can.”

“Adjusting… nine minutes to target at current speed,” Neha replied after a quick check.

“Good. Let’s make it eight,” Rohan said, determination etched into his voice.

The storm seemed to intensify as they neared the coordinates. The Mi-17V5 pitched and yawed under the assault of powerful gusts, the rotors slicing through the turbulent air with a defiant hum.

“Terrain at twelve o’clock,” Neha called out, her voice rising slightly. “We’re coming up on the ridge. Looks like it’s closing in fast.”

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Approaching grid coordinates. Visual on ridgeline. Request confirmation of hover zone,” Rohan radioed, his tone clipped but controlled.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord. Confirmed. Hover extraction zone is immediately west of the forward post. No ground support available — team is focused on stabilizing the patient,” came the reply.

“Copy, Overlord. Sierra Zulu One standing by for final clearance,” Rohan said, adjusting their altitude as the helicopter climbed to clear the ridge.

Finally, Forward Post Kilo-Seven came into view — a small, precarious outpost clinging to the mountainside. A few lights flickered below, their glow diffused by the relentless rain. The hover zone was a narrow strip of uneven terrain surrounded by steep drops.

The Mi-17V5 pushed onward through the unrelenting storm, its rotors cutting through the downpour as it approached Forward Post Kilo-Seven. Every gust of wind seemed determined to knock the helicopter off course, but Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar’s hands remained steady on the controls, his years of training and instinct working in perfect harmony. Beside him, Flying Officer Neha Sharma monitored the radar and terrain, her focus unwavering despite the hostile weather conditions.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord,” came the crisp voice from Ziro Tower over the radio. “Confirming hover extraction zone immediately west of Forward Post Kilo-Seven. No ground support available — team is focused on stabilizing the patient. Terrain remains critical. Proceed with caution.”

“Copy, Overlord,” Rohan replied, his tone calm but authoritative. “Sierra Zulu One standing by for final clearance.”

Ahead, the forward post emerged like a ghostly sentinel from the mist — a cluster of low, camouflaged structures perched precariously on a narrow mountain ledge. It was manned by soldiers of the 8 JAT Regiment, their unwavering commitment etched into every detail of the remote outpost. The faint glow of their lamps, diffused by the rain, illuminated the rugged terrain surrounding them. It was a stark reminder of the extreme conditions these men faced daily.

The soldiers of the 8 JAT Regiment were more than just defenders of the border; they were the embodiment of courage and resilience. Positioned at altitudes where oxygen thinned and temperatures plummeted well below freezing, they maintained an unyielding vigil. Their regimental ethos — Jat Balwan, Jai Bhagwan (The Jat is mighty; victory to God) — spoke of their indomitable spirit and faith in their mission.

Even in the freezing cold, their movements were precise and disciplined. They carried out their duties with an unshakable focus, whether it was patrolling treacherous ridges or maintaining the intricate network of surveillance equipment that kept the border secure. The rain that lashed the Mi-17 now was a mere inconvenience to these men, who had weathered far worse during snowstorms and bitter winter nights.

Forward Post Kilo-Seven was a small, fortified outpost built into the natural contours of the mountain. Sandbags and steel plates reinforced its defences, while makeshift trenches and watchtowers provided a clear line of sight across the border. The area was rugged, with jagged cliffs rising on one side and steep drops on the other. The hover extraction zone — a narrow strip of uneven rock — offered no margin for error.

Inside the post, a team of medics and soldiers worked frantically to stabilize the injured man, a JAT soldier who had fallen into a crevice during a routine patrol. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, their movements were efficient, their resolve unbroken. They communicated in hushed tones, their faces lined with concern but their actions reflecting their training and professionalism.

“Sierra Zulu One, Overlord,” the radio crackled again. “Cleared for hover extraction. Be advised — winds picking up in the sector. Current gusts exceeding 25 knots.”

Rohan exhaled slowly, his mind racing through the variables. “Copy, Overlord. Sierra Zulu One proceeding to hover zone. Neha, let’s hold her tight.”

“Roger, Captain,” Neha replied, her hands already adjusting the controls. “Winds are erratic. We’ll need constant corrections.”

“Skipper to crew,” Rohan keyed the intercom. “Final approach to Kilo-Seven. Kartik, standby for winch deployment. Expect heavy turbulence.”

“Standing by, Captain,” Sergeant Kartik Malhotra replied from the rear, his voice steady. He secured the harness and checked the winch mechanism one last time, ensuring everything was operational.

The Mi-17V5’s blades sliced through the torrential downpour, the storm intensifying as the helicopter neared Forward Post Kilo-Seven. The roar of the engines reverberated off the steep mountainside, a deafening sound that seemed to shake the very air around them. Inside the cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar and Flying Officer Neha Sharma were a picture of focus, their eyes locked on the ever-approaching terrain.

From above, the post looked like a cluster of tiny silhouettes against the jagged cliffs, the glow from a few lamps barely visible through the rain. Despite the relentless weather, the soldiers on the ground were unmoving, their presence firm and resolute. Their hands were raised in deliberate signals, guiding the helicopter toward the designated hover zone, a strip of rocky terrain barely wide enough to accommodate the aircraft’s landing gear.

The Mi-17V5 slowed its descent as Rohan called out the critical report. “Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Visual on Kilo-Seven. Commencing hover.”

“Roger that, Sierra Zulu One. Maintain altitude, proceed with caution. Overlord out.”

The helicopter responded with a mechanical hum as it eased into position, the rotors whipping the rain into a frenzy as they fought against gusts of wind that seemed intent on knocking them off course. Rohan’s hands never wavered from the cyclic, his movements fluid but controlled. Beside him, Neha was making constant adjustments, her fingers gliding over the controls with precision, countering the turbulence with expert finesse.

“Winch ready!” Corporal Kartik Malhotra’s voice crackled over the intercom from the rear, breaking the rhythm of the cockpit.

“Copy that, Kartik,” Rohan replied, his voice calm but commanding. “Hold her steady, Neha. We’ve got to get this right.”

The winch slowly descended from the belly of the helicopter, a heavy mechanical whine cutting through the roar of the wind. The harness swayed slightly in the turbulent air, struggling to maintain its vertical trajectory, while the crew worked in tandem, the intensity of the operation mounting with each passing second.

Corporal Vikram Joshi, the gunner onboard, could feel the strain of the maneuver as he secured his position at the side door. His grip on the machine gun was steady, but his focus was now on the task ahead. The terrain below was unforgiving, the rocky outcrop surrounding the forward post offering little room for error. He knew that any mistake could prove disastrous.

“Steady, Vikram,” Kartik called out over the intercom, his voice steady despite the urgency. “We need that winch deployed just right. Help me guide it in.”

Vikram nodded, his focus unwavering. “Got it, Kartik. I’ll keep an eye on the surroundings.”

Together, Kartik and Vikram worked as a well-oiled team, each movement coordinated to perfection. The winch creaked and groaned under the strain of the elements, the descent slow and deliberate. The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity as the harness lowered, guided carefully by Kartik and Vikram’s hands, their eyes darting between the controls, the harness, and the rain-lashed view below.

“Target in sight,” Vikram muttered, peering through the haze of rain and mist. The silhouette of the injured soldier was barely discernible through the sheets of water, but the urgency in his tone betrayed the gravity of the situation.

The soldier was a JAT, his form hunched over, held in place by a few of his comrades. He had fallen into a mountain crevice while on patrol, a grisly injury to his leg and suspected internal trauma leaving him barely conscious. The medics on the ground were already doing their best to stabilise him, but with no viable landing zone and no chance of getting him down by foot, the helicopter was his only hope.

“Hang in there, mate,” Vikram whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

The winch continued its slow descent until it was within reach of the soldiers below. Their hands shot out in unison, seizing the harness, carefully but swiftly securing the injured man. Rohan and Neha, while battling the storm’s gusts and turbulence, remained locked in their steady rhythm, their eyes trained on the crew and the task at hand.

The moment the injured soldier was secured, Kartik gave a swift nod, his voice crackling through the comms. “We’ve got him. Bringing him up now!”

The helicopter’s engines roared as it fought to maintain its hover, the winch pulling slowly but steadily. The injured man was being lifted into the sky, suspended for a heartbeat in the maelstrom of wind and rain, and then finally drawn safely into the belly of the aircraft. The moment he was aboard, Kartik signaled to secure the winch.

“Patient secured,” came the ground team’s voice over the portable radio. “Lifting now.”

The injured soldier was hoisted into the helicopter, his stretcher swaying gently as it cleared the ledge. Inside, Kartik guided the stretcher into position, his movements precise despite the chaotic environment.

“Patient aboard!” Kartik shouted over the intercom. “Winch secured.”

“Roger that,” Rohan replied. His hands never left the controls, but there was a brief exhalation of relief in his voice. “Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Patient secured. Exiting Kilo-Seven. Returning to Ziro ALG with one critical on board.”

“Copy, Sierra Zulu One. Cleared direct to Ziro. Emergency services standing by. Overlord out.”

Rohan immediately adjusted the heading, the helicopter banking slightly as it broke free from the hovering position. The turbulence didn’t ease; in fact, it seemed to intensify as they banked left, the storm pressing down even harder. But the mission was successful. The soldier, though gravely injured, was now safely on board, and the Mi-17V5 was already climbing away from the treacherous terrain.

As they moved towards the relative safety of the return route, Vikram allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. They were through the hardest part of the mission. But the journey was far from over. It would be a long flight back to Ziro ALG, with the storm still refusing to relent.

Inside the cockpit, Rohan and Neha exchanged a brief glance, their faces etched with exhaustion and resolve. They had completed the extraction, and the patient was in their care. In the midst of the chaos, they were still a team, as they always had been.

Rohan’s voice was calm but commanding as he spoke into the comms once more. “Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. ETA to Ziro ALG, twenty minutes. Out.”

“Copy that, Sierra Zulu One. Safe flight,” came the response.

As the Mi-17V5 powered on through the storm, the soldiers of 8 JAT Regiment, now with one of their own safely on board, could only watch as the helicopter vanished into the haze, carrying their comrade toward medical aid. Their unwavering dedication to their mission, no matter the peril, was their creed. And for them, the sight of the IAF chopper soaring through the storm, mission accomplished, was as close to a miracle as they would ever experience.

The helicopter banked away from the post, its powerful rotors carving through the storm as it climbed above the ridgeline. Below, the soldiers of 8 JAT watched the aircraft disappear into the mist, their silent prayers following the crew and their injured comrade. For these brave men, the IAF’s presence was more than just a rescue — it was a lifeline, a reminder that no matter how remote or treacherous their post, they were never alone in their service to the nation.

Inside the cockpit, the crew’s focus remained sharp. The storm still raged, but their mission was clear: to get their patient to safety. They were tired, soaked, and buffeted by the elements, but the knowledge that they had done their duty fueled their resolve.

As the Mi-17V5 surged toward Ziro ALG, the lights of the forward post faded into the storm, a beacon of courage and commitment in the unforgiving mountains.

The soldier lay still on the floor of the Mi-17V5, his body a tangled mess of pain and injury. His name was Havildar Arjun Singh, a 29-year-old veteran of the 8 JAT Regiment. His once powerful frame, honed by years of rigorous training, was now battered and broken. He had fallen into a deep crevice during a reconnaissance patrol in the mountains, his body twisted in unnatural ways as he hit the jagged rocks below. He had been found barely conscious, the fall leaving him with suspected internal bleeding, multiple fractures in his leg, and severe contusions along his torso. His comrades had managed to stabilize him as best as they could under the dire conditions, but they knew that the chances of survival without immediate evacuation were slim.

The medics had done their best to bandage his wounds, but it was clear that time was critical. He had been semi-conscious during the winching process, the pain from his injuries blurring his thoughts. Every movement felt like fire inside his body, and the cold, biting wind only worsened the agony. But there was something more — something deeper — in his mind. He had been a soldier for too long to give up hope, and somewhere in the haze of pain, he still believed that rescue was coming.

Inside the helicopter, the rumble of the engines and the shrill whine of the winch motors were the only sounds that filled the cabin, alongside the crackle of the intercom. The hum of the rotors above them was almost drowned out by the relentless downpour as the Mi-17V5 began its climb away from the forward post. The battle against the storm had just begun, but for now, they were on their way to safety.

Havildar Arjun’s eyes fluttered open, his lashes heavy from the blood loss and exhaustion. The first thing he saw was the ceiling of the helicopter, the faint glow of the cockpit lights reflecting off the damp interior. The throbbing pain in his leg and torso was all-consuming, but he fought against it, fighting for a semblance of clarity.

His gaze shifted weakly to the crew, the faces of the flight crew, their expressions focused and determined, but something more — something human — shone through in their eyes. He blinked, the effort of moving his eyes feeling like it took all of his remaining strength.

There, in front of him, standing over him, was Corporal Vikram Joshi, the gunner onboard, his face set in a mask of stoic concentration. His weapon was slung across his body, but his eyes, though narrowed in focus, softened for just a moment as they met Arjun’s gaze.

“You’re safe now, brother,” Vikram said, his voice low and reassuring. “Hold on.”

Arjun wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, his chest tight with pain, and every word felt like it would tear through his insides. Instead, he simply nodded weakly, his eyes locked on Vikram’s for a long, fleeting moment. There was gratitude there, raw and unsaid, a soldier’s bond understood without the need for words.

In the cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar glanced at the rearview mirror. His eyes flicked briefly over the injured soldier. He had been through countless operations, but something about the sight of a comrade in pain always hit a little harder. Rohan adjusted his grip on the cyclic, his voice calm, but there was a note of empathy. “Neha, how’s he doing?”

Flying Officer Neha Sharma didn’t take her eyes off the instruments but spoke with a calm professionalism that belied the storm outside. “Vitals are stable as per the field medics, Skipper. His pulse is weak but steady. The morphine they gave him is keeping him sedated, but he’s semi-conscious. Likely to be in and out of consciousness. We need to get him to the hospital quickly.”

Rohan nodded, his hands steady on the controls as he kept the helicopter on course, the roar of the engine fighting the wind that whipped through the aircraft. “Good. We’ll get him to Ziro ASAP. Hold tight, Arjun. You’re not alone.”

Meanwhile, Sergeant Kartik Malhotra had positioned himself by the injured soldier’s side, making sure the harness kept him secure as the helicopter swayed and bucked in the storm. Kartik’s eyes flicked over the medical equipment, ensuring everything was in place. The soldier’s face was pale, his skin slick with sweat despite the cold, his lips cracked from dehydration.

Arjun’s eyes blinked open again, and this time, his gaze met Kartik’s. The sergeant leaned in closer, his voice firm but gentle. “We’re almost there, Havildar. Stay with us, alright? You’ll be back with your boys soon.”

Arjun’s lips parted in a faint smile, but the effort was short-lived, the pain making his body tremble. His breath was shallow, a labored sound that filled the cabin. He raised a trembling hand, slowly reaching for Kartik’s arm.

“Thank you… s-sir,” Arjun rasped, his voice hoarse.

Kartik’s expression softened. “No thanks needed, Arjun. We’re just doing our job. You’ll make it through.”

The soldier’s eyes glistened with a mixture of pain and gratitude, his hand falling back to his side as his body succumbed to the exhaustion. He couldn’t keep his eyes open for much longer, the darkness pulling at him like a heavy weight. But before the blackness fully took over, there was one more thing Arjun saw — the face of Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar in the cockpit.

Rohan caught his gaze once again in the rearview mirror, his expression calm but purposeful. Arjun managed to raise his hand weakly in a gesture of silent thanks, and Rohan, without hesitation, nodded back, acknowledging the gesture.

In that moment, amidst the cacophony of the storm and the roar of the engines, a deep sense of connection filled the air — a bond forged in the fire of duty, in the shared understanding of what it meant to serve, to protect, and to fight. Havildar Arjun Singh, despite his pain, was no longer alone. His brothers in arms were with him, every step of the way.

And though he could no longer keep his eyes open, the last thing he felt was a profound sense of gratitude for the soldiers of the Indian Air Force, who had come to his rescue in his darkest hour.

The Mi-17V5 roared through the skies, its engines howling against the storm. The rain lashed the fuselage relentlessly, each droplet a miniature missile, splattering against the hull as the violent winds battered the helicopter from all directions. Inside the cockpit, the air was thick with tension. Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar’s hands were steady on the cyclic, his every movement deliberate, honed by years of flying in extreme conditions, yet this mission felt different. This wasn’t just about precision; it was about speed — about getting a man to safety before it was too late.

Beside him, Flying Officer Neha Sharma was a picture of focused intensity. Her fingers flew over the instruments, adjusting settings, monitoring gauges, calculating every second that slipped away. The storm outside was unforgiving, and the journey back to Ziro ALG had turned into a race against time. The soldier they had rescued, Havildar Arjun Singh, was slipping in and out of consciousness, his condition deteriorating rapidly. Every moment spent in the air, battling the storm, was a moment that could cost him his life.

“Skipper, we’re losing him,” Neha said, her voice tight with urgency. Her eyes flickered over the medical readings on the display screen, a frown creasing her brow. “His pulse is dropping, and his breathing is shallow. We need to push through this. Fast.”

Rohan’s jaw tightened. He knew the weight of those words. His mind raced. The storm was relentless, the visibility near zero, and the terrain they were navigating was treacherous. Yet the clock was ticking, and Arjun’s survival depended on getting him to medical care as soon as possible.

“Understood,” Rohan said, his voice calm but edged with resolve. He adjusted the controls, guiding the Mi-17V5 into a steep climb to clear the mountains ahead. “Neha, let me know if anything changes. We’re not losing him today.”

The helicopter pitched and swayed in the violent winds, the rotor blades whipping through the air with a deafening roar. The storm outside was like a living thing, an angry beast that tore at the helicopter’s fuselage, pushing it off course with every gust of wind. The cockpit windows were streaked with rain, offering only fleeting glimpses of the world outside, which was shrouded in a dense, impenetrable fog. The navigation systems fought to keep them on course, but even the best equipment could be overwhelmed by the ferocity of the storm.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. Requesting updated weather report for Ziro ALG,” Rohan called into the radio, his voice firm despite the chaos around him. He needed to know what awaited them on the ground.

“Zulu One, Overlord. Weather at Ziro is deteriorating. Winds are gusting up to 40 knots, with rain and low visibility. Runway conditions are not ideal. Recommend holding pattern until weather improves,” came the response from the tower.

Rohan cursed under his breath. Holding was not an option. Arjun’s life was on the line, and he didn’t have time to wait for the storm to pass.

“Negative, Overlord. We’re coming in hot. Prepare for emergency landing,” Rohan said decisively, his voice leaving no room for argument. The crew knew what needed to be done. This wasn’t just another mission; it was a matter of life and death.

“Roger that, Sierra Zulu One,” came the reply, a slight pause before adding, “Good luck.”

Rohan turned to Neha, his expression set in determination. “Neha, we’re going to have to make a run for it. I’ll need you to keep an eye on those wind readings. The slightest shift, and we’re in danger of stalling out.”

“I’ve got it, Skipper,” Neha replied without missing a beat. “I’ll make sure we stay on track.”

As Rohan pulled the collective back, the Mi-17V5 roared into action, the helicopter fighting against the storm’s fury. The ride was anything but smooth. Every gust of wind felt like it could tear the helicopter from the sky, but Rohan fought against it, using all his limited experience in such hostile conditions to keep the bird stable. His focus was razor-sharp, and his hands moved with precision, making slight adjustments as the helicopter swayed dangerously from side to side.

“Skipper, we’re getting pushed too close to the ridgelines,” Neha warned. “We need to correct course or risk getting sucked into the valley.”

Rohan gritted his teeth. There was no margin for error now. He adjusted the cyclic again, forcing the Mi-17V5 to climb, scraping just above the jagged mountain ridges. The terrain was unforgiving, with steep cliffs that seemed to rise out of nowhere in the heavy mist.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The rain seemed to intensify with every passing second, and the rotor blades sliced through the dense fog with a maddening howl. It felt as though the storm itself was conspiring against them, pushing and pulling at the helicopter, testing the resolve of the crew inside.

“Skipper, altitude is holding steady,” Neha said, her eyes glued to the instruments. “We’re within range of Ziro.”

Rohan glanced at his fuel gauge — barely above the critical threshold — but it was enough. He had to make this count. He pressed forward, leaning into the controls, every muscle in his body tensed against the strain.

The storm raged relentlessly, its fury a physical force that seemed determined to thwart every attempt at control. Rohan’s eyes were fixed ahead, narrowed against the blinding rain that streaked across the cockpit windows, reducing visibility to almost nothing. The landing zone at Ziro ALG had materialised in the gloom, a mere strip of earth barely visible through the downpour. The dim glow of the landing lights pierced the night like distant, beckoning stars, their faint glimmer offering the only reassurance that there was a destination beneath the chaos.

Rohan’s grip on the cyclic tightened, his every muscle taut with focus as he guided the Mi-17V5 into a rapid descent. The helicopter bucked under the battering wind, the fuselage groaning under the strain, but Rohan’s hands never wavered. His heart raced as the trees below blurred into a streak of green and gray, the ground fast approaching.

“Skipper, we’re coming in fast,” Neha said, her voice calm but tinged with urgency. “Visibility’s still poor. Winds are gusting up to twenty knots. Hold your line.”

Rohan barely heard her words over the deafening roar of the rotors, the wail of the engines fighting against the storm’s power. Every gust of wind pushed the helicopter off course, sending it veering left or right, forcing Rohan to make rapid, counterbalancing corrections.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. We’re on approach. Visibility is near zero. Holding steady, preparing to land,” Rohan’s voice crackled over the radio, crisp and unwavering despite the chaos.

“Roger that, Sierra Zulu One,” came the reply from Ziro Tower, strained but professional. “Landing zone is clear. Be advised, heavy turbulence on final approach. Good luck.”

Rohan didn’t need luck; he had skill, experience, and a crew that knew exactly what to do. But there was no denying the danger of this landing. Every second felt like a battle for control.

“Hold tight!” Rohan barked to Neha, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the storm. “We’re coming in hot!”

Neha braced herself, her back pressed against the seat, her eyes locked onto the instruments as they flashed and flickered in the poor visibility. Her fingers danced over the controls, adjusting the settings as needed, her mind calculating the fluctuations in wind speed, correcting for every small deviation. She could feel the pressure mounting, the unspoken understanding between her and Rohan forming a seamless partnership in the face of adversity.

The helicopter dipped and swayed violently as they neared the landing strip, the turbulence growing more erratic with each passing second. The rain lashed harder now, turning the night into a blur of water and mist, leaving only the faint glow of the landing lights visible ahead.

“Altitude 500 feet,” Neha reported, her voice steady but tense. “Winds coming in from the north-east, heavy gusts. We need to adjust for a proper flare. Keeping the vertical speed in check.”

Rohan’s response was a brief nod, his attention split between the controls and the descending terrain. The Mi-17V5’s nose dipped slightly as it was buffeted by the winds, and he pushed the collective up to regain some stability. They were losing time, and with each second, the soldier’s condition was worsening. He could feel the weight of that urgency, pressing down like a stone.

“Skipper, adjust left! You’re going to drift off the centerline!” Neha called out urgently.

Rohan’s hands moved instinctively, shifting the cyclic to the left to correct their course. The wind, however, pushed them back to the right, and the helicopter started to veer dangerously toward the edge of the landing zone.

“I’ve got it!” Rohan shouted over the noise, his voice tight with concentration. He worked the cyclic and collective in perfect harmony, compensating for the wind’s unpredictable shifts, each motion precise but calculated.

The rotor blades screamed as they cut through the air, the pressure mounting as they dropped lower, closing in on the narrow strip of earth. The rain, now torrential, reduced visibility to near zero. The runway lights shimmered in the distance, like faint candles at the end of an endless tunnel.

“Altitude 200 feet! Hold your line!” Neha warned, her hand hovering over the controls, ready to make adjustments if needed. “Hold steady, Skipper. You’ve got this.”

Rohan didn’t respond. There was no need. His hands were a blur of movement, adjusting the helicopter’s pitch and yaw with methodical precision. The storm seemed to intensify, the wind whipping around the fuselage, pushing them left and right. The rotor wash churned the rain below, making it look like a storm in the sky as much as on the ground.

“Skipper, we’re coming in at a steep angle. We need to flare soon,” Neha said, her voice sharp as the terrain rose up quickly beneath them.

Rohan’s gaze remained locked on the landing lights ahead. His grip on the cyclic tightened even further, and with a decisive motion, he pulled back on the collective, easing the Mi-17V5 into a flare as they neared the ground. The descent slowed, but the gusting wind pushed the helicopter sideways, threatening to send them off-course.

“Just a little more…” Rohan muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. The ground was so close now, the landing strip barely visible through the rain. The storm seemed to swallow everything around them, but Rohan remained focused, adjusting the cyclic to keep the aircraft centered.

Finally, with a violent jolt, the helicopter’s wheels slammed against the muddy runway, the impact sending a shockwave through the entire frame. The storm’s fury didn’t stop, and the landing lights flickered dangerously as Rohan immediately cut the power, allowing the rotor blades to slow.

“We’re down,” Neha whispered under her breath, relief flooding through her as the helicopter slid to a stop, still trembling from the forces at play. “Good job, Skipper.”

Rohan exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with the effort of the landing. His hands were still gripping the controls, but the sense of accomplishment began to settle in. They had done it.

“Overlord, Sierra Zulu One. We’re on the ground. Patient delivered. Standing by for further instructions,” Rohan reported, his voice steady, though his pulse still raced.

“Good work, Sierra Zulu One,” came the reply from the tower, the crackling radio signaling the end of their mission. “Emergency services en route. You’ve done your duty.”

As the helicopter’s engines gradually wound down, the storm continued its assault on the world around them. But inside the cockpit, there was only the sound of their breathing, the quiet hum of adrenaline slowly fading. The job was done.

Rohan finally allowed himself a moment to relax. He glanced at Neha, who gave him a small, tired smile. Together, they had faced the storm, and together, they had emerged victorious.

Outside, the emergency response teams were already on their way, but for a few moments, it was just the two of them — silent, still, and unshaken. They had completed the mission.

The downpour at Ziro ALG had finally begun to taper off, leaving behind a thick mist that clung to the earth, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. The storm’s fury had temporarily subsided, but the tension remained palpable as emergency teams scrambled into position. The lights of Ziro ALG flickered in the distance, a soft, steady glow in the fading storm.

Leading the charge was Major Avantika Roy of the Army Medical Corps. Dressed in her fatigues, her face framed by a practical ponytail and a stern look of focused determination, she exuded a quiet confidence that came from years of training and experience.

A self-assured woman in her late thirties, Major Roy was the embodiment of discipline, efficiency, and a deep sense of duty. Her uniform was crisp despite the rain, and her boots, worn but polished, struck the earth with a commanding rhythm as she marched toward the helicopter.

Avantika’s background was one of both privilege and sacrifice. She was an Army Brat, having grown up in various cantonments across India, always moving with the rhythm of army life. Her father, an illustrious infantry officer of the Mahar Regiment, had retired with honors after decades of service. Growing up in the shadows of military greatness, Avantika had seen first-hand the grit and determination of the men and women in uniform. The army wasn’t just a career — it was a calling, and it was a life that demanded constant sacrifice, camaraderie, and unwavering loyalty.

Having spent most of her childhood surrounded by soldiers and their stories, she had always admired the discipline, the sense of duty, and the steadfast commitment to the nation that her father and his comrades displayed. It was no surprise, then, that she followed in his footsteps. Where some might have seen only hardship in the life of a soldier, Avantika had found purpose.

Her experience with the army wasn’t just limited to her upbringing; it had been honed over the years in combat zones and austere environments. She had been involved in numerous evacuations, medical support missions, and disaster response operations, each time adapting quickly to the rapidly changing conditions that such work demanded. Her training in military medicine, combined with her unyielding drive, made her a natural leader in situations where time was critical and lives were on the line.

As she reached the helicopter, the moment the rear ramp opened, her sharp eyes immediately focused on the stretcher being carried by her team. The patient was a young soldier from the 8 Jat Regiment, semi-conscious, breathing shallowly, his body battered and bruised from the fall into the crevice. His bloodied uniform clung to him, a testament to the severity of his injuries. She quickly noted the signs of shock, the discoloration of his skin, and the deep, ragged wounds on his torso. There was no time to waste.

“Get him to the triage area immediately,” she barked, her voice firm, cutting through the air like a sharp knife. The soldiers under her command moved quickly, lifting the soldier with practiced precision, knowing exactly how to handle the patient in such conditions.

“Major, this man is in critical condition,” one of the paramedics said, quickly glancing at Avantika. “Spinal injuries suspected, possible internal bleeding.”

She nodded, her mind already racing. “Prepare for a chest decompression and IV fluids. Keep his airway clear. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

She moved swiftly beside the stretcher, the cold rain now a distant memory as her attention was entirely focused on the soldier. Every move was purposeful, guided by years of experience and training. The emergency team worked with synchronized precision, each person fully aware of the critical role they played in saving the soldier’s life. Avantika’s face remained calm, her eyes sharp, scanning every aspect of the soldier’s condition as she barked orders, her voice never wavering.

As the medical team made their final adjustments, Avantika paused, her gaze flicking to the cockpit of the Mi-17V5, where Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar and Flying Officer Neha Sharma stood, observing from the helicopter. The moment seemed to stretch — there, in the middle of the storm’s aftermath, the military medical operation unfolding at full intensity.

With a deep, steadying breath, Avantika turned toward the flight crew, walking toward them with a sense of purpose. Her stride was quick, her boots making a firm, steady beat on the wet ground. She approached Rohan and Neha, who were now stepping out of the helicopter, still wearing their helmets and flight gear.

“Flight Lieutenant Rohan Parashar, Flying Officer Neha Sharma,” she called out, her voice full of respect and gratitude but tinged with the intensity of the moment. As she reached them, her eyes flicked to the helicopter, and then back to Rohan’s face. “On behalf of the 8 Jat Regiment and the entire team here, I want to thank you. You’ve saved this soldier’s life by getting him here in time. I’m sure you both know how critical it is — he wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

Rohan nodded, though he was clearly fatigued from the perilous flight and the storm. “It was a team effort, Major. Neha and I — ”

“No, Rohan,” Avantika interjected, her voice steady and firm, but with an edge of admiration. “You both went above and beyond today. In conditions like that, where most would have turned back, you pressed on. You not only brought him in, but you did it under extreme pressure. In my books, that’s true courage.” Her gaze softened for a brief moment, but the sense of urgency never left her face. “Your actions saved this man, and I won’t forget that.”

Neha, still catching her breath from the taxing mission, gave a weary smile. “Thank you, Major. But it’s what we’re trained for. We just did our job.”

Avantika studied them both with quiet intensity. “And you did it well. You’ve made a difference, today. That’s what matters most.”

The rain had stopped, but the stillness of the post-storm night was broken only by the distant hum of the emergency team working on the injured soldier. Avantika looked at the soldier being stabilized, her hands working over the controls, her medical mind always focused on the task at hand.

“You have my respect, both of you,” she added before turning back toward the stretcher, the urgency in her step never faltering. “We’ve got him stabilised for now, but we need to get him to the hospital fast. No room for delays. It’s going to be a long night.”

Her words were authoritative, clear — she wasn’t done yet. There was always more to do, and the job wasn’t over. But her gratitude was genuine, her respect for the pilots unwavering. They had faced the storm and the danger head-on, just like the soldiers of the 8 Jat Regiment she served alongside.

Rohan and Neha watched as she moved, the sound of the military medical team’s coordinated efforts filling the air, and despite the exhaustion that clung to their bones, both pilots knew they had just witnessed something extraordinary. Major Avantika Roy was the personification of dedication and courage — someone who had seen the sacrifices of army life and had chosen to embrace it, to live it, and now, to lead in the most critical moments.

As the patient was shifted to the ambulance at Ziro ALG, Rohan and Neha exhaled in unison, the adrenaline slowly starting to ebb away. The powerful rotors of the helicopter gradually slowed, their deafening thrum fading into a gentle hum as the aircraft came to rest. The storm, though still lingering in the distant horizon, had begun to retreat, leaving behind a stillness in the air that mirrored the quiet within the cockpit.

Rohan’s hands, though steady, still gripped the cyclic and collective with the intensity of the mission. His muscles ached from the prolonged tension, but his focus never wavered. He shifted in his seat, bringing the controls back to neutral, his fingers quickly scanning the array of instruments. His thoughts, still sharp, reviewed every aspect of the mission, ticking off each procedure as if running through a mental checklist.

“Neha, systems check complete?” he asked, his voice calm but commanding, cutting through the last vestiges of the noise from the engine.

“All systems green,” Neha replied with a quick glance at the gauges. “Fuel levels steady. Hydraulics clear. We’re good to go.”

She made a few quick adjustments to the avionics, ensuring that all data readouts were within normal parameters. Her movements were fluid, born of experience and honed reflexes. “Ready for shutdown,” she confirmed, her eyes momentarily meeting Rohan’s in a silent acknowledgment of the hard-fought success they’d just completed.

Rohan nodded and keyed the radio, his voice clear and authoritative. “Ziro Tower, Sierra Zulu One. Mission complete. Requesting clearance to hand off to ground crew.”

The crackling voice of the tower came through almost immediately. “Copy, Sierra Zulu One. You’re clear to taxi to the hangar. Ground crew standing by for shutdown.”

“Copy that, Tower. Sierra Zulu One, taxiing to the hangar,” Rohan responded, moving the cyclic with a smooth motion to guide the helicopter forward. The rotor blades continued to slow, their movement reducing to a lazy turn, almost like the final breath after a long sprint.

Neha kept her eyes on the instruments as the helicopter began its slow roll towards the hangar, the tarmac still slick with the remnants of the rain. The dull thud of the Mi-17V5’s heavy wheels on the wet surface echoed in the otherwise silent airfield. She ran through the shutdown procedure in her mind, anticipating the next steps: cutting power to the systems, lowering the collective, and finally bringing the engines to a halt.

As the aircraft neared the hangar, the ground crew began to appear, their figures outlined by the glowing lights from the hangar’s entrance. Their movements were swift and purposeful, coordinating to assist with the helicopter’s safe parking and immediate post-flight inspection.

Rohan slowed the helicopter further as they reached the hangar, bringing it to a stop with expert precision. The engines sputtered as they idled, and he could feel the weight of the helicopter slightly shift as he gently applied the brake.

“Shutting down,” Rohan announced to Neha, his tone almost ritualistic. He smoothly adjusted the collective to its lowest setting, slowly reducing engine power. The whine of the turbines dwindled, and the engines gradually wound down, leaving only the residual sounds of the rotor blades slowing to a stop.

Neha reached forward, flicking the switches that would complete the shutdown sequence. “Power off,” she said, and with that, the instruments went dark one by one.

The cockpit fell into a final, quiet stillness. Rohan let out a long, relieved breath, his grip loosening on the controls. He unbuckled his harness and rotated his shoulders, loosening the tension that had built up during the mission. Neha did the same, giving a slight nod of satisfaction. Both of them knew the mission had been close, but they had made it through. The soldier they had rescued was alive, thanks to their combined efforts.

Rohan keyed the radio again, his voice now softer but still professional. “Ziro Tower, Sierra Zulu One. Helicopter secured. Ready to hand over to ground crew.”

“Copy that, Sierra Zulu One,” came the reply from the tower. “Great work out there. Welcome back.”

Rohan allowed himself a small smile at the praise. His mission wasn’t over until the helicopter was properly shut down and secured, but the first step was complete. Neha, her eyes scanning the cabin to ensure everything was in order, gave Rohan a quick look.

“They’ll be glad to have us back,” Neha remarked, a trace of exhaustion in her voice.

“You did well,” Rohan replied with a tired grin. “We both did.”

With the helicopter safely parked in the hangar, the ground crew approached with swift efficiency, immediately setting to work securing the aircraft. The crew chief, a seasoned NCO with years of service, gave Rohan a salute as he moved to the front of the aircraft. “Outstanding job, both of you. That soldier wouldn’t have made it if not for your efforts.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Rohan said, his voice gruff from the hours of concentration. “Glad we could get him back.”

The ground crew began their inspection of the aircraft, but Rohan and Neha were immediately approached by Major Avantika Roy, who had been overseeing the medical teams on the ground. Her expression was a mixture of admiration and gratitude as she walked toward them. Her boots splashed in the remaining puddles as she reached the Mi-17V5. They Saluted her and she promptly acknowledged the salute back.

“Flight Lieutenant Parashar, Flying Officer Sharma,” she said, her voice steady but carrying the weight of her authority. “I don’t know how you did it, but you brought him back just in time. That soldier’s alive because of you both. I came down again just to give you a pat on the back. Hell of a job, Guys !! “

Rohan wiped the rain from his face and gave a small, humble nod. “We did our part, Major. The rest was teamwork. We couldn’t have done it without everyone’s support.”

Neha added, her voice soft but clear, “It’s what we’re here for, Major.”

Avantika smiled, clearly impressed by their professionalism despite the toll the mission had taken on them. “You went above and beyond. I’m proud to be in the same service as you two. Don’t think I’ll forget this.”

As the ground crew continued to check the helicopter, Rohan and Neha both received pats on the back and words of congratulations from the team. The atmosphere at Ziro ALG was one of relief mixed with quiet pride. The mission had been successful, and the soldier’s life had been spared — thanks to the relentless efforts of the crew.

Rohan exchanged a look with Neha, their tired eyes meeting briefly. Both understood the unspoken truth: this was a job that never got easier, no matter how many times they did it. But as long as they had each other and the bond forged through such harrowing experiences, they would continue to serve with the same unwavering commitment.

“Mission complete, Neha,” Rohan said, his voice quiet but filled with the weight of the day’s success.

“Mission complete, Skipper ,” Neha replied, a tired but proud smile creeping onto her face.

And with that, they stepped out of the helicopter, ready for the next challenge — knowing they had done everything they could, and that it had made all the difference.

The rain, which had turned from a torrential downpour to a soft drizzle, clung to the earth in thin, mist-like wisps. It was as if the storm was unwilling to fully depart, leaving behind a lingering quiet that wrapped the airfield in a damp shroud. Rohan and Neha walked side by side, the soft thuds of their boots on the wet tarmac barely audible against the distant hum of the ground crew at work. Each step was measured, deliberate, the weight of the mission still heavy on their shoulders.

The helmets, once firmly strapped to their heads and now resting beneath their arms, were a tangible reminder of the storm they had just weathered — not just the one above them, but the storm that had raged within as they fought to keep the injured soldier alive, flying through blinding rain and gusts of wind. Despite the quiet now surrounding them, the adrenaline that had surged through their veins only hours ago still clung to them, like a shadow that refused to fade.

Neha glanced over at Rohan as they walked, her dark hair plastered to her face from the rain, her tired eyes betraying the exhaustion that had set in. There was something about the way they moved in sync, without speaking, their rhythm almost predestined. The unspoken connection forged over years of service and shared missions was evident in the silence between them, the kind of quiet only found among comrades who had seen each other through the worst.

“Do you ever get used to it?” Neha asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Rohan didn’t look at her right away but nodded, his jaw set in a quiet resolve. “Not really,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of every mission they had flown. “But you learn to live with it. There’s no other choice. Just have to get the job done.”

Neha let out a small sigh, more of a breath than a sound. She knew exactly what he meant. Every mission had its own kind of intensity, its own rhythm, but none of them ever truly felt the same. They were different every time, like pieces of a puzzle that always shifted, but in the end, the goal was always the same: to save lives, to make it through, and to do it again tomorrow.

The canteen came into view, its warm light spilling out through the windows, inviting them into its cozy refuge. As they entered, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit them like a wave. It was a welcome contrast to the cold, wet air outside. They could hear the low murmur of conversation from the other members of the base — ground crew, medics, soldiers — gathered in small groups, exchanging their own stories of the day. The familiar clink of mugs and the rustle of boots on the floor seemed to provide the grounding they needed after the chaos of the mission.

Rohan and Neha slid into a quiet corner, their steps slowing as they shed the weight of the outside world. The warmth inside the canteen embraced them, the air thick with the earthy smell of brewing coffee. They found a table near the back, setting their helmets down gently before both of them reached for the mugs waiting on the counter.

“I think I could drink this whole pot myself,” Neha muttered with a tired grin, holding the mug to her lips and taking a long, grateful sip.

Rohan let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, before cradling his own mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into his cold fingers. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandering out the small window, where the storm had finally started to clear. The first rays of moonlight broke through the clouds, casting a silver glow over the misty mountains in the distance. It was a beautiful, serene sight — one that seemed so far removed from the chaos they had just left behind.

“Good thing we got back when we did,” Neha said after a moment, her voice quieter now, more reflective. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her, letting the tiredness wash over her. “He was hanging by a thread.”

“Yeah,” Rohan replied, his tone quieter now as well. “Too close for comfort.”

The silence stretched out again, but this time, it was different. There was no urgency, no pressure to fill it with words. They both understood the weight of the mission — of the soldier they had saved — but in this moment, there was a deep comfort in just being here, in the stillness of the canteen, far removed from the chaos of the skies.

“You know,” Neha said after a long pause, “sometimes I wonder how we do it. I mean, we both have our own lives outside of this, but when we’re in the air… it feels like nothing else matters. Like all that matters is getting the job done, no matter what.”

Rohan gave a small nod, his gaze still on the mountains in the distance. “It’s like we’re two halves of the same coin. The moment we’re in the cockpit, everything else fades away. And when we’re done, it all comes rushing back. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? To know we did everything we could.”

Neha smiled softly, her eyes meeting his for a moment. “Yeah. It is.”

As the conversation lulled, a familiar voice broke through the quiet murmur of the canteen, and Sergeant Kartik Malhotra, their crewman from the mission, approached with a broad grin on his face. His uniform was still damp, his hair dripping with rain, but there was an unmistakable air of satisfaction about him.

“Don’t mind me,” Kartik said, his voice light, “but I just had to find you two. Amazing work out there. You two are heroes.”

Rohan and Neha exchanged a brief, tired look before Rohan raised his mug in salute. “You were with us in spirit, Kartik. You kept the systems running back there and most critical part of air lifting the patient . Can’t do this without you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kartik replied, holding his own mug in the air. “Just doing my part. You two were the ones flying through a storm. A literal storm. I’d still be shaking if I was in your shoes.”

Neha laughed softly, the sound a welcome break from the tension that had gripped them earlier. “We do what we do, Kartik. You know that.”

Kartik took a seat across from them, sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes glinting with appreciation. “Well, you’ve earned my respect. Can’t imagine what that soldier is thinking right now. You guys saved his life. That’s something. More than a job. More than a mission. That’s a legacy.”

Rohan’s expression softened as he looked at his coffee, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the soldier they had carried back. He hadn’t seen the man’s face up close, but he knew that somewhere, in some quiet corner of the world, a family was waiting for him. The thought brought a strange kind of peace — a quiet affirmation that everything they did, every sacrifice, every storm they flew through, mattered.

Neha sat back, her eyes tired but content. “Tomorrow we get up and do it again,” she said with a weary smile. “But for now… we rest. We earned it.”

Rohan nodded, lifting his coffee to his lips once more. The warmth of the drink felt like the first real comfort he’d had all day. The storm outside had finally passed, the night felt calm, and for a brief moment, they could simply enjoy the stillness. There was nothing else to do but drink their coffee, share the silence, and rest.

And in that moment, surrounded by the faint hum of voices and the quiet satisfaction of a mission well done, Rohan and Neha knew one thing for certain: they would always keep flying, always answer the call, no matter the storm that lay ahead. Because that was what they were born to do. And in their hearts, that was more than enough.

The rain continued to fall softly outside, but inside, in that small canteen at Ziro ALG, everything was calm, everything was right. The night had finally fallen, and with it, the quiet promise of tomorrow’s mission.

The night air had finally settled into a calmness, the storms and chaos of the day now distant memories. As Rohan and Neha made their way out of the canteen, the heavy clouds that had loomed over the base earlier had parted, revealing the vast expanse of the sky above them. The mountains, their jagged peaks once hidden in the mist, now stood silhouetted in the soft, silvery glow of the moon. It was a view Rohan knew well — the towering ridges that seemed to scrape the heavens themselves, the deep valleys carved into the earth, and the stillness that had settled over everything after the rain.

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the faint drizzle of rain against the earth now little more than a soft murmur. The sound of their boots on the damp ground was steady, the only other noise the occasional flutter of leaves in the breeze. It was a peaceful contrast to the intensity of the day, to the roaring engines and the battle against the elements, the lives saved and the ones at risk. Now, everything was still, quiet… as though the world itself was taking a breath.

Rohan stopped for a moment, his gaze lifting toward the sky. He let the stillness of the night wash over him, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to fully relax. His grip on the warm mug of coffee loosened slightly as he held it in one hand, the other slipping into his jacket pocket. He could feel the coolness of the air against his skin, the dampness from the rain that had soaked through his flight suit, but he didn’t mind. He had been through worse — far worse.

The moon hung high above, its pale light filtering through the clouds that lingered, casting long shadows across the mountain slopes. It seemed to glow brighter tonight, as though it was the only thing unaffected by the turbulence of the world below. The mountains, draped in a veil of mist, seemed almost mythical in their serenity. Rohan’s thoughts, usually sharp and focused, now softened as he took in the landscape before him, letting the weight of the day’s events slip away, just for a moment.

He sipped his coffee slowly, savouring the warmth as it spread through him. His mind wandered back to the mission, to the faces of the soldiers they had rescued, to the feeling of the helicopter swaying in the wind as he had hovered above that narrow strip of land at the forward post. He thought of the rain, the turbulence, and how it had all been so real, so immediate. Yet now, in this moment of quiet, it felt like it was from another lifetime.

“Neha,” Rohan spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper in the stillness of the night. She had been walking a few steps ahead of him but had stopped when she heard him speak.

“Yeah?” she responded, her voice equally quiet, as if not wanting to disturb the peace.

He paused, his eyes still locked on the moon, taking in its steady glow. “You know, I think the hardest part isn’t the flying… It’s the waiting. The waiting to make it back, to know you did what you set out to do. I’ve been through a lot of storms, and I’ve always come out on the other side. But there’s something different about today. Something about getting that soldier in, knowing his life was in our hands — and the clock was ticking. It’s something I’ll never forget.”

Neha turned to him, her expression softening. She knew exactly what he meant. Every mission had its own set of challenges, but there was something particularly raw about this one — the tension of the storm, the desperation of the situation, and the real weight of the lives involved.

Rohan let out a long breath, his gaze drifting from the moon to the rain-drenched mountains below. The wind had picked up slightly, but the storm had passed, leaving only a quiet hum in the air. The trees swayed gently, their leaves glistening with droplets that caught the light of the moon.

“You ever wonder,” Rohan continued, his voice thoughtful, “if we’re ever really in control? I mean, we train for years, we prepare, we do everything we can to be ready, but when it comes down to it… we’re just passengers on a ride that’s far bigger than any of us. We just hope that when the time comes, we can make the right call. And sometimes, it feels like the sky itself is testing us.”

Neha stood still for a moment, considering his words. She knew the weight of what he was saying. In the cockpit, it was all precision, all skill, all control. But when you were out there, in the storm, with a life hanging in the balance, it felt like the universe itself could bend or break you in an instant.

“You’re right,Sir” she said quietly. “We do everything we can… but we’re also just a part of something bigger. Something… unpredictable. All we can do is give it everything we’ve got, and hope that it’s enough.”

Rohan nodded slowly, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “And sometimes, it is enough. Sometimes, you get through it. You make it back. You save lives. And even if you don’t have control over everything… you learn to trust yourself. To trust the machine. To trust the people you’re with.”

Neha smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the quiet strength that Rohan always carried with him. “I think you’re more than ready for whatever comes next, Skipper . You’ve always been.”

He met her gaze then, his expression grateful but humble. “We both are. Together.”

They stood there for a while, the two of them, side by side, the quiet of the night enveloping them like a blanket. The stars began to peek through the gaps in the clouds, shining faintly against the backdrop of the mountain peaks. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving only the scent of wet earth in the air.

Rohan took one last sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him as he looked up at the moon once more. It seemed to shine brighter tonight, as if it were giving its quiet blessing to the world below. He let the cool mountain air fill his lungs and the peace of the night settle over him. For a brief moment, he didn’t think about the next mission or the challenges that lay ahead. He just took it all in — the stillness, the beauty of the rain-drenched mountains, the quiet strength of his own heart.

In the end, Rohan realised, it wasn’t about the storms or the uncertainty. It was about the moments in between — the quiet moments where you could stand tall, look up at the sky, and know that you had done everything you could to give your best. That, he thought, was what truly mattered.

And as the two of them walked back toward the rest area, their footsteps echoing in the night, Rohan knew that the storms would come again, that there would always be more challenges ahead. But for tonight, they had done their part. And for tonight, the mountains, the sky, and the moon would watch over them as they rested — ready for whatever the dawn might bring.