Beneath the vast expanse of the Indian Ocean, where sunlight faded into impenetrable darkness, the INS Vajra prowled with the silent precision of a predator. This nuclear-powered attack submarine, a masterpiece of engineering and a symbol of India’s maritime prowess, moved undetected through the depths, a shadow among shadows. The Vajra, whose name meant “thunderbolt,” was both a weapon of deterrence and a sentinel of the nation’s sovereignty, a silent guardian of India’s waters and coastline.
The INS Vajra was a marvel of modern naval engineering, built entirely indigenously under the Indian Navy’s Advanced Submarine Program (ASP). Its sleek, hydrodynamic hull was cloaked in a matte-black, sonar-absorbing material designed to render it virtually invisible to enemy detection. The contours of the hull were smooth and seamless, optimized to minimize hydrodynamic drag and maximize stealth.
At 110 meters in length and with a beam of 12 meters, the Vajra was imposing yet deceptively agile. Its design incorporated the latest in pump-jet propulsion technology, ensuring near-silent operation even at high speeds. The nuclear reactor deep within its core provided virtually unlimited endurance, enabling the submarine to remain submerged for months at a time, patrolling vast stretches of ocean without ever surfacing.
Its sail, streamlined and slightly angled, housed a sophisticated suite of retractable masts: a periscope equipped with high-resolution optics, an electronic warfare sensor, and a snorkel for emergency air intake. Along the keel, torpedo tubes and vertical missile silos lay hidden behind flush panels, ready to unleash their lethal payloads at a moment’s notice.
The Vajra’s armament was a testament to its versatility and lethality. Six 533mm torpedo tubes could launch heavyweight torpedoes capable of neutralizing surface ships and submarines alike. The tubes were also compatible with submarine-launched cruise missiles (SLCMs), such as the BrahMos, giving the Vajra a potent strike capability against land and sea targets and was an integral part of the Indian Nuclear Triad.
Its vertical launch system (VLS) carried a mix of nuclear and conventional ballistic missiles, providing strategic deterrence. Additionally, the Vajra was equipped with advanced mine-laying systems, allowing it to deny access to critical waterways.
Complementing its offensive capabilities was a cutting-edge sonar suite, featuring a low-frequency towed array and a hull-mounted sonar. Together, these systems gave the Vajra unparalleled situational awareness, enabling it to detect and classify contacts at extreme ranges.
Inside the Vajra, the atmosphere was one of controlled intensity. The control room or the bridge , the heart of the submarine, was a hive of activity. Green and red lights bathed the space in an otherworldly glow, reflecting off the polished steel surfaces and the faces of the crew. Every console, button, and display was part of an intricate web of systems designed to give the crew absolute control over their underwater domain.
The tactical plotting table, a large, illuminated surface at the centre of the room, displayed a constantly updated map of the surrounding waters. Digital markers represented potential threats, sonar contacts, and waypoints, while overlays provided data on depth contours and thermoclines. Around the table, officers in navy-blue jumpsuits monitored their stations, speaking in low, clipped tones that conveyed both urgency and professionalism.
The sonar room, adjacent to the control room, was the submarine’s ears. Here, operators listened intently through headphones, analysing the faintest echoes and pings from the vast underwater world. The room was filled with the soft hum of machinery and the rhythmic pulse of sonar sweeps, a sound that had become second nature to the crew.
Further aft, the engine room housed the submarine’s nuclear reactor — a compact but immensely powerful unit that provided both propulsion and electricity for the entire vessel. The reactor was encased in layers of shielding, ensuring the safety of the crew while delivering virtually unlimited operational endurance. The hum of turbines and pumps was a constant reminder of the immense power that drove the Vajra through the depths.
The 100-member crew of the Vajra was among the best the Indian Navy had to offer. Each submariner had undergone rigorous training, learning to operate in the confined, high-pressure environment of a submarine. They were silent warriors, disciplined and resourceful, capable of enduring months beneath the ocean’s surface with unwavering focus.
Captain Ashfaq Hameed, the commanding officer, led his crew with a blend of authority and empathy. A veteran submariner with a storied career, Hameed was known for his calm under pressure and his ability to think several steps ahead in any situation. His executive officer, Commander Roland Fernandez, was the perfect foil: dynamic, quick-witted, and relentless in his pursuit of excellence. Together, they formed a leadership team that inspired confidence and camaraderie among the crew.
The Vajra was more than a weapon — it was a symbol of India’s resolve to protect its maritime interests. On this mission, the submarine had been tasked with shadowing a suspected Chinese surveillance vessel operating under the guise of scientific research. The stakes were high: the Andaman and Nicobar Islands were a critical strategic outpost, and any attempt to compromise their security could not go unanswered.
As the Vajra moved silently through the abyss, its sensors constantly scanned the surrounding waters. The sonar operators listened for the telltale hum of propellers or the faint whispers of an adversary’s sonar. Every decision, every maneuver, was executed with precision, for in the deep, a single mistake could mean the difference between success and disaster.
The submarine’s movements were deliberate, calculated — a hunter stalking its prey. It was a testament to the dedication of its crew and the advanced technology that made the Vajra one of the most formidable predators of the dee
The Indian Navy’s nuclear-powered attack submarine INS Vajra, a formidable predator of the deep, cut through the silent abyss 200 nautical miles off the Andaman Islands. The sleek, dark hull of the submarine was designed for stealth, its advanced sonar arrays and weapon systems making it one of the most lethal platforms in the Indian Navy’s arsenal. Inside, the atmosphere was tense but controlled, illuminated by the soft glow of green and red lights from the myriad consoles and screens that lined the control room.
Captain Ashfaq Hameed was a man shaped by the unforgiving sea and the unyielding mountains of his homeland. At the helm of INS Vajra, a nuclear-powered predator of the deep, he exuded an aura of quiet authority that seemed to permeate the submarine’s every bulkhead. His tall, broad-shouldered frame carried the bearing of a man accustomed to responsibility, while his sharp, weathered features spoke of years spent navigating the invisible corridors of the ocean’s depths.
Hameed’s deep-set eyes, as dark and unfathomable as the abyss itself, seemed to take in everything — a flicker of uncertainty on an officer’s face, a barely audible anomaly in a sonar sweep. His ability to read a situation, or a person, with uncanny precision was legendary. Those who served under him respected not just his tactical brilliance but the almost paternal way in which he cared for his crew.
Captain Hameed’s leadership style was a study in contrasts: calm but firm, approachable yet commanding. He rarely raised his voice, yet his low, deliberate tone could carry more weight than a shouted order. In the cramped, high-pressure environment of a submarine, where lives often depended on split-second decisions, Hameed’s presence was a steadying force.
His crew often referred to him as “Hajab,” a nickname derived from an old Kashmiri term meaning “protector.” It was fitting for a man who considered his crew his family. When faced with adversity, Hameed led by example, his composure under fire serving as a beacon for his officers and sailors.
In tactical situations, Hameed was methodical, almost surgical. He believed in the power of preparation and often quoted an old naval axiom: “Victory is decided before the battle is fought.” Long hours spent in planning and simulation were his hallmark, ensuring that when the moment came, his crew could act instinctively, like a single cohesive unit.
Inside the control room of INS Vajra, Captain Hameed stood near the tactical plotting table, his hands clasped behind his back. His voice was calm, measured, as he addressed his executive officer, Commander Roland Fernandez.
“XO, status of our active sonar array?”
Fernandez, a wiry man with a quick mind, glanced at the data console. “Active sonar is on standby, Captain. Passive is running clean, but we’re keeping the vessel at the edge of our detection envelope. No cavitation noise so far.”
Hameed nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Maintain silent running. Let them think we’re still asleep. But I want tactical options for when they get curious.”
“Aye, Captain,” Fernandez replied, his tone tinged with both respect and anticipation. “We’ve got torpedo tubes one through three loaded and ready. Decoys primed. Shall I prep the noisemakers as a fallback?”
“Do it,” Hameed said quietly, leaning over the tactical table. “But remember, Roland — our strength lies in the shadows. The moment we make noise, we lose the advantage. Let’s make sure our first move counts.”
Hameed’s childhood in Gulmarg, Kashmir, had left an indelible mark on his character. Born to a family of wool artisans and shepherds, he grew up surrounded by the ethereal beauty of the Himalayan foothills. The snow-laden peaks and serene valleys taught him both resilience and reflection, qualities that later defined his naval career.
His father, Ghulam Nabi Hameed, was a traditionalist, a man of few words who valued hard work and integrity above all else. Hameed’s mother, Shama Hameed, was the heart of the family, her warmth and wisdom grounding her children even as life in the mountains presented its share of hardships. Shama often told young Ashfaq, “The mountains teach patience, and the rivers teach persistence. Carry both in your heart, and you will go far.”
Hameed had three siblings, but it was his younger sister, Zara, who remained closest to him. Despite the physical distance his naval career created, he made it a point to write her letters whenever he could, sharing stories of his voyages and the challenges he faced. Zara often joked that Ashfaq’s letters read like poetry, filled with metaphors of the sea and the skies.
Though Captain Hameed’s career often kept him away from home, his family in Gulmarg remained his anchor. He was married to Dr. Aisha Hameed, a physician who ran a small clinic in the valley. Aisha was his rock, her understanding of his demanding career stemming from her own dedication to her patients. Their two children, Adil and Meher, were the light of Hameed’s life. Adil, a teenager with a passion for robotics, often sent his father sketches of submarines enhanced with fantastical modifications. Meher, only nine, adored her father’s stories about the “underwater castle” he commanded.
Every time Hameed returned to Gulmarg, he would bring trinkets from his travels — a carved wooden box from Kerala, a seashell from the Andamans, or a handwoven shawl from Gujarat. For him, these small gestures were a way of staying connected to the family he cherished but could not always be with.
Captain Ashfaq Hameed carried his Kashmiri roots and his family’s values into every decision he made aboard the INS Vajra. To his crew, he was more than a commanding officer — he was a leader who led with his heart as much as his head. Whether standing in the control room’s dim light, orchestrating the submarine’s silent manoeuvres, or sharing quiet moments with his XO over cups of strong naval coffee, Hameed embodied the Navy’s motto: Sham Naa Varunah — May the Lord of the Oceans Be Auspicious Unto Us.
The weight of command had become second nature to Captain Ashfaq Hameed. A seasoned submariner, he had learned early on that leadership wasn’t just about giving orders — it was about making life-and-death decisions that would determine the course of a mission. His path to command had been paved with difficult choices, each one leaving its mark, both in his professional and personal life.
Sitting in the dimly lit control room of the INS Vajra, his gaze was as sharp as ever, focused entirely on the situation at hand. He wasn’t just tracking a ship; he was leading a crew, protecting national security, and ensuring that no errors would be made.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Ravi Kumar called from the radar station, his voice urgent. “We’re getting closer to their new position. The target has changed course again. We’re almost in range.”
Captain Hameed’s response was steady, each word carrying the weight of years of experience. “Maintain stealth. We’ll adjust course, keep them within our range. But no aggressive manoeuvres unless necessary. Remember — our primary goal is information, not engagement.”
The INS Vajra had been built to be the epitome of stealth. A nuclear-powered attack submarine, it was a cutting-edge technological marvel. Every line of its sleek, black hull was designed for one purpose: to remain undetected. Its sonar arrays were capable of detecting threats long before they could get close, and the missile systems aboard could incapacitate even the most formidable adversary before they had a chance to retaliate.
But it was the crew that made the Vajra truly deadly. The atmosphere inside the submarine was one of quiet discipline and focus. Every officer, every sailor knew their role, and every action was executed with precision.
“XO,” Captain Hameed called, his tone never betraying the tension he felt. “Have we identified any patterns in the target’s movements?”
Commander Roland Fernandez was at his station, eyes glued to the sonar screen. “We’re analysing, sir. Their course seems erratic, but I suspect they’re trying to test us — see if they can get a lock on our position. They’re making short, calculated course changes.”
Hameed nodded, his face a mask of determination. “Let’s not give them the satisfaction. Keep our signature minimal. Ready the decoy buoys — if they’re trying to track us, we’ll give them something to follow.”
Fernandez’s fingers flew over the console. “Understood, sir. Deploying countermeasures.”
The crew sprang into action, ensuring that the Vajra remained undetectable while positioning themselves perfectly for the next move.
While the submarine was Ashfaq Hameed’s life, his heart remained tethered to his family in Gulmarg — , where he and Aisha had settled after years of travel and deployment. Their children, Adil and Meher, were the anchor in his turbulent world of waves and war.
At their summer home in Vizag , far removed from the pressures of the Navy, Ashfaq and Aisha shared a sense of normalcy. But even here, far from the dangers of the deep, the reality of his profession seeped in.
“I think we’ll finally make it through this deployment without any major mishaps,” Ashfaq had told Aisha one evening, seated together on the porch overlooking the beach.
“Don’t say that,” Aisha replied with a wry smile. “You know better than anyone that the sea never makes things easy.”
Ashfaq smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I suppose you’re right. It’s never about ease. It’s about duty.”
And that was the crux of Ashfaq’s existence. Duty. It was the code by which he lived. The sacrifices his family made, the missed birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays — all were a part of the commitment he had sworn to, a commitment that kept him on course, regardless of the challenges ahead.
As the night deepened and the stars twinkled overhead, the tension in the control room of the INS Vajra remained palpable. The crew was silent, each person hyper-focused on their specific task. But Hameed, with his decades of experience, could feel the hum of the submarine beneath his feet. It was an unspoken bond, a connection that went beyond the technology and tactics.
In the midst of this silent tension, his thoughts wandered again — this time, to a quiet evening with Aisha and the children back in Gulmarg.
Aisha had once said, “You never leave the sea behind, Ashfaq. It’s in you. It’s who you are.I guess it is the Call of the Blue.”
And she was right. As long as he was alive, the sea would always call to him. Even if he could spend weeks at home, enjoying the fleeting moments with his family, the truth was that he was bound to the sea. The missions, the submarines, the calls to action — they were part of his DNA.
Hours passed as the INS Vajra continued its patient hunt. The Chinese surveillance vessel, still unaware of its pursuer, moved steadily forward, its radar and sonar emissions monitored closely by the crew. The atmosphere inside the control room was focused, but it was a controlled intensity. Every crew member knew their role, and none faltered.
Commander Roland Fernandez, the Executive Officer aboard the INS Vajra, stood alongside Captain Ashfaq Hameed in the control room. Where Hameed was the embodiment of stoic command, Fernandez was the energetic catalyst that kept the pulse of the submarine alive. His wiry frame contrasted sharply with the Captain’s tall and broad-shouldered presence. His movements were quick, almost kinetic, a direct reflection of the ceaseless energy that defined him.
Fernandez had an air of perpetual motion about him; even when standing still, his body seemed ready to spring into action, eyes darting from screen to screen, ears attuned to the smallest of sounds. His short, tousled hair framed his face, giving him a slightly youthful appearance that belied his years of experience. He had a quick smile and an even quicker wit, often delivering dry, humorous quips that lightened the otherwise tense atmosphere of life aboard a nuclear-powered submarine.
But for all his animated demeanor, Fernandez was a man who understood his role. Beneath the energy and quick-witted exterior lay a sharp intellect, honed through years of naval training and countless missions. His technical acumen was second to none, and his ability to solve complex problems in the heat of the moment had earned him the respect of the entire crew.
“Captain, target has changed speed again. Looks like they’re trying to shake us off,” Fernandez said, his voice brisk but steady, as he worked the sonar console. “We should adjust our course slightly to maintain shadowing distance.”
Hameed, standing just a few feet away, nodded without hesitation. “Do it. But keep it quiet, Roland. We don’t want to give ourselves away.”
“Understood, Captain.” Fernandez’s fingers flew over the controls, his movements a blur of practiced precision.
Though Fernandez’s life at sea was demanding, he always carried a piece of home with him. A piece of his heart belonged to Mangalore, his childhood home, but for the past few years, his base had been in Goa, where he and his wife, Shalini, had built a life together.
Their home in Goa was a small, yet cozy villa by the beach. It wasn’t anything extravagant — just a place where the two of them could escape the constant hustle of naval life and recharge. Fernandez had a particular fondness for the evenings spent there, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink, while Shalini prepared dinner in their modest kitchen.
Shalini was a criminal lawyer, a grounded woman, sharp and unyielding in her own right. She had always supported Roland’s naval career, understanding the sacrifices it demanded, even if it meant being away from each other for months at a time. They had been married for over ten years, and their connection remained as strong as ever despite the distance and the pressures of their respective careers.
On weekends, or when Roland wasn’t on deployment, they’d often visit the beaches of Goa, where their two young children, Ishaan and Simran, would run around, their laughter echoing through the coastal breeze. Ishaan, at eight years old, was already fascinated by the sea — he’d often ask his father about submarines and naval operations, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“Papa, when you’re on the Vajra, do you see the sharks?” Ishaan would ask, his voice full of excitement and a touch of fear.
Roland, with a chuckle, would crouch down to his son’s level and explain, “Sharks don’t live in the same waters we do, son. We’re the silent ones — like shadows. We don’t need to worry about sharks.”
Simran, just five, would tug at his sleeve with an innocent grin. “When will you bring the submarine home?” she’d ask, her tiny hands wrapped around his arm.
“I can’t bring the submarine home, sweetheart, but I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. How about I bring you a little gift from the sea next time?” he’d reply, ruffling her hair.
Despite the demands of his job, Fernandez found moments of peace and connection with his family. These moments, brief as they were, reminded him of the importance of what he did — keeping his family, his country, and his crew safe. They were his anchor, even as he was a guiding force for those under his command.
Back on the Vajra, Fernandez was a whirlwind of activity. His leadership style was the exact opposite of Hameed’s calm, methodical approach. Where the Captain was a rock in the storm, Fernandez was the lightning, quick to respond, always with a solution at hand.
“XO,” Hameed called once more, this time with a touch of urgency in his voice. “We’ve lost them on the sonar. They’re deploying decoys.”
Fernandez’s eyes flicked to the sonar readings, analyzing the data with a practiced eye. “Captain, they’re trying to spoof us with a passive sonar decoy. They’re at bearing 090, speed five knots — just a few miles off.”
“Can we regain contact?” Hameed asked, his voice steady but a flicker of concern visible in his eyes.
Fernandez grinned, a flash of mischief in his usual upbeat demeanor. “Leave it to me, Captain.” He adjusted the ship’s course with swift precision. “I’ve got an idea. Initiating the sonar sweep — releasing countermeasures.”
The INS Vajra responded like a predator, swift and unseen. The sonar system, equipped with some of the most advanced tech in the Navy, picked up on the subtle differences between the decoys and the real vessel, locking on with pinpoint accuracy.
Moments later, Fernandez’s voice rang out, a note of triumph in his tone. “We’ve got them, Captain. They’re still trying to outrun us, but their decoys won’t fool us again.”
“Good work, XO,” Hameed said, offering the rarest of praise. “We’ll keep the pressure on.”
As the night stretched on, and the tension in the control room deepened, Fernandez remained a steady force at Hameed’s side. While the Captain’s role was to oversee the entire mission with calm precision, Fernandez was the pulse that kept the operations moving seamlessly. His mind, always calculating, was essential to ensuring that the INS Vajra remained the silent hunter of the deep.
But even in the most high-stakes moments, Fernandez kept his crew motivated with his quick wit and infectious energy. He cracked jokes, gave the crew pep talks, and never let the weight of the mission dampen the spirits of those around him. It was a fine balance he struck — serious when it counted, but always encouraging.
In the quiet moments between maneuvers, when the crew had a brief respite, Fernandez would often reflect on his own life outside the submarine. In the midst of his endless duty, he still found a way to cherish his family, the lifeline that kept him grounded.
And as he glanced over at Captain Hameed, he couldn’t help but think: despite their differences, they made an unstoppable team. Together, they ensured that the INS Vajra remained a silent, formidable force — a predator of the deep that kept the seas safe, just as their families kept them rooted in the life they fought for.
Commander Roland Fernandez grew up in Mangalore, a coastal city where the sea and its rhythms were a part of his very being. As a child, Roland spent much of his time near the water, watching the fishing boats come in at dawn and the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea stretching endlessly towards the horizon. His father, Admiral Santiago Fernandez, had been a decorated officer in the Indian Navy, a man who commanded respect not just because of his rank but because of his unyielding dedication to his sailors and his family.
From a young age, Roland knew that the sea called to him in ways nothing else did. The stories his father told him about naval operations — about submarines, aircraft carriers, and the silent, deadly game of naval warfare — captured his imagination. His natural aptitude for mechanics and electronics led him to pursue a degree in electrical engineering, but the sea was always where his heart was. When he graduated, he joined the Navy with the intention of one day commanding his own submarine.
Roland’s training in the Indian Naval Academy at Ezhimala was grueling, a period that tested both his physical and mental limits. He was one of the top cadets in his batch, excelling in technical subjects, strategy, and leadership. His instructors were impressed by his quick wit, his ability to think several steps ahead, and his unrelenting drive to master whatever task was at hand. However, it wasn’t just his technical prowess that set him apart; it was his innate understanding of human nature. Roland knew how to motivate his fellow cadets, how to bring out the best in them, and that made him a natural leader.
Upon completing his training, he was selected to serve as an engineering officer aboard several destroyers and corvettes before making his way to submarines. His experience with cutting-edge sonar systems, radar, and stealth operations quickly marked him as a rising star in the Indian Navy’s submarine fleet.
When Roland was transferred to the INS Arihant, India’s first nuclear-powered submarine, it was a turning point in his career. The Arihant was still undergoing sea trials at the time, and Roland found himself in the thick of it, troubleshooting complex systems, ensuring the integrity of the vessel, and learning the nuances of operating in the depths of the ocean. His technical knowledge of electronics, paired with his deep understanding of submarine warfare tactics, made him an invaluable asset to the team.
While others struggled with the confined space and intense pressure of underwater life, Roland thrived. He loved the sense of isolation and the constant challenge of remaining undetected in hostile waters. He quickly became the go-to officer for any sonar, communications, or navigational issues, and his reputation as a problem-solver spread throughout the fleet.
After years of proving himself, Roland’s experience and technical brilliance earned him the position of Executive Officer aboard the INS Vajra. It was here, under Captain Ashfaq Hameed’s steady leadership, that Roland truly came into his own as a submariner and a leader. The two formed an inseparable partnership, with Roland providing the technical expertise and the energy to keep the crew motivated, and Hameed providing the calm and calculated command that ensured they stayed on track during complex operations.
In his role as XO, Roland oversaw everything from navigation to sonar operations, often working late into the night with his team to fine-tune systems or prepare for an upcoming mission. His knack for technical troubleshooting and his unshakable calm under pressure made him the perfect second-in-command. Whether it was a simple navigation correction or a full-scale operational manoeuvre, Roland’s mind worked in overdrive, constantly analyzing, adjusting, and planning for contingencies.
“XO, the sonar’s giving us some weird readings,” a sonar operator once said, pointing at the screen.
Roland’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in to examine the data. “That’s not a glitch,” he muttered. “Get me a sweep of that sector, and make sure we’re not being jammed. It’s too clean to be a simple malfunction.”
It wasn’t long before Roland had cracked the issue, determining that they were encountering a sophisticated form of electronic warfare designed to confuse the INS Vajra’s sonar. Thanks to his quick thinking, they avoided the threat without ever alerting the enemy to their presence.
When it came to the INS Vajra’s operations, Roland Fernandez was the architect behind its technological excellence. He had an intimate knowledge of every system aboard the vessel — sonar, radar, communications, propulsion, and weaponry. His hands-on approach allowed him to troubleshoot problems efficiently and develop innovative solutions under pressure.
One particular skill that set Roland apart was his proficiency with sonar systems. The Vajra was equipped with some of the most advanced sonar arrays in the world, and Roland’s deep understanding of their capabilities allowed him to use them with precision. He was able to differentiate between the smallest environmental noises and a potential threat with ease, often detecting incoming vessels or underwater obstacles long before they showed up on other systems.
“Target’s in range, Captain,” Roland would call out, his fingers tapping across the sonar controls, reading the signature of a vessel. “This one’s no ordinary merchant ship. It’s got military-grade electronics. We need to be careful.”
Hameed, always calm, would reply, “I trust you, XO. Set the course. We stay in the shadows.”
But it wasn’t just sonar systems that Roland had mastered. His background in electronics also made him a specialist in the Vajra’s nuclear propulsion systems. These systems were designed to allow the submarine to remain submerged for extended periods, making it an ideal vessel for reconnaissance and deterrence missions. Roland’s meticulous attention to detail ensured that these systems ran smoothly, providing the INS Vajra with the power it needed while keeping it silent in the water.
Outside of the INS Vajra, Roland’s family was the foundation upon which he built his life. He often spoke with his wife, Shalini, during long deployments, sharing stories of the crew’s antics or recounting memories of their times together in Goa. Shalini, though understanding of his duty, occasionally sent him texts or voice notes reminding him to take care of himself.
“I heard you didn’t eat dinner last night. Don’t be an idiot, Roland,” Shalini would say with a chuckle in her voice. “You’re not invincible. Eat properly, or I’m coming there to make sure you do.”
Ishaan, now showing a budding interest in submarines, often filled his father’s inbox with questions about his work, asking how sonar worked or how deep a submarine could go. Roland, always patient, would send back detailed replies whenever he could, weaving together his fatherly affection with his technical knowledge.
As for Simran, Roland’s bond with her was unique — while Ishaan was fascinated with the mechanics of his father’s work, Simran was more enchanted with the idea of adventure. She often asked him to tell her stories of his underwater exploits, and Roland found great joy in spinning tales of deep-sea escapades — stories that painted the oceans as both mystical and formidable.
Despite his technical brilliance, Roland believed that the success of the INS Vajra didn’t just come from superior technology — it was the people aboard the submarine that made the difference. He had always placed a heavy emphasis on the human aspect of command, often engaging with the crew to ensure morale remained high during long and taxing deployments.
“You’ve got to keep the team together, even when the pressure’s on,” he once told a young officer who was struggling to adapt to the long, isolating conditions of submarine life. “This is the kind of environment that tests you, but if you can support your fellow crew members, you’ll make it through just fine.”
At the core of Roland’s leadership was a simple but unwavering philosophy: Duty before self. Whether in the control room, in a quiet moment with his family, or standing on the conning tower of the INS Vajra, he lived by this creed. It was what motivated him to give his best, day in and day out, ensuring that the INS Vajra remained a potent force in the Indian Navy’s arsenal.
Commander Roland Fernandez’s leadership philosophy wasn’t just about giving orders or making strategic decisions — it was about the human connection that drove the operational success of the INS Vajra. The submarine, after all, was not just a machine; it was a community of men and women working tirelessly to ensure that their nation’s security was upheld.
Roland’s approach to leadership was grounded in empathy and integrity. He believed that in an environment as isolated and high-pressure as a nuclear-powered submarine, the key to success was strong teamwork. It was often said that the INS Vajra wasn’t just a deadly predator of the deep — it was a family, and Roland, as the Executive Officer, was its second father.
“You’re never just a sailor on this boat,” Roland would often remind the crew, his voice firm but kind. “You’re part of a team. And that team, it’s what’s going to get us through every mission we undertake, no matter how tough it gets.”
His door was always open. Whether it was a young officer grappling with the isolation of extended deployment or an experienced sonar operator needing advice on a tactical manoeuvre, Roland’s approach was always the same: listen, understand, and help. This made him a respected figure within the INS Vajra, not just as a technician and tactician, but as a mentor and guide.
It wasn’t enough for Roland to simply ensure that the equipment was working and that missions were carried out successfully. He believed that his real responsibility lay in the growth and well-being of the crew under his command. His leadership wasn’t about authority; it was about earning respect through mutual understanding and care for each individual aboard.
A particularly memorable moment occurred during a high-stress mission where the Vajra was required to track a potential adversarial vessel in the middle of the night, submerged 200 meters below the surface. The crew had been awake for nearly 36 hours, eyes bloodshot, nerves fraying. It was at that point that a junior officer, Lieutenant Karan Mehta, came to Roland, clearly shaken.
“XO,” Mehta began, his voice low, “I’m not sure if I can do this. I feel like I’m losing focus.”
Roland immediately understood. The pressure had taken its toll, and the young officer was questioning his abilities. But instead of reprimanding him or pushing him away, Roland took a seat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Karan,” Roland said softly, “I’ve been where you are. And I’m telling you this — it’s okay to feel like this. But what makes you a submariner, what makes you part of the Vajra, is getting through these moments, together.”
Roland knew the power of words, the weight they carried in the depths of a submarine, far from shore. He wasn’t just offering reassurance; he was instilling confidence. “Focus on your breath. Clear your mind. Your job is simple — track that vessel and get us in position. I trust you, and I need you. We’re all in this together.”
It was a simple moment, but it was a turning point for Karan. By the end of the mission, he had successfully tracked the adversarial vessel, and his confidence in himself had been restored.
“Thanks, XO,” Karan said later, a genuine smile on his face.
“That’s what I’m here for, Lieutenant,” Roland replied, his gaze steady and calm.
While Roland’s commitment to the INS Vajra and his crew was unwavering, it was his family who served as the grounding force in his life. His wife, Shalini, was a constant presence in his thoughts, even when he was submerged in the depths of the sea. Despite the physical distance, they shared an unspoken bond that kept him strong through the toughest of missions.
Shalini, who had grown up in a family of diplomats, understood the demands of Roland’s job better than most. She had seen him go through the long deployments, the moments of frustration and isolation, but she never wavered in her support.
Their relationship was one of shared understanding — while Roland’s work in the Navy was his life’s purpose, Shalini never made him feel guilty for it. She was proud of him, but she also made sure to remind him to take care of himself. It wasn’t just about duty — it was about balance.
When they did get time together, whether it was during short leaves or rare holidays, they’d often retreat to Goa, where Roland had set up a quiet life with Shalini and their two children. Goa, with its peaceful beaches and laid-back atmosphere, was a stark contrast to the high-stakes world of naval warfare.
Their time together wasn’t spent in grand gestures but in small, quiet moments. Mornings began with coffee by the sea, watching the sun rise over the horizon. Evenings were filled with family dinners, laughter, and light-hearted discussions.
“You know, Roland,” Shalini once teased, “I don’t think you could handle civilian life for long. You’d miss the sound of the sonar pings and the hum of the engines.”
Roland chuckled, reaching for her hand. “You’re right, love. I think I’m too used to the silence and the depth to ever fully come up for air.”
Their children, Ishaan and Simran, were growing up in the shadows of Roland’s naval career, and each day he spent with them made the sacrifices of his duty worthwhile. Ishaan, who had inherited his father’s sharp mind for mechanics, would often spend hours discussing submarines and how they worked. Meanwhile, Simran, the younger of the two, was more fascinated with adventure stories, constantly asking Roland to recount tales of the deep.
“Tell me again, Daddy,” Simran would ask, her big eyes wide with wonder. “What was it like to be inside the INS Vajra? Did you really go all the way to the Andaman Islands?”
Roland would smile, sitting down beside her, his thoughts turning inward. “Yes, Simran. I’ve been to places most people can’t even imagine. But it’s not the places that make it special. It’s the people — our crew. It’s the quiet moments where we all pull together, no matter what.”
As the Executive Officer of the INS Vajra, Roland’s life was one of constant motion and responsibility. His days were filled with briefings, technical troubleshooting, and decision-making, but each moment aboard the submarine was grounded in a single truth: his duty to his crew and his nation.
There were long periods of intense focus, where time seemed to stretch out, and his mind would be consumed by the details of operations, sonar data, and tactical movements. During such times, he often found himself walking the narrow corridors of the submarine, checking in with various departments, ensuring that everything was running smoothly. The deep, resonating hum of the reactor and the steady rhythm of the propellers became a comforting background to his thoughts.
One particular day, during an extended mission in the Indian Ocean, the Vajra had to manoeuvre through some particularly treacherous waters. The crew had been under strain, and tensions were running high. Roland found himself in the sonar room, studying the readings, when the pressure became palpable.
“XO, we’ve got a possible contact — stealthy, no sign of radar emissions,” one of the sonar operators said, eyes wide with anticipation.
Roland immediately took charge. “Do we have a visual?”
“No, sir. But it’s close. Very close.”
Roland’s mind raced, drawing upon every ounce of his training and experience. “Lock on to the sonar frequency. Let’s track this contact and prepare the Vajra for any maneuver. I don’t want any surprises. This is our waters. We don’t let anyone into them without our say-so.”
It was moments like this where Roland’s quiet confidence shone. Despite the uncertainty and the high stakes, his calm leadership reassured the crew. They knew they were in capable hands.
The control room hummed with activity. Officers in dark blue jumpsuits monitored their consoles, speaking in low, clipped tones as they relayed information. The air was filled with the soft beeps and pings of sonar, the occasional hiss of compressed air, and the distant hum of the nuclear reactor that powered the submarine.
On the tactical display, a moving dot represented their quarry: a Chinese surveillance vessel, ostensibly conducting “scientific research” into underwater flora and fauna. But Indian Naval Intelligence had flagged it as a Type 815G electronic reconnaissance ship, a covert asset of the People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN). Its true purpose was clear: to gather intelligence on Indian naval movements and installations in the strategically critical Andaman and Nicobar Islands.
Captain Hameed leaned over the tactical plotting table, studying the ship’s movements. “What’s her speed and heading?” he asked, his voice steady.
Lieutenant Aarav Shekhawat, the officer of the watch, glanced at his console. “She’s maintaining a steady course, bearing 085 degrees, speed 12 knots. Depth unchanged at surface level.”
“Still hugging the international waters boundary,” muttered Commander Fernandez, his brow furrowed as he analyzed the data. “She’s playing it safe, trying not to provoke us. But that pattern — look at those zigzag maneuvers. Classic surveillance sweep.”
Hameed nodded. “They’re mapping the seabed for sonar arrays. If we let them complete that sweep, they’ll compromise our underwater defenses in the region.”
Captain Hameed straightened, his mind already working through the possibilities. He turned to the sonar operator. “Chief, any active pings from their hull? Are they using side-scan sonar?”
Chief Petty Officer Naresh Gupta, a grizzled veteran with over two decades of submarine experience, adjusted his headphones. “Negative, sir. Passive hydrophones only. They’re trying to keep a low profile.”
Hameed allowed himself a faint smile. “That’s their mistake. They’re blind, and they don’t know we’re here.” He turned to Fernandez. “Roland, what’s our weapons status?”
“Tube one loaded with a heavyweight torpedo. Tubes two and three have decoys. Missile payload is ready, but I doubt we’ll need it at this range,” Fernandez replied crisply.
Hameed nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. We’ll shadow them for now, stay undetected. The moment they cross into our waters, we’ll have grounds to intercept.”
The control room was a study in disciplined chaos. Officers and enlisted men worked seamlessly, their movements precise and efficient. The pervading atmosphere was one of quiet professionalism, tempered by the high stakes of the mission.
At the navigation console, Sub-Lieutenant Priya Menon plotted the submarine’s course. “Captain, we’re currently at a depth of 300 meters, 5 nautical miles astern of the target. Current speed is 8 knots. Should we reduce speed to match her noise signature?”
“Do it,” Hameed ordered. “And deploy a towed array. I want a clearer picture of what’s ahead.”
As the submarine adjusted its speed, Fernandez approached Hameed, his voice lowered. “Skipper, what’s your read on their game plan? If they’re this far out, they’ve got a backup nearby. Maybe another PLAN vessel lying low.”
Hameed nodded thoughtfully. “Agreed. That’s why we’re not rushing in. If there’s a wolf lurking nearby, we’ll make them reveal themselves first.”
Hours passed as the Vajra shadowed the Chinese vessel, maintaining a delicate balance between stealth and vigilance. The tension was palpable but controlled; every officer knew the stakes.
Suddenly, the sonar operator called out, “Captain, we’re picking up faint propeller noise to the northeast. Signature matches a Type 093 Shang-class submarine. She’s running quiet, but she’s there.”
Fernandez let out a low whistle. “Looks like the wolf has shown up after all.”
Hameed’s face hardened. “What’s the range?”
“Approximately 15 nautical miles and closing,” replied the sonar operator.
Hameed’s mind worked quickly. The presence of the Shang-class submarine complicated the situation. Engaging the surveillance vessel now would risk escalation, but allowing them to continue unchallenged was not an option.
“Commander Fernandez,” he said, his tone calm but firm, “prepare countermeasures. If the Shang-class gets too close, we’ll deploy noise-makers and break contact. Until then, maintain shadowing protocols.”
“Aye, Captain,” Fernandez replied, his expression serious.
As the minutes ticked by, the Vajra’s crew worked like a single, well-oiled machine. The submarine continued its silent pursuit, its sensors painting a detailed picture of the underwater chessboard unfolding around them.
In the control room, Hameed and Fernandez stood side by side, their expressions a study in focus. The Captain’s calm resolve and the XO’s sharp instincts formed the backbone of the operation, their leadership a testament to the professionalism of the Indian Navy.
The tension in the bridge was electric, but it was tempered by the crew’s unwavering confidence in their leaders. As the INS Vajra maneuvered through the depths, it became clear that this was more than a mission — it was a test of their skill, resolve, and the quiet courage that defined life beneath the waves.
In the heart of the INS Vajra, the control room hummed with an almost surreal calm, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts and tension swirling through the minds of its officers. Captain Ashfaq Hameed and Commander Roland Fernandez stood side by side, their focus unbroken as they monitored the suspicious vessel’s every move. There was an unspoken understanding between the two, a bond forged over years of service, mutual respect, and the shared weight of command. Their connection was more than professional; it was a friendship built on trust, a rare but unshakable thread that held them both steady.
Captain Ashfaq Hameed stood tall in front of the sonar panel, his eyes fixed on the screen displaying the subtle but significant shifts in the underwater landscape. The gentle, rhythmic hum of the submarine’s reactor was the only sound that seemed to define the space. Despite the circumstances — tracking a potential Chinese surveillance vessel disguised as a scientific research ship — Hameed’s presence exuded an air of unflappable calm.
His broad shoulders, stiffened by years of naval discipline, were squared as he scanned the data with laser focus. Every movement of the hands, every glance at the tactical display, spoke volumes of his extensive experience. He was the calm in the storm, the steady hand guiding the crew through the turbulence of high-stakes missions. But beneath his exterior lay a deep understanding of the stakes at hand — the fragile balance between national security and covert operations, the quiet dangers lurking in the abyss.
Commander Roland Fernandez, standing just behind Hameed, was a stark contrast to his commanding officer in both demeanour and personality. Lean, wiry, and perpetually animated, Fernandez possessed an energy that seemed to reverberate through the very air of the control room. His eyes darted between the sonar readouts, his fingers dancing across the touchpad with practiced ease as he made real-time adjustments to their tracking systems. Fernandez was the embodiment of instinctive decision-making, able to process critical information in mere seconds.
Though outwardly easygoing, Fernandez’s sharp wit and technical brilliance made him indispensable to the INS Vajra’s operations. But it was his deep moral compass, his unwavering belief in the mission’s importance, that allowed him to remain an ideal second-in-command. As the ship’s XO, Fernandez had an intimate understanding of both the mechanics of the submarine and the human element that powered it. He had worked alongside Hameed through countless missions and knew his captain’s methods as well as he knew his own.
“Captain, I’ve got a change in course,” Fernandez muttered, his voice steady but urgent, a rare edge in his tone. “They’ve just increased speed to seven knots and altered course by 30 degrees.”
Hameed’s gaze flicked to the sonar display, and his lips tightened slightly. He had been expecting this. The Chinese vessel was no stranger to playing cat-and-mouse. Hameed trusted Fernandez implicitly — his XO’s intuition had saved them more than once.
“Maintain current depth. We don’t need to show ourselves just yet,” Hameed replied calmly. His voice was low, deliberate, the mark of a man who had seen the seas in every form — calm, stormy, and treacherous. “Keep a close watch. We’ll make the next move when they do.”
Fernandez nodded sharply, his fingers already navigating the controls to adjust their stealth systems. The hum of the INS Vajra seemed to grow quieter, more subdued, as the crew fell into the rhythm of their roles. The submarine was now in its element, a ghost in the depths.
The control room was quiet, save for the occasional hum of machinery or the faint, almost inaudible ping of the sonar. In this moment, it felt as though time had slowed down. Hameed and Fernandez had been through countless missions together, but this one felt different. This wasn’t just about completing an operation. This was about proving their readiness, their ability to think and act with precision in a world where hesitation could mean disaster.
As the tension stretched, Fernandez glanced over at Hameed. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was steady — almost like a lighthouse, guiding the crew through the dark waters. The captain’s leadership was a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t need to speak often, but when he did, it was with the kind of authority that made his crew believe in the mission, believe in each other, and believe in him.
“Captain, I’ve adjusted the course. We’re holding steady now,” Fernandez said, his voice breaking the silence. “Let’s see how they respond.”
Hameed’s lips curled into a slight smile, his eyes never leaving the sonar screen. “They’ll bite. And when they do, we’ll be ready.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, there was an undeniable personal connection between the two men. Hameed had always believed in leading from the front, not just through orders but through actions. He had seen Fernandez grow from an eager, bright-eyed officer to one of the Navy’s most trusted leaders. Hameed had always admired Fernandez’s ability to see past the obvious, to think several moves ahead, much like a seasoned chess player. But what set Fernandez apart was his sense of humanity, his ability to rally the crew even during the longest, most gruelling deployments.
The bond between them wasn’t just professional — it was rooted in shared experiences. The late-night conversations over cups of instant coffee in the wardroom, the rare quiet moments on deck under a blanket of stars, and the countless missions that had tested their resolve. It was in those moments, far from the rest of the world, that they truly understood each other.
“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” Fernandez said suddenly, his voice almost a whisper, but filled with the weight of history.
Hameed didn’t look at him but responded with quiet certainty. “We have. But this mission — this is the one that tests everything.”
“I know,” Fernandez said, his tone growing serious. “But I’ve got your back, Captain. Always have, always will.”
Hameed finally turned to look at him, his expression softening just for a moment. “And I’ve got yours, Roland. You know that.”
The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a thousand missions. In the silence of the INS Vajra’s control room, surrounded by the vast, endless expanse of the ocean, those words were enough to anchor them both.
Time passed slowly as they continued their pursuit. The Chinese vessel, seemingly unaware of their presence, continued its steady course. The INS Vajra — with its cutting-edge sonar systems and stealth capabilities — remained in the shadows, a ghost of the deep, biding its time. The crew remained vigilant, their focus absolute, their every action dictated by the trust they had in their leaders.
As the tension built and the submarine drew ever closer to its quarry, the silent predator moved with purpose. It was a test of skill, resolve, and quiet courage — a reflection of everything that defined life beneath the waves.
Hameed and Fernandez knew that the mission was far from over, but one thing was certain: with the strength of their leadership, and the unbreakable bond they shared, the INS Vajra was in good hands.
The Shores of the Arabian Sea, A Decade Earlier
The INS Vajra was docked in a naval base on the coast of Mumbai, preparing for a critical exercise. The mission was part of a multi-national operation designed to test the naval forces’ ability to operate together in a joint effort, but for Captain Ashfaq Hameed and Commander Roland Fernandez, it was much more than just a routine exercise.
A decade ago, when they were still rising stars in the Navy, they had faced a challenge that would ultimately define their careers — and solidify the bond between them.
It was late in the evening, just as the horizon began to glow with the first hints of dawn. Hameed, then a Commander, stood at the bow of the submarine, staring out at the calm waters of the Arabian Sea. His mind wasn’t on the exercise ahead; it was on the feeling in his gut, a sense of unease that had been gnawing at him since the mission’s inception. There was something about the intelligence reports — something off, something unspoken.
He turned sharply as he heard footsteps behind him. Roland Fernandez, only a Lieutenant Commander at the time, had walked up to him, his ever-present energy crackling in the air.
“You look pensive, Commander,” Fernandez remarked with his usual grin. His easygoing demeanor was at odds with the tension in the air, but it had always been that way between them — Fernandez, the optimist, Hameed, the realist.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Hameed admitted, rubbing his brow. “I’ve been through enough to know that sometimes things don’t go according to plan. Something’s off.”
Fernandez raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes. He didn’t ask for more specifics; he trusted Hameed’s instincts. “Well, I’m with you, sir. You tell me when we need to start making some waves.”
That was when the call came through. The Indian Navy had received an encrypted communication from an intelligence source. A rogue vessel, believed to be an unregistered civilian fishing trawler, had been spotted near the exercise area. Suspicious activity had been reported, and the ship was operating in an area it shouldn’t be.
The crew of the INS Vajra was immediately placed on high alert.
The situation unfolded with frightening speed. The rogue vessel’s position was locked in, but it wasn’t showing any signs of responding to radio communication. Worse, the vessel’s course seemed to be leading them right toward a high-value target — the INS Viraat, India’s aircraft carrier, participating in the exercise.
The stakes were higher than ever. If the vessel was a threat, if it was planning to interfere with the exercise, it could cause catastrophic consequences.
“We can’t let them get any closer,” Hameed’s voice was low but firm as he briefed his team. The plan was simple — stop the vessel, assess the situation, and if necessary, engage.
But things didn’t go as planned. The rogue vessel had no intention of stopping, and soon, Hameed was faced with a choice: allow it to continue toward the exercise area, or act decisively and risk everything. There was no time to wait for orders. His instincts screamed for action.
He turned to Fernandez, his second-in-command.
“Prepare to fire warning shots, Roland. Get us into position.”
Fernandez didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Aye, Captain. Setting the course now.”
The INS Vajra maneuvered into position, the powerful engines rumbling beneath the steel of the hull. They were closing in on the rogue vessel, but it showed no signs of slowing. Hameed’s decision had to be made in an instant — either they would act or the situation could escalate beyond control.
“Fire warning shots,” Hameed ordered. His voice was cold and calculated, but the weight of the decision hung in the air. He knew the consequences if this escalated further.
As the warning shots echoed across the water, the rogue vessel finally changed course, veering sharply away from the INS Viraat and retreating into international waters. The danger had passed, but the tension lingered.
In the aftermath, as the submarine returned to its original position, Hameed stood in the command center, his expression unreadable. Fernandez, his eyes sharp, stood beside him, but neither of them spoke for several long moments.
Finally, Fernandez broke the silence. “Skipper, that was a hell of a call. You saved the exercise.”
Hameed shook his head, his brow furrowed. “It wasn’t the call that mattered. It was the timing. The information was thin, and I had to act on instinct. We’ve been trained to make split-second decisions, but there’s no textbook for what we just did.”
Fernandez nodded, his respect for Hameed growing by the second. “You did what was necessary. That’s what makes you a great leader, sir.”
Hameed’s eyes softened, just for a moment, before he looked away. “We’re only as good as the crew around us, Roland. And today, we proved that we work well together.”
The success of that operation — the careful, decisive handling of a dangerous situation — propelled Hameed into the senior command ranks of the Navy. Fernandez, too, rose quickly through the ranks, his loyalty to Hameed and his ability to act under pressure gaining him the respect of their peers.
As the years passed, both men often found themselves reflecting on that day, that critical moment when their instincts had been tested. It had been a defining moment — not just for their careers, but for their bond.
It had been the moment they truly understood each other.
Now, years later, as they stood side by side once more on the INS Vajra, tracking a potential threat in the waters off the Andaman Islands, it was clear that the foundation laid that day was still as solid as ever. They had faced uncertainty together before — and they would face it again.
But with every mission, every challenge, every decision made together, they knew one thing for certain: They were ready. And together, they could face anything.
As the INS Vajra continued its quiet pursuit of the Chinese research vessel that masqueraded as a scientific ship, the atmosphere inside the control room was a finely tuned machine — calm, controlled, and brimming with tension. Captain Ashfaq Hameed stood tall at the center of the bridge, his hands resting on the console as his sharp eyes tracked the sonar feed. Beside him, Commander Roland Fernandez moved with a quiet efficiency, his fingers dancing across the buttons of the tactical screen, his mind a whirl of calculations.
But as the minutes stretched on, something felt off.
It was Sonar Operator Lt. Ravi, a young officer with an intuitive sense for anomalies, who broke the silence. His voice was low, yet there was an unmistakable tension that crept into his words.
“Captain… XO… something’s not right.”
Hameed and Fernandez both turned sharply toward him. Ravi’s hand hovered over the sonar console, his gaze fixed on the screen.
“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Hameed’s voice remained steady, a quiet authority that demanded answers, not panic.
“I’m picking up a secondary contact just below the research vessel… It’s… it’s another submarine,” Ravi reported, his voice tinged with disbelief. “A Shang-class — it’s moving in a tight formation under the research ship. It’s been using the noise from the research vessel to mask its presence.”
Hameed’s gaze darkened. The implications of this were immediate and serious. The Shang-class was one of China’s most advanced attack submarines, capable of launching devastating strikes from stealth, its hull designed to be silent and nearly invisible to enemy detection. Its presence just below the research ship explained the subtle anomalies the Vajra had been picking up.
“How long have we been tracking it?” Fernandez asked, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.
“Since it started moving under the research vessel, maybe twenty minutes ago,” Ravi replied.
Fernandez shot a glance at Hameed, the gravity of the situation settling between them.
“We’ve been shadowed. We need to act, Captain,” Fernandez said, his voice taut but controlled.
Hameed’s mind raced. This was no longer just about surveillance. The Shang-class had the potential to change the dynamics of the entire mission. They were no longer just observing; they were being watched.
Hameed straightened, his expression a mask of calm determination. “Execute evasive maneuvers,” he ordered, his voice a steady anchor. “We can’t afford to let them get any closer.”
The crew snapped into action, each member performing their duties with practiced precision. The INS Vajra, though designed for stealth, was far more advanced than most other submarines in the region. With its advanced sonar systems and near-silent reactor, it was an apex predator in the depths. However, the Shang-class was no less formidable, and it was still a deadly opponent.
“Plot an intercept course, Lieutenant Pradeep,” Fernandez barked, his focus shifting to the tactical screen. “I want to know if we can get between them and the surface. Let’s see if we can’t trap them in a loop.”
“Aye, XO,” Pradeep responded, his fingers flying over the console as the sonar data shifted. The crew was working like a well-oiled machine, each person moving with confidence, knowing their roles by heart.
The INS Vajra performed a subtle, calculated maneuver, adjusting its depth and course to ensure it remained undetected while closing the distance between it and the Shang-class. They were in uncharted waters now, and every move had to be executed with precision.
“What’s our distance to the Shang?” Hameed asked, his voice unwavering.
“We’re at 1,200 yards, Captain,” Ravi responded. “They’ve made no attempt to change course yet.”
“Maintain passive sonar. No active pings. Let them think we’re still shadowing the research ship. Stay in their blind spot.”
“Aye, Captain,” Ravi replied. The crew worked seamlessly to adjust the submarine’s position, their movements coordinated and efficient.
As the distance between the INS Vajra and the Shang-class narrowed, the tension in the control room reached a near-breaking point. Everyone on board knew that the next few moments would determine the success or failure of this delicate operation.
“Target is holding steady, Captain,” Ravi reported. “No indication that they’ve detected us.”
Hameed nodded. His face was unreadable, but his mind was calculating every possible outcome, considering the risks. The INS Vajra was one of the most advanced submarines in the world, but the Shang-class wasn’t to be underestimated.
“This is a waiting game now,” Fernandez said, his sharp eyes tracking the sonar readouts. “We’ll need to remain as invisible as possible.”
Hameed looked at his XO. Fernandez, with his sharp instincts and unwavering focus, was always a calming influence during these tense moments. The two men had been through countless missions together, and their bond of trust was unbreakable. There was no one else Hameed would want by his side when the stakes were this high.
“If they realize we’re here…” Fernandez started, trailing off as the situation began to take shape.
“They will,” Hameed replied, his voice calm yet firm. “But we have to be ready for that moment. We will outthink them, outmaneuver them, and keep our focus. No rash decisions.”
Just as the INS Vajra slipped into a more optimal position, the Shang-class made its move. The research vessel above them seemed to alter course slightly, likely unaware of the cat-and-mouse game unfolding beneath them.
The Shang-class had begun to surge forward, likely attempting to close the distance to the surface vessel. But the INS Vajra had already anticipated this and adjusted accordingly.
“Captain, they’re coming up fast,” Pradeep reported. “They might attempt to break away.”
“Slow down, hold steady,” Hameed ordered. “We won’t engage unless absolutely necessary. We are here to watch and report, not to provoke. Let them make the next move.”
The crew held their breath as the Shang-class passed just a few hundred yards beneath them, its hull gliding silently through the depths. The sleek, sinister shape of the Chinese submarine was visible only in brief, fleeting flashes on the sonar screen — a shadow in the dark.
Time seemed to stretch as the INS Vajra and the Shang-class submarines silently stalked each other. Every breath on board was calculated, every move executed with care. Hameed and Fernandez stood side by side, their eyes locked on the sonar screens, watching for the slightest indication that the Shang-class had detected them.
“XO, report?” Hameed asked, his voice low but firm.
“We’re holding our position,” Fernandez replied. “They’ve yet to make any aggressive maneuvers.”
For a long while, nothing happened. It was a battle of nerves — two submarines, both armed and capable, each aware of the other, but neither willing to make the first mistake.
The research vessel above them continued its course, blissfully unaware of the silent confrontation unfolding beneath the waves. After what seemed like hours, the Shang-class veered off slightly, likely realizing that it had been cornered and was no longer in the best position to continue its pursuit.
“We’ve won this round,” Hameed said, his voice a rare mix of satisfaction and relief. “But stay sharp. This game isn’t over.”
The INS Vajra had once again proved its superiority — silent, stealthy, and deadly. The crew, though exhausted, felt a quiet sense of pride. Their training, their dedication, and their teamwork had delivered another successful operation.
As the INS Vajra continued its mission, Captain Ashfaq Hameed and Commander Roland Fernandez exchanged a look — one of mutual respect and understanding. The sea had tested them once again, and they had emerged victorious.
But this victory, like all others, was built on the unseen sacrifices, the invisible struggles that played out in the depths of the ocean — and in the hearts of those who served aboard the INS Vajra.
The INS Vajra was now out of immediate danger, having outmaneuvered the Shang-class submarine in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game beneath the waves. Captain Ashfaq Hameed stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the tactical screen, his mind still processing the events that had just unfolded. Beneath the calm exterior, though, something else was brewing.
The toll of leadership, of years spent beneath the ocean’s surface, had slowly been taking its toll on him. The long hours, the stress of high-stakes operations, and the personal sacrifices had worn on his body. Yet, Hameed pushed forward with the unrelenting resolve that had defined his career. But even the strongest of leaders are not invincible.
As he shifted his weight, a sharp pain shot through his chest — a sudden, unexpected surge that brought him to a halt. He tried to ignore it, pressing on with the operation. But the pain intensified, radiating across his chest, down his left arm, and into his jaw. His breath became shallow and labored, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow.
“Hameed?” Commander Roland Fernandez’s voice cut through the haze of discomfort, sharp and concerned. He had been watching his captain closely, sensing a change in his demeanor. The two men had been through enough together to know when something was off.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” Fernandez asked again, stepping closer. His voice was steady but laced with a clear undertone of worry.
“I’m fine, Roland. Just… a bit of discomfort,” Hameed muttered, but his words lacked the conviction that would have reassured his XO.
Fernandez didn’t buy it. “Sir, you don’t look fine. You’re pale, and you’re sweating.”
Hameed attempted a weak smile, brushing it off. “Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of fatigue. Let’s focus on the mission.”
But Fernandez was not fooled. He moved quickly, positioning himself between Hameed and the sonar console. His mind raced as he considered the implications. The captain had been under tremendous pressure for weeks — non-stop deployments, critical missions, and constant vigilance. The stress could easily have been building up.
“Captain, I need you to sit down for a moment,” Fernandez insisted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He placed a hand on Hameed’s shoulder, guiding him toward a chair.
Hameed shook his head weakly. “I’m fine, Roland. We’ve got more to do.”
But as he tried to move again, his legs buckled beneath him. His vision blurred, and his chest tightened further. The last thing he felt was a sharp pain before everything went dark.
“Captain!” Fernandez shouted, his voice urgent as he caught Hameed’s falling form. He could feel the coldness of the man’s skin, the signs of shock setting in. Without hesitation, Fernandez hit the intercom. “Medical team, report to the bridge immediately! The captain’s down!”
The bridge erupted into action. Crew members scrambled to respond, but all eyes were on the fallen captain. Lieutenant Meera, the onboard medical officer, was the first to arrive, her face a mask of professional concern.
“What happened?” she asked, dropping to her knees beside Hameed, who was now slumped in the chair, unconscious.
“He collapsed,” Fernandez explained, kneeling beside her. “He was complaining of chest pain, and then he just… went down.”
Meera immediately began her assessment. Her fingers moved swiftly over Hameed’s wrist, checking his pulse. “Weak,” she muttered, then moved to his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. The cold fear in her eyes was unmistakable. “Captain’s pulse is faint. We’re losing him.”
“We’re not losing him,” Fernandez said, his voice unwavering, though his gut twisted with dread. He was the XO, the second-in-command, and had often been in the line of fire with Hameed. But seeing his captain in this condition was something else entirely. “Do whatever you have to, Meera.”
She nodded and immediately pulled out the emergency cardiac kit. “I’m going to have to shock him. Get him on the defibrillator.”
The seconds felt like an eternity as Meera worked with precise urgency. She set the electrodes and activated the defibrillator. The room fell into a tense silence as she administered the first shock.
“Clear!” she called.
Hameed’s body jerked as the shock coursed through him, but the defibrillator’s warning buzzed, indicating that his heart had not restarted.
“Again!” Fernandez barked, the urgency in his voice almost palpable.
“Clear!” Meera repeated, her hands steady despite the pressure. Another shock, and then a third. The tension on the bridge was unbearable. Crew members exchanged worried glances, but none dared to speak. The fate of their captain hung in the balance.
“Captain… come on, Sir, fight,” Fernandez muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. His mind raced through memories — decades of shared history, of moments when Hameed had stood firm in the face of adversity. This man, this leader, was not just his captain; he was his mentor, his friend, his compass.
Meera’s fingers moved quickly, trying to find any signs of life. She paused, her hand hovering over Hameed’s chest. “There’s a pulse… it’s faint, but it’s there. Captain… come back to us.”
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Hameed’s chest began to rise and fall again, though his breathing was shallow and labored.
“Captain!” Fernandez said again, his voice tight with relief. “Stay with us.”
For the next few hours, the control room remained in a delicate balance of quiet tension. The INS Vajra remained on station, but the mood had shifted. Captain Hameed, though conscious, was weak and exhausted. Fernandez stayed by his side, a constant presence as Hameed was moved to the wardroom, where the medical team continued to monitor him.
The submarine, silent and deadly as ever, now seemed to hum with a strange energy — a recognition that the heart of the ship, the man who had steered it through countless dangers, had been brought to the edge of death. The crew, despite their professional demeanor, couldn’t ignore the fact that the one man who had always led them with quiet strength was not invincible.
In the wardroom, Fernandez and Meera kept vigil as Hameed slowly regained his strength. His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw Fernandez, he gave a weak but determined smile.
“You should have let me sleep,” Hameed muttered hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Not on my watch, Captain,” Fernandez said, his tone steady but with a touch of the emotion he had held in check. “You’re not getting away that easily.”
Hameed chuckled weakly. “I don’t know if I can lead you all to victory if I can’t even survive my own heart.”
“It was just a scare, Captain. You’re stronger than this,” Fernandez replied, offering the captain a reassuring smile.
But Hameed knew the truth. His body had betrayed him, and this was a wake-up call he couldn’t ignore. There was a price to pay for leading men into the depths of the sea, for putting duty above all else. The heart — both literal and figurative — could only take so much before it cracked.
And as the INS Vajra continued its silent patrol beneath the waves, the shadows of the sea seemed a little darker, the weight of leadership just a little heavier.
The INS Vajra crept silently through the inky depths of the ocean, its hull a mere whisper against the water. Inside the wardroom, however, the tension was palpable. The captain, Ashfaq Hameed, lay on a cot, his vital signs weak but stable, his breathing shallow. His normally commanding presence was diminished to a vulnerable figure, hooked up to medical monitors.
The only sounds were the soft hum of the submarine’s systems and the muted beeps of the medical equipment. Lieutenant Meera, the submarine’s medical officer, stood beside the captain, her expression a mixture of professional focus and quiet concern. Though she had seen many injuries and medical emergencies during her years in the Navy, this was different. Captain Hameed’s condition was far more critical than any of them had expected.
With a deep breath, Meera turned to Commander Roland Fernandez, the Executive Officer and second-in-command, who had been pacing in the corner of the wardroom. His eyes were on Hameed, but he was anxiously awaiting any updates. The weight of command, which had always been a constant for Fernandez, now carried with it the added strain of the captain’s medical emergency.
“Commander,” Meera said, her voice steady but heavy with the gravity of the situation. “We need to act quickly. I’ve assessed the captain’s condition — he suffered a massive cardiac arrest. While we’ve managed to stabilize him, it’s only temporary.”
Fernandez turned sharply, his instincts kicking in. “What do you mean by temporary, Lieutenant? How serious is this?”
Meera took a deep breath, walking over to the table where the medical records and monitors were displayed. She gestured to the ECG readout, which showed a weak but steady pulse. “The captain’s heart had a near-fatal arrhythmia. The defibrillation was successful in restarting his heart, but the underlying issue remains. His coronary arteries are severely strained, likely from years of stress, fatigue, and the physical toll of this line of duty.”
Fernandez’s jaw clenched as he processed the words. The truth was sinking in — the captain, the man who had guided them through every mission, was now in critical condition. The urgency was clear, but the question was how to respond.
“Is he… going to make it?” Fernandez asked, the vulnerability in his voice impossible to hide.
“We’ve done everything we can for now,” Meera replied. “But the situation is deteriorating. He needs immediate medical intervention at a land-based hospital. The isolation of the deep sea and the lack of proper facilities onboard mean that we are at our limit in terms of care. Time is critical, Commander. We need to get him to a hospital immediately.”
Commander Fernandez paced the room, his mind racing. They were 200 nautical miles off the Andaman coast, too far for a simple evacuation by helicopter or ship. The pressure of the decision weighed heavily on him. Losing the captain in the middle of a mission — especially one as critical as this — was unthinkable. The crew would lose their morale, their resolve. But what could he do? He turned back to Meera.
“Tell me what you need, Lieutenant. I’ll get it done,” Fernandez said firmly, though his voice betrayed the urgency of the situation.
Meera looked at him, her expression hardening with determination. “I need to initiate an emergency evacuation, Commander. The nearest facility capable of treating his condition is the Indian Navy hospital in Port Blair. We need to surface, make a high-speed dash toward the coast, and contact command for medical extraction. But we can’t waste time. Every minute counts, and if the captain’s condition worsens, we may not have the resources to resuscitate him again.”
“Understood.” Fernandez’s voice was steady, but his mind was already racing through contingency plans. “We’ll move out immediately. I’ll inform the crew, and we’ll initiate the extraction. Keep him stable until we reach the surface, Lieutenant.”
Meera nodded, but her concern lingered in her eyes. “Commander, it’s not just about speed. The captain has suffered significant trauma to his cardiovascular system. We need to monitor him constantly during the trip. If he flatlines again, I need to be ready to perform resuscitation at a moment’s notice. I’ll also need extra medical supplies for the journey.”
Fernandez’s eyes met hers with a sharp intensity. “I’ll have the crew stand ready to assist with whatever you need, Meera. But we need to get to Port Blair as quickly as possible. Do you think we can make it?”
“It’s our only option,” Meera said, her voice resolute. “We can’t stay submerged with his condition. The risk is too high.”
Without further discussion, Fernandez grabbed the intercom and issued orders to the crew.
“Attention all personnel: We’re initiating an emergency surface. Prepare the boat for high-speed maneuvering. This is a medical emergency. All hands to stations. Medical team on standby.”
Within seconds, the sound of the crew scrambling into action echoed through the submarine. The clanging of boots on metal floors, the hiss of hydraulic systems, and the constant hum of the submarine’s engines created a sense of urgency that permeated the air.
In the wardroom, Meera leaned over Hameed’s prone form, adjusting the monitors and ensuring the captain was as stable as possible for the journey ahead. “Stay with me, Captain,” she whispered softly, adjusting the oxygen mask on his face. “We’re getting you out of here.”
As the submarine slowly ascended to the surface, Fernandez paced the bridge, his eyes scanning the horizon, watching for the first signs of dawn. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts — was the captain going to make it? What if they couldn’t get him to Port Blair in time? The entire mission now hinged on his ability to navigate both the tactical challenges of the submarine and the human cost of leadership.
“XO, we’re coming up on the surface,” the sonar operator called out. “We’ve cleared the upper layers. Preparing for high-speed.”
“Bring us up. Full ahead, as fast as we can go. Helm, maintain bearing 180. Full power,” Fernandez ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind.
As the INS Vajra broke through the surface of the ocean, the vast expanse of the Andaman Sea stretched before them, offering a brief moment of clarity. The sun had just begun to rise in the distance, casting the ocean in hues of gold and blue.
“Commander,” Meera called over the intercom from the medical bay, “We’re ready. I’ve stabilized the captain as best I can, but we need to keep him under close observation. I’ll need your full cooperation to ensure we don’t lose him.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Full support, all hands on deck,” Fernandez responded.
With the INS Vajra surging ahead, Fernandez’s thoughts were fixed on one thing: saving the captain. Every second was precious, every mile gained a victory. As the submarine raced toward Port Blair, Fernandez stood at the helm, silently praying for Hameed’s survival, knowing that the life of his friend, mentor, and captain was now in his hands.
The crew was focused, determined, and united in the face of a challenge none had anticipated. They had trained for combat, for missions in hostile waters, but this — this was a test of something deeper. It was a test of humanity, of leadership, and of the bond that bound them all together as members of the INS Vajra.
And as they powered through the ocean, the waves crashing against the hull, one thing was certain: the heart of the submarine — the heart of the INS Vajra — was not just the captain, but the unyielding spirit of the crew that served under him. And that spirit would not let him fall.
As the INS Vajra surged through the waters toward Port Blair, Commander Roland Fernandez stood on the bridge, his face a mask of concentration. The adrenaline coursing through his veins felt like a wave crashing against the rocks. The familiar hum of the submarine’s engines, once a comforting constant, now felt like the pounding rhythm of a clock counting down.
Captain Ashfaq Hameed, his mentor and the man who had led them through countless missions, lay unconscious below, his heart struggling to keep pace with the demands of his body. Meera had done everything in her power to stabilize the captain, but the urgency was undeniable. Fernandez was now in command, but with it came the weight of responsibility.
The intercom buzzed. It was Lieutenant Meera from the medical bay. “Commander, we’ve got the captain stable for now, but we need to keep him under constant monitoring. The sooner we reach Port Blair, the better. I’ve made sure he’s on oxygen and connected to the defibrillator in case of another episode. His vital signs are weak.”
Fernandez exhaled slowly, nodding, and turned back to the sonar operator, Lieutenant Rajiv Kumar. “Rajiv, how far are we from the extraction point?”
“We’re 120 nautical miles out, sir,” Rajiv replied, his voice steady despite the circumstances. “At full speed, we should make it to Port Blair in approximately four hours, Commander.”
“Good,” Fernandez said, his mind working quickly. He knew they needed to stay undetected during the entire approach. Any adversary, especially a PLAN (People’s Liberation Army Navy) submarine, could be lurking in the waters, eager to take advantage of the situation. The pressure was mounting. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by the captain’s condition. His duty was to the entire crew, the mission, and the vessel itself.
Taking a breath, Fernandez made a decisive move. He turned to Lieutenant Narayan, the Chief of Operations. “Get me a secure line to the Tri Services Command at Port Blair. I need to brief them immediately. This is a priority call.”
In the heart of the Tri Services Command Operations Room at Port Blair, Commodore Vikram Malhotra stood with his eyes fixed on the large digital map of the Andaman Sea, monitoring the situation. The high-tech screens and data feeds surrounding him reflected a constant stream of information about the Indian Navy’s ongoing operations in the region.
The room was filled with senior officers and personnel from all the three services , each focused on their respective duties. The atmosphere was one of controlled urgency. They had been briefed about the mission, the INS Vajra’s current patrol, and the ongoing surveillance of the Chinese research vessel masquerading as a civilian ship. But now, they were about to receive a crucial update — a development that would change the course of the operation.
Fernandez’s voice broke through the hum of the operations room.
“This is Commander Roland Fernandez of the INS Vajra. I have an urgent update. Captain Ashfaq Hameed has suffered a cardiac arrest and is currently in critical condition. The medical team has stabilized him, but we need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible. His condition is grave, and time is of the essence.”
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end before Commodore Vikram Malhotra’s voice came through. “Understood, Commander. What’s the situation with the mission? Can you continue?”
“We are currently en route to Port Blair, sir. We are 120 nautical miles out, making a high-speed run. The captain has given me explicit instructions to assume command. We are running at full speed, but I need immediate coordination with Port Blair for the medical evacuation and to ensure the area is clear of any potential threats, particularly Chinese vessels. We cannot afford to be detected.”
“Roger that, Commander,” Commodore Malhotra replied, his voice professional but laced with concern. “We will prioritize the medical evacuation. Our assets in the area have already been alerted, and we have airborne surveillance overhead. Stand by for further instructions.”
“We’ll maintain radio silence unless it’s absolutely necessary, sir,” Fernandez said. “I’ll be in constant communication with Lieutenant Meera for updates on the captain’s condition. We’ll need immediate medical support upon arrival.”
Fernandez quickly added, “I’ll also need air assets for helicopter extraction of the captain as soon as we surface. And any available coast guard vessels to provide immediate assistance for the transfer.”
“Copy that, Commander,” came the Commodore’s response. “We are already making the arrangements. Keep your course steady, and we’ll be ready for the evacuation. Your crew’s safety is paramount as well. Maintain vigilance.”
As Fernandez ended the secure call, he turned to face his crew. The tension on the bridge was thick, but it was tempered by the professional resolve of the crew, who had all been trained for moments like this. The faint hum of the submarine’s systems was the only sound, save for the occasional command or update from the various officers on the bridge.
“Rajiv, full ahead at all cost. We need to make Port Blair in the shortest possible time,” Fernandez said, his voice calm but firm.
“Aye, Commander. Full ahead, sir,” Rajiv replied, adjusting the throttle and ensuring the submarine’s engines pushed to their maximum capacity.
Meanwhile, the Executive Officer continued to coordinate with the rest of the crew. The mission had changed drastically — no longer a quiet surveillance operation, but a race against time. The task at hand was now to safely bring the INS Vajra to the surface, make a high-speed approach to Port Blair, and secure the captain’s evacuation without alerting any hostile forces.
As the submarine surged through the water, Lieutenant Rajiv Kumar, who had been working in sonar, called out, “Sir, we have a new contact. It’s a surface vessel about 30 miles to our west. It’s a merchant vessel, but we should monitor it closely. It could be a cover for something else.”
Fernandez immediately ordered, “Maintain passive sonar. Keep an eye on its movements. Do not engage unless necessary. We cannot afford any distractions.”
The reality of the situation was not lost on Fernandez. His mind worked on overdrive, analyzing every variable, from the risk of enemy vessels to the operational aspects of a rapid evacuation. He knew that the crew relied on him, but the emotional weight was heavy. Hameed was not just their captain — he was the anchor of the crew, the symbol of their strength, resolve, and unity.
In the silence of the control room, Fernandez allowed himself a brief moment of reflection, a fleeting glance at the man who had shaped his career, guided his every step. But there was no time for nostalgia. His duty was clear.
“XO to all stations,” Fernandez said, his voice cold with determination. “We are in emergency mode. Maintain full readiness. We are operating under combat conditions. No mistakes.”
The response was immediate — every officer snapped to attention, their eyes fixed on their tasks, their resolve hardening. They were a team. And as long as Fernandez was in command, they would carry out the mission, whatever the cost.
321 Air Operations Control Room — Car Nicobar .
Squadron Leader Arjun Rao had been reviewing flight schedules, his fingers absently tapping against his desk. The shift had been routine — air patrols were on course, radar feeds were stable, and the weather over the Andaman Sea was cooperating. Then, his secure line lit up.
His brow furrowed. “Tri-Services Command — Direct Line.”
This wasn’t protocol. Communications usually came through established chains, routed via operations officers or adjutants. But this was no routine call. The name flashing on the screen made his breath hitch for just a second. Commodore Vikram Malhotra himself. The man heading the Tri-Services Command at Port Blair, one of the most formidable officers in the Indian Armed Forces, wasn’t someone who made casual calls.
Rao straightened and snatched up the receiver. “Squadron Leader Rao, 321 Air Operations, sir.”
The voice on the other end was sharp, precise — an officer accustomed to command. “Squadron Leader, this is Commodore Vikram Malhotra. We have a medical emergency on board the INS Vajra. Captain Ashfaq Hameed has suffered a cardiac arrest. We need an airborne CASEVAC, immediately.”
There was no hesitation in Malhotra’s voice, only the clipped efficiency of a man who expected immediate action.
Rao blinked, forcing himself to absorb the gravity of the situation. A CASEVAC from a submarine? That was a different kind of mission — one that required precise coordination.
“Copy that, sir. What’s Vajra’s current position?” Rao’s tone shifted into operational mode, his training taking over.
“Submarine is en route to Port Blair, but the captain’s condition is deteriorating. He needs medical intervention ASAP. We’re estimating surfacing coordinates near 10°N, 92°E, thirty nautical miles southeast of Hut Bay. We need your birds in the air now.”
Rao was already flipping through the emergency deployment sheets, eyes scanning for the best option.
“Understood, sir. I have a Mi-17 on standby at INAS Utkrosh with a critical care team. We can have them airborne in under six minutes. Estimated time to your coordinates, twenty-two minutes, weather permitting. Do we have surface assets in play?”
“INS Kirpan is altering course to rendezvous with Vajra, but she’s still seventy minutes out. We can’t wait.” Malhotra’s voice was firm.
“Acknowledged, sir. I’ll have the med team prepped for cardiac intervention in-flight. Requesting continuous vitals update on Captain Hameed from Vajra’s onboard med officer.”
Malhotra exhaled, just a brief moment of silence before he responded. “Good work, Squadron Leader. Make this happen.”
“Consider it done, sir.” Rao replied, already signaling his operations team.
As the call ended, the control room was already a flurry of movement. The clock was ticking, and the life of a senior naval officer depended on their execution.
Few names commanded instant recognition across the armed forces, and Commodore Vikram Malhotra was one of them. A seasoned officer in the Indian Navy, he had spent over three decades in service, earning a reputation as a strategist, a leader, and, when necessary, an enforcer.
Born into a family with deep military roots — his father had been a decorated officer in the Army, his grandfather a war veteran — Malhotra’s destiny had been sealed the moment he stepped into the National Defence Academy at Khadakwasla.
He graduated top of his class in maritime warfare strategy and was commissioned into the Executive Branch of the Indian Navy. His early years were spent aboard INS Rajput, a Kashin-class destroyer, where he proved his mettle during high-intensity naval operations in the Indian Ocean.
His operational record was impeccable — from commanding anti-piracy missions in the Gulf of Aden to overseeing joint exercises with the US Navy and the Royal Navy in Malabar and Milan series drills. His tenure as the Commanding Officer of INS Vikrant during her sea trials cemented his reputation as a leader who could handle high-stakes situations.
By the time he assumed command at Tri-Services Command, Port Blair, he had become the go-to officer for crisis situations in the Andaman & Nicobar region. Cool under pressure, known for decisive action, and fiercely protective of his men, Malhotra was the kind of leader who expected excellence and gave no room for failure.
He wasn’t just respected — he was revered.
And now, he had personally placed his faith in Squadron Leader Arjun Rao to get this mission done. Failure was not an option.
In the heart of the Car Nicobar Operations Control Room, the air was thick with the urgency of the unfolding situation. The high-tech, tactical operations centre was alive with the hum of equipment, the clicking of keyboards, and the soft murmur of operators working in unison. The room was lit by the harsh glow of monitors displaying real-time data feeds from the region’s various military assets. The nerve center of the Car Nicobar Operations Control Room, urgency crackled through the air like static before a storm. The high-tech tactical operations hub pulsed with life — walls lined with sleek, cutting-edge consoles, each manned by personnel whose fingers danced across keyboards with practiced precision. Every keystroke, every hushed command contributed to the orchestrated symphony of crisis management.
A dim, artificial glow bathed the room, cast by a mosaic of monitors that stretched across the walls like an omniscient, digital tapestry. These screens flickered with satellite imagery, drone feeds, and encrypted transmissions, painting an ever-evolving picture of the unfolding situation. Streams of data scrolled in relentless succession, punctuated by flashing alerts and coded directives. The rhythmic beeping of tracking systems, the occasional crackle of a secure transmission, and the clipped, deliberate voices of officers relaying critical updates filled the space.
Against this backdrop of controlled chaos, a team of elite strategists and analysts moved with practiced efficiency, their expressions etched with focus. Maps were scrutinized, trajectories calculated, and contingency plans adjusted in real-time. Every decision made here had consequences rippling across the vast expanse of the Indian Ocean, where unseen forces maneuvered in an intricate game of strategy and survival.
At the heart of it all stood the operations commander — a steady presence amid the turbulence, eyes scanning the monitors, mind parsing layers of intelligence. Time was the most precious currency here, and they had none to waste. The fate of those in the field depended on the decisions made in this very room — a sanctuary of logic and order against the chaos beyond its walls.
Squadron Leader Abhay Pratap Singh, the senior officer in charge of the control room, was meticulously scanning a tactical map of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. His eyes flitted between the digital screens, which tracked the movement of Indian Navy ships, IAF aircraft, and surveillance assets. On the other side of the room, his subordinates monitored radar systems while another team was coordinating with Navy operations in Port Blair.
Squadron Leader Arjun Rao wasted no time. As soon as Commodore Malhotra ended the call, Rao reached for the direct ops line to Air Dispatch Control. The red indicator light blinked steadily — this wasn’t a routine call. This was a priority-one scramble, and only one man could execute it with the speed and precision required.
He punched in the encrypted frequency. The line clicked, and a deep, composed voice answered.
“Dispatch. Squadron Leader Abhay Pratap Singh speaking.”
Rao didn’t waste a second.
“Abhay, Arjun here , we have an emergency CASEVAC. INS Vajra. The submarine’s CO, Captain Ashfaq Hameed, suffered a cardiac arrest. Commodore Malhotra called it in personally — this is high priority.”
There was the briefest pause on the other end before Singh’s voice hardened into operational clarity.
“Understood. Give me status.”
“Vajra is currently en route to Port Blair but needs immediate aerial CASEVAC. Estimated surfacing position 10°N, 92°E, thirty nautical miles southeast of Hut Bay. No surface assets in range for immediate medevac. We are their only option.”
Copy that. What are our available airframes? Singh asked, his tone crisp and precise as he turned to his second-in-command.
Standing beside him was Lieutenant Rachael Fernandez, a petite yet formidable officer whose presence defied her slight frame. Dark brunette hair, neatly secured in a regulation bun, framed a face of sharp features and keen, calculating eyes — eyes that had seen their fair share of crisis operations. Though young, she had earned her place in dispatch with an unwavering cool under pressure and an almost encyclopedic recall of fleet logistics. Her voice was clear, efficient — she didn’t waste words.
“Mi-17V5, prepped and standing by at INAS Utkrosh with a fully-equipped critical care team. We can have it wheels up in under six minutes. Estimated time to station — twenty-two minutes.”
Singh gave a sharp nod, already keying in clearance protocols. “Weather window?”
Fernandez’s fingers moved swiftly across her console, scanning live meteorological feeds before responding. “Holding steady. No major turbulence over the Andaman Sea. Conditions are green for insertion and extraction.”
She didn’t look up from the data, but there was a quiet confidence in her tone — the kind that only came from knowing exactly what she was doing.
“Alright. Callsign for this bird?”
Rao checked the flight roster. “Saviour One Niner.” Rachael replied.
Singh didn’t hesitate. “Saviour One Niner, Mi-17V5, CASEVAC priority-one. Pilot?”
“Flying Officer Rohan and Wing Co Patel . They together have logged over 1,500 flight hours in low-visibility SAR ops. He’s our best shot.” as Rachael and Singh checked in on the flight rosters .
“Copy that. Getting his bird hot. Medical?”
Rachael adjusting her headset , replied “Maj. Sinha leading the onboard trauma unit ,Sir.”
“I want continuous telemetry on the captain’s vitals from Vajra’s onboard medic. Need real-time data transfer” Squadron Leader Abhay coordinated with his 2IC.
“Acknowledged. I’ll get the encrypted comms channel open.” Singh’s voice remained even, but Rao knew he was already coordinating the moving parts with mechanical efficiency.
“Good. Surface conditions?”
“Moderate swells. Not ideal, but we’ve handled worse. Vajra needs to be at full buoyancy for the winch transfer — confirming surfacing status now.”
Rao took a deep breath. “This is a tight window, Abhay. Hameed doesn’t have much time.”
Singh exhaled sharply. “I know. We move now.” There was no hesitation. No wasted words.
Just action.
Squadron Leader Singh, though usually unflappable, could feel the gravity of the situation settle in. He turned to his team on the line, “Flying Officer Rohan, report to the flight deck for immediate scramble. I’ll need you and Wing Commander Patel to prep the chopper for a Search and Rescue (SAR) operation. We’ve got a critical CASEVAC — don’t waste any time.”
Rohan, who had been standing by on alert, snapped to attention and immediately moved toward the door. The tension in the air was palpable, but it was his job now to get the aircraft in the air and coordinate with the INS Vajra as soon as possible.
As Flying Officer Rohan sprinted toward the chopper, his mind raced. He was ready for anything — he had been on scramble alert before, but never under these circumstances. The INS Vajra was out at sea, and a cardiac arrest onboard a nuclear-powered submarine was not a situation that could be treated lightly.
He pulled on his flight suit and secured his helmet, the familiar weight of the gear comforting him. His hands moved swiftly, double-checking the aircraft systems on the Mi17V5 Helicopter. The hum of the engines was a welcome sound — it meant they were one step closer to getting airborne. He climbed into the cockpit, his mind focused, fingers working quickly over the radio controls and Wing Commander Patel followed him in the right hand seat of the chopper.
Within seconds, alarms sounded at INAS Utkrosh, hangar doors rolling open as Saviour One Niner ,the Mi-17V5 roared to life. Pilots and medics sprinted to position, rotors already slicing through the humid night air.
On the ground, Squadron Leader Abhay Pratap Singh gave his final confirmation.
“Saviour One Niner. Wheels up in five. We’ll get your man home.”
And with that, the mission was underway.
“ Trident Control , this is Saviour One Niner , Flying Officer Rohan. Requesting clearance for immediate takeoff for CASEVAC mission. Priority One. Over.”
The radio crackled in response. “Saviour One Niner, Trident Control, cleared for take-off. You are authorized for immediate SAR operations. Coordinates and further details have been uploaded to your cockpit display. Good luck, and Godspeed. Over.”
Rohan tightened his grip on the controls, feeling the surge of power as the chopper began its ascent into the sky. He glanced briefly at Squadron Leader Singh, who stood at the edge of the flight deck, watching intently as the helicopter lifted off. The urgency of the mission was clear in Singh’s eyes. There would be no room for mistakes — everything depended on getting to the INS Vajra in time.
As Flying Officer Rohan flew towards the coordinates transmitted from Port Blair, the airwaves were filled with communication chatter. The Car Nicobar Operations Control Room, now in a state of heightened alert, was coordinating every aspect of the mission — weather patterns, flight clearance, airspace deconfliction, and coordination with the submarine.
In the Operations Room, Squadron Leader Singh was in constant communication with the aircraft and INS Vajra. The need for precise coordination was paramount — one wrong move, one missed signal, and the window for a successful CASEVAC could close.
Squadron Leader Singh’s voice came over the intercom. “Saviour One Niner , we’ve got you on radar. I’ve got your flight path mapped. Be aware — there’s potential for adverse weather in the approach zone. Stay on course and don’t get distracted by any false radar contacts. Understood?”
“Copy that, Trident Control ,” Wing Commander Patel responded, his voice calm but tense. “I’ve got the coordinates locked in. I’ll maintain flight path and adjust for weather. Over.”
As the MI17V5 helicopter sliced through the sky, the control room received an update from Commander Malhotra. “Squadron Leader, we’ve got a PLAN submarine in the vicinity of INS Vajra. We’ve confirmed a Shang-class under observation, possibly shadowing the Vajra. Stay alert. Your mission is priority, but don’t engage unless absolutely necessary. The Vajra needs to remain undetected.”
Squadron Leader Singh acknowledged the situation with a quick nod. “Understood, Commander. We’ll stay focused on the CASEVAC. The Vajra’s stealth is the priority. Let’s make sure they get that captain out without detection.”
Flying Officer Rohan sat at the controls of the MI17V5 helicopter, his hands steady yet taut with concentration. The copilot seat beside him was occupied by Wing Commander Patel, whose sharp eyes were scanning the horizon, ensuring that the airspace was clear and their flight path was unimpeded. The sky above them was overcast, thick with gray clouds that clung to the sky like a heavy veil. The Indian Ocean stretched endlessly beneath them, the turbulent waters casting ripples that glistened under the muted daylight.
Rohan’s knuckles whitened slightly as his fingers tightened their grip on the cyclic. The familiar hum of the helicopter’s engines reverberated through the fuselage, but it did little to mask the mounting tension in the air. They were on a priority one CASEVAC mission: to extract the critically ill Captain Ashfaq Hameed from the INS Vajra, a submarine stationed miles out in the ocean. Every second that passed felt like a weight pressing on his chest, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, letting his training override the anxiety that crept up his spine.
His training — the countless hours in the simulator, the years spent on actual search and rescue (SAR) operations, and the many lives he had saved — was his anchor. But this mission was different. This wasn’t just another CASEVAC. This was for the captain of the INS Vajra, the one man who commanded respect among the crew, a leader who had led them through every storm, every challenge. The crew would not forgive any mistakes. Rohan couldn’t afford to fail.
“Vajra, this is Saviour One-Niner, requesting confirmation. We are 10 minutes out. Prepare for extraction. Over,” Rohan’s voice came over the radio, sharp and steady.
Moments passed before the voice of Lieutenant Commander Swetlana, the Vajra’s communications officer, crackled back through the radio. “Roger, Saviour One-Niner. Vajra here. We’re holding at the rendezvous point. The captain is stable for now, but we need to get him to a hospital immediately. We’ve prepped the extraction zone. Over.”
Rohan could hear the strain in her voice, though she tried to mask it with the professional tone demanded of her position. It was clear from the urgency in her words that the INS Vajra was in critical need of a quick and efficient extraction. The captain’s condition had been stabilized momentarily, but with each passing minute, the risk of complications increased exponentially. Time was their enemy.
Rohan’s fingers brushed against the autopilot switch on the cyclic, disengaging it. The helicopter’s flight path was already locked in, but now he needed to be in full control of the descent. The vast stretch of ocean below was still. But Rohan knew the unseen depths harbored dangers — submerged obstacles, even the potential presence of enemy forces. His eyes flicked to the radar, checking the proximity of other vessels, particularly the PLAN submarine, which had been shadowing their target earlier. There was no room for error.
“We’ve got this, Sir,” Rohan said, his voice calm but taut with focus.
Wing Commander Patel gave a brief nod. He was an experienced pilot with countless combat missions under his belt. His presence beside Rohan was a steadying force, but even he could feel the tension as the chopper began its descent toward the rendezvous zone.
“Rohan, keep your speed steady. Watch the hoist line; it needs to be precise. We’re going in tight. The Vajra’s extraction zone is marked, but the conditions are unpredictable.” Patel’s voice was the kind of measured calm that comes only with years of experience in high-stakes operations.
The helicopter’s descent was smooth, but the turbulent air currents created a series of minor jolts as they neared the INS Vajra. Rohan adjusted the pitch of the rotors, compensating for the crosswinds that buffeted the aircraft. His eyes remained locked on the instruments in front of him, monitoring the altimeter, radar, and GPS. A quick glance through the cockpit window revealed the dark silhouette of the Vajra breaking the surface of the ocean. The submarine’s hull gleamed with moisture, the powerful vessel awaiting its precious cargo.
“Rohan, you’re clear,” Patel called out, his voice a steady anchor in the swirl of chaos. “Take it slow. Watch your descent.”
With one final, controlled movement, Rohan guided the helicopter lower, the hoist descending slowly and steadily. The Vajra had prepped its extraction zone — an open expanse on the deck aft of the conning tower , clear of all obstacles. As the cable neared the submarine,
As the Mi17V5 descended toward the ocean’s surface, Rohan had a clear view of the INS Vajra — a sleek predator of the deep, just breaking the surface in preparation for the CASEVAC. The dark, imposing silhouette of the submarine loomed beneath the clouds as the helicopter hovered just above, waiting for the signal.
“INS Vajra, this is Saviour One-Niner. I’ve got visual on you. Lowering the hoist now. Stand by for CASEVAC.”
The hoist descended toward the Vajra, and within moments, Lieutenant Meera and a team of medical personnel were ready to load Captain Hameed into the helicopter. The air was thick with the smell of sea salt, oil, and the anxiety of the mission. As the captain was lifted from the Vajra, every second seemed to stretch longer, the weight of the operation bearing down on Rohan’s shoulders.
“Saviour One-Niner, Vajra, we have the captain aboard. Ready to depart. Over,” came Meera’s calm voice through the comms.
“Roger that, Vajra,” Rohan replied, pushing the throttle forward. “Mission successful. We’re en route to Port Blair.”
As the chopper ascended into the sky once again, Rohan breathed a sigh of relief. They had completed the CASEVAC — the captain was on his way to safety. But the larger battle was far from over. The INS Vajra was still navigating treacherous waters, and the PLAN submarine remained a threat in the area.
“ Trident Control , this is Saviour One-Niner. CASEVAC complete. I’m heading back to base. Over.”
“Well done, Saviour One-Niner,” Singh responded. “Return to base. We’ll debrief shortly.”
The MI17V5 chopper , Saviour One-Niner, roared as it climbed higher, its powerful rotor blades cutting through the thick air. Flying Officer Rohan kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, his hands moving instinctively over the controls, every muscle in his body focused on the task ahead. The weight of the CASEVAC mission had not lifted entirely, though the sense of relief was palpable. The INS Vajra had been successfully extracted, and Captain Ashfaq Hameed was now in the safe hands of the medical team aboard the helicopter. The next objective: to get him to the Port Blair military hospital as quickly as possible, where Lt. Commander Shivangi Chauhan would continue the treatment.
The wind howled against the fuselage as the helicopter banked slightly to the right, heading toward Port Blair. It was a long, isolated stretch of the Indian Ocean, and though they were no longer in immediate danger, every movement had to be calculated. Rohan’s eyes flicked to the radar screen, scanning for any potential threats. The shadow of the PLAN submarine, still lurking under the depths, was a thought that could not be easily dismissed.
“Saviour One-Niner, this is Overwatch Range Control , we’ve got you on radar. You are cleared for approach. ETA 40 minutes. Winds are shifting, caution advised. Over.”
Rohan’s voice came through steady, the experience of countless combat sorties giving him an unshakable calm. “Copy that, Overwatch. We’re holding steady for now. Will report upon final approach. Over.”
“Roger that.”
In the right side of the sturdy Russian Built MI17V5, Wing Commander Patel was a picture of calm. Though Rohan had taken over the majority of the flying duties, Patel remained on high alert, his eyes scanning the horizon and the radar. The mission was far from over. As Port Blair drew closer, they knew that they were entering a sensitive airspace — military assets and civilian traffic frequently intersected in the region, and the last thing they needed was to find themselves caught in an unforeseen situation.
“Rohan, check your six. You’re clear for now, but I don’t like how that cloud cover’s looking.” Patel’s voice was cool, his experience evident. His fingers gently adjusted the radio frequencies on the console, ensuring they had the latest weather updates.
“Understood, Wing Commander.” Rohan’s reply was curt, but the underlying respect for Patel’s years of expertise was clear.
The chopper banked gently to the left, repositioning to avoid the shifting winds as they neared the Nicobar Islands. The chopper’s powerful engines droned steadily, cutting through the air, but there was an underlying sense of heightened awareness.
“Saviour One-Niner, this is Overwatch, winds are becoming increasingly erratic at 2,000 feet. Advise you adjust altitude and prepare for a circling approach. Over.”
Rohan’s fingers twitched on the controls as he made the necessary adjustments. “Roger, Overwatch. Adjusting now.”
Wing Commander Patel checked the wind report on the console before looking at Rohan. “Take her up another thousand feet, let’s give ourselves more breathing room.”
Rohan nodded and smoothly adjusted the collective. The helicopter climbed higher, the ocean below a rolling mass of dark blue with streaks of silver. A sudden gust of wind rocked the chopper but Rohan kept the nose steady, his eyes unwavering.
As they cleared the final stretch of ocean, Saviour One-Niner was handed over to Port Blair’s Approach Control. The last leg of the journey was always the most critical — making sure the helicopter’s descent was precise, making sure the winds didn’t get the best of them.
“Port Blair, this is Saviour One-Niner, five minutes out, altitude 4,500 feet, requesting final descent clearance. Over.”
“Saviour One-Niner, this is Port Blair Tower, you are cleared to descend to 1,000 feet. Winds are gusting to 15 knots from the east. Ensure you maintain steady approach vector. Over.”
“Copy that, Port Blair. Steady descent commencing now. Over.”
The helicopter’s engines whined as they began to descend, Rohan’s steady hand guiding the aircraft down through the clouds. The low rumble of the turbines filled the cabin, but Rohan’s focus was unshakable. Patel spoke up again, his voice low.
“We’re nearly there, Rohan. Let’s make sure we stick to the plan. Tight approach, we’re not out of the woods yet.”
Rohan gave a quick glance to the copilot, acknowledging the advice. “Understood. We’re good to go.”
The looming silhouette of Port Blair came into view, the lights of the airstrip starting to flicker beneath the evening mist. The MI17V5 swooped lower, cutting through the thickening clouds, revealing the sprawling expanse of Car Nicobar in the distance. There was still a slight nervous tension that filled the cabin as Rohan flipped the switch to communicate directly with the air traffic control tower.
“Port Blair Tower, Saviour One-Niner. We are 3 miles out, altitude 1,000 feet. Requesting clearance for final approach, over.”
“Saviour One-Niner, Port Blair Tower, you are clear to land at heli-pad six. Standby for ground control to take over. Winds at 12 knots, light rain expected. Over.”
“Roger that, Tower. Landing gear ready. Over.”
With a slow and controlled descent, the chopper lined up with the landing pad. The final approach was executed smoothly, and the rumble of the engines softened as they neared the ground. Rohan’s eyes flicked over the instruments for a final check. His body was tired from the adrenaline of the operation, but his mind remained sharp, vigilant.
As they descended the last few feet, a low thud echoed through the cabin as the MI17V5’s wheels made contact with the helipad.
“Touchdown, Rohan.” Patel said, his voice relaxed now that the mission had been completed successfully.
The helicopter’s engines sputtered to a soft hum, and Rohan exhaled deeply, his hands finally relaxing from the grip on the controls. He looked to Wing Commander Patel, who was already communicating with the ground crew.
As the helicopter’s engines powered down, a wave of exhaustion washed over Rohan. His flight gloves felt damp with sweat, and his uniform was slightly soaked from the humidity. But it was over.
“Good job, Rohan.” Patel clapped him on the shoulder. “You kept it steady.”
Rohan nodded, unable to hide the faint smile on his lips. “Thanks, sir. Just doing my job.”
The medical team quickly mobilized from the ground to assist Captain Ashfaq Hameed. Lt. Commander Shivangi was at the forefront, her face serious but calm as she helped move the captain onto the stretcher and rushed him towards the awaiting ambulance.
Rohan stood there, watching the captain being wheeled off, his thoughts drifting to the immense responsibility that the captain carried — his family, his crew, and the INS Vajra itself. But it was over now. The mission was a success.
“Saviour One-Niner, you are cleared to return to base.” The voice from Port Blair Operations crackled through the radio, but for Rohan, the mission had already ended.
“Copy that, Port Blair. Returning to base now.”
Rohan turned the helicopter back into the night sky, the city lights of Port Blair twinkling below. The adrenaline was wearing off, but the sense of accomplishment remained.
They had completed the mission. And the INS Vajra would sail another day.
The passage of time in Car Nicobar was like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides that tirelessly kissed the shore — constant, inevitable, yet fleeting. When Flying Officer Rohan Parashar had first arrived at this remote island, the days felt long, like a canvas still blank, awaiting the brushstrokes of experience. The sky above the Nicobar Islands was often a rich and endless blue, dotted with soft clouds that seemed to hover in eternal serenity. The calm of the environment mirrored his state of mind in those early days — new, unfamiliar, and somewhat uncertain.
The men and women at the base treated each other like family — resilient and disciplined, but also able to share fleeting moments of camaraderie during breaks. They would gather around the mess hall, their faces glowing with the light of the setting sun, cracking jokes, sharing anecdotes from their various stations. Life on Car Nicobar was secluded but fulfilling. The island had an odd way of making one appreciate the little things — like the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky coastline or the rare, late-night star-gazing sessions where the expanse of the sky seemed to swallow one whole.
As weeks rolled by into months, the sense of time started to blur. The military precision of life in Car Nicobar — where everything had its place, its timing, and its duty — provided an anchor amidst the subtle beauty of the surroundings. And yet, for Rohan, the passage of time in these early years was a bit like staring at a distant ship that would never come into harbour. Days were measured in helicopter sorties, training missions, briefings and de-briefings reports, maintenance schedules, and occasional social calls with comrades. The solitude, while a bit unsettling at first, became a part of him, shaping his thoughts and actions. It was in the quiet moments between missions that Rohan did his best thinking, and in those moments, he began to think more about his future.
The days on the Andaman and Nicobar Islands passed by in a blur for Flying Officer Rohan Parashar. Time seemed to melt into an endless sequence of sorties, operations, and missions — each one blending into the next, but all carrying a unique sense of challenge and purpose. Rohan had grown used to the rhythm of life in this remote posting, where the salty air of the sea and the thick humidity of the jungle were constant companions. The work was demanding, but it was here that he truly found his identity as a pilot, and more importantly, as a part of the greater military apparatus that ensured the safety and security of India’s south-eastern borders.
The skies over the Andaman Islands became his second home, and Rohan’s connection to his helicopter — a sturdy, reliable machine — grew with each flight. He had navigated through thick monsoons, treacherous mountain passes, and the ever-changing temperament of the Bay of Bengal, always with precision and an unwavering focus on the mission at hand. Yet, as fulfilling as this first posting was, there was always a part of him that yearned for something more — a new challenge, a new frontier where he could continue to grow and prove his mettle.
One day, after a particularly gruelling SAR mission during a sudden tropical storm that left him soaked through, Rohan returned to base, his clothes heavy with the saltwater of the storm. The winds were howling outside, and the airstrip seemed eerily quiet as the island prepared for the night. The regular maintenance checks were being carried out on his helicopter, and Rohan found himself, as he often did after a demanding day, sitting in the break room, lost in thought.
The sudden arrival of an orderly with an official envelope in hand broke the silence. Rohan stood up, his attention immediately drawn to the seal on the envelope — the official insignia of the Indian Air Force.
“Flying Officer Parashar,” the orderly said, his voice clear and respectful. “You’ve been summoned by the commanding officer.”
Rohan took the envelope, his heart inexplicably racing, though he had no idea why. Transfer orders were a common part of military life, but there was always an air of uncertainty that accompanied them — especially when the orders came unexpectedly. He thanked the orderly and made his way to the commanding officer’s office, his mind running through various scenarios, wondering what awaited him.
The Commanding Officer’s office at the Car Nicobar Air Force Station was a space that, much like the island itself, seemed modest on the surface but held an understated weight and purpose. Tucked away in one of the older wings of the base, the room had a sense of quiet efficiency that spoke to years of operational importance, layered with the history and responsibility of managing one of the Indian Air Force’s most strategic forward operating bases.
As Rohan entered the office for what would turn out to be a pivotal moment in his career, the dim lighting from a single desk lamp cast long shadows on the walls, giving the space an almost introspective quality. The light flickered ever so slightly, making the brass desk clock on the edge of the table seem to pulse in rhythm with the steady ticking of time. The smell of old wood and polished leather filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of freshly printed paperwork, creating an oddly comforting and distinctly military atmosphere. It was a scent that signified the accumulation of countless missions, each one vital to the defense of the nation’s strategic interests in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands.
The room was small — by design, functional rather than showy. Cream-colored walls were adorned with a few faded maps, pinned with the corners carefully to the edges of their frames, that depicted the surrounding territories, both land and sea. These maps weren’t merely decorative; they were daily guides, marked with flight paths, military zones, and operational areas, all charted with precision to ensure that the base could operate at peak efficiency. At a glance, you could see the immediate proximity to the Indo-Pacific, the Malacca Strait, and the Indian Ocean — critical trade routes that also served as key military chokepoints. To someone who had been stationed here for long enough, these maps were not just references — they were a living, breathing part of daily strategy, etched with operational significance.
At the heart of the room, dominating the space, was the commanding officer’s desk. It was a large, solid wooden piece with a well-worn surface, its dark mahogany finish reflecting the harsh, fluorescent lighting overhead. Papers were stacked with organized chaos — mission reports, satellite imagery, intelligence briefings, and administrative paperwork piled high, as if awaiting attention. Every corner of the desk was meticulously stacked, yet it wasn’t a chaotic mess. There was a purposeful disorder to it, an inherent military efficiency that came with managing a base like Car Nicobar. A few scattered files held together with military-grade elastic bands, and beside them, pens were arranged neatly in a brass holder, their worn nibs evidence of countless hours spent writing reports, orders, and briefing documents.
On the far side of the desk, a small wooden box, which appeared to be handcrafted, held several decorative pins and badges — a subtle reminder of the officer’s rank and experience. A polished brass ashtray lay near the corner of the desk, though it hadn’t seen much use recently, its surface glinting with a soft gleam. There was a faint trace of cigar smoke that lingered in the air, a relic of late-night discussions and strategy sessions.
Behind the desk sat Group Captain Narayan, the man whose presence made the room feel immediately different. The chair he occupied was simple, yet comfortable, with a back that allowed him to sit upright, exuding a quiet authority. His uniform was impeccably neat, adorned with the blue and gold insignia of a senior officer, but it was the calmness in his demeanour that had the most effect on anyone who walked into the room. There was no need for him to raise his voice or overcompensate for his position — his very presence commanded respect.
His face was weathered, yet sharply defined, with a slight touch of graying hair at the temples. His dark eyes, set under heavy brows, appeared to be perpetually studying, evaluating, as if he could read a person’s thoughts just by observing their body language. Despite the sternness that came with his rank, there was a quiet compassion in his gaze, a look that said he understood the demands of the service and the personal sacrifices involved. To his juniors, he was not just a superior officer but someone who led by example, someone they could look up to, even if they rarely saw him break from his composed exterior.
Group Captain Narayan’s voice was deep but measured, always calm, but with an unmistakable authority that cut through the noise of any chaotic day on the base. He never raised his voice unnecessarily. Instead, his words were deliberate and precise, ensuring that those around him felt clear direction without feeling belittled. This was a man who understood the weight of every decision, especially in the high-stakes environment of the Car Nicobar Air Force Station. His role, more than just overseeing the daily operations of the station, was to ensure that the strategic importance of the station’s position — its proximity to critical naval and air routes — was not lost in the flurry of day-to-day operations.
Behind him, a bookshelf ran the length of the wall, filled with well-worn volumes on aviation strategy, military history, and defense tactics. Some of the books were annotated, their spines cracked from frequent reference, while others were pristine, perhaps never even opened. There were also a few photographs in frames, capturing moments from Narayan’s long career. One particularly striking photo was of him shaking hands with senior officers during an important joint military exercise — a subtle yet firm reminder of the camaraderie that ran deep in the military, despite the formalities.
The air in the room was cool, though it carried a faint hum from the air conditioning unit in the corner, a necessary fixture in the tropical heat of the Nicobar Islands. Occasionally, the distant sound of helicopters taking off or landing could be heard through the walls — an ever-present reminder of the station’s central role in both military defense and humanitarian missions.
There were moments, too, when the room would fall silent for brief spells, as Group Captain Narayan would lean back in his chair, glancing thoughtfully out the window toward the sprawling airstrip and the horizon beyond, as though contemplating the next challenge on the mission board or evaluating the potential threats that loomed beyond the island’s shore. Despite his otherwise stoic exterior, his mind was always working — constantly analyzing, strategizing, anticipating.
In these quiet moments, the room seemed to hum with the weight of years of experience and leadership, a palpable reminder of the responsibility that rested on Narayan’s shoulders, and by extension, on every officer who walked through that door.
Group Captain Narayan was a man who exuded a rare blend of discipline, wisdom, and quiet authority, the kind that only comes from years of service in the Indian Air Force, coupled with a deep understanding of the emotional and psychological demands that come with commanding a strategically significant base like the Car Nicobar Air Force Station. His personality was a well-worn balance between the precision demanded by his role and the calm that came from years of honing leadership skills in one of the most challenging environments in the world.
Narayan’s rise through the ranks of the Air Force was the result of a combination of raw talent, relentless dedication, and the ability to remain unflappable even in the face of adversity. He had always been someone who believed in leading by example — showing the men and women under his command that it was not enough to issue orders; one had to demonstrate the capability, endurance, and resilience that the job demanded. From the very beginning of his career, he had proven himself in tough operational theatres, earning the respect of his peers and seniors alike.
He had joined the Air Force Academy at Hyderabad as a young cadet full of ambition, but it didn’t take long before his natural instincts and ability to think on his feet became apparent. His early assignments had seen him posted to some of the most challenging bases in the country, from the icy heights of Ladakh to the vast desert plains of Rajasthan, where he had been tested physically and mentally. Each posting, each mission, only sharpened his skills, pushing him toward excellence.
His technical proficiency with aircraft, particularly the fighter jets that were his first love, earned him early recognition. But what set him apart from his peers was his ability to remain calm under pressure — whether during critical combat operations or search and rescue missions in the midst of adverse weather conditions. His colleagues admired his ability to make decisions that were often life-or-death with a calm decisiveness that never wavered, no matter how high the stakes.
The pivotal turning point in his career came during a joint exercise with the Indian Navy in the Indian Ocean. A critical intelligence gathering mission went awry when unexpected weather conditions rolled in, and Narayan found himself in charge of a multi-service task force. Under immense pressure, his leadership abilities were put to the test. He made a series of calculated decisions that not only ensured the success of the mission but also saved lives. This earned him a promotion to Wing Commander, and a few years later, the rank of Group Captain, with command of the Car Nicobar Air Force Station, a posting that was as crucial as it was demanding.
His command style at Car Nicobar was deeply influenced by his years of experience in such high-pressure environments. His leadership was strategic, rather than just tactical. He understood that the mental and emotional state of his officers was as critical as their operational skills, particularly in the often isolating and demanding environment of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, where conditions could turn hazardous with little notice.
When Group Captain Narayan assumed command of the Car Nicobar Air Force Station, he was not merely a commanding officer overseeing operations; he was a leader tasked with managing the station’s strategic importance in the Indian Ocean and Indo-Pacific regions. The base was notorious for its difficult climate, unpredictable storms, and remote location, but Narayan saw it as an opportunity to build a team that could thrive under pressure. His leadership was a careful mix of empathy and military rigor, understanding that the men and women under his command were not just soldiers — they were human beings who needed to be supported in every sense of the word.
His approach to command could be summed up in one word: calm. In a theatre of operations that often called for quick thinking, it was the deliberate pace of his decision-making that set him apart. Narayan had the ability to weigh every option, even when the pressure to act immediately was immense. His thought process was never clouded by emotion, yet his officers knew that when he spoke, his words carried weight. He never gave orders in anger, nor did he rush decisions. Instead, he would take a moment to assess, understand the full scope of the situation, and then deliver a course of action that was both rational and effective.
His style of command was grounded in mutual respect. He made it a point to personally engage with his subordinates, from the newest recruit to the senior-most officer, understanding that trust and cohesion were the bedrock of any successful operation. His office was always open, and he took time to listen to the concerns of his officers, offering advice or simply lending a patient ear. He encouraged open communication, understanding that in a place as isolated as Car Nicobar, effective communication could mean the difference between success and failure.
He was also keenly aware of the importance of motivation in such a challenging environment. As the commanding officer, he understood that morale was often the first casualty of isolation. To combat this, he regularly organized informal gatherings, whether it was a weekly tea session in his office or a brief casual meeting in the base’s common area, where he’d speak with his officers and men about everything from operational matters to personal experiences. It wasn’t about breaking from military protocol; it was about building relationships in a setting where soldiers could feel like more than just their rank.
Despite his often demanding and all-encompassing role, Narayan’s family life was equally central to his identity. He had married Suman, a fellow officer he had met during a joint training exercise years earlier. Their shared commitment to the Air Force had formed a bond that allowed them to navigate the complexities of military life together. Suman, though a strong and capable officer in her own right, had chosen to step back from active duty to raise their two children, a son and a daughter, both of whom had grown up with a deep respect for their father’s work.
The Narayan family lived in a modest bungalow on the base, which Suman had turned into a home filled with warmth and laughter. The kids were used to moving from one base to another, and they learned early the importance of adapting to new environments. Narayan was a father who took the time to engage with his children, despite his busy schedule. While his command was demanding, he always made sure to be present during family dinners, to attend school events, and to be there when his children needed him, offering them the same steady presence that defined his professional persona.
In fact, his children often joked that it was easier to get his attention in the mess hall than it was to get him to slow down in his office. He believed in balancing the needs of his job with the warmth of family life, understanding that both spheres were equally demanding in their own ways. His wife, Suman, had a quiet strength about her, a deep understanding of the military’s requirements, and a loyalty that matched Narayan’s commitment to the Air Force.
Though Group Captain Narayan was a man of few words, his actions spoke volumes. He was the epitome of leadership in a theatre that demanded not only physical strength but emotional fortitude. His ability to remain calm and collected in the face of adversity was not just a personal trait — it was a tool of leadership that shaped the success of the base. Under his watch, Car Nicobar Air Force Station became a model of operational efficiency and team cohesion, where soldiers knew that their commanding officer not only trusted them but also believed in their abilities to overcome any challenge.
His leadership was a constant, an anchor for the men and women who served under him, a presence that steadied them in the most turbulent of times. In a career that spanned decades, his journey from a young officer to the commanding officer of one of the Air Force’s most critical bases was a testament to his resilience, his ability to lead by example, and his unshakable dedication to the Air Force, his country, and his family.
As Rohan stepped into that office for his own pivotal meeting, he couldn’t help but be awed by the weight of the space. The room, with all its subtle military efficiency and understated authority, seemed to absorb the stresses and strains of the island’s many operations. It was more than just a place where orders were given — it was where strategy was conceived, decisions were made, and the future of the base was shaped.
When Rohan looked into the eyes of Group Captain Narayan, he knew he wasn’t just facing a superior officer; he was facing a man who had seen it all — both the triumphs and the inevitable sacrifices of military life. Yet, in his calm, composed manner, Narayan made every officer who entered that room feel as if they were part of something larger than themselves. The Car Nicobar Air Force Station was a place of great responsibility and purpose, and under Group Captain Narayan’s command, it thrived — always ready, always alert, and always prepared for the challenges that lay ahead.
Rohan stood at attention as he entered, but the moment their eyes met, Group Captain Narayan gestured for him to sit. “Flying Officer Parashar,” he began, his voice calm and measured, “you’ve done outstanding work here at the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Your dedication, skill, and ability to perform under pressure have not gone unnoticed.”
Rohan sat down, sensing that something significant was about to happen.
“I’ve just received your transfer orders,” the Group Captain continued, handing Rohan the envelope. “It’s time for a new chapter in your career. Open it, and you’ll see what comes next.”
With his heart beating a little faster now, Rohan carefully tore open the envelope, unfolding the letter inside. His eyes quickly scanned the contents:
Flying Officer Rohan Parashar, Congratulations on your promotion to Flight Lieutenant (Flt Lt). We are pleased to inform you of your posting to Ziro ALG (Advanced Landing Ground), a vital forward operating base in the eastern frontier. Your experience and leadership abilities make you an ideal candidate for this challenging posting.
The words hung in the air for a moment, the weight of them settling heavily in Rohan’s chest. Ziro ALG — Ziro, a remote location nestled among the mist-covered mountains of Arunachal Pradesh, was a completely different world from the tropical islands of the Andaman Sea. It was a frontier post, situated at the very edge of India’s border with China, surrounded by steep, unforgiving terrain, and known for its extreme weather conditions.
The promotion to Flight Lieutenant felt surreal, especially considering how quickly his career had progressed since his commissioning. It was a recognition of the hard work he had put in, but it also came with new expectations, new responsibilities. The helicopter stream was a challenging and demanding field, and moving up meant taking on more leadership duties — perhaps coordinating larger missions, overseeing junior pilots, and making decisions that could affect the outcome of operations on the ground.
“Ziro ALG,” Rohan whispered to himself, his mind racing at the thought of the change. He had heard whispers about the challenging conditions at Ziro — high altitudes, treacherous weather, and a terrain that made every flight a calculated risk. But he also knew that this was the kind of challenge he had been yearning for. It was the next step in his career — an opportunity to grow, to prove himself once more.
Group Captain Narayan, noticing Rohan’s pensive expression, leaned forward slightly. “Ziro is a vital post in the northeastern frontier. It’s a place where the weather is unforgiving, the terrain is unforgiving, and every mission matters. Your skills will be tested like never before, Flight Lieutenant Parashar. But we have full confidence in your ability to rise to the occasion.”
Rohan nodded, the magnitude of the words settling in. He could feel the responsibility of the post pressing on his shoulders. But beneath that, a surge of pride welled up within him. He had earned this.
“Thank you, Sir,” Rohan replied, standing up and saluting his commanding officer. “I won’t let you down.”
“Good luck, Flight Lieutenant Parashar. We’ll be watching with pride. Your transfer orders are effective immediately. You’ll depart in seven days.”
With that, Rohan left the office, the envelope still in his hand, and a new chapter of his military career unfolding before him. The air around him seemed different — more charged, as if the entire atmosphere of the base had shifted along with his promotion and transfer.
The next few days were a whirlwind. Rohan spent his time saying goodbyes, completing the necessary paperwork, and mentally preparing for the difficult transition ahead. He spent hours reviewing maps of the Ziro ALG, familiarizing himself with the rugged landscape, the runway specifications, and the coordination protocols he would need to follow when he arrived.
It wasn’t just about flying anymore — it was about leading a team, managing operations in a high-stress environment, and ensuring the safety of everyone under his command. He felt a sense of excitement and nervousness all at once. Ziro would test him in ways the Andaman Islands hadn’t, but he was ready.
On the evening before his departure, Rohan stood by the airstrip, watching the sun set behind the green hills of the island. The helicopter that had been his trusted companion for so long was ready for the next leg of its journey, and so was he. The Andaman and Nicobar Islands, with all their storms, skies, and operations, would always remain a part of him. But now, as a newly promoted Flying Lieutenant, Rohan knew that his future lay beyond the islands, in the high, cold reaches of Ziro — a place where his mettle would be tested, and where the true depth of his leadership would be forged.
The Car Nicobar Air Force Station Officers’ Mess was alive with energy on the evening before Flying Officer Rohan’s departure. The rhythmic hum of military chatter, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses and hearty laughter, filled the room. This wasn’t just any party — it was a send-off for Rohan, who had spent the past three years at the strategic outpost of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, a place where storms, missions, and high-risk sorties had shaped his military character. The newly promoted Flying Lieutenant had earned his stripes with blood, sweat, and a fair share of heartache.
Rohan stood at the far side of the mess hall, leaning against the polished wooden bar, his blue №1s sharp and crisp, but his eyes held a faraway look as he absentmindedly swirled his glass of whiskey. The sunset outside was a stunning spectacle — orange and gold hues streaked the sky over the distant green hills, the last rays of the day casting long shadows across the airstrip where his beloved helicopter stood, ready for its next journey. The rotor blades of the MI17V5 and the HAL Dhruv seemed to reflect the sky’s intensity, a silent testament to the many hours they had spent together in the stormy skies of Car Nicobar.
As the music played softly in the background, and the clinking of glasses grew louder, Flying Officer Vivek strode into the room. His posture was that of a fellow officer, yet his demeanor betrayed the closeness he shared with Rohan. They had trained together at the Air Force Academy, their bond cemented through their shared passion for aviation, as well as the countless hours spent discussing mission tactics, aircraft performance, and life as an officer.
“Rohan, you old dog,” Vivek called out with a grin, walking over to his friend and giving him a playful slap on the back. “Can’t believe you’re actually leaving. Feels like yesterday we were both cadets at Dundigal, trying to figure out which end of the aircraft goes where!”
Rohan chuckled, his eyes narrowing slightly as he smiled at the memory. “I think you were more concerned about the food than the aircraft, Vivek,” he teased. “You always had a knack for getting to the mess before anyone else!”
Vivek laughed heartily, adjusting the wings on his chest. “That was part of the strategy, my friend. You can’t fly on an empty stomach. But enough about that.” He gestured toward the mess hall, where several officers were gathered. “We’re all here tonight to send you off properly. No more low-altitude, storm-evading sorties for you. Ziro awaits, and with it, new challenges.”
Rohan took a deep breath and nodded, his expression becoming serious for a moment. “You know, I’m gonna miss this place,” he said, glancing around the room. “The islands, the storms, the missions… even the chaos that comes with it all. It’s been a hell of a ride.”
Vivek placed a hand on Rohan’s shoulder. “I know you’ll miss it. But you’re going to Ziro — high altitudes, frosty mornings, and a whole new set of challenges. I’m sure you’ll handle it just fine, Flt. Lieutenant,” he added with a nod of respect. “I’ve seen you take charge of some of the toughest operations here. Remember that night we had to evac the crew from that broken-down ship off the coast? You took that chopper through some of the worst crosswinds I’ve ever seen, and you kept your cool.”
Rohan smirked, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast. “Had to, didn’t I? They were all depending on me. But enough about me, Vivek. You’ve got your own set of challenges coming. We both know the Indian Ocean doesn’t give you any breaks, and neither does the airspace here.”
“True, true,” Vivek said, winking. “But the big thing is that we both know the aircraft like the back of our hands. We’re airmen, Rohan. No matter where they send us, whether it’s the mountainous terrains of Ziro or the wide-open Indian Ocean, we’re ready. It’s what we do.”
The conversation naturally turned to more serious matters as the evening wore on, the crowd around them ebbing and flowing in waves of chatter. In between the stories of high-speed interceptions and air-to-air combat drills, a sense of appreciation and mutual respect prevailed.
Rohan took another sip of his whiskey, feeling the burn slide down his throat. The stories his friends shared weren’t just about the operations and the missions. They were about brotherhood, about what it meant to be part of something much larger than oneself.
Flying Officer Kumar, an engineer at the base, leaned in to join the conversation. “Rohan, you’ve given this place everything,” he said, eyes serious, his voice tinged with emotion. “We’re all going to miss you, man. You’ve led by example. You didn’t just fly — you kept us grounded. You made us feel like a team, no matter how far out the mission took us. We’ve learned a lot from you.”
Rohan glanced at the man, meeting his gaze, his heart swelling with pride. “Thanks, Kumar. But I’m just one part of the team. Every one of you made this work. Every one of you gave a part of yourselves to this place.”
A respectful silence followed, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Then, a voice broke the quiet.
“Alright, enough of this sentimental stuff. The airmen at the base are due for a drink or two!” Flying Officer Vivek shouted with his typical enthusiasm, rallying the officers with a mischievous grin. “We’re going to send Rohan off the right way. Who’s up for a round of choppers?”
The name of the drink, a concoction of whiskey, rum, and a touch of lime, was fitting for the occasion — strong, bold, and with a kick that left an impact.
The group cheered as the bartender quickly set to work, and the chatter resumed in full swing. Rohan, as the guest of honour, was handed the first glass. He raised it high.
“To all the brothers and sisters I’ve flown with,” he said, his voice steady and filled with gratitude. “To the skies we’ve conquered, the storms we’ve survived, and the missions we’ve achieved together. To Car Nicobar, and to all of you who made this place unforgettable.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, before the clinking of glasses rang out in unison. “To Rohan!” they all cheered, their voices unified in a celebration of his accomplishments, his leadership, and his legacy at the station.
Vivek, with a smile, leaned in once more. “You’ve earned every bit of it, Flt. Lieutenant,” he said. “And remember, Ziro’s just another adventure waiting to be conquered. We’ll see you at the top.”
Rohan grinned, a sense of fulfillment in his chest as he soaked in the scene around him — friends, colleagues, and brothers who had shared in the highs and lows of this island outpost. And now, as he prepared to leave the Andaman and Nicobar Islands behind for the rugged terrain of Ziro, he knew that his journey had only just begun. The skies were vast, and the future held challenges that would shape him into the leader he was destined to be.
And as the sunset gave way to a moonlit sky, he took a final, lingering look out the mess hall’s windows, knowing that part of him would always remain with Car Nicobar and the squadron that had shaped him into the man he was today. The future, as always, beckoned, and it was time to take to the skies once more.
The moonlight had begun to cast a silvery sheen over the base, painting the Car Nicobar landscape in soft shadows as the night crept in. The chatter in the Officers’ Mess had reached a mellow hum, with conversations ebbing and flowing around Rohan. His friends and colleagues were busy recounting their favourite memories of their time together, the farewell toasts flowing freely. But Rohan, despite the laughter and camaraderie, felt an undeniable pull in his chest — an urge to connect, one final time, with someone who had shaped him, guided him, and believed in him long before this journey even began.
He excused himself from the growing group, his movements slow and purposeful, as he made his way toward the far side of the room. At the back of the mess hall, near the telephone booth, a military-grade telephone sat in the corner, its worn receiver waiting for one last call. His hand brushed over the wooden counter as he approached, the familiar weight of the receiver grounding him as the nostalgia of his time in Car Nicobar seemed to wrap around him like a heavy cloak.
The evening had been a whirlwind — whiskey toasts, heartfelt speeches, and laughter — but now, with the moonlight spilling into the room, it was time for something more personal. He dialed the familiar number, each digit almost like a memory, etched into his mind over the years. As the phone rang, Rohan’s gaze wandered over the room, his eyes catching the soft glow of the lights reflecting off the polished wood floors. The Air Force insignia on the walls seemed to take on new meaning as the finality of his departure settled in.
A soft click came through the receiver, followed by a deep voice that Rohan knew all too well.
“Hello, Rohan?” The voice was unmistakable — calm, steady, and filled with that same authority that Rohan had always respected. It was the voice of Wing Commander Dhwani Dhumal, retired now, but still as sharp and strong as ever.
“Aunty Dhwani,” Rohan said with a warmth in his voice, a slight crack of emotion betraying him despite his best efforts to remain composed. “It’s me, Rohan.”
There was a brief pause on the other end before she responded, her voice tinged with the familiar affection that had always made him feel safe, even when the skies were at their roughest.
“Rohan, my boy!” Dhwani’s voice broke through the static, full of the same maternal warmth that had guided him through some of his most difficult moments. “How are you? I can hear it in your voice… you’re about to do something big, aren’t you?”
Rohan couldn’t help but smile at her perceptiveness. Even though she was miles away, Dhwani Dhumal had always had a way of understanding him without needing many words. “Yes, Aunty,” he said softly. “It’s time for me to move on. Ziro is calling, and I’ve been promoted to Flying Lieutenant. The skies are about to change.”
She chuckled, a sound full of both pride and concern. “Flying Lieutenant! My, how time flies. It feels like just yesterday you were a little cadet with big dreams. And now, here you are, heading to the mountains to lead from the front. You’ve always had the heart of a warrior, Rohan. And Ziro… that’s a place where the winds will test you, both literally and figuratively.”
Rohan nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. The challenges ahead were no doubt going to be monumental. Ziro, perched in the highlands, would be nothing like the tropical warmth of Car Nicobar. The cold, rugged terrain would demand every ounce of his skill and leadership. Yet, there was a quiet confidence in his chest as he spoke.
“It’s a new challenge. But I’m ready. It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll get there, just like I got through here,” Rohan said, his voice steady.
“I know you will.” There was a deep sincerity in Dhwani’s voice, the kind that made Rohan feel like she could see right through him. “You’ve always been someone who adapts. No storm, no obstacle, no challenge can shake you. You’ve learned to be a leader, not just in the air, but on the ground as well. That’s what sets you apart, Rohan.”
He let her words settle in, feeling them anchor him. Ziro, the mountainous outpost, would be a proving ground for him as a leader. He had already proved himself in the skies over Car Nicobar, leading air operations and facing fierce storms, but Ziro would be the true test of his mettle.
The conversation shifted, as it always did, to family — her voice softened, and Rohan knew the words were coming from a place of deep care.
“Rohan, your father would be proud. You’ve always had his heart, that determination, that discipline. He knew this day would come, even when he was just starting out. You were born to wear those wings. And I know you’ve got something special, something that not many possess. Lead with honor, as always. Your duty doesn’t end in the air — it starts there.”
Rohan’s heart tightened at the mention of his father. The weight of his father’s legacy always felt like an invisible force pushing him forward. He hadn’t realized how much of his father’s essence he carried with him until moments like this. But hearing it from Dhwani — his father’s confidant, his godmother — felt like a reminder of the legacy he was stepping into.
“I’ll carry it all with me, Aunty,” Rohan replied softly. “I promise.”
She paused for a moment before speaking again, her voice now taking on a more playful, yet still wise tone. “You’ll do well, Rohan. Just remember one thing — never forget to breathe. In all the chaos, in all the missions, the paperwork, the leadership… don’t forget to take a moment for yourself. You’ve always been the one to take care of everyone else. Now, it’s time to take care of you.”
Rohan chuckled softly, the sound of her voice a balm to his often-wearied soul. “Thanks, Aunty. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve learned from the best.”
Rohan paused for a moment, a familiar warmth rising within him as he mentioned Zehn’s name. He had always treated her like a little sister, despite the slight age difference between them. His protective instincts for her had always been strong, especially given their shared memories growing up. He remembered the days when she had looked up to him like he was her personal hero, and even now, though miles apart, he felt that same need to look out for her.
“Aunty, is Zehn around?” Rohan asked, his tone soft yet filled with the same care he’d always had for her.
Dhwani’s voice held a knowing chuckle at the mention of her daughter. “Zehn? Oh, she’s probably somewhere around here, being all scholarly and busy. You know how she is — always lost in her books or video editing something for college. But I’ll call her. Hold on.”
A few seconds passed before Dhwani came back on the line. “She’s here, Rohan. Let me put her on for you.”
Moments later, Rohan’s heart fluttered slightly as he heard a familiar voice on the other end. “Rohan? Oh my God, it’s been forever!”
“Zehn,” Rohan smiled, leaning back against the wall of the officers’ mess, staring out the window, where the moonlight illuminated the path ahead of him. “How are you? How’s Pune? Have you been getting into trouble without me?”
Zehn laughed, a sound that reminded him of their childhood days spent together — messy, carefree, with just the two of them against the world. “Oh, you know me, always in some trouble. Actually, I’m just buried under projects right now. It’s not easy balancing deadlines and lectures, but I’m managing. Mom says hi, by the way. She told me about your promotion, Rohan. Flying Lieutenant… wow! That’s huge!”
Rohan chuckled, shaking his head lightly. “Yeah, it’s a big step. But I guess it’s time, right? I’ll be off to Ziro soon. The mountains are calling. It’s not going to be the same as here, you know.”
Zehn was quiet for a moment, as though trying to process the weight of his words. “Ziro… that’s going to be tough, I imagine. But you’re Rohan, you’ve always managed. Just don’t forget to come back and visit once in a while. We miss you here.”
His heart warmed at her words. Even though they were miles apart, he could feel the bond between them as strong as ever. “I’ll always find my way back to you, Zehn. You’re like a little sister to me, you know that?”
Zehn’s voice softened. “I know. And you’ve always protected me, even when we were kids. I’m glad you’re doing well, Rohan. I think about all the crazy stuff we did when we were younger. Remember that time you talked me into sneaking out of the house to watch the sunrise from the roof?”
Rohan laughed at the memory. “How could I forget? We nearly got caught by your mom! She still hasn’t let me live that down.”
“No, she hasn’t. But she also knows you’ll always have my back. Even now, I know you’re out there, looking after me, even from miles away.”
He felt a surge of pride at the thought. Despite the years that had passed, the role he had always played in Zehn’s life hadn’t changed. He was still her protector, even if she was now carving her own path in Pune. “You know I’ll always have your back, Zehn. That’s not going to change.”
Zehn let out a light laugh, a bit more relaxed now. “Thanks, Rohan. Just remember to stay safe out there in Ziro. And when you get the chance, let’s catch up properly, okay? No more of this long-distance nonsense.”
Rohan smiled as he replied, “You got it, Zehn. And once I get a break, I’ll come see you in Pune.”
As the conversation continued, Rohan felt his connection with Zehn anchor him, a reminder that no matter how far he traveled or how much the world changed, some things — like family — remained constant. The mountains of Ziro awaited him, but part of him would always stay with Zehn and the memories they shared, just as they had for so many years.
As the call came to an end, Rohan took a final glance out the window of the officers’ mess, the moonlit sky now filled with stars. The quiet hum of conversation in the background slowly faded away as he absorbed the moment — the ending of one chapter and the beginning of the next. He had a future to embrace, but Car Nicobar, Zehn, and the countless others who had been part of his journey would always be with him.
Rohan stood by the telephone, his fingers still lightly gripping the receiver, a sense of peace washing over him. There were new challenges ahead, and Ziro awaited him, but tonight, the quiet moonlight outside felt like a reflection of his own thoughts — soft, calm, but full of potential. As he took one last glance out the mess hall window, he knew that part of him would always remain with Car Nicobar — a place that had forged him, tested him, and brought him to the man he was today.
The future awaited, yes, but he would carry the lessons, the camaraderie, and the spirit of Car Nicobar with him always as he soared into the unknown skies of Ziro.
