Rudra was in the middle of his morning exercise, the rhythmic thud of his feet on the ground and the cool morning air clearing his mind. But his routine was abruptly interrupted by a sound that sent a chill down his spine—the piercing wail of the base siren. That siren only meant one thing: enemy jets were closing in on Indian airspace.
Adrenaline surged through Rudra as he bolted towards the hangar, where the sleek Tejas Mark 1 fighters were prepped and ready for takeoff. But there weren't as many jets on the tarmac as there should have been. The rising tensions with China had stretched India's air force thin. Many of their best jets, including the advanced Su-30s and Rafales, had been repositioned to the northern frontiers, where China had deployed its 5th-generation fighters on forward posts. This left Bhuj vulnerable, with only a skeleton crew of fighters remaining.
In the control room, the AWACS crew was monitoring the situation closely.
"AWACS to HQ, we have multiple bogeys on radar, heading towards Ahmedabad. Twenty-two enemy jets confirmed," one of the operators reported.
"Roger that, AWACS. Scramble the Tejas and Su-30s. Get them in the air immediately," HQ ordered.
Moments later, the Tejas Mark 1s and Su-30s roared off the runway, speeding towards their intercept coordinates. But as they closed in, AWACS detected a change.
"HQ, this is AWACS. The enemy jets are altering course. They're moving away from Ahmedabad but staying close to Indian airspace," the AWACS operator's voice crackled with suspicion.
HQ quickly reassessed the situation.
"AWACS, confirm enemy heading," the commander at HQ demanded.
"Confirmed, HQ. The Chinese-made JF-17 jets are lingering near the border. Radar has also detected another formation—14 F-16s—heading straight for Bhuj. It's the main attack force," AWACS responded.
HQ acted swiftly.
"The Tejas and Su-30s will continue towards Ahmedabad. Scramble reinforcements from Jamnagar to defend Bhuj. Also, order the MiGs at Bhuj to take off immediately and intercept the F-16s until reinforcements arrive," the commander ordered.
Rudra's heart pounded as the order came through. The MiG-21 Bison was far from cutting-edge, but it was all they had left to hold the line until the reinforcements arrived from Jamnagar. As Rudra climbed into the cockpit, the weight of responsibility pressed down on him, but his resolve was steely.
As Rudra's MiG took off, his squadron formed up quickly, streaking towards the enemy formation. Eight MiGs against fourteen enemy F-16s—a daunting task.
On the other side, Captain Jorawar of the Pakistani Air Force was scanning his radar.
"Shaheen to base, fourteen Indian jets detected," he reported initially, focusing on the numbers. But as his squadron closed the distance, Jorawar's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the jets. His radar hadn't shown the details, but now, up close, the reality became clear.
"Shaheen to base, correction—those are MiG-21s. Old, outdated models. This should be easy," Jorawar informed his headquarters, confidence rising.
The Pakistani base responded swiftly.
"Shaheen, proceed with caution. Remember, antiques can bite if handled wrong. Eliminate them quickly and focus on the target. Once Bhuj falls, air superiority will be ours."
Back in the AWACS control room, tension was palpable as the Indian crew monitored the situation.
"HQ, the MiGs are engaging the F-16s. Outnumbered, but holding their ground," an AWACS operator reported.
HQ responded firmly.
"Keep them engaged as long as possible. Reinforcements from Jamnagar are on route. We just need to buy time."
Rudra was the first to engage, locking onto an F-16. His MiG might have been old, but in his hands, it was deadly. His first missile found its mark, taking down one of the Pakistani jets. He quickly locked onto a second F-16, but this time, the enemy pilot deployed flares, deflecting the missile. As Rudra maneuvered for another strike, Captain Jorawar's F-16 swooped in. Rudra managed to avoid the missile fired by Jorawar with a rapid maneuver, but the intense move took a toll on his aging MiG—his engine caught fire, and alarms began blaring in the cockpit. He ejected just in time, but disaster struck—his parachute caught fire, leaving him falling fast towards the earth.
As Rudra fell, the cold wind whipping against his face, his life flashed before his eyes—not just the battles and the glory, but the regrets that weighed heavy on his heart. In those final moments, a thought gripped him: if somehow, by some miracle, I survive this... if I get another chance... I will live my life to the fullest. It wasn't just about duty anymore; it was about making amends, about healing the wounds that time and circumstance had torn open.
His mind turned to his foster family—the people who had taken him in after he lost his parents at the age of four. Commander Karanveer Batra, his father's friend, had raised him like his own son, alongside his own children. Yet, despite all the love they had given him, a distance had grown between them. The estrangement had left a scar on his mind, one that made him realize the difference between true blood and a foster family.
The girl he had once loved, with all the intensity of a young heart, had ended up marrying his foster brother. She had become his sister-in-law, and Rudra had never dated anyone after that. The pain of that unrequited love had strained his relationship with his brother, and by extension, with his foster father and sister. He could still see his foster father's disappointed, pained face and his sister's helpless, sad eyes.
If I survive... I'll make things right, he vowed. I'll repair those bonds, and I'll create a family of my own—a family that I can truly call my own. As these thoughts filled his mind, a strange calm settled over him, and slowly, the world around him faded away.
In the distance, the reinforcements from Jamnagar arrived, forcing Jorawar and his squadron to retreat. But for Rudra, the battle was over. What went unnoticed, however, was that Rudra's body had fallen onto the ancient steps of a Shiva temple, believed to be self-manifested. The temple stood silent and untouched, yet from within its depths, a thick, unnatural fog began to seep out, swirling with purpose as it crept closer to his still form—its intent unknown, its origin a mystery.
Squadron Leader Rudra Pratap was born in 1992. At 32 years old, he had never married, dedicating his life to duty. And this seemed to be the end of his story... or perhaps, the beginning of something new.