Chankya's Chant (57 page)

‘Why the delay in shooting the tyres? Send in the fuel tanker. It will buy us some time!’ said Ikram on the phone from New Delhi to the NSG. ‘Sir, if we place the fuel tank in the vicinity of the aircraft, we’ll not be in a position to take out the tyres. The slightest spark could ignite the aircraft and the fuel tank into one giant fireball,’ argued the NSG commander. ‘Then find out how much fuel the damn aeroplane actually has,’ barked Ikram. ‘Enough to get him to Muzaffarabad,’ came the reply. The NSG had tallied the fuel log filed in Mumbai with the theoretical consumption from Mumbai to Bhopal.

‘Tell the pilot to take off and jettison fuel midair discreetly—convey it in your pilot gobbledegook!’ said Ikram. ‘Give him clearance to fly to New Delhi. We’ll be lucky if he lands here—we’re in a better position to handle things in the Capital,’ said Ikram.

‘Bhopal ground, IC-617, request radio check,’ squawked the co-pilot.

‘IC-617, read you five by five,’ replied ground control.

‘IC-617, gate six, request IFR clearance to Muzaffarabad as filed.’

‘IC-617, cleared IFR Delhi not Muzaffarabad as filed, Lambourne four Mike departure runway twenty-six left, initial five thousand feet, squawk four-four-five-five.’

‘IC-617, request push and start.’

‘IC-617 push and start approved, call for taxi.’

The aircraft taxied and prepared for take-off. The copilot was aware that his life depended on the hijacker’s finger on the trigger. ‘Why did you file a flight plan for New Delhi?’ screamed the hijacker to the co-pilot. ‘I asked for Muzaffarabad, but they approved New Delhi instead. They know that there isn’t enough fuel to reach Muzaffarabad,’ replied the co-pilot, sweating profusely. ‘I don’t care. We’re going to Muzaffarabad,’ shouted the hijacker.

‘Muzzaffarabad airport is a disused facility—it’s unlikely to have any night landing,’ explained the copilot as he manoeuvred the aircraft into takeoff and discreetly jettisoned a thousand gallons of jet fuel as soon as he crossed an altitude of five thousand feet. The special valves, located on the airplane’s wings, released fuel into the air, which evaporated into the providentially hot and dry Bhopal atmosphere.

‘We’re not going to land in New Delhi,’ growled the hijacker as he pressed the butt of his pistol into the copilot’s neck. ‘If you have enough fuel for Delhi, you also have enough fuel for Karachi—that’s closer than Delhi!’

‘Tell Pakistan to deny the landing request!’ said Ikram to Chandini. Both were inside the control room along with the home secretary. Chandini nodded and picked up the hotline to her counterpart in Islamabad.

‘Mr Foreign Minister, if you allow IC-617 to land in Karachi we shall use it as an opportunity to tell the world that the Pakistan government actively planned, financed and encouraged this act of terrorism. Thousands of television stations around the world will beam images of the aircraft standing at Karachi airport,’ said Chandini over the phone. ‘You decide whether Pakistan needs that sort of publicity!’

‘Even if we deny permission, it’s possible that they may still land,’ pleaded the Pakistani minister.

‘But you can shut down your Air Traffic Control and landing lights! If you black out communication and navigation, IC-617 will necessarily divert from Karachi,’ Chandini said, and slammed down the phone.

‘They’ve shut down all communication,’ said the co-pilot to the hijacker. ‘I can just about make it into New Delhi from Karachi with the fuel that we now have. What do you want me to do?’

‘I can see a fucking stretch of runway down below— land!’ screamed the hijacker. The dazed co-pilot, now entirely dependent on his own naked vision, began the descent towards what seemed like a runway. As the plane descended, he realised that what had looked like a runway was just a well-illuminated stretch of road. He was able to climb just in time to avoid what would have otherwise been a massive accident. ‘Fine, let’s go to fucking New Delhi!’ grumbled the assailant, realising the hopelessness of the situation.

As they headed towards Delhi, the pilot of a British Airways plane flying the same route informed them that New Delhi airport had been closed to traffic. Approaching the city, they saw the runway choked with trucks and fire engines. As they made a low pass over the chaos, the co-pilot radioed New Delhi flight control and informed them they were running out of fuel. ‘Give them permission to land. By now they should have run out of reserve fuel,’ said Ikram.

The co-pilot was miraculously allotted an automatic landing frequency. Within a minute he observed fire trucks, army jeeps and ambulances being cleared. Landing in New Delhi at ten pm, the aircraft was instantly surrounded by armed troops of the NSG.

‘Get me those motherfuckers in the tower!’ yelled the hijacker. He made the co-pilot radio the control tower stating that unless the NSG was withdrawn he would start shooting hostages. A standoff ensued with the threatening figure setting a ten-minute deadline and holding his gun to the trembling co-pilot’s head.

‘Get the NSG out of there,’ Ikram commanded the home secretary. ‘We can’t have innocent blood on our hands.’ He then explained what he wanted done. ‘Delay the refuelling—buy time!’ instructed Ikram as he discussed the alternatives with the home secretary and the NSG chief.

Fed up of Ikram’s delaying tactics, the hijacker once again threatened to start shooting passengers and crew if the aircraft was not refuelled immediately. Thirty minutes later, he forced the senior pilot to kneel on the floor near the open door of the aircraft in plain view of hundreds of television cameras and shot him in the head, execution-style, allowing his lifeless body to fall to the tarmac below the aircraft. ‘That should teach you motherfuckers not to mess with us!’ he shouted into the radio.

Looking at the face of the hijacker on the television screen, Ikram knew that his moment of glory had arrived. ‘Tell him the home minister would like to speak to him directly,’ Ikram ordered the control tower operator.

A few crackles later, the hijacker picked up the radio.

‘I’d like to come aboard,’ Ikram told him. ‘You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If we strike a deal, you win. If we don’t, you still have a high-profile hostage—the home minister of India.’

‘You can come, but no one should accompany you. No airs of arrogant ministers!’ replied the hijacker.

‘The Prophet has said that as the fingers of two hands are equal, so are human beings equal to one another. Wait for me at the aircraft entrance—you can pat me down. I come in peace—we are Muslim brothers!’ said Ikram.

As the hijacker gave his assent, Ikram started walking alone towards the aircraft. He was wearing a earpiece that allowed him to stay in touch with the NSG commander and the control room. The NSG sharpshooters kept the aircraft door within their telescopic vision to prevent the terrorist or his accomplices from taking a shot at the home minister.

The NSG commandos approached the aircraft from the rear—a blind spot. Five teams stealthily clambered up black aluminium ladders to access the aeroplane through the escape hatches under the fuselage. The control tower kept the hijacker’s attention diverted by discussing in agonising detail the protocol by which Ikram would board the aircraft. Ten minutes later, as Ikram reached the steps leading up to the aircraft, the hijacker stood near the door waiting to pat him down.

In the meantime, NSG commandos blasted open the emergency doors and stormed the aircraft yelling for the passengers and crew to hit the floor. The three accomplices were instantly shot. The fourth—their leader —was awaiting Ikram at the entrance of the aircraft. To his surprise, he saw the home minister pull out a sniper handgun from his pocket and take aim at him from the tarmac.

The emergency chutes had already been activated and the passengers and crew were evacuated immediately for fear of the aircraft having been boobytrapped. Five minutes later, the commandos radioed ‘Grand Slam’, the codename for the successful completion of the operation. The crackling information was transmitted to Ikram’s earpiece but there was no one at the other end to receive it.

A few moments later a radio signal was sent to the prime minister. Four hijackers down; hostages free; six wounded; one home minister martyred.

Menon sat in Gangasagar’s living room, reading the news aloud to him. ‘There was an outpouring of grief across Uttar Pradesh on Friday with much of the state shutting down to mourn the late home minister of India—Ikram Shaikh. His body was flown in an air force plane on Friday afternoon from New Delhi to his hometown Kanpur for burial. Earlier, thousands of people in the capital paid their last respects to the hero who sacrificed his own life to save the hostages of IC-617,’ read Menon. He looked up at Gangasagar for a reaction, but there was none.