Nazar Khan May 25, 2004

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href="/tag/military">military hardware free or at almost throwaway prices. So it was decided to make up the quantities with the cheap Chinese equipment; and balance it with some high quality expensive equipment from France. It was in early 70s that we went to China to ferry some Chinese Migs. That was the China of the history books with the cultural revolution in its full swing. Every Chinese wore a dark gray baggy pajama and a bush-shirt; and carried the Mao’s Red book. Just an hour and a half flight from Pakistan, beyond the high mountains, there existed a completely different world.

As our chubby metallic-finished C-130 transport plane landed at the Chinese airfield, it applied the reverse thrust and came to a stop after that familiar gurgling noise. The aircraft door opened and ice cold wind below in. There had been a recent snowfall and everything was covered with a sheet of white. The temperature was many degrees below zero. Our Chinese hosts moved forward to receive us. In the typical Chinese matter-of-fact approach, they had even covered the engines of their cars with quilts.

Mr. Nu (pronounced as Yu) came forward, smiled and said, “Now the friends will sit in the cars and come to the guest house.” From now on, we were to be always addressed as ‘friends’. Friends will have dinner at 9 PM. Friends will do this and friends will do that. Dutifully, the friends sat in the cars. Those were the big cars like the ones we see in the old Hollywood movies.

The caravan moved through the small winding road in the country side to the state guest house located outside the small rural town of Khotian (pronounced Hotian). The traffic consisted of small carts pulled by donkeys and horses, tiny three-wheeler tractors pulling trolleys, the inevitable bicycles and old men carrying sacks on their backs. Invariably, everyone stopped and gazed at us in amazement as if we had descended from a different planet. The children giggled in amusement as we drove by. China used to live in a grand isolation. It not only looked like a third-world country but apparently in a poorer condition than Pakistan.

Shinjaan province had a large majority of Turkic origin Muslims. Some of us, who had been to exchange posting to Turkey, could converse with them in Turkish. But Chinese preferred no direct contact between us and the locals. They kept us busy with their own schedules, dinners and stage dramas depicting the rise of the workers against the land lords. Now only the State was the big land lord and it took full responsibility for its citizens. There were communes led by the Party representatives. The Chinese sat together in the evenings and criticized their own mistakes of the day. The West (particularly the Americans) were called the Imperialists and the Russians were called the Revisionists because they had deviated from the pristine principles of Communism. Their military strategy was simple – outnumber the enemy by waves of foot soldiers, equipped with locally produced weapons, defending their own communes.

In our short-sighted innocence and ignorance, we thought that their ideology was crazy and even pitied their low standard of living. We were used to the latest weaponry and our everyday life did have the usual luxuries of life albeit imported from other countries. They had to contend with just a rice bowl and soup. The ultimate dream of an average Chinese was to purchase a bicycle, a transistor and a watch.

Regardless of what China was going through, our hosts went out of their way to look after us. Every meal was a 12-course meal. Not knowing this, on first day we gulped the first dish that arrived even if it was the Peking duck. Subsequent dishes like kababs and tikkas were more to our liking. Soon we worked out our way of handling this 12-course meal. The soup, very watery, was always the last item. Pakistani Chinese soups are thick with chicken and vegetables. And a watery soup is considered a bad value for the money. ’’Mot Aai’’ was such a hard liquor that it is kept in an earthen ware. It reacted with the normal glass. Chinese Tea was a perpetual companion on the side table. "cheers’’ was "kombay’’. There was an exquisite Chinese waitress who often made us miss our heart beat.

Mig 19 was an unusual aircraft with big dials and big switches. The speed was in kilometers per hour and we were used to nautical miles per hour. That was disturbing to our mental assessment as to how fast we were flying. Similarly, the altimeter was in meters instead of feet; and this disturbed our general mental assessment of height. We had to fly one air test and then return to Pakistan. But bad weather held us up. We actually did not mind this spell of bad weather at all. Friends would go when the weather became all right, Mr. Nu told us. Mr. Nu was a very experienced pilot and had more experience on the aircraft than any of us. But, with the typical Chinese humility, he always said, “I am here to learn from my friends.” Fed up with the Chinese food and missing rice for so many days, I volunteered to cook "Pulaao’’ in the kitchen. The Chief cook assisted me in doing so. In fact, if he had not adjusted the quantity of water, I would have completely screwed up the dish. I asked him whether China had any similar dish. He said yes, pulaao. Since that day, they began serving pulaao to us on a regular basis.

As the bad weather spell continued and the days lingered, our Chinese hosts became more open and relaxed. Now we could manage to peep into their inner thoughts when left alone with some one. Our interpreter spoke Urdu; and his Urdu was the ‘salees’ Urdu of Mir Amman Dehelvi. When he spoke, it sounded as if he was reading from a text book. Every Chinese looked to us the same. They told us that all Pakistanis looked alike and they could not differentiate one from the other.

Finally, the bad weather lifted; not fully; but good enough for us to depart. We proceeded to the airfield. The weather was hazy and the sky was overcast with white clouds. The ground was covered with snow. It was white all around. Our formation’s call-sign was ‘Pakistan Charlies’ and there was Dar, Shahid, Imtiaz and myself. We started up, taxied out and lined up on the runway,. Like a new car, the aircraft not only smelled new but gave that feel of a brand new machine. The controls were crisp and smooth. The engines accelerated smoothly with a clear sound. Everything worked according to the book.

We took off one by one, joined up in battle formation and headed for Pakistan. Soon after take off, we entered clouds. Carrying out the ‘Snake Departure’ in which two aircraft, in close formation, are followed by the other two, doing the same moves like the wriggling of a snake’s body. We finally broke through the clouds at 35,000 feet. As we came out of the clouds on top, there was bright sunshine with blue sky. We were flying over an unending layer of white clouds with the ground fully obscured. No ground features were visible for navigation nor were any ground navigational aids available for hundreds of miles. There was only the great wilderness of the Pamir Knot, the area where the three great hill ranges of the Karakorams, the Hindu Kush and the Himalayas converge and meet. The only way to navigate was to maintain the correct direction; and correlate our ground position with the famous peaks like the Trich Mir, Nanga Purbat, K-2 and Rakaposhi, which all protruded their snow-covered silvery heads through the clouds.

Four of us were serenely gliding over the Himalayas. The silence was heavenly. As is customary with the military aircraft, we were practicing radio silence. For a fighter aircraft to fly level for any thing more than 5 minutes is unusual; and a flight like this could either be a luxury or absolute boredom, depending upon an individual’s frame of mind at the time. All four of us were flying quietly and perhaps deeply immersed in our own thoughts. The world seemed far away and far below us. I was leisurely maintaining my battle formation position, looking around and admiring nature.

I was awed by the majestic beauty of the K-2. The landscape looked vast, pure and powerful. Everything seemed to fit just right in its place. The whole universe appeared to be at peace with itself; and there was a pin drop silence barring the constant drone of the engines of my aircraft. I was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of this environment. There was a strange eerie stillness in the air. Being alone in the aircraft, over this no-man’s land, added to the lonely feeling. And then it happened.

As I looked inside the cockpit, I got a rude shock. My fuel gauge was reading only 1800 liters. There had been a sudden and a massive fuel leak. China was left far behind and my destination in Pakistan was still hundreds of miles away. I was in the middle of nowhere; hanging at 35,000 feet, above the clouds, over the Himalayas with fuel draining out of my aircraft; and nowhere to land. If I was to eject here from the aircraft. I was destined to spend the rest of my life over the Karakoram peaks. And that was not a very cheerful prospect with only a light jacket over my body. I began to do some real hard thinking.

What could be done. I checked inside; all my switches were normal. It was certainly an unusual occurrence. I could not go back; I had to press on forward. The fuel gauge was still continuing to drop. I worked out my future course of action. The best course was to maintain altitude, for as long as possible, because the jet engines consume less fuel at high altitudes. And then, if I managed to reach near an airfield, I would carry out a maximum rate descent with the throttles idle. However, this could only be possible if the rate of fuel leak reduced; and I got some tail wind. There were many ifs and buts.

I looked at Dar’s aircraft. He was our formation leader; and seemed to be enjoying the ride. There was not much that he could do; or any one else for that matter. With an almost sadistic pleasure, the child in me naughtily suggested that why not spoil his day as well. I called out, “Charlie leader. Charlie Four has only 1800 liters on the gauge. I have a fuel leak.” There was a long pause. Then Dar called out, “What did you say. 1800 liters.” I said, “Affirmative.” Again there was a long pause. Finally, Dar came up, sounding worried, and said, “Charlie Four. Keep the throttles steady. Keep monitoring fuel. You will land first and make a straight in approach.” I said, “Roger.”

That was that. But I could sense that now the formation was fully awake; and an air of tension floated in the air.

I kept monitoring the fuel gauge and, as the luck would have it, the rate of leak reduced. The radar soon picked us up and guided us towards the nearest airfield. The weather was fine and that meant that I could make a visual straight approach towards the airfield. As I spotted the airfield, my fuel gauge indicated only 600 liters and I was still 20 miles away. I had to land the first time. There was no margin for error. We all went into ‘train formation’; and the others positioned themselves behind me 1000 feet in line astern. I called ‘finals’, lowered my wheels; and landed. I had only 200 liters of fuel on the gauge when the aircraft touched down. I heaved a big sigh of relief; and then suddenly, all the confidence returned.

I switched off and explained the problem to the ground engineers. When we headed back towards our homes, there was a brief discussion on the subject and then it was all forgotten. A close miss in a pilot’s life gets only that much time, as any pilot would agree. It was just another day.