Free Coup D'Etat by Ben Coes Page A

between the burning village, and a quarter mile swatch of brush fires. The pilot took several runs over the burning walnut groves. He could see the rotor from one of the choppers, confirming the loss of one of the Indian Mi-25s.
    “Leh dispatch, this is Shelby One,” said the pilot of the MiG-29. “I’m near Yagulung right now. I’m confirming the downed choppers. You’ve got debris spread over a quarter mile below the village. It’s a bloody mess.”
    “Roger, Shelby One,” said Colonel Durvan. “Return to the base until I have orders.”
    The pilot turned the attack jet to the north. In the distance, he could see dotted caps of white snow atop the northern peaks of the Ladakh Range running into Baltistan. Somewhere out there along the sharp, beautiful range, he knew, sat the Line of Control.
    “Do you want me to do a quick visual check between Yagulung and the LOC?” the pilot asked his commanding officer.
    “Affirmative,” said Colonel Durvan. “Look for PAF troops. But be careful.”
    The Indian pilot pushed the nose of the MiG-29 in a course just above the rocky terrain, amping up the jet’s powerful Klimov RD-33 turbofan engines. In less than six seconds, the MiG-29 was moving at more than 1,300 miles per hour above the peaks. Seeing nothing, the young pilot continued on past where he knew the Line of Control ran below, infiltrating Pakistani airspace. After a few minutes, the pilot could see the Pakistani military base at Skardu, a line of buildings and vehicles, the frames of several choppers and airplanes strewn about a central nexus of buildings.
    “I’m near Skardu,” said the pilot. “I don’t see much activity.”
    “Get back here, Shelby One,” said Colonel Durvan. “I didn’t give you permission to go over the LOC.”
    As the MiG-29 approached Skardu, the pilot eased up, then began an arc north, into the clouds. A high-pitched beeping from the antimissile radar alarm sounded. He glanced left, where he saw black smoke behind a rapidly approaching surface-to-air missile. The alarm grew louder as the impending SAM honed in.
    “ SAM! ” screamed the pilot into his headset. “ They fired at me. ”
    “Stay calm and get the hell out of there!” came the deep voice of Colonel Durvan.
    The warning beacon went steady, indicating the missile had locked in on the jet. The pilot waited a second longer. Then, with both hands, with all of his strength, he jammed the stick forward and slightly right. The MiG-29 lurched sharply right and down at nearly 1,350 miles per hour. The pilot could not see behind him, and he stayed focused on keeping his flight line steady. The whistling noise of the approaching missile blended in his head with the screaming monotone of the missile alarm, the roar of the jet engine, and the sound of Colonel Durvan demanding to know what was going on. I’m still alive, he suddenly realized.
    The pilot swerved the stick farther right, the torque nearly causing him to vomit as he continued a nearly impossible evasion technique that sent the jet barreling toward the ground and the green and brown canyons surrounding the winding black lace of the Indus River. The whistling of the missile petered out. The SAM, he knew, had passed him by, its path now randomized as the missile headed northeast, where it would ultimately land several miles into the Ladakh Range.
    The antimissile alarm stopped, its silence indicating the failure of the Pakistani SAM to strike the Indian jet.
    The pilot let out a holler as he leveled the jet out a few hundred feet above the ground. He pushed the throttle forward and was soon moving again at nearly Mach Two back toward Leh.
    “Shelby!” barked the voice of Colonel Durvan. “Shelby, are you there?’
    “I evaded it,” said the pilot finally into his headset. “I evaded it. I’ll be back at base in a few minutes.”
    “No, you won’t,” said Colonel Durvan. “You’ll take a southwest pass near Kargil and be joined by Shelby Two and Three.