August 1971
New Delhi felt less like a capital city and more like a fortress preparing for a siege. The air was thick with humidity and the static of radios blaring the biggest news of the decade: The Indo-Soviet Treaty of Peace, Friendship and Cooperation had been signed.
For the common man on the street, it was a shield against the American warships rumored to be prowling the Bay of Bengal. For the men inside the South Block of the Secretariat, it was the signal that the clock had started ticking.
Rudra Pratap sat in the waiting room of the Ministry of Defense. He wasn't reading the newspaper like the other contractors. He was reviewing a Telex from Singapore. Vikram Malhotra had successfully executed the first tranche of the "Export Advance"—₹5 Lakhs transferred to Pratap Industries against a future shipment of "High-Grade Industrial Canvas." The loophole was working. The capital for the Hubs was secure.
"Mr. Pratap," a harried aide opened the heavy teak door. " The Brigadier will see you now."
Brigadier H.S. Grewal looked like he hadn't slept in three days. His office was a war room of cigarette smoke and ringing phones. Maps of the Eastern Sector covered every inch of the wall, marked with grease pencils showing supply routes that were dangerously thin.
"Sit, Rudra," Grewal didn't bother with pleasantries. He pointed a swagger stick at the map of West Bengal. "We have a problem. The Railways have choked."
"Mughalsarai Junction?" Rudra guessed, taking the seat.
"Worse. The entire eastern line. We are moving three Corps to the border. That's thousands of men, tanks, and artillery. The civilian trains are cancelled, but the tracks are still jammed. We have 5,000 tons of winter gear sitting in wagons that haven't moved in forty-eight hours."
Grewal looked at Rudra, his eyes hard.
"General Manekshaw asked me this morning if my 'Container Boy' was just a fair-weather friend. I told him you had a plan."
Rudra didn't flinch. He walked over to the map. He didn't look like a nervous vendor; he looked like a CEO analyzing a broken circuit.
"The rails are fixed lines, Brigadier. If one train breaks, the line dies. You need flexibility."
Rudra traced a line with his finger—National Highway 6.
"My plan stands. The Vajra Relay Grid. We stop relying on the goods trains for the priority cargo. We move the ammunition, the medical supplies, and the winter gear exclusively by road."
"It's 1,800 kilometers from Bombay to the border, Rudra," Grewal argued. "A truck takes seven days. We don't have seven days."
"A truck takes seven days because the driver sleeps," Rudra corrected him. "My trucks won't stop. We are setting up four Logistics Hubs—Nagpur, Raipur, Sambalpur, Kharagpur. We swap drivers at every hub. The engine runs 24 hours a day. We can do it in four days."
Grewal fell silent. He calculated the logistics. It was aggressive. It was expensive. But it was the only way to bypass the rail paralysis.
"What do you need?" Grewal asked.
"Two things," Rudra said, holding up two fingers. "First, Priority Fuel Permits. I can't have my trucks waiting in civilian lines at petrol pumps. I need Army authorization to refuel at military depots if necessary."
"Done."
"Second," Rudra's voice dropped a notch. "I need immunity from the local police and the transport unions. They are stopping convoys to extort bribes. If a Vajra truck is stopped, I need the local Area Commander to clear the road, not the local constable."
Grewal scribbled a note on a file stamped SECRET.
"You will get a directive issued by the DST (Director of Supplies & Transport). Your trucks are now classified as 'Essential Military Assets.' If anyone stops them, they answer to the Army Act."
Grewal handed the file to Rudra. "Don't let us down, son. The snow falls in the Himalayas in two months. If the boys don't have blankets by then, we lose before the first shot is fired."
While Rudra was navigating the corridors of power in Delhi, thousands of miles away in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of the Overseas Union Bank in Singapore, the engine of his empire was humming.
Vikram Malhotra handed a stack of documents to the bank teller.
"Transfer approved," the teller said, stamping the paper. "Funds released to Pratap Industries, India. Purpose: Advance Payment for Textile Exports."
Vikram exhaled, loosening his tie. He walked to the window overlooking Raffles Place. It was terrifyingly simple. They were moving legitimate money through legitimate channels, but the intent was pure strategy.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number in Penang.
"Moshi moshi," a voice answered. It was Kenji Sato, the new CTO of Orion Electronics.
"Sato-san," Vikram said. "The budget is approved. Buy the German wave-soldering machine. But Rudra wants to know—can we modify it to handle double-sided boards?"
"Modify?" Sato laughed, the sound of tinkering metal in the background. "Mr. Malhotra, I have already taken it apart. We will make it run faster than the Germans intended."
Vikram smiled. The Singapore arm wasn't just a bank account anymore. It was becoming a laboratory.
Rudra walked out of the Ministry into the blinding Delhi afternoon. The heat was oppressive, but his mind was cool.
He found a public telephone booth near the India Gate. He dialed the Bombay office.
"Behram," Rudra said when the line connected. "We have the Green Channel. The Army has authorized the Relay Grid."
"That's good news," Behram sounded relieved, shouting over the noise of the Bombay rain. "But we have a situation with the drivers. They are worried about the roads in the East. They hear rumors of Naxalites and saboteurs."
"Tell them every Vajra truck will have a military escort through the Red Corridor," Rudra lied. He would arrange that later with Grewal's letter. "And Behram?"
"Yes?"
"Increase the driver allowance. Any man who drives the 'Night Relay' gets double pay and a hot meal at the Hub. I don't want them driving on empty stomachs. Goodwill is cheaper than a breakdown."
"Understood. I will mobilize the fleet."
Rudra hung up. He looked at the India Gate, the monument to soldiers who had died in past wars. He was about to send his own army of drivers into the teeth of a new one.
He hailed a taxi. "Palam Airport. I need the next flight to Nagpur."
He wasn't going to drive the trucks. But he had to build the fortress they would run from.