Castle couldn't stop himself from laughing as he explained to the Lockheed Martin executive on the other end of the line why collaborating with India's Hindustan Aeronautics Limited (HAL) was a terrible idea.
"Let me put it this way," Castle said, still chuckling, "HAL doesn't just have a bad track record—they have the worst track record of any aerospace company in the world. They've turned the Indian Air Force into the world's largest crash test program."
The executive chuckled too, though he tried to suppress it. "Come on, Castle. They can't be that bad."
Castle raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, really? Let me give you some numbers then. Between 1992 and 2004, HAL assembled or overhauled 10 MiG-21s—guess how many crashed? Eight. Then there's the Jaguar fighter—three assembled, five overhauled, and six of those ended up in pieces. How about the Mirage-2000? Four were overhauled—all four crashed."
The executive went silent for a moment. Castle pressed on, his tone half-serious, half-mocking. "And don't even get me started on their MiG-27s and MiG-29s. HAL worked on 10 of those. By the end of it, all the MiG-29s were gone, and four MiG-27s joined them in the graveyard. I'm telling you, if there's one thing HAL does consistently, it's turning perfectly good planes into smoking craters in the ground."
The executive burst out laughing despite himself. "Alright, alright, I get it. But come on, Castle, every company has its rough patches."
Castle shook his head, grinning. "This isn't a rough patch, my friend. This is a decades-long death march. HAL isn't just bad—it's legendary for being bad. Do you know what the joke is in Indian aviation circles? That the Pakistani Air Force's best ally isn't China, it's HAL. I'm not kidding—they've 'destroyed' more Indian Air Force planes than any enemy nation ever could."
The executive chuckled nervously. "Well... when you put it that way..."
"I'm putting it exactly that way," Castle replied. "If you want to work with them, be my guest. But don't drag my name into this. I'd rather not have the 'curse of HAL' rub off on me."
The Lockheed Martin executive sighed, knowing Castle wasn't going to budge. "Alright, I see your point. I'll let them know you're not interested."
Castle smirked. "Good luck. They're persistent, though, so don't be surprised if they come back with a bigger pile of cash."
After hanging up, Castle leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.
India's Hindustan Aeronautics Limited had long been a subject of ridicule in international defense circles, and for good reason. Founded as India's sole aerospace manufacturer and largest defense contractor, HAL was notorious for its inefficiency, poor craftsmanship, and inability to deliver on its promises.
The company's "shining star," the Tejas Light Combat Aircraft (LCA), was a perfect example. First proposed in 1983, the program had dragged on for nearly three decades with little to show for it. By 2001, the first prototype finally took to the skies—eighteen years after the project's inception.
By comparison, Castle noted, China's Chengdu J-10 fighter program started in 1986 and had its first flight by 1998. By 2004, it was already in mass production and deployed to front-line units. And here were the Indians, still fumbling with a fighter jet they had started designing in the early '80s.
Castle couldn't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. How could a country with ambitions of becoming a global superpower have such an abysmal aerospace industry?
The answer, of course, was HAL.
This was a company that seemed almost cursed. Planes that went through its factories or maintenance facilities had an uncanny tendency to crash. Over the years, HAL had been responsible for the loss of hundreds of Indian Air Force aircraft—so much so that its name had become synonymous with disaster.
Castle recalled some of the darker jokes he'd heard:
"HAL isn't an aerospace company; it's a funeral director for planes." "The safest plane HAL ever worked on is the one they never finished." "Why does the Indian Air Force train so many pilots? Because they need replacements for the ones HAL gets killed."
It wasn't just jokes, either. The numbers backed it up. Between 1966 and the early 2000s, India had lost over 1,000 military aircraft to accidents—more than any other air force in the world. And HAL was responsible for most of them, either through poor manufacturing, shoddy maintenance, or botched upgrades.
As Castle reflected on HAL's "achievements," Beckett walked into his study, carrying a cup of coffee.
"You've got that 'evil genius' look on your face again," she teased. "What are you plotting now?"
Castle chuckled, gesturing for her to sit. "You're not going to believe this. Guess who just tried to get me to work with them?"
Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"India's Hindustan Aeronautics Limited."
Beckett frowned. "That name rings a bell... Aren't they the ones who keep crashing their own planes?"
"Exactly!" Castle exclaimed. "They've been responsible for more plane crashes than bad weather and pilot error combined. And now they want my help to make their planes 'better.' Can you believe that?"
Beckett shook her head, smiling. "So, what did you tell them?"
"I told them no, of course," Castle said. "I'm not about to get involved with a company that turns every plane it touches into a flying coffin. That's bad for business—and bad for my conscience."
Beckett laughed softly, sipping her coffee. "Well, at least you know when to say no. Though, I have to admit, I'm curious—what would it take to fix their planes?"
Castle smirked. "A miracle. Or maybe a full divine intervention from Vishnu and Shiva. Either way, I'm not the guy for the job."
The two shared a laugh, the absurdity of HAL's request providing a much-needed moment of levity amidst the chaos of recent events.
Meanwhile, halfway across the world, the executives at Hindustan Aeronautics Limited were scratching their heads, trying to figure out why their offer had been rejected.
"Perhaps we didn't offer him enough money," one executive suggested.
"Or maybe he's intimidated by the complexity of our requirements," another added.
Unbeknownst to them, the real reason was far simpler: Castle valued his reputation—and his sanity—too much to get involved with the world's most notorious airplane killer.
(End of Chapter)
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