Fog (11 page)

‘Today, you are the mentor,’ he says and pushes the bowl from him.
 

‘Okay. What’s the plan?’

‘Swimming across the swamp. And then…’ He tips his head. ‘If you wanted to attach a bomb on a ship’s hull, how would you go about it?’

I shrug. I know close to nothing about ships. ‘Depends on where the ship is and what the weather conditions are. Where and when do you expect it?’

He shows me a quick grin. ‘I’m just theorising, but if I were the BSA and wanted to organise, I would make sure my hideaway was safe when the others arrive. It’s pretty safe now and the few Sequencers on Itbayat are no real threat, and I know I can see it when they move their forces. So, all is quiet now and I can bring in my own forces, specialists, and pretty much whatever I want and definitely before the typhoon season starts. To keep the ships safe, I’d find a harbour at the west coast, since most typhoons hit from the Pacific Ocean. Donggang has a large harbour that’s not too far from the observatory. I’d use it.

I would rather not ask if he got any sleep last night, what with love-making and strategic planning. ‘What are the harbour and the beach like? Rocks? Strong currents?’

‘Pebbles and sand, no rocks, no strong currents.’

‘Sounds like a piece of cake to me. Swim there, attach bombs, swim back. Didn’t you want to learn the swamp swimming soon?’

‘Yep,’ he stands, flexes his neck until it crackles, and wipes the tiredness off his face. ‘Now.’

While we hike across rolling hills and into the woods, I ask, ‘Shouldn’t we leave by the time the typhoons are coming? I can imagine the BSA would have a ton of fun blotting out all the clouds from our weather report just to have us blown off Itbayat.’

‘You’ll make a good strategist in a few years.’

Suddenly, my feet seem to be in their own way. I stumble. Runner never dishes out praise directly, at least not with the word “good” in it. Last night’s sex must have been bombastic.
 

‘Thanks,’ I mutter.

We reach the swamp. ‘Undress, I want you to feel precisely where the muck begins and the overlaying water ends. Later, you’ll swim fully dressed and armed.’

He nods once and sheds his shirt, boots, and pants.
 

‘This might be a bit counter-intuitive at first,’ I say, walking to the muddy edge. ‘Everyone wants to keep his head above the water, so everyone tends to remain upright when falling or walking into a swamp. But that’s the best way to get sucked in and never come back.’ I take a step farther and my legs begin to sink down.

‘Before the swamp can swallow you, you push yourself forward and make sure you lie flat on the surface.’ With my knees already submerged, I give myself a good push. I roll onto my back, my arms spread wide, and my face pointed at the blue sky. I wonder if the BSA is looking down on me, if Erik is watching and wondering what the heck I’m doing. I clear my throat and say, ‘I’m now as flat as I can float. The water is approximately thirty centimetres thick, then the muck starts. It’s important to stir up as little as possible. You can’t swim in mud.’

‘Okay,’ he says and takes a step forward.

‘Wait until I’m back, so I can see you better and give you instructions. Thing is… It’s impossible to save anyone from drowning here.’

I swim back, grab a bunch of grass, and pull myself from the swamp. ‘You’ll be alone. So no doing stupid things, okay?’

He nods, steps into the muck, and pushes himself flat out.
 

‘Feel the mud brush over your arms and stomach when you swim. You know where it is and you are in control. There’s no problem as long as you are calm.’ I think I’m more nervous than he. He swims a small semi-circle with hasty strokes. This doesn’t look good. ‘Come back, now.’

He returns, shakes the water and dirt from his long hair and says, ‘Your strokes are different than mine.’

‘I know, I was about to show you. I stretch my arms out, like this. Then pull them in, not down. My hands don’t go deep — they brush along my stomach, like this. Normally, I’d kick with my legs, like this, but not here, as there would be too much disturbing of the layers of water and mud.’

He tips his head and returns to the swamp.

‘Wait. Don’t try this here. Learn it… Er… I think we’ll do the ocean swim first. I’ll teach you the strokes until you are comfortable moving like this. Only then will I let you try this in the swamp.’

He lifts an eyebrow. ‘I’m not a sissy.’

‘But I am. Picture me standing here sobbing because I lost my fun sniping teacher.’

A grin flashes across his face and he gives my shoulder a light punch. ‘Ocean it is, then.’

At our camp, we pick up a roasted, cold bird, fruits, a bowl of cooked roots, and water canteens and march down to the sea. We have to take a detour, because the shortest way would be over the cliffs, but climbing down with an armful of delicacies would be kind of impractical. When the pebbles crunch under our feet and the surf laps at our toes, I decide to give Runner a day he’ll remember.

‘Nope,’ I say when he takes off his shirt. ‘Battle simulation. Fill your pockets with small rocks to simulate the weight of your rifle then swim out to where you see the crosscurrents.’

He begins stuffing rocks into his pants pockets until they bulge. Then he looks at me.

‘What about the back pockets?’ I say and he fills those, too, then wades into the surf and dives.

And doesn’t come back up.

I count to twenty and he’s still not back. Shit. Jumping up and kicking off my pants, I fall over just when Runner’s head breaks the surface. He shows me his middle finger and swims out to where the crosscurrents are. I pull my pants back up, plop on my butt, and rip a leg off the roasted bird.
 

While I nibble the meat off the bones, I watch him growing smaller. He’s close to the currents now. I stand and hold my hands to my mouth, calling, ‘When you’re being pulled away from the shore, swim parallel to the coast until you’re out of that current!’

I watch as the sea grabs him and pulls him farther away. He swims perpendicular to the current, exits it, and swims back to the beach. He huffs and empties the pebbles on my feet, then rips the second leg off the bird and takes a large bite. His hair is dripping on my pants. ‘So, what about those strokes you wanted to show me?’

‘Did I tell you to stop swimming and start eating?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ He takes an enormous bite, ripping all meat off the bone, and chewing it while he walks back into the water.

I’m having fun. He’s been such an arse these past weeks, and now I can pay him back, at least for a little while.

‘Where do you want me to swim?’ he calls from afar.

Just as I’m about to shrug, I pull myself together. I’m the teacher, he’s my pupil. I have to know my shit. ‘Pebbles back into your pockets, then swim back and forth along the beach and use the strokes I’ve shown you. I’ll call corrections.’

I watch him for about an hour, instructing him how to use his arms and legs, and how to dive under the large waves. He’s wet and tired when he returns.

We eat lunch, sitting cross-legged at the beach, his elbows and knees coated in sand, wet hair plastered to his shoulders. ‘You’re doing really well,’ I tell him. ‘A week from now, you’ll swim like a fish.’

‘We don’t have a week.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve checked the terrain,’ he says. ‘If I were to choose a camp site for the BSA, there would be access to clean water, the place would be sheltered, but with a good view of the surroundings. There aren’t many such spots left in the area Ben and Yi-Ting have yet to scan. They should return with a positive sighting within the next three days. You have goose bumps.’ He points and I touch a hand to my neck, the only bit of bare skin aside from my hands, feet, and face.

‘Until then, we’ll rest, take a few runs and swims, do a little sharp shooting. And we’ll sleep well.’

I snort. ‘Are you bullshitting me? I can see you are itching to do something. You can barely sit still.’

‘True. I’d like to dig a few holes.’

‘What holes?’

He nods to where Taiwan lies hidden far behind the waves. ‘Hideouts close to their camp. We can drive them mad by firing a few shots every day, switching locations frequently, so they never know where death can come from. The only question is — how long will it take? I’m guessing a month or two, or when they’ve lost about fifty percent of their men, maybe more. Then they’ll run.’

It’s so close now and much easier to grasp — shooting people. I’m scared to pull the trigger. Or am I scared of failing to pull the trigger? I’m not sure.
 

‘What does it feel like?’ I ask.

‘What does what feel like?’

‘Squeezing the trigger; seeing someone die.’

He sits up straight, his gaze intense, voice low. ‘You want to know what I feel when I shoot someone?’

I nod.

‘Close to nothing.’

I blink. Did he just tell me he’s a killer without conscience? ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m not lying. When I take aim and squeeze the trigger, I’m like a well-tuned machine. I assess windage, distance, movements of the target, movements of other targets, risks, weather and my own condition. There’s little space for emotions during these moments, and should I feel them, I control them so they can’t control me. It’s human nature to not want to kill. Training helps you overcome this reflex, and your own strong will aids you in stepping over the final line when you’re in a combat situation. But you need to know what you are fighting for.’

He looks at me as if he expects an answer. I have no idea. What would make me kill someone?

‘I want my daughter to grow up, to have children and grandchildren, and die of old age,’ he says. ‘I don’t want her to be butchered by a horde of insane men. I’d die for her if that helps my goal.’

He waits. Maybe he waits for an answer or for another question. All I can do is shrug and say, ‘I don’t feel any of this for anyone.’

‘Not even for Yi-Ting?’

I jump up and chuck the bone into the sea. ‘No. Not even for her.’

‘We have a visual!’ Ben hollers into his mic. ‘Ting, get the package ready.’ He changes the angle of the camera and now we can see it, too. There, atop a crest, is a meadow dotted with green tents and shaggy huts, a black flag waving from a bamboo pole, and large dark shapes covered by tarps and netting. The camp is surrounded by a wall of sandbags, hugged at its back by a thick forest with a steep cliff protecting its flank. A good spot.

I lean forward, every fibre of my body tense as a bowstring.
 

‘Movement in the camp,’ crackles through the speakers.

‘Quick now,’ Runner warns.

They look like black ants. A bunch of them are turning a large—

‘You’re under fire!’ Kat cries when the massive gun jerks, belching cloud after cloud, bullet after bullet.
 

Runner was right. The BSA cannot have heard the approach of the solar airplane. They’ve been watching the satellite feeds, the same images they were manipulating so we wouldn’t see what they are doing on the island.
 

Ben pulls the machine around. The camp dips from view and all we see is the sky tumbling over the jungle and back again. I’m not sure if I’m nauseated from the view or from the shock.
 

‘Fuckers!’ Ben shouts and the treetops drop back into view. He’s flying low, drawing an arc, and suddenly the camp is filling our screen. ‘Drop the shit, Ting!’

‘Two seconds. Okay, done. Get us out of here.’

Kat rakes her fingers through her short, brown hair, her dark eyes stuck to the feed of the aircraft’s camera.

We all twitch when a spray of bullets zip past.

Ben hollers a series of curses when the forest comes dangerously close. ‘On our way home. Throw a beer in the cooler for me, will ya,’ he grunts.

‘What cooler?’ asks Runner.

‘The fucking ocean, mate! Isn’t that cool enough? I want a party. Kat, I want you drunk and naked. For once! Micka…um…never mind. You aren’t allowed to drink and you fuck girls.’ He cackles like mad. That man is totally high. Kat’ll yank him out of his machine and kick his balls as soon as he lands, I’m sure. As red-faced as she is now, I can’t recommend any form of interaction with her.

I wipe sweat off my face and stare at the screen where a green carpet of trees gives way to the ocean. ‘What was the package Yi-Ting dropped?’

‘A high-speed, high-res camera with a three hundred and sixty degrees view. It transmits images directly to the airplane during its descent. We’ll get a nice view of the camp. When it touches the ground, its payload explodes. A few grams of hydrogel; light weight, nice blast radius. Might take one or two of them down,’ Kat answers.

The word payload makes me think of the toxic pearl on my tongue.

‘If it wasn’t shot down before it hit the ground,’ Runner mumbles.

We all breathe easier when only the ocean slips past the plane. Ben gibbers away, Yi-Ting is silent.

An hour later, everyone is in the tent, screening the oddly circular images the camera sent to Ben’s machine before it detonated.

Runner slides his fingers across the screen, zooming in and out of sections of the BSA camp. He stops at a large gun. ‘That’s the HMG they used, and looks as if there’s another one under this tarp here, and this one could be the outline of a mortar.’