The Hundred Gram Mission (24 page)

The manmade god reached into the river.

Sparkling data streamed through his fingers like running water.  Inside, shoals of fish chatted and liked, not noticing his shadow over them. Some stalked the others, sharp-toothed, creeping predators. Most though just gossiped about HK celebs and torrented Western movies. He walked along the bank, crossing over China, and into India. Classified reactors and hidden stockpiles showed up like forest fires. Such obsolescence!  History had come full circle. A people’s strength over rival tribes, lay again in their gods.

Sun Tzu waded in. Immediately, he felt a strong undercurrent. His sniffed and tracked it back to Singapore: apologies would be in order. Forgiveness is always more likely than permission.

He reached Sri Lanka. It was smaller than he expected. Xenophobia, regulation, and neo-Victorianism grew in thick weeds hemming it in. Buddhist monk hobbits stood guard, stern faced, cute, and utterly racist.

He stepped right over them. They looked up, startled, but had long since stitched their own eyes shut.

He saw the heart. It was a glowing child in a crib of its parents’ feces. It reached towards him, smiling and gurgling.

He snapped its neck.

Galle Road, Kollupitiya Junction, 10:09pm

"What the fuck?" the bus conductor peered through the window at the dark street. "Power is gone."

Only brake and headlights lit the road (Sri Lankans do not signal). Blue-white cell phones lit frowning users and failed to connect.

"The traffic light isn’t working," The driver honked his horn. Achieving nothing, he honked again and again, hopeful something would change. "No one is going!"

Two men (Vasanth and Akash) with large sports bags stood up suddenly. "Everyone," said Vasanth, "get off the bus."

"What?" the conductor glared.

"You too," Vasanth motioned. "Off now!"

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?"

Akash shot him in the shoulder. People screamed, the men more than the women. From both doors people tumbled out and ran.

"Not you," Akash held the driver’s arm as he tried opening his side door. His other hand held a second pistol – heavily grained by 3d printing.

"Please! Let me go!" the driver put his hands together. The conductor wailed on the floor.

"We’ll let you go, but first, turn the bus sideways and block these lanes."

"Sir, I can’t, the road is full of cars, Sir."

Akash opened his sports bag and pulled out a large, plastic, soda bottle. He opened the top – the smell of gasoline, stabbed. He walked down the aisle, pouring onto the floor.

"Please Sir! I will give you all our money! Please let us go!" howled the driver.

Glass shattered and horns blared. Across the divider, a bus was forcing cars aside. People cursed, screamed, and threatened pointlessly (Sri Lankans love to threaten pointlessly). The bus ignored them and started turning.

"Hurry up," said the Akash. He pulled out another bottle.

"Do it now, or I’ll shoot you twice, in
both
your balls.
Do it
now!
"

The driver gunned the engine. The bus roared and slammed into a compact car. It shoved it against another. People were yelling and trying to drive away. Tuk tuks blared their horns and climb up the sidewalks. A Range Rover knocked over a motorcyclist.

"This is as good as it gets," said Akash. "We need to move." He dragged the bleeding conductor to the steps and kicked him down. He slammed into asphalt, moaning.

"Now you," Akash pointed his gun at the driver. "Out."

The driver opened his side door.

"No, use the steps," said Vasanth. "Hurry up."

Outside there was a
whoosh
and the world lit up orange.   Flames crowded the second bus.

"Stop!"

The driver froze at the top of the steps. Vasanth stepped up, and kicked him hard, in the ass. The driver howled and tumbled out.

"What the hell was that about?" asked the shooter.

Vasanth smiled. "I always wanted to kick a Sri Lankan bus driver in the ass."

They climbed out. Vasanth lit a match and tossed it in.

Galle Face Hotel, 10:09pm

"Hisham?"

Al-Moussawi looked up. Emergency lights shadowed two smiling Chinese women. 

"We are Olga’s friends," said the shorter one.

"Is there power outside?"

"No power," said the short one, smiling. "Whole country, no power, no phone."

Somewhere, a generator began rumbling.

"Where is Olga?" he asked.

"She coming. But, you come with us now. We take you Olga. All of us, party."

"I’m not going anywhere till I finish my drink," he swirled the ice in glass. The tall one stepped behind him and began massaging his shoulders.

"Olga say come now," said the short one again. 

"Well too bad."

An arm locked round his throat like a steel ring. Another pressed his head down, completing the chokehold and cutting blood flow. He kicked over the table and tried to stand. Her arms pinned him down like stacks of bricks. The short one grabbed his hands suddenly, binding them with a zip tie. He glared at her as she turned black and white.

"Those guests are fighting!" yelled the waiter, running to the bar. Stockwell stood, unable to sit still.

People at the other tables were staring. Someone held up their phone and took a picture. A table of meatheads cheered and whooped, raising their beers.

"Shit, they broke the table," said the maitre d. "What will the GM say? We have to stop this!"

"Woah," Stockwell raised his hands, "Maybe you should wait till the authorities – " but the maitre d was already running towards the scuffle.

A Chinese guest got up and blocked him, hand outraised.

"Please move Sir!"

The guest pulled out a pistol and waved it. Across the terrace, another armed Chinese man was standing facing the crowd. The camera flashed again. He walked over to the offending table, and quietly demanded the phone. He threw it down and crushed it under his shoe. The meatheads cheered.

"You go back," the man said to the maitre d. "No one hurt. Shooting, bad for business, yes?"

The air cracked and red exploded from the Chinese man’s arm. He collapsed into the grass and lay still. The maitre d turned, muzzles flashed out automatic fire again from the foyer. Several men in plain clothes came running into the terrace. One yelled to the others, his gold teeth gleaming.

"Liao! Liao!"

Crouched behind the upturned table, Lee checked the girl’s pulse. She gritted her teeth. Zhu was across from her, firing from behind a sculpture. Huang lay still in the grass.

Bullets punched wooden splinters out of the table, Lee’s head stung: her fingers came away red.

"Team Two!" Zhu had pulled out his headset and was yelling into it. "What the fuck have you been doing? Wong, you let three shooters in!"

"We’re coming," said Wong.  "We didn’t see any first responders."

"Remain at the entrances," Lee pulled her head set. "These aren’t the first responders. Team Two, stay at your posts!"

"Understood."

"What?" Zhu yelled across the grass at her. In front of him, bullets ploughed dirt into the grass.

"These aren’t first responders!" she yelled back. "We need Team Two to hold those off. We can take these on our own!"

Zhu gritted his teeth. "Fine! But I can’t get a clear shot at any of them!"

"Wait till the SMG runs dry, then cover me!"

"Yes Ma’am!"

Lee looked back at the shooters. They weren’t ex-military, else they’d be dead by now, she though. One man had a submachine gun. He kept them pinned, swearing at them between bursts. The other two had pistols and fired from good cover. They showed no interest in coming out to flank the Chinese.

She saw movement by Huang’s still form.

"Oh God. Oh God no."

Stockwell commando-crawled through the grass.

Everyone had fled, waiters, screaming guests, even the maitre d. The shooters kept firing, their backs to him. He watched Lee and her remaining agent yelling back and forth.

The agent’s shirt was soaked in red. He had twisted as he fell, his eyes staring behind Stockwell. Stockwell grimaced, and reached for the man’s hand.

The pistol was so light it felt like a toy. He felt the rough print grain along the sides. 

In front of him, the SMG gunner smelled like apples. He kept snarling at the Chinese in between inaccurate bursts.

Click
. He tore the clip from the gun and pulled out a new one. Knuckles whitened and he pitched forward, red spraying from his head. The other two shooters stopped and looked.

Blam. Blam
.

Stockwell ran forward. "Are you alright?"

"You stupid fool," Muddied and torn, Lee rose from behind the table.

"What?" Stockwell glared. "Hey what the hell lady, I just saved you and your man’s life! You’re goddamn welcome!"

Zhu ran over Stockwell. He crouched by Huang and held his finger under the agent’s neck. He looked back at Lee and shook his head.

"Bring him," she said in Mandarin. "But first, take the gun from the American."

"Yes Lieutenant Colonel."

"What are you doing?" he gave up the gun. Lee was dragging the other woman’s body to the sea wall. She reached the edge, and pushed it over.

"You’re just dumping her in the
sea
?" He ran over to the edge.

In the water was a black dingy with an armed frogman. He looked up at Stockwell. Another was in the water, pulling the dead agent’s body towards the inflatable. Zhu reached the edge, and pushed the second dead agent into the water. Then he jumped in after him.

"There’s a ship out there?"

Suyin grabbed Al-Moussawi by the scruff of his neck, pulled him up one-handed, and shoved him over the sea wall. He gasped and screamed, Zhu and the frogman pulled him into dingy.

"Yes. A submarine. We’re taking him to China."

Stockwell pulled off his shoe.

"No," she put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "I’m sorry Evan. You have to stay here."

"What? No I can’t. I’ve just shot people. I
literally
have blood on my hands!"

"There is no room on the sub for you."

"The submarine is top secret Evan. Your people can’t know what we have. There isn’t enough room for you anyway."

"I’m not expecting a four poster bed, lady!"

"I’m sorry. I truly am. You should never have got involved."

"Look Suyin, you can’t just – "

She jumped into the water and swam to the dingy. The water suddenly become choppy, then violently so. Something shaped like a killer whale erupted, gleaming water pouring off its matte black surfaces. A hatch opened, and the Chinese climbed in dragging the dingy behind them. The beast resealed and sank back underwater. The waves swirled but slowly calmed as before.

The hotel’s lights came back on. All along the coastline, he saw the city relighting block by block. Stockwell looked around. People were staring from lit balconies and windows. Phones were being held out as if he’d been performing an ethnic dance.

His phone chimed. He pulled it out.

Run u idiot

INS Agni, 120 meters, Off Colombo, 10:33pm

"Captain I’ve picked up the contact again! Bearing, Red 045."

"Excellent!" the Captain and XO looked up from the chart table. "Can you identify?"

"Negative Sir, it’s nothing I’ve ever heard before."

"What are your orders?" asked the XO.

"Load tubes One and Two."

"Aye Sir. Load tubes One and Two!"

"Helmsman, all ahead, left full rudder. Get us on course with that submarine."

"Yes Sir!"

"Captain, what if it’s Chinese?" asked the XO.

"I’m betting that it is." 

"Contact, bearing Green 060."

"Identification?" asked the lieutenant.

"Sounds like a Soryu," said the ensign. "Mainframe is confirming now: Indian-owned Soryu. 90 plus percent probability this is the
Agni
."

"Speed and distance?"

"Five miles, moving at 18 knots. That’s almost the top speed for that class. I think they’ve spotted us, Sir."

"Launch the decoy."

"Launching Sir."

"Shall I change our bearing and depth?" asked the pilot.

"No, I don’t want to lose the current. What’s salinity like?"