by Tony Bulmer
Erin frowned. She had heard jingoistic political bull-crap before, but this took some beating. She shot a quick look at the Hudster to see his reaction and was shocked to see tears of patriotic joy streaming down his face—at least it seemed like patriotic joy, the Hudster had quaffed so much Cognac, it was a miracle he could still speak, let alone offer any kind of cogent opinion. She swiveled in her chair and took another look at their guest. Truman Whitaker was wide-eyed, a sick, panicked look twisting across his face. The creep was hiding something for sure, but what?
26
Mumbai India
In the hellish Mumbai traffic, progress was slow. The relentless monsoon rains of high summer had arrived with a vengeance, along with wave after furious wave of storm clouds lashing in from the Arabian Gulf. Visibility was down to no more than twenty yards and every road in the city was covered in a rising tide of floodwater.
On the western express highway, heading into town, taillights glittered red, distorting, as the beating rain overcame of the rhythm of creaking wiper-blades. Stuck in the midst of the gridlock, the column of police vehicles was going nowhere. Motorcycle outriders jostled through the chaos, in a desperate attempt to clear the logjam. It was useless. The police vehicles were jammed in tight, their top-box flashers twirling impotently to a serenade of indignant sirens.
Karyn Kane drummed her fingers on the black nylon seat. The seat was damp, so was pretty much everything else in the vehicle. The stagnant, humid smell was overwhelming. “The traffic always this bad?” asked Karyn.
“Monsoon is a special time,” answered the police driver in a thick accent, “the whole world goes straight to hell, but in answer to your question—no, it is not always this bad—sometimes it is worse.”
“The traffic reminds me of Los Angeles,” replied Karyn. “But the weather is like nothing else I have seen, not even in Seattle, and that is saying something.”
The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror; smiled, nodded, and turned back to the stationary traffic. He didn’t have the slightest clue what she was talking about.
Karyn turned to Jack Senegar. He had been talking into his phone and sending emails nonstop since they had landed. He glanced at her, unperturbed. His hard grey eyes hidden behind impenetrable aviator shades.
“We got everyone in the Eastern division working to field this one—the whole shooting match from the State Department to NCS. Our friends in the Navy too.” He shot another look at Karyn his gaze lingering this time.
She knew precisely what he meant. If he was talking to the Navy, he had been talking to Admiral William Arthur Kane, or ‘the Wacker’ as he was known amongst the enlisted men. The admiral was a high-rearing sonofabitch based in Norfolk Virginia. He was a man so deeply respected and feared in government circles that he had been promoted to the very top role in the United States Navy. Maybe the president figured that if the old goat was sailing a desk, he couldn’t get in to any more trouble. That plan wasn’t working out too well. The admiral was a ballsy man of action, forged in the image of his personal hero Dwight D. Eisenhower. He was also one of Jack Senegar’s oldest friends and between them they were the two most powerful men in America. It was a connection that Karyn was none to happy about, because besides being a ruthless son of a bitch, the admiral also happened to be her father. Karyn didn’t much like her father. He had walked out on his family in favor of his career. He was a cold-hearted son of a bitch and they had been estranged since her days at the Naval Academy. She wasn’t looking to forge reconciliation any time soon. Karyn turned to the window stared at the rainwater as it thundered against the side of the vehicle. “What exactly have you been talking to my father about?” Jack lounged back in his seat. As she stared, he finally turned to look at her.
“We have ourselves a game plan, that’s all you need to know.”
“Non sibi sed patriae?”
“Yeah, something like that. Joint Special Operations Command are flying with us too, every player you can think of up to and including the Pennsylvania Avenue crew.”
Karyn paused, nodded slowly. “There are more than 20 million people in this city, what sort of chance do you think we have?”
“We have no kind of chance at all Kane, you know that as well as I do. But that ain’t going to stop us from trying.” The traffic started moving again a slow crawl at first, then came the sound of surface water rising up beneath the vehicle as their speed began to build. A grey haze of road spray rose up, as they forged through the rush hour traffic. They were deep within the bosom of the city now. Mumbai was a vast labyrinth, canyon after canyon of office towers rising out of the rain and mist, their blank windows glowing gold with the rhythm of industry. Karyn felt a surge of adrenalin rising with in her. Every one of the people, behind every one of the windows were depending on her. Faz Huq’s fanatics would not hesitate to destroy this sacred place—millions of ordinary people struggling to provide for their families. There was no big idea here, Mumbai was just like every other city in the world, a seething mass of humanity—complex, flawed, eternally diverse, struggling to make it through the workday, so they could go home to the ones they loved. The device would put an end to all of that. It would bring everything to a standstill.
Suddenly it all made sense.
That’s what the terrorists wanted.
Their hatred exceeded everything, even the need to propagate their own twisted ideology. If mankind would not bow to their demands, then mankind would be destroyed—all hopes, dreams and expectations would be snatched away in seconds, replaced with despair and an endless boiling hatred that stretched beyond the horizons of time.
Frustration and anger surged within her. Karyn bashed the edge of her fist hard against the door of the police car. Senegar didn’t move, didn’t even look around. But she felt the driver’s eyes upon her, staring at her through the rearview mirror. Their eyes met. He quickly looked away. They were pulling into the grounds of The Maharashtra Police building now, Headquarters of Arjun Anish the Mumbai Commissioner of Police. The building was a 19th Century Gothic affair, so quintessentially British it looked out of place—a modern day memory of the colonial past. Karyn almost shuddered—the place looked austere and threatening, like a haunted mansion.
A white-gloved flunky dashed to open their door.
The humidity swamped them.
Rain bounced knee high on the sidewalk.
More flunkies rushed forward with umbrellas.
Karyn stared into the wide-eyed faces, thinking only of what the future would hold for these smiling young men, so anxious to offer a courtesy to total strangers in the filthiest weather imaginable. She thanked them and refused their assistance. They only smiled wider and helped her anyway. The welcoming party attempted small talk in broken English. She thanked them in Mumbaiya Hindi—told them the man with the wooden face would give them a tip if they wanted. Both of them looked at Jack Senegar and smiled ever wider.
Senegar stepped out of the Jeep in his immaculate suit and said, “If you lobby jackals want a tip you can bring the bags in too.”
The guys with the umbrella’s laughed then and showed their guests inside.
They wouldn’t accept a tip of course. That would be unthinkable.
Across the street, parked up next to a battered newsstand, the shabby air-conditioning van with the snowflake logo idled at the kerb. The man with black eyes sat behind the wheel watching, his gaze cold and malevolent.
27
Mumbai, India
“Operation Fishbowl.”
Police Commissioner Arjun Anish sat behind his desk and looked puzzled. He had been staring at Karyn’s brown, athletic legs for some time; perhaps thinking she wouldn’t notice, but his lustful fascination was hard to hide. He gave her a bright flustered look and said, “You Americans never cease to impress me with your secret code names. I am a big fan of the Hollywood movies naturally, but never have I heard of such a thing.”
Karyn stood by the window looking out into the pour
ing rain. She turned and looked at the men sitting in the room—Commissioner Anish, leaning across his desk, whilst Jack Senegar and Pranav Shaurya head of the Maharashtra Police Anti Terror Section sat beside him in a military style uniform. They all stared at her expectantly.
“Operation Fishbowl,” repeated Karyn. “It is how we know the science behind electro-magnetic pulse weapons.”
The Commissioner drummed his fingers nervously and shot a look at Pranav Shaurya. The head of ATS puffed himself up, like he had heard it all before, but couldn’t wait to hear it again, just so he could chime in and show off his own expertise in front of the Commissioner.
Karyn didn’t miss a beat, when it came to talking explosives she knew her stuff. “In the early 1960s the United States Military carried out a series of high altitude nuclear tests. And when I say high I am talking 250 miles above the earth. Those tests were codenamed Operation Fishbowl.”
“That is outer space.” Interjected Pranav Shaurya.
Karyn nodded. “You got it. Earth’s atmosphere ends about sixty miles up.
Commissioner Anish frowned. “Very interesting Ms. Kane, but you will excuse my confusion. You said that this device the terrorists have is an electronic pulse weapon powered by explosives?”
Karyn nodded. “Our knowledge of EMP weapons is founded on the Operation Fishbowl tests. Electromagnetic surges are a characteristic of nuclear explosions, but they can also be created using high-energy military grade explosives.”
Commissioner Anish raised his bone china teacup to his lips and slurped noisily, his ample moustache lapping at the edge of the cup. “These tests your government conducted—they were a very long time ago.”
“Yes, and with very low yield nuclear warheads, around 1.4 megatons in size. Current warheads are over 70 megatons. But a blast using modern battlefield explosives and a modulated neutron initiator, to ensure millisecond timing, will be able to recreate an EMP event of a similar magnitude.”
“A nuclear blast with conventional explosives, I have never heard of such a thing,” scoffed Pranav Shaurya. He gave Karyn a thin, patronizing look. “We here in India have our very own nuclear program Ms. Kane. I can assure you we are fully conversant in the use of nuclear weapons and while your concern is greatly appreciated…”
“What kind of damage can these weapons do?” interrupted the Commissioner, his teacup hovering over his gilt edged saucer.
Karyn held Pranav Shaurya’s gaze for a frigid moment, and then turned back to the Commissioner. “The 1960s tests above the Pacific created an electromagnetic surge that turned every communications satellite in low earth orbit into space junk—we are talking hundreds of millions of dollars of wrecked hardware. But the surge also hit earth, it knocked out the electrical grid all over Hawaii—fifteen hundred miles from the blast site.”
Jack Senegar replaced his teacup on its saucer and said, “In 1960 there were virtually no computers, no Internet and no cell phones. An EMP explosion today would fry every electrical device and microprocessor that the surge came into contact with. It would destroy critical infra structure—the power grid, transportation networks—business systems. This weapon will turn off every light and power socket in the city for months, maybe even years.
Pranav Shaurya rattled his cup into his saucer and placed it on the Commissioners desk with unsteady hands. “Are you saying this nuclear powered bomb will destroy the city?”
“This is no normal nuclear weapon, this is a sub-nuclear EMP weapon. A high altitude EMP blast powered by a nuclear weapon could take out the electronic infrastructure across an entire continent. What we are talking about here is a blast, triggered by a polonium initiator and D-38 explosives. The initial explosion would be enough to bring down a large building. But the explosion would trigger a vast millisecond pulse of electromagnetic radiation that would cause carnage with electrical systems.” He paused then added, “But that’s not all. The nuclear materials used in the initiation would create a lethal radioactive cloud that would contaminate an area several blocks in size.”
“Radioactivity? But you said this weapon was non nuclear,” blurted the Commissioner.
“Sub-nuclear. The effectiveness of the explosion is magnified by the use of the modulated neutron initiator. The depleted uranium in the explosives is not crucial to the detonation; it merely increases the lethality of the weapon. What we are dealing with here is a new kind of dirty bomb. The kind of weapon that can kill a city.”
There was silence around the table for several seconds. Finally the Commissioner spoke “What the hell can we do to stop this?”
“Unfortunately nothing. Our intelligence tells us that this device is here in your city already.”
“Then we will find it,” said Pranav Shaurya his voice hard with determination. “These terrorist jackals have attacked us before, and they will attack us again. But they will never defeat us.” No one spoke then. The room was filled with the sound of the savage monsoon rain beating hard against the windows of the Commissioners office.
28
World One Tower, Mumbai, India
An intervention. There had to be an intervention, it really was the only solution. It was a mater of love of course. The girl had to be saved from her self. Just as one would save a drug addict or inveterate drinker—sinners, mired in their own moral turpitude could also be saved. Ranjit Madhuri slid the security card into the elevator control panel and pressed the secret code for the penthouse suite. His parents had provided the entry codes and key card. They were concerned for the welfare of their youngest daughter, and well they might be, for she was acting like a common whore, parading semi-naked in public, and indulging in night after night of debauchery with her celebrity friends. It was sickening, unacceptable. She had to be stopped and that was the end of it. She wouldn’t like it of course, but her views hardly mattered; she was the youngest member of the family, a vulnerable young girl who needed to be taught the error of her ways. Firm governance was what the girl needed. Ranjit eschewed violence wherever possible, but in his sisters case he knew for certain that a strong hand would be needed to bring her into line. It had always been this way, ever since she had been a child.
“She won’t like this, you know that don’t you?” Mena Madhuri stood next to her brother in the lift. She wasn’t a tall woman but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in width. She primped her flamboyant tresses, reflected in the smoked elevator mirrors then looked at her brother. “Do you hear me?”
“I hardly care what that little bitch likes or doesn’t like. It is time she did as she was damned well told.”
Mena Madhuri pulled a sour face, “And you think this will work, where all your other schemes to keep her in line have failed?”
“I won’t have to keep her in line, not any more. That will be the job of her new husband—that is the beauty of this whole idea.”
“That poisonous little dyke will never marry anyone Ranjit. I am sure that even a scheming little shit like you can see that.”
Ranjit Madhuri turned quickly towards his sister, his eyes widening with anger. He paused, gave her a sly smile and said, “Self-serving career girl that she is, she will see that it is in her interests to obey the wisdom of her elders, and given time, she will no doubt claim the whole enterprise as her own idea. I know how her mind works Mena—she is volatile, unstable, but she is also greedy for her own self interest…”
“And you are not?” snorted Mena.
“How dare you! I care about the honor of our family over anything else, do you hear me?”
Mena gave a nasty laugh. “Oh, I hear you Ranjit, I hear you talking big and holy when all you are really interested in is getting your dirty hands on that little bitches money. Well, don’t think you are going to get away with it.”
Ranjit Madhuri reached across the lift and grasped his sister’s face, his fingers, pressing in hard on her pudgy flesh. “You will do well to remember who is running this family Mena—who will continue to run this fam
ily after our dear, aged parents depart for the afterlife.”
Mena Madhuri squealed in pain, “If my husband could see you Ranjit, then you would be sorry.”
He squeezed her face harder, smearing her makeup. “Your husband is a maggot, a parasite. I could crush him and your cozy little lawyer life, with one phone call and well you know it.”
She slapped his hand away then, or at least tried to. He gave her face one last squeeze and shoved her. She staggered back gasping. He looked at her; a thin sneer twisting across is mouth. “You will play your part Meena. You will do as you are told and you will remember your place.
As the lift traveled upwards, an awkward silence closed in around the warring siblings. Mena Madhuri pouted and stroked her burning cheek. She hated her brother more than anything in the whole world. He was cruel and vicious, always had been. But now, he was more dangerous than ever. Very soon, he would be the state governor of Maharashtra province; there was no doubt that would happen, every opinion poll for the autumn elections was running his way. But, the drug of high power demanded money and lots of it. Mena almost felt like crying. Ranjit had powerful, dangerous friends. Once he made governor, there would be no stopping him. He was capable of anything, even…
The lift doors swooshed open.
The view was astounding.
An endless storm ravaged panorama stretching away on every side.
Ranjit strode forward into the apartment. He headed straight for the nightclub-sized bar and fixed himself a drink—an oversized Scotch.
Mena lingered by the lift, fighting the urge to flee. She hated this place. It gave her vertigo. How many miles high were they? Too high. If Shiva had intended humankind to live this way, then surely he would have given them wings? Meena swallowed down her fear and tottered forwards on her vertiginous heels. The rain battering against the windows on every side, served only to increase her anxiety. She felt sick, light-headed, as though she was trapped in the middle of a swirling vortex with the entire world spinning around her in judgment.
