by Tony Bulmer
The creep spat blood and let out a cackle of pleasure. “It is too late American. You have been outwitted. The whole world will know of your imperialist assault against Islam. The peoples of the Ummah will rise up and put your heathen lives to the sword.”
“Where is the bomb?” asked Karyn her voice hard and deadly.
The creep’s eyes bugged wide with surprise. “Cursed whore of Azazel. A woman?”
Karyn double slapped him forehand, then backhand. He gasped, spat more blood then stared at her wide-eyed and defiant. “Hell awaits the enemies of Islam bitch. You will be destroyed by the weakness of your impiety. You have been outwitted—by the sacred will of Allah himself!”
He had something in his hand, a remote keypad so tiny she hadn’t seen it at first. She grabbed the man’s wrist, choking him off with her elbow as she lunged for the device—too late. He pulled away from her, raised his hand high and pressed a button.
The explosion came almost instantaneously, melding with a blinding flash that cut the night like lightning. The staggering power of the blast wave tossed Karyn backwards across the bridge gantry, crushing her hard against the ship’s steel superstructure. The dazed seconds froze, as the very stars themselves came tumbling from the sky. The clouds melted in a fountain of molten colors. It was terrifying, beautiful—beyond the understanding of Karyn’ dazed mind.
But then, as the wave of consciousness returned, flooding her body with energy, Karyn realized that the burning stars were actually steel shipping containers, tossed high in the air like Fourth of July fireworks.
A furnace heat burned her flesh, as the massive force of the explosion tore out the belly of the ship. The concussive power sucked the very breath from her lungs. Shrapnel rained from the sky. Flames rose from a giant gaping wound in the very heart of the ship. In the middle of this black and lonely ocean, hell had arrived—it was here—now.
Karyn shielded her face in a futile gesture. She rolled over, came face to face with creepy helmet-cam guy. He staggered towards her a big-bladed knife clutched in a 6-o’clock stabbing position. Karyn edged back, and popped her SIG from her Velcro chest holster. She brought it to bear. The dude kept coming, a slack-zombified expression spread across his face. She sighted him right between the eyes, and fingered the trigger. Before she took a shot, her attacker sagged to his knees then toppled forwards, a jagged hunk of steel shrapnel protruding from his back.
Karyn gave a snort, “Just in time for the fast train to Hades sucker.”
She turned, rolled over and crawled inside the ships devastated wheelhouse. The power of the explosion had buckled the entire superstructure inwards. Every reinforced window had been smashed out. Bodies, glass, and steel shards littered every inch of deck.
In the midst of the carnage, Flint Jackson lay, on thick carpet of broken glass, his head a dark sticky mess. He looked dead. Karyn crawled across the floor towards him and whispered. “They knew we were coming.”
A hellish groan shuddered through the entire ship. The sound of tortured metal twisting under the pressure of unimaginable forces. Reaching out for Flint Jackson, Karyn felt herself sliding backwards, as though some giant unseen had was pulling her away from the injured man. The ship was listing into a death roll, its massive hull flooding with millions of gallons of raging seawater. The bow was dipping too, heading below the black swell of the depthless ocean. Very soon, the swirling waters of the Arabian Sea would swallow the ship completely.
49
Hells Kitchen, New York City
Erin grabbed a yellow cab on the corner of 45th street and 9th right by the Southern BBQ stand. The cabbie was a weedy looking South Asian dude with a thick reedy accent and drooping eyes that made him look like he was on prescription meds—or worse. Erin gave him a hard, disapproving look that announced she wasn’t about to take nonsense from anyone, least of all some scrawny shyster in a Jap branded rape-o-wagon.
“The Rock and make it fast. None of your scenic-route tourist bullshit, you hear me?”
The cabbie opened his mouth and stared at her, his lazy eyes ogling her breasts for a moment longer than was polite or reasonable.
Erin slid on to the back seat and tapped on the glass. Put the pedal to the metal buddy, I got a fat-fifty waiting if you make time. That sound like a deal to you?”
The cabbie was staring in the rearview, his mouth still hanging wide. He had an annoying wispy moustache crawling under his nose and a top-lip that rose wetly above his glistening gums. He pointed at the mirror with a shaky little hand. “I know you lady.”
Erin rolled her eyes skywards. “You are sweet for even mentioning it, but I got myself a full-agenda of bullshit problems to attend to and no time to shoot the breeze, so why don’t you slip this baby into gear?”
The whining voice amped-up a semitone. “I listen to your show. I am a big fan. I like it the way you stick it to those big money assholes, that stuff is real funny. You should have yourself your own show, you know that?”
Erin rooted through her purse for her cell phone. “You are very kind. I will give that serious consideration, now just drive would you?”
“Sure thing lady. What ever you want. I am your biggest fan, real big. Every day I listen to that show of yours, you and that Helman guy. He’s a real piece of work, am I right?”
“Something like that.” Erin pulled her phone from her purse and speed dialed the studio, to let them know she was on the way. The seat back video screen was, cycling through the rolling news headlines. More pictures of Irving King fighting his way through the media melee outside the Fedwire building—aerial shots of the devastation in Mumbai and a wordless interview with lubricious young twenty-something. The bottom third banner headline scrolled by: Bollywood star Yolanda Madhuri survives the massacre in Mumbai.
The taxi driver was oblivious. His mind was busy with the thousand questions he could ask his celebrity fare. At last he said, “Those things Helman says. Does he really believe that stuff, or is he just talking?”
Erin flipped through her incoming messages, her fingers working frantically. There were hundreds of incoming emails and the text tone was trilling every second. The deluge was almost impossible to manage. She heard the cabbie talking, but her mind was disconnected from his actual words. All around them, the early morning traffic was gridlocked into the cross-town distance. Erin pounded keys on her cell—every line to the studio was engaged, even The Hudster’s private line.
“So which is it? Is he for real or not?” blurted the cabbie, oblivious to anything but his own insatiable curiosity.
Erin wasn’t listening. Her day had barely begun, but already it was going from bad to worse. She wrestled with her phone, trying to reach someone, anyone who could help her make sense of the news day apocalypse that was unfolding around her, but Helman was still engaged—the studio too. Meanwhile, a breaking news event was unfolding on the seatback video screen. There were pictures of a giant aircraft carrier, juxtaposed with a melee of angry brown faces and burning American flags. Erin’s manicured fingers hovered over the cell phone keypad as the bottom banner headline scrolled past from the video news feed: Act of War in the Arabian Sea. America sinks Pakistani super-freighter in International waters.
Erin let loose an expletive.
The cabbie swiveled fast in his seat, “What you say?”
“I say we got a war coming. So why don’t you turn around and hit the gas, because you ask me even one more dumb-assed question, I am liable to climb up front and drive myself.”
The cabbie stared at her slack-jawed, his brow twisting with indignation. He squinted fearfully into Erin’s dark implacable eyes and saw she meant business. He turned around quick and sent the cab surging forwards with a maneuver that had every horn in the street blaring wildly.
50
The Arabian Sea, 235 nautical miles west of India
The flames were raging out of control, consuming everything in their path. With the flames came thick clouds of black smoke that rose into
the night sky, hampering the rescue helicopters.
The Maharashtra was listing at a crazy angle. The powerful explosion had blown away not only the side of the ship, but a large part of the deck as well. Now, the port side was slipping deeper into the black ocean with every passing second. The raging water flooded inside the vast hold, filling it with frightening speed. The giant ship, once so powerful and invulnerable, slewed downwards ever more violently. Inside the hold, unimaginable forces took hold of the ships vast superstructure. The surging water compressing trapped air against the undamaged side of the hull. As the pressure built, bulkheads bent like cardboard, steel beams buckled and rivets popped like bullets.
The vast length of the Maharashtra was now working to seal its own inexorable demise. Ever so gradually, the ship began to bend, as the freight still trapped inside the hull shifted off kilter. Thousands of air-filled shipping containers filled the churning waters inside the hold; they bobbed and surged, battering wildly against each other as they attempted to force their way out of their steel prison.
In the chaos of the Maharashtra’s bridge, Karyn stood against a floor that had once been a wall. The ship was sinking so fast now that chunks of glass and metal were raining past her on all sides. She grabbed Detroit Jackson by the collar and backhanded him across the face. “Wake up damn you, it’s time to get the hell out of here, or we’ll both be riding this tub all the way to the ocean floor. You hear me Jackson? Move your fat ass soldier and that’s an order.”
Detroit Jackson opened one eye and squinted at her. “You got Navy manners Kane, anyone ever tell you that?”
“All the time. So what you want to do? Lay there all day like some sick bay commando? Or are we going to ship out of here quick-style? Because I am not in the mood for a swim, let me tell you.”
Detroit Jackson frowned harder, his bloodied face illuminated by the light of the rising flames. “I ain’t going no place without my guys. We came in together, we leave together, and that’s just the way it is.”
The ship groaned and juddered and listed still further. Outside, in the endless night, the thrum of powerful rotor blades sounded out through the chaos.
Karyn jacked her thumb to the heavens. “You hear that dumb-ass? That is the sound of the cavalry riding in from the skies. Now, you can sit here whining, or I can drag you out under protest. Either way you get a crack in the mouth for wasting my time. Now what’s it going to be?”
Detroit grinned wide. “You got a third option Jayne Wayne?”
Karyn held out her hand and said, “I sure do, but I can guarantee you are going to like that even less. He grabbed her hand then and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. They climbed up together, through the doorway that was rapidly becoming a hatch in the ceiling and moved out on to the uppermost side of the sinking ship. The Navy Seahawks had closed in around the sinking hulk. All along the port side, they were engaged in airlifting men to safety.
The downwash of the thrumming rotor blades fanned the rising flames, as they consumed everything above the waterline. Even though the ship was listing badly now, the bridge was at least ten stories above the dark and swirling ocean. It was a long way down, a real long way. If by some misfortune they had to jump for it, it was unlikely a man in Detroit Jackson’s condition would make it. The sea would pull him under in seconds. Savage currents created by the sinking ship would batter him against the hull, then tow his lifeless body deep into the airless world below. Karyn moved in close to him, caught a firm hold of his rappelling harness and steadied him against side of the slick metal gantry. It took several minutes for the Navy searchlights to pinpoint their position, but once they did, one of the giant roaring Seahawks drifted effortlessly overhead and sent a rappelling line down to meet them. The line drifted wildly in the downwash maelstrom, spinning frustratingly close, yet out of reach; but the Navy crew were experts at this kind of maneuver and they adjusted their approach very quickly, creating a brief pocket of dead air. Karyn watched the line, as it lashed in from the wild darkness beyond the reach of the searchlight. She snatched it and clipped it onto Detroit Jackson’s harness in one fluid motion.
His eyes grew wide with alarm, “Hey, what about you? Are you crazy or something? You haven’t got a harness.”
“I don’t need one,” shouted Karyn, her voice consumed by the power of the pounding rotor blades. Detroit Jackson had no time to respond, because that very second Karyn gave the signal and the helicopter roared upwards. At the very last instant she grabbed his shoulders in a furious bear hug and scissored her legs around his waist.
He made a choking noise, as they swung high into the night air. There was no room for error now, it was night; they were flying high across the middle of the Arabian ocean and there was no safety net of any kind. One slip, one mistake, and death would be the only certainty.
“You aren’t straight-crazy, you are insane,” shouted Detroit Jackson in her ear.
“Will you quit your yakking? I am trying to concentrate on the view.”
“No shit. You are lucky I don’t date Navy types, or you would have to buy me a drink. In fact, you get any closer, you might have to anyway.”
She tightened her legs around his waist. “Don’t get any big ideas tough-stuff. You are just one short squeeze away from being a paraplegic.”
“You need to ease back on the Navy manners Kane, it’s a real turn off.”
As the helicopter rose up over the ocean, the winch line was getting shorter. Finally, as the minutes stretched into an eternity, the Navy aircrew winched in the line and pulled them aboard the aircraft.
Detroit Jackson stepped back, brushed himself down and said, “At least we got the EMP bomb.”
Karyn didn’t respond right away. She looked down at the burning hulk of the Maharashtra and said. That was no EMP bomb. A pulse weapon would have knocked the helicopters right out of the sky. That explosion was something else entirely.
51
Villa of General Faz Huq, Islamabad, Pakistan
The general was sitting in his study when he received the news on his widescreen video link. Images of the sinking Maharashtra, narrated by stout-hearted Islamic patriots. The general could barely contain his exuberance. The gambit had played out just as he had anticipated. Those dreary Americans were so predictable. They thought they were the most powerful military force in the world; when really it was that perceived omnipotence that made them weak and vulnerable to the machinations of the higher mind. The general watched the shaky camera footage of the seaborne assault and clapped his hands in delight. The effect was even better than he had hoped for. The Americans were living up to their well-deserved reputation for the oppression and brutalization of Muslims. This incendiary event would set fires of outrage raging throughout the Islamic world.
The general sat back on his gilt throne and lit a cigarette. Bringing pain to the Americans was one of the most satisfying pleasures in life. He drew a breath of luxuriant smoke and contemplated his success. How soon the vile American empire of greed and oppression would be crushed, just as surely as the empire of the filthy British had been crushed before it. The long wait was almost over. The final victory would soon be here—a new world order emerging out of the shattered relics of the old. The general beamed with pleasure. There would be vast profits to be made in this new future. He would live like a maharajah—a new emperor of the east—his cowering enemies put to the sword, and all others paying tribute at his feet.
As he considered his great victory over the Americans, the general enjoyed his cigarette and drank in the satisfaction of his surroundings. The study was by far his most favorite room in the house. The decor was quite magnificent, a product of the most fashionable and effete interior decorators that Europe could provide. They had decked out his little cave of indulgence in a sumptuous, and unashamedly grandiose Post-Colonial style. Hunting guns and animal heads, featured heavily. The collection included several roaring tigers, two rhinos and full-size elephant head above the fireplace. He had
wanted an Asian elephant as a sign of his omnipotence. But the decorators had brought him several samples and he had been forced to reject them all. As it turned out, the Asian elephant made a very poor wall trophy when compared to the far larger and more impressive African elephant.
As the general sat back on his gilt throne smoking his cigarette and admiring the imposing size of the giant elephant head, there came a knock at the door.
On command, his white-gloved valet entered the room and offered the general a telephone, partially wrapped, in a crisp white-linen napkin. Faz-Huq picked up the phone. “Ah, Prime Minister, how wonderful to hear from you again and so soon. How can I be of assistance on this very fine evening?”
Kalam Khan, Prime Minister of Pakistan, was not a happy man and he let his feelings be known right away. “Have you seen this outrage—a most cowardly attack on a ship, sailing under the protected flag of our great nation. The people will not stand for it General. I swear they will not.”
The general made sympathetic noises.
“They will blame me of course. The citizens will be baying for my blood.”
The general could hardly keep his face straight. It was as he had planned it all along.
“We are a proud nation of great strength and wise leadership Prime Minister. It is no surprise to me that those American dogs should attack us in this way. They seek to cow and humiliate us before the entire world.” Faz Huq took a drag on his cigarette and examined his nails. “If only you had given ear to my counsel, much earlier. Have I not warned for years that just such an event would happen?”
“Indeed you have General, but I never imagined that their ruthless and cynical foreign policy could stoop to such a nadir. Bombing our Indian friends and blaming us, it is outrageous! We will see what the United Nations have to say about these unconscionable acts of state organized terrorism.”
