Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  In the centre of the cavern stood a line of twelve dark figures. Julian could sense their malevolence without a word being spoken. He realised then, in his opium-addled brain, that evil had a smell, as well as substance. Cackling laughter echoed off stone.

  One of the figures left the others and stood in front of him. His vision had improved still further and he could see her clearly. She stood barely five feet tall, and her face was heavily tattooed, one of her front teeth missing.

  ‘Stand, boy, or are you frightened of an old woman?’

  Julian’s legs wobbled like they were filled with cartilage, not bone, and he stood slowly.

  The old woman did not look at him, but stared steadfastly at the ground as she spoke. He remembered Mu’s words: you can tell a witch, because when you look in her eyes, your reflection will be upside down — she knows this, so a witch will never look you in the eye …

  But of course, he reasoned, the woman was not real. Mu had said so. There was no need to be afraid.

  Julian grabbed her head, one hand on either side of her jaw, and forced her chin upwards. Looking into her eyes, the reflection of his thin frame was reversed, his head seemingly touching the ground.

  ‘You’re a witch,’ he accused, but she merely cackled and moved back to the others.

  Their ranks parted. A young woman walked through, emanating a pale light. Her arms were parted in an angel-like gesture.

  Leisel.

  Julian stared, wanting it to be her. Really her, and not the opium, not this place in his subconscious brain or wherever it was.

  Warmth filled him. The witches stepped back, allowing him to get close. Leisel’s body was achingly familiar — the curve where her waist flared to her hips.

  ‘Oh God, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I missed you too, Julian. Have you redeemed yourself?’

  ‘Not yet. But I will, I promise.’

  Her face was, if anything, even more lovely than before, her hair perfect. Eyes half closed, dreamily she murmured, ‘I’ve got everything organised. We can leave here by a special way that I know — run away and be together always. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  Julian knew that Mu had said something that would help him now, but the words had slipped into his subconscious. He had to dig deep to find them.

  Each person is tempted with what they desire most, and some do not survive. It seemed ludicrous. Why would Leisel want to hurt him?

  ‘You don’t have a lisp any more, it’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Death has its advantages.’

  Julian ran his hand through her hair. The blood in his veins felt hot, his breath like steam.

  The witches formed a ring around them, chanting musically. The tune was unmistakeably Burmese, yet the words English.

  You must redeem what you have done,

  The girl you lost has been reborn,

  Take her now, forever one.

  He moved his head closer to her, burrowing his lips into the soft valley of her neck. He always loved the freshness of her hair. The clean scent of it. Now, however, he pulled back, repulsed.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ he asked.

  ‘What smell?’

  He drew his head back and looked down on her. Her robe fell open, and he saw deep bloody rents that oozed corruption from beneath. Stab wounds.

  ‘Please. Look at me, Leisel.’

  She lifted her face, but her eyes remained stubbornly shut. The hairs of her eyebrows were too perfect, painted on. Julian tried to pry her eyelids apart.

  He saw his reflection upside down, suspended as if from a hangman’s noose.

  The circle of chanting witches drew closer.

  You must redeem what you have done,

  The girl you lost has been reborn,

  Take her now, forever one.

  Her voice changed, hissing. ‘Come with me. Live with me. We’ll be together always.’

  The witches altered their cry. Come with me, Julian. Live with me, Julian.

  Her hand fell to his forearm. Gripped it. He looked down, saw the bony fingers and long nails. Felt them bite into his flesh.

  Some do not survive …

  Droplets of blood trickled along his arm, down towards the earth. Yet still his other arm was around her shoulder, touching her hair.

  ‘Come with me, Julian. All I want to do is love you.’

  Come with me, Julian. Love me, Julian.

  It took all of Julian’s strength to stand and drag his bleeding arm from her grip.

  ‘Get away,’ he screamed, and even the witches drew back. He saw Leisel change, the youthful skin fold and dry, the lips open to show broken and blackened fangs.

  Julian pushed at the nearest of the witches, breaking the circle, and ran to the side of the cavern, looking for a way out, chest heaving. He heard a shriek, turned back to see the witch who had been Leisel standing, screaming with rage.

  The witch detached her still shrieking head from her body, lifted it from her neck, drew back her arm and bowled the dismembered head towards him like a cannonball.

  The other witches were shrieking also, then, following suit, they also removed their heads and bowled them towards him. Others took to the air, flying, arms and legs spread, hanging in the air like sheets on a clothesline. Silent. Only the tattooed, rolling heads made a sound, cackling and screaming.

  Julian ran around the perimeter, dodging heads, on legs fuelled by terror, his nostrils filled with the stench of death and evil. Finally the stone walls opened up into a narrow tunnel heading away from the cavern, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Even now, sitting in the aircraft seat, Julian finds that his palms have dampened at the memory. That was not the end of it, in any case, but just the first stage in an experience that became a nightmare. The Opening of the Eyes was indeed dangerous — life threatening.

  Even as he’d sprinted away, things came from the sides of the tunnel to taunt and alarm him. Nats. Spirits. Ghosts. The souls of the dead that are known locally as tasei, or others that have been reborn into a lowly spirit state due to evils committed in past lives.

  The walls of the tunnel were lined with shrines and carvings that in the near darkness presented as silhouettes of gorgon-like clarity. The other beings — the living — crept from cracks and holes along the way, screaming at him in languages long forgotten.

  They are not real, he told himself. Mu said that they are not real.

  Around the campfire Mu had described Burmese ghosts in a whispered voice at length — how they were almost black, seven feet tall, and fed on the flesh of corpses. Now and then one appeared to block his way, and he was forced to dodge and step like a rugby player. Despite their long arms, the ghosts were slow to move.

  On one occasion he escaped by such a bare margin that he was close enough to see the elephantine ears, snake tongue and lion teeth. The breath was fetid. Panic filled him, and he ran on, brushed by snakelike arms as he passed, opening his mouth and letting his terror fly in a scream that had no end.

  Then, without warning, he entered a cavern glowing red with fire. A stalactite-filled balcony looked down on a vast space below. Julian stopped running, his breathing slowly returning to normal. This was the view, he realised, of a god or higher being. Down below was a re-creation of the world itself. The familiar shapes of the continents and oceans, but the form had changed. He tried to rationalise it. A model? A fortuitous representation, or again, just a manifestation of the drug he was given?

  The earth, he saw at once, was not mere soil, water, stone and wood, but a living creature. Each city — London, New York, Tokyo, Beijing, Rio — was a vital organ, connected by blood vessels, sea and air lanes, highways, arteries. He scarcely drew breath in case that vision disappeared, a vision so startling that he wanted to savour the process of understanding it before his opium-addled brain snatched it away.

  Minutes passed while he stared at that living map of the earth. The red glow of a heart, liver, kidneys, brain, blood
vessels, all luminous with life. Above it all shone a huge and benevolent light. The sun. The warmth and power that drives the system.

  Julian realised that he was no longer alone. A man entered the cavern, wearing nothing but a longyi tied around his waist. His face was lined deeply, his eyes tight slits.

  ‘Can you see, Julian?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t understand. What is it?’

  ‘The planet earth is a living thing, with a heart, lifeblood.’

  ‘Then what are we?’

  ‘We, members of the human race, are creatures of the body. Blood cells, travelling the arteries of the city. Move closer, watch.’

  Up close to one of the great cities of the earth, Julian’s eyes bulged with wonder. Inside its limits were vast numbers of habitations, each with a boundary, a nucleus. Linking these was a network of roads, highways. Moving on those roads was a constant stream of people, on foot and in vehicles.

  ‘Arteries,’ said the voice, ‘and veins.’

  ‘But there is no liquid, nothing inside them — just people.’

  ‘The blood of life. Liquid, gas, solid, changes with external factors.’

  ‘So I am a cell?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘I don’t look or feel like one.’

  ‘Call it an avatar, a representation. You are an illusion. The cities of man are a construct. The earth is a vast living body. Move closer. Watch what happens.’

  Julian stepped as close as he dared. Now he could see that the organs and arteries of the body are not as healthy as he first thought. A tar-like blackness had been seeping into the arteries, and darkening the heart of the world. He can clearly see parts of the whole beginning to shut down.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cancer. The body is dying.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘War is cancer. The disease of the earth is terminal.’

  ‘Why the flood of blackness now?’

  ‘More weapons. Civil war. Violence. Too many weapons. War is cancer.’

  ‘Surely even the Zaw have weapons?’

  ‘No. The Zaw do not make weapons.’

  ‘What about a hammer, or an axe?’

  ‘A hammer can be used to kill someone, yes, but it is not a weapon. It’s a tool that can be used as a weapon.’

  Julian wakes with a gasp, the stewardess’s face smiling down at him.

  ‘You ordered a vegan dinner, sir?’

  ‘That’s right, thank you.’

  Julian closes the lid of the laptop and places it on the seat beside him. The power of the vision remains with him as he eats. He understands that everything he saw was a metaphor. But it was real to him.

  Mu, waiting for him outside the cavern entrance, said nothing at first, just gave Julian water. They walked in silence to their first night’s camp away from the Zaw, an open field beside the ruins of a stupa, bright with scattered primula flowers. When Julian woke from a deep sleep, curled up beside the campfire, Mu gave him some food and listened while Julian poured out his heart, trying to express the strength of the dream that had consumed him in the cavern.

  One morning, a week of hard travelling later, Mu did not wake. The cancer that wracked his body had taken his life. Julian buried him on a hillside and marked the grave with a bamboo cross.

  Then, tears rolling down his cheeks, he set off into the south, towards Yangon, an idea forming in his head. Using modern 3D graphics, CGI, high-definition video and Dolby sound, he would make the ‘Opening of the Eyes’ real to the world.

  Months of work later, he knows it is good. Special.

  Who could want violence after seeing what he has created?

  It is my gift, he says to himself, my redemption.

  FORTY-SIX

  RIVER THAMES

  LOCAL TIME: 1830

  Charles Houghton’s eyes are tired from scanning the sea. It seems that the Isra has gone. All day planes, surveillance drones and helicopters have crisscrossed the area, and he has steamed past every ship in the search zone.

  A weather front of black cumulonimbus clouds, having dumped constant rain in the early part of the day, moved north in the mid morning to produce a near-perfect summer’s day, but even this improvement did not bring results. The search has moved to other coastal areas, including Portsmouth, and as Charles expertly guides Valiant into her berth, using a burst of power from the bow thruster to straighten her, he feels the cold weight of failure on his shoulders.

  He had known in his gut that Captain Walid was up to something. His initial plan was for a full crew inspection, and he should have stuck with it. It was late, of course, and few captains like their vessel being boarded at night.

  The crew make Valiant’s lines fast to the bollards, and he shuts down all ship’s systems in strict order. The big diesel generators that provide electric power to drive the twin shafts are shut down last, and the ship falls silent.

  Charles lets the crew leave first, but finally he steps ashore, carrying his briefcase, and climbing the stairs to the office. Technically his shift ended at 1800 today, but he has office work to attend to, and is anxious for more insight into the events of the day, still not having the slightest idea why the Isra is being sought so desperately.

  The office is quiet, a couple of captains and desk jockeys hard at work, tapping keyboards and staring at screens. Charles heads down to Rex Davies, captain of Valiant’s sister ship, HMC Vigilant.

  ‘Hello, Rex.’

  The other captain swivels his chair to face him. ‘Charles, what about this damn Isra, eh?’

  ‘Yes, the frustrating thing is that I boarded her last night. They say she’s probably chugged around to Portsmouth, or taken off altogether. Do you know what she’s done to cause all this fuss?’

  ‘CONTEST are involved, so it’s something to do with terrorism.’

  Charles feels the word like a punch to the stomach. Terrorism, and he let it slip through his fingers. ‘A shame she’s gone. I would have liked to help find her.’

  ‘Anyway, I must keep at it. Lots of new arrivals today. I can’t believe this one — the forms look like they were filled out by a three year old with a crayon.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen an IMO FAL Form 5 filled out so carelessly in my entire career, and apparently half the crew have got jolly swine flu.’

  Charles narrows his eyes. ‘Swine flu? Let me have a look at those forms.’

  ‘Sure.’ Rex burrows through a pile of paperwork and hands a stack of pages across.

  The erratic script is terribly familiar. ‘There can’t be two ships’ captains in the whole world who write like that. That has to be him — the master of the Isra. What’s the name of the ship?’

  ‘Lucky Swan.’

  ‘I remember seeing it — yes, about the same length, but they’ve altered it, even got cargo on deck. That’s what they’ve done. How very, very clever.’

  Charles Houghton starts smiling for the first time that day as he walks briskly back to his desk to make a telephone call.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 2000

  After nineteen hours’ flight time, broken only by an hour in Dubai, the Gulfstream’s wheels touch the tarmac at Gatwick.

  PJ stands on the apron, balanced on his spread feet, burning with desire to see her. He had enough time at home for a couple of hours’ sleep and a shower. He feels good, ready for anything, and for now, nothing matters, just being together, for a short time at least.

  He is forced to wait behind a safety line, watching her come off the plane, walking with that loose-limbed, long-legged easy gait of hers, hair loose, and her eyes still sleepy from the plane.

  The moment she sees him, the change in her eyes sends a thrill through his body. They enlarge, and a smile cracks her lips. ‘Hey, PJ.’

  Wrapping her in his arms, weapon, kit and all, he hugs her as if he might never let go. Marika, amazed to see tears in his eyes, squeezes him tig
hter. Finally drawing back a little: ‘That’s quite a welcome, sir.’

  ‘You’re a crazy woman — taking out a pilot and grabbing a plane out of the air with an SAR winch. God, you could have crashed and burned.’

  Marika shakes her head, unable to speak, just holding him, realising that she is trembling.

  ‘My orders are to take you straight to your flat. Mossel’s giving you an hour there, then we’re off to Wattisham Air Base. Something’s happening, I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘OK, no problem. Time for a beer, anyway.’

  ‘You might want to hold off on the beer after I tell you what’s in store.’

  They wait while the rest of her kit is wheeled across on a trolley. PJ hefts it onto his shoulder and leads her out to the BMW.

  ‘It’s nice to have a friend with a luxury car,’ she smiles. ‘Makes me feel like I’m a bloody celebrity or something.’

  ‘Well you are, of course.’

  PJ concentrates on driving as they exit the car park and head towards the M23, where he stays in the middle lane, moving at a steady seventy-five miles an hour. Traffic is light. The radio is playing a twenty-year-old Radiohead song.

  ‘God,’ Marika says, ‘I’ve even missed your taste in music.’

  PJ reaches out and turns it off. ‘How well updated are you on what’s happened here?’

  ‘I’ve been keeping up to speed on the GU. Not for an hour or two though.’

  PJ talks as he drives, filling her in on the details. ‘Tom Mossel’s furious because the pollies stopped him from taking out the cluster drones when they had them cold.’

  ‘Yes — what if it missed and hit a bus, or a hotel? It’s not supposed to happen but it does.’

  ‘But how many people will die now because he didn’t?’

  ‘I know,’ Marika says. ‘Those kinds of decisions are never easy. So what’s the op?’

  ‘A freighter called the Isra, aka Lucky Swan. We believe that the stocks of anthrax and the cluster drones are all onboard. An op is in the pre-execution stage now.’