by TR Kohler
Even the sound of an alarm clock sliding atop wood, presumably as she checks to ensure that it really is as early as it feels.
More or less, an elongated version of what he went through minutes earlier. Things that he can’t rightly dispute, even if he has neither the time nor the interest for them at the moment.
“Are you serious...?” Tania opens.
A question that makes it no further before Mike jumps in and replies, “There’s been another bombing. General Motors, on the western edge of the city.”
Cutting off whatever thought Tania was in the midst of, the line goes silent for a moment. A brief instant followed by another loud exhalation. The sound of someone forcing neurons to begin firing anew as they climb from a deep slumber.
Also, just as Mike went through minutes earlier.
“Are you sure?” she eventually asks.
“Positive,” Mike says.
The call placed on speakerphone, he is perched on the side of the bed, lacing up his boots. Any grogginess he might have felt upon waking, gone by the time he finished the call with Kari Ma.
Any thought of trying to get a bit more sleep or returning to the files or anything other than getting his ass to General Motors, evaporated as well.
A trek that he had hoped would include Tania swinging by to get him in her silent vehicle, but given her current state, will likely need to involve another cab ride. Or even a long run if he needs to, each passing moment causing the concern within him to rise.
Fears over not only there being further damage, but in missing whatever information he might be able to glean from the site.
“How?” she asks, a question underscored by more covers ruffling. Feet hitting a hard surface.
Another groan sliding from her.
“The woman that hired me just called,” Mike replies. “Guess the people at GM called the embassy, who called back to the States, who then called her.
“A literal game of telephone playing out in under ten minutes.”
In response is the sound of running water. A faucet being kicked on, presumably for Tania to splash her face or brush her teeth.
Movements Mike hopes means she is already shaking off slumber and preparing to meet him.
“Walk me through it,” she says. “What do we know so far?”
“Aside from what I just told you?” Mike asks, rising from the side of the bed. “The few assumptions we did come to last night are dead ass wrong.”
Water continues running in the background. Added to it is the sound of teeth being brushed. A brief pause with Tania asking in a slightly fuzzy voice, “How so?”
“This time, they didn’t go out of their way to avoid people,” Mike says, voicing the thought that has been bouncing through his head since Ma first mentioned the time of the attack.
Striding from the bedroom out into the kitchen, he props the shoulder bag he carried yesterday up against a chairback. Dropping the phone down on the table, he shuffles most of the paperwork into a rough pile before stuffing it into the bag.
A haphazard collection of things with no thought to order. Bits of data that he may need later, that being far from the most important thing at the moment.
Spitting twice, Tania kicks the water off. A clear progression before she speaks again, her voice returning to its normal tone.
“General Motors,” she says. “That must be-”
“The biggest,” Mike confirms, finishing the thought.
“And at this time of day-”
“Assuming it matches the other two places I’ve been?” Mike inserts. “Day shift started a little over an hour ago. Roughly the exact time the bomb went off.”
Flipping the top down on the bag, Mike loops the strap up over his head. Flicking another glance to the clock on the stove, he runs the math, seeing eleven minutes have passed since Ma first called and woke him.
Time he doesn’t have.
“I guess it’s bad,” he adds. “Like, full-house-when-it-went-off bad.”
A comment that brings all sound on the other end of the line to a halt.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tania mutters.
“Yeah,” Mike agrees as he turns for the door. “I’m headed down to grab a cab now. Give me a call when you get close.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Where to?” the cabbie asks. Just two simple words that are so heavily accented, Mike suspects they might be on the outer reaches of his English proficiency.
An assumption that leads him to reply by simply extending a hand up between the front seats, pointing to the rising column of smoke in the distance.
“There.”
Pulling back just a few inches, Mike’s focus remains fixed on the smoke before him. The column of black that resembles an inverted funnel, narrow at the base before widening as it ascends.
The most common smoke pattern for a single blast point.
One that in just the last few minutes has widened tremendously, the base pushed outward until it now looks more like a trapezoid. A wide bottom with the top corners flaring slightly.
A configuration that hints at something much larger than just a solo device.
Another escalation in the progression that began at the Gatorade factory days ago.
“Fast,” Mike says, keeping his right hand wrapped around the headrest of the passenger seat. Using it to lever himself up between the front seats, he stares at the dark billows that continue to rise.
Plumes that almost swirl as they climb into the sky. A circular motion that hints of several smaller charges done in a timed approach. A deliberate ordering meant to create both the effect he is seeing and impart maximum damage.
A sight that manages to confirm some of what he and Tania were discussing the night before while obliterating the rest.
The only things he can now say with complete certainty being that there is no way any of this was done by mistake and that the targets are being picked with intention.
Beyond that, anything he can offer is nothing more than conjecture.
His chest pressed tight to the seatback of the passenger chair, Mike keeps his gaze on the smoke. A landmark that is plainly visible, even as they push straight across the city. Another aberration from the previous pattern, this site looking to be removed from the previous two. A spot that is not in the heart of Jakarta, but still much more urban.
A place where the damage will be magnified tremendously.
Both to the property and to the people that are no doubt clustered nearby.
Working as an Explosive Ordinance Disposal Specialist with the military, most of the scenes he was called to fit into one of two categories. On one hand were suspected explosives. The infamous IED’s that could be planted in a range of places, from buckets barely submerged in the soil to the body cavities of dead animals.
Anything that could be packed with explosives and survive basic scrutiny.
Most of the time, that meant he was brought onto a scene that was already evacuated. A barren building or empty street somewhere. Nothing but him maneuvering a remote device, or – more often – making the walk in the disposal suit.
A bulky, cumbersome piece of equipment that was completely unnecessary for someone like him, even if nobody he worked with realized it. Required camouflage to minimize suspicion, allowing him to keep getting the kind of access he needed to truly utilize his abilities.
Those granted through study and experience, as well as others given to him upon birth.
On the far opposite end of the spectrum were scenes like what he is on his way to see. A place where a device has already gone off and he is asked to go in and clear the area. Make sure no further danger exists before assessing what was left behind.
Study the site so as to better prepare moving forward. Any unique identifiers that might assign an incident to a particular party. Clues that friendlies should keep a watch for while out in the field.
Of the two, there was never a question about which Mike preferred. Even with the physic
al toll it took on him, dealing with the stress and anxiety and exhaustion. The physical abuse he endured while absorbing the occasional blast.
The endless questions that always accompanied them thereafter.
A choice he would love nothing more than to be granted again. A way to get out ahead of whoever is terrorizing Jakarta, rather than always showing up after the fact to play detective.
Even if the gaps between the incidents and his arrival are growing steadily narrower.
Thumb tapping at the back of the seat before him, Mike keeps his focus aimed straight ahead. Braced with one foot planted in the footwell behind the driver, he sways with the movement of the vehicle.
Sharp turns accentuated by fast accelerations.
A driving pattern not unlike Tania the day before.
Something he is fast coming to see as a prerequisite to getting around the city.
Maintaining the breakneck pace for the better part of ten minutes, Mike watches as his target grows ever closer. Seeming to become wider with each bit of road that passes, by the time their journey is brought to a halt, it looks to be nearly the breadth of an entire city block.
A smoke pattern hinting at a blast much larger than the two he’s surveyed recently.
“Why are we...” Mike begins, glancing away from the sky to the driver. “What are we doing?”
Releasing his death grip on the steering wheel, the man extends a hand. All five fingers used as a pointer, they push Mike’s attention straight ahead to the snarl of traffic twisted up before them. Cars of various sizes and shapes backed all the way to where they are.
A jam with no signs of easing in the near future, many drivers already outside of their vehicles. Standing in the streets, they stare up at the dark billows climbing ever higher.
A black blight against a pale blue backdrop.
“Go no farther,” the cabbie says, putting to words the exact thought Mike was having.
“Not by car, anyway,” Mike mutters, rocking himself back in his seat. Digging into the front pocket of his pants, he extracts a wad of local currency left for him at the safe house. A roll of bills he doesn’t bother counting as he tosses them up between the seats.
“Thank you,” he says, the cabbie replying in kind as Mike climbs out.
Looping the strap of the bag back over his head, he begins to push his way forward. A winding path through the maze of people and vehicles choking the street.
A scene loaded with people staring on with slack jaws. Others, with tears openly streaming down their faces.
In the air can be heard the sounds of sirens. Scads of them, coming in from every direction.
A background noise serving as the baseline for the added shrill cries of people in the streets. Shouting and cursing in a handful of different languages.
All of it mixing together, causing the cocktail of chemicals and emotions within Mike to rise.
A spike that causes him to move faster, weaving his way through the mass of humanity, before eventually breaking into a full sprint.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The first thing Henry Rawit notices isn’t his assistant Mia standing before him. A carbon copy of how most of their days begin, he doesn’t particularly care about the black dress, cardigan, and heels she is wearing. Barely does he even notice the curl in her hair.
Not even the stacks of folders and papers clutched tight against her ribcage. The day’s business, waiting for them to begin.
Instead, his focus goes directly to her eyes. Dark pools normally outlined with matching mascara and eyeliner that today are red and puffy. Obvious hints that she has been crying, with more resting just below the surface, threatening to be unleashed at any moment.
“Mia?” he asks. Relinquishing his grip on the mouse atop his desk, he begins to rise from his seat. A slow ascent, the same hand extending her direction. “Is everything okay?”
Blinking quickly in reply, Mia shifts the stack of assorted items into the crook of her left arm. With her right, she raises a hand to her face, curled fingers resting just under her nose.
A pose she maintains through several deep breaths, taking care to compose herself before daring to utter a word.
“You haven’t seen?” she whispers.
Ceasing his rise just short of full height, Rawit stands with legs flexed. A stop necessitated by the mass coming together in his core. A seizing of his stomach strong enough to draw in every other part of his internal anatomy as well.
In unison, his tongue goes dry. His throat constricts.
Through his mind plays the conversation he had with Firash just a day before.
“Seen what?” he asks.
Hand back in place covering her mouth and nose, Mia pulls it away for an instant. A quick flash, attempting to reply, before pulling up.
An open distrust of using her voice a second time, instead opting to merely nod toward the window behind Rawit. A gesture that sees her thrust her forehead toward the tinted glass, a single sharp breath slipping out.
A sight and sound that causes the trepidation hurtling through Rawit to somehow rise as he rotates to follow her signal. Slow and stilted movements a few inches at a time, already scared of what he might find.
Fears that come to pass as he is barely halfway through his turn, seeing the rising plume of smoke resting on the horizon. A column of black and gray that looks like a series of bulges stacked one atop another.
A tornado starting halfway up the cone, the base buried into an indeterminate point on the outskirts of town.
A living, moving, writhing signal of destruction, rising before them in real time.
“My God,” he mutters. Extending a hand beside him, he pats at the air. Searching probes without taking his gaze from the window before finally his fingers touch leather.
Just enough for him to nudge the seat he was just parked in to the side, clearing a path for him toward the window. A march he makes with his entire body numb save the occasional pinprick of sensation running the length of him.
Even without Mia saying another word or bothering to consult a web browser, Rawit knows what he is looking at. The site that appears to be actively burning and the product that is made there.
A place that he put on a list months before, though never did he envision something like this.
Not on this scale.
Damned sure not at this time of day, the resulting devastation far beyond anything he ever envisioned. A stance he was sure to share with Firash in their last talk.
A belief system he could sense the man was starting to wane on, though never would he have imagined this.
“What...” he begins. Voice trailing away, he takes a moment to try and place the proper words before beginning anew with, “What are they saying?”
Sniffing deeply, Mia pads silently across the carpet. A short walk around the edge of his desk before appearing in the periphery of his vision.
“Not a lot,” she replies. “Aren’t many details yet. Just that there was another bombing, the third in the last week.”
Lifting the same hand as before to her face, she adds, “This being the most bloody.”
Already fully expecting as much, the mere act of hearing the words out loud causes Rawit to clench tighter. His throat constricts, threatening to keep any air from entering or escaping.
A clamp that persists until it threatens to distort his vision.
A hold that lasts several moments before finally he is able to mutter, “Can you please excuse me for a few minutes? I need to make a few phone calls.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The damage done to the General Motors plant far exceeds anything left behind at the previous sites. Blasting away much more than a simple chunk of the outer wall, most of the roof has been ripped back. Like a soup can with the lid standing open, jagged pieces of metal are extended skyward around the perimeter of the building. An uneven opening allowing black smoke to pour forth from it.
A steady plume making it clear there is sti
ll a fire raging inside with no sign of waning. An inferno feeding off machinery and chemicals, the acerbic stench in the air going well beyond the usual sorts of bomb components.
Standing more than fifty yards away from the building, Mike can plainly feel the warmth emanating from it. Heat that mixes with the omnipresent Indonesian humidity and the water vapor in the air from the hoses trying in vain to control the flames nearby.
A combination that has his entire head soaked. A mixture of water and sweat that streams down over his features. Dampens the collar of the t-shirt he wears.
Burns his eyes and tastes salty on his lips as he surveys the scene around him. One that looks light years beyond what he found at either of the previous locations.
Making it likely that the interior is infinitely worse than they had been as well.
Unlike those, the area is cordoned off by a chain link fence encircling the property. A barricade standing eight feet in height with strings of barbed wire stretched along the top to deter any intruders from trying to hop over.
A design that is probably effective for keeping trespassers at bay, but also limits the entrances and exits from the place. Effective chokepoints that bottle the flow of foot traffic, one last batch of workers still clumped up nearby, trying to force their way out.
A rabble of people of all ages and genders dressed in matching blue attire. Folks with faces streaked with soot or blood, many crying out as they try to push forward.
Opposite them are no less than a dozen police officers. Men in uniforms and fluorescent vests blowing whistles in an attempt to direct traffic. Push back the crowd gathered outside the fence to allow the remainder inside to escape.
A futile effort, the two sides trying in vain to meet in the middle. Friends and family members scared for one another, trying their best to help, even though it is the exact wrong thing to be doing at such a moment.
Nearby, a handful of ambulances have managed to work their way to the front. Makeshift field hospitals parked at random along the length of the plant. Hubs of frenetic activity as teams of medics in matching uniforms move about.
