Three Gorges Dam
Page 19
“It’s a trick,” a mother yells.
Others in the crowd join in. The grandfather lifts his arms again, and the noise level decreases. “I don’t think so. Do as they say.”
Parents go home with their children. Merchants are in their stores deciding what inventory to pack. The Young Turks have moved back to the center of the street. One yells, “Death to the infidels.” Another asks, “Who’s the traitor?” A third chides the group’s leader. “It’s your fault, Naveed. Your bloodthirsty friends led them here.”
Ahmad steps into the middle of the group. “May I say something?”
His grandfather is well known to everyone. So are other family members. His great uncle was beheaded for his role in the Baren uprising, and Ahmad’s father supported the rebels before his incarceration.
Several men holler, “Speak!”
His voice is as measured as his grandfather’s. “Don’t blame each other. It doesn’t matter how the Chinese found out. It’s done.”
The rebels exchange anxious looks.
One asks, “What should we do?”
Ahmad elevates his voice so it’s louder than the muttering and recriminations. “The rest of our people can leave and probably be safe. We can’t.”
His sixteen-year-old cousin Ibrahim steps in front of several older rebels. His voice cracks when he asks, “What are you saying?”
“We can fight and die honorably, or face a Chinese firing squad.”
General Jiang is northeast of Artux at command central.
His investigative work was conclusive. Activity north of the city was disproportionate to any legitimate commerce in the area. Satellite surveillance and human intelligence revealed a labyrinth of deep tunnels where the rebels stockpiled grenade launchers, surface-to-air missiles, and homemade bombs.
Yesterday a PLAAF contingent flew major artillery pieces and munitions into the area. The army’s key weapons are its Type 90B 6 X 6 vehicles. Each is equipped with forty 122mm launch tubes that fire missiles tipped with fragmenting Grad warheads. Last night, cargo planes delivered armored personnel carriers and a half brigade of soldiers. They deployed in a staging area east of the city. One group drove south. A separate unit circled north to assist the Grad contingent. The army closed the roads in and out of Artux before the plane flew over the city.
The weaponized trucks are ready to deliver their payloads. Jiang’s PLA counterpart glances in his direction. Jiang checks the time display on his computer and responds with a hand signal. The field commander gives the order and the tubes launch their first barrage of missiles. There’s a short pause before another battery shoots warheads toward the separatist stronghold.
The rebels are in their tunnels.
Their commander spoke to them before they dispersed.
“We have nothing to gain by waging a traditional battle. Remain calm and stay underground. Lure the infidels into our booby traps and snares. Fight to the death and glorify our cause. Tonight we’ll all be in heaven.”
Ahmad and Ibrahim are together in an outer passage. The younger boy is pacing below an overhead portal. Ahmad is sitting on the dirt floor, knees flexed, leaning against a sidewall. So far, the attack has spared their tunnel. The same can’t be said for their nerves. They hear and feel warheads exploding above them.
Ibrahim yells, “Let’s go up and fight.”
Ahmad lays down his Kalashnikov and looks over at his cousin. Several octaves lower, his tone is resigned and unemotional. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Things have changed.”
“No they haven’t. Our battle will be down here.”
“Why wait?”
“Be patient. The enemy will arrive soon enough.”
That seems to make Ibrahim more agitated. His arms have begun to shake. Ahmad motions for him to come over. “Sit with me. We can pray together.”
Ibrahim walks toward his cousin. When he gets there, Ahmad inventories what he brought. “You forgot the spare clips.” The younger boy goes back and collects the three AK-47 magazines. He’s returning when a warhead detonates nearby. Curling into a ball, Ahmad yells, “Get down and cover your head.”
The next explosion—closer yet—pounds the concrete aqueduct across the way. The warhead doesn’t penetrate their living space. But the concussion collapses large amounts of soil from their unfortified ceiling. Ibrahim is buried alive. Only partially covered, Ahmad frees himself and shouts his cousin’s name. Ibrahim doesn’t reply.
The underground lighting system didn’t survive the explosion and everything appears different. Ahmad stands up and struggles to get his bearings. He digs for several minutes before he looks up and sees a ring of light framing the hatch Ibrahim was guarding. Ahmad positions himself directly beneath the portal and pushes away loose soil. He’s about to change locations when one of the older rebels approaches from a connecting tunnel. “What are you doing?” the man asks.
“Ibrahim is trapped under the dirt.”
“Where was he last time you saw him?”
“This general vicinity.”
“I’ll check this side. You stay over there.”
They go through piles of debris and call out Ibrahim’s name. Shortly after widening their search the older rebel yells, “Your cousin is over there.”
Three curved fingers are penetrating the surface. Ahmad is closer and gets there first. He raises his voice. “Don’t give up, Ibrahim. We’ll get you out.”
They clear the dirt away until Ahmad reaches the air pocket that kept Ibrahim alive. His face is closeted between large clumps of aggregated soil and his buffering right shoulder. The older rebel rolls Ibrahim onto his back. When he coughs up dark saliva, Ahmad tries to wipe his face. Ibrahim swats his hand away.
“You shouldn’t have unburied me.”
“Allah brought you back to life.”
“So the Chinese can cut me to pieces?”
They hear another Grad explode. This blast is farther away and only dislodges a smattering of fresh soil. None of it fell on Ibrahim. That doesn’t negate the psychic impact. He feverishly rakes his hair and mutters incoherently.
“Settle down, cousin. You’re all right.”
“No I’m not. Next time, don’t dig me up.”
Ahmad places his hands on Ibrahim’s shoulders. But he isn’t able to gain control. They scuffle until the shell-shocked boy bites Ahmad’s hand. Ibrahim breaks away and grabs the older rebel’s rifle.
“This isn’t a battle,” he wails. “It’s a massacre.”
He trudges toward the overhead hatch. Ahmad reaches for his cousin’s arm but Ibrahim shakes him off. The older Uighur is about to rush Ibrahim when the boy points the AK-47 at his head and persuades him to back off.
Ibrahim keeps a distrustful eye on his rescuers as he climbs the fixed ladder. When he opens the hatch, smoke and sunlight flood the tunnel. The combination accentuates his deranged appearance.
Ahmad implores him, “Don’t go outside.”
“Staying here is insane.”
“You aren’t thinking straight.”
“Don’t you know what’s happening?”
“We’re in this together. I’ll protect you.”
“Come outside with me. It’s our only chance.”
“We have to follow the plan.”
Ibrahim steps onto the next rung and pokes his head through the opening. His eyes haven’t adjusted and his vision is hazy. He lowers himself and looks at Ahmad. “Good-bye, cousin. We’ll meet again in the afterlife.”
Outside the tunnel he closes the hatch and turns to the south. The Grads have leveled the entire city. Fire and rubble are all that remain. Above him he hears the now familiar sound getting louder. He turns around and watches another wave of missiles coming his way. The closest explodes somewhere in front of him. It happened too fast for Ibrahim to know where it landed. A wave of fragmenting metal knocks him backward. He smells—and then sees—the degloved bone that used to be his left arm.
He raises him
self with his other arm and gets into a kneeling position. He coughs so hard he spits up blood. It’s all over his wispy beard. He’s so weak he has to stop and rest. Facing north he watches three comrades running at full speed. The boys appear to know what they’re doing. But an incoming missile is heading their way. The war-head scores a direct hit, and their bodies are blown upward, flash, and disintegrate inside a giant fireball.
Ibrahim stands up and cries out, “Forgive me, Mother, I should have listened.” He bows his head and says a prayer. Then another, “La ilaha ill Allah.” He’s still chanting as he examines his body. Beneath the blood he feels the metal fragments that lanced his chest. His right hand moves lower and touches the slime in his lower abdomen. He recoils in horror when he sees his protruding entrails.
Ibrahim’s face is covered with dirt and tears. Sobbing out loud, he decides to end his misery. Doing it is more difficult. He’s able to hold his Kalashnikov despite his crippled hand, but his damaged arm won’t cooperate. He can’t aim and fire the weapon at the same time. He punches the stock of his rifle and throws it down. Off to the side, he sees a pistol lying next to a headless body. The semiautomatic seems to be in working order. He picks it up and confirms there’s a round in the chamber. He gets back on his knees and presses the pistol against his ear. Once. Twice. Ibrahim tries three times. But he can’t convince his index finger to penetrate the guard.
Berating himself as a coward, he redirects the barrel into his mouth. He pushes it so deep he can taste the metal. He disregards the sound of the incoming missiles and concentrates on firing the pistol. His recalcitrant digit finally obeys. It’s about to squeeze the trigger when his whole body goes limp.
Waves of jagged metal cut the boy in half. Disarticulated at the hips, his legs remain standing—until the next blast hits—then flop to the ground. Ibrahim’s torso is blown backward. Landing with a thud, it covers the escape portal. His blood and liquefied remains pool around the leaky hatch and seep into the tunnel.
The drops splatter off Ahmad’s upturned face.
CHAPTER 29
NORGAY GAZES AT the Indian Ocean.
Sunlight is upstaging the East African night. But the moon hasn’t conceded defeat. It’s to the west high above fair-weather clouds. Most of Kenya is still asleep. Norgay has been watching other exceptions—a camel carrying honeymooners across palm-fringed Diani Beach, and kite surfers sharing Ratnakara with a pod of dolphins.
He and Gato have just returned to their apartment after a pre-dawn swim. The Spaniard steps out of the shower and stands in front of the mirror. He tightens his six-pack abs and admires the red and green feline decorating his chest. Their bath towels are stacked neatly in the closet. He unfolds two of them—one to dry himself, the other to wrap around his waist—before making a quick stop in the kitchen. After closing the refrigerator, he joins Norgay on the balcony.
The Cat tilts the pitcher of pineapple juice he took from the fridge. He fills the pair of mismatched tumblers on the edge of the counter. Norgay drinks from the smaller one as he tips the bill of his Los Leones cap. He expresses his thanks in Spanish.
“That was thoughtful.”
Their wicker two-seater has seen better days. But it’s still more comfortable than most of their furniture. Norgay occupies the left cushion. Gato sits down to his right. The fruit salad they’re sharing is closer to Norgay’s side of the couch. The Cat reaches around his part-ner’s leg and spears a piece of cantaloupe.
“I left you some hot water.” Gato delivered his news in Standard Tibetan.
Norgay replies in Español. “Thanks. I’ll shower when I finish reading.”
The Basque hasn’t mastered Tibetan and often misspeaks. Because Norgay is fluent in Spanish, they speak Castilian most of the time.
Gato is about to respond when Norgay forms a “T” with his hands. That’s the end of their code-switching drill. The Tibetan doesn’t feel well enough to complete their daily language lesson. He slept poorly, has flank pain, and passed blood in his urine. He rhymes his excuse in English. “The rain in Spain causes less pain.”
Gato replies, “Esta bien. Entiendo.”
His next question is also in Spanish. “What’s so interesting?”
Norgay holds up a dog-eared travel guide.
“Huge city,” Gato says.
“I didn’t know it was so spread out.”
Gato was already acquainted with Shanghai. Unlike his comrade, he has walked along the Bund and been to the top of the Oriental Pearl Tower.
When Norgay turns the page, Gato knocks the paperback out of his hand. “C’mon. Stop reading and wash off the salt.”
“Not until I finish this section.”
“You can look at it tonight.”
“Did you take your pill this morning?”
“I hate when you ask me that.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. But it hasn’t helped. I still feel cooped up.”
“Take another one.”
“Let’s do something.”
“Stop sulking. We just got back.”
“Yesterday we sat around all day.”
“We got a lot done.”
“I’m going stir crazy.”
“Spaniards always want to play.”
“Not true. We also like to fight.”
“We could go to a different city.”
Gato frowns. “Why trade one cage for another?”
“What about the countryside?”
“We did that for a year. I hated it.”
“You wouldn’t be inside so much.”
“I won’t live in the bush again.”
“We have so many details—”
“Mañana. Let’s have some fun. It’s now or never.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“How about skydiving?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Think of the rush.”
“Too dangerous.”
“It’s safer than driving a car.” Gato shows Norgay the Skydive Diani ad he detached from a tourist guide. “Everyone gets a reserve chute and computer backup.”
“I’m not afraid of going splat.”
“The flying part is even safer. The pilots are European.”
“Like I said—”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Chinese tourists love that stuff.”
“They won’t recognize us.”
“You’re missing the point. They’ll snap hundreds of photos and buy the dive videos. Our mugs will be on the Internet five minutes after we land.”
“Then let’s do something else.”
“How about robbing a bank?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“You really are crazy.”
“I’ll go out by myself.”
“Not a chance, Gato.”
“Who made you the boss?”
“Pick something the Chinese don’t enjoy.”
“I’m full of ideas. How soon can we go?”
“After we watch the news.”
The duo had made a hurried exit out of Lhasa.
They crossed the border east of Everest and spent a year hiding in Bhutan, Assam, and Bangladesh. Norgay banded his hair into a pony-tail and Gato grew a beard. They wore student backpacks and posed as free spirits exploring south Asia’s remotest climes. Traveling mostly at night, they laid low and managed to stay ahead of their pursuers. That wasn’t enough to make Norgay feel secure and they decided a different continent would be safer.
Working as deckhands on a cargo ship, they traveled from Chittagong to Mombasa. The vessel’s bills of lading were for textiles. The ship’s hard-boiled crewmen were suggestive of a higher-margin cargo. Their passage across the Indian Ocean was uneventful until they reached the Horn of Africa and Somali skiffs approached their vessel. The hijackers retreated when they saw six Bengali crewmen with rocket launchers on their shoulders.
They spent a week in Kenya’s largest port. It had everything they needed—an
d two things they didn’t—large numbers of Chinese businessmen and soldiers. They moved farther south—close to the border with Tanzania—and rented an apartment in Diani Beach. They’ve been here ever since.
Gato walks across the deck and enters the apartment.
Norgay follows him inside, plugs in his computer, and parks himself at the dining room table. The distressed relic doubles as their makeshift workstation. He opens an online article about China’s human rights violations. When he finishes the story, he walks to the kitchen and asks Gato about their upcoming operation.
“Do you think our plan is doable?”
“It has a lot of moving parts.”
“We could reduce the scope.”
“They’re such soft targets it may not be necessary.”
The Cat is at the kitchen counter loading their midday meal into a cooler pack. Norgay is next to him stuffing ice cubes into polyethylene bags.
“Thank your group for the hardware.”
“They were glad to help. It made them feel relevant again.”
Norgay opens a map of his homeland. “I’ll line up the field ops.”
“Should I come with you?”
“You’d be a liability. Tibetans don’t trust foreigners.”
“Stay away from Lhasa.”
“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be recruiting much farther west.”
They’ve been talking over the buzz of the television. The box is on all the time. It’s tuned to CNC World—China’s international network—unless they’re watching a movie or Spanish football game.
Today’s headlines have been routine. That changes when the anchorwoman begins the next segment. They swing around and watch the screen as she finishes reporting:
A spokesman for President Lao revealed that he will make an extended diplomatic trip to Africa. He plans to visit five sub-Saharan countries.
Gato searches for the remote. It’s on top of a bookcase, underneath a wet towel. He pumps up the sound and returns to the counter.
Lao Ming’s face fills the screen.
During his visit, he will meet with African leaders in South Africa, Angola, Mozambique, Nigeria, and Kenya. We will provide further details as soon as they become available.