Red Birds

by Mohammed Hanif

  RED BIRDS

  For Nimra & Poppy

  ALSO BY MOHAMMED HANIF

  A Case of Exploding Mangoes

  Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

  CONTENTS

  Also by Mohammed Hanif

  In the Desert

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  In the Camp

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  To the Hangar

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgements

  And when I look through it, it’s red.

  Shah Hussain (Madhu Lal Hussain)

  ‘Something has happened to everyone and if it hasn’t happened yet, it will happen. Only a matter of time.’

  ‘Please take your seats and don’t forget to switch off your phones. We are about to begin.’

  Sabeen Mahmud (1975–2015)

  In the Desert

  CHAPTER 1

  Ellie

  On the third day, I find the plane. I’d been looking for something to eat or drink, anything of nutritional value really. I know that I can’t survive for long on the measly rations in my survival kit. A ripped parachute and regulation sunglasses were all I had found on my bruised ass when I came to. Roving Angels would be on their way to rescue me, but sometimes Angels can take their time and in order for this rescue to be successful I need to stay alive.

  I unzip my survival kit again to inspect its contents, the things that will keep me alive.

  Four energy biscuits.

  Two vitamin smoothies.

  A roll of surgical cotton.

  A roll of surgical gauze.

  Needle and thread.

  They give you a 65-million-dollar machine to fly, with the smartest bomb that some beam rider in Salt Lake City took years to design, you burn fuel at the rate of fifteen gallons per second and if you get screwed they expect you to survive on four energy biscuits and an organic smoothie. And look, a mini pack of After Eight. Somebody’s really spent a lot of time trying to provide the comforts of a three-star hotel. Here, have another towel. Now go die.

  I look down and notice that my left boot, my flying boot, is smeared with blood. I pat myself on the forehead, move my limbs about: nothing broken. I wriggle my toes in my boots: all fine, nothing bleeding. A perfect landing. Now if I could only find some part of the plane, more like some remains from that 65-million-dollar machine, my chances of survival might increase. Chin up. Check pockets for any clues. Nothing. Standard maps. A ballpoint pen. A couple of rivets. Always carry them, just in case. A bunch of rivets have never harmed anyone lost in a desert.

  Sand in my breast pocket. A half-finished, in fact just-begun, letter. Dearest Cath, I write this with the heaviest of hearts. . .

  I am in shock, it will come back to me. Right now, to preserve the clues, to make a positive location ID. . .

  My nametag says Ellie and there’s an oxygen mask around my neck. There are no ranks on my flying suits, there never are in combat situations. A captain would be too junior to be flying without a formation, most colonels are too elevated and sensible to end up in a desert without a map. So, yes, say hi to Major Ellie.

  It started with a meeting with Colonel Slatter. I remember a cup of black coffee, a glazed doughnut and an informal meeting for my annual appraisal.

  I wondered what the fuck they were evaluating me for. Everyone was shedding their load in the designated zone, so was I. Did they think that I worked in the household appliances department at Sears? Have I sold enough bed linen? Am I a team player? Do I respect the sanctity of fire exits?

  But there are forms to be filled out, even in the middle of a war. And, for Colonel Slatter, filling out the forms for a three-sixty-degree peer evaluation is the war.

  Look around, the horizon is clear, the sky as blue as the colour of Cath’s eyes. Perfect day for one last mission. Not too far ahead of me the sky dips and merges into the sand. I can’t see a single leaf of grass, not even dried-up bush. Earth is a hotplate that doesn’t even allow for reptile tracks, even the scorpions seem to have abandoned this godforsaken desolation. Nothing even pretending to be food. I should have eaten that doughnut.

  The appraisal had been going well, I thought, I had earned the respect of my juniors and seniors. I had completed my Advanced Desert Survival course. I had completed my Cultural Sensitivity course with distinction though I’d failed to enrol in the compulsory foreign language course, preferably from a high-intensity conflict area. I had not missed a single PTSD session with the squadron’s designated therapist. When we got to next year’s objectives, I’d mumbled that I wanted a position on the Staff and Command course. ‘Not enough points to make the cut,’ the Colonel told me. ‘Drone operators are running the show now. Zoomies are going out of fashion. We are just museum pieces they keep for old times’ sake.’

  Great, I thought. They’re going to retire me and replace me with a geek in Houston who remote controls drones, someone who can fight a one-handed war while dipping his fries in barbeque sauce.

  Colonel Slatter politely suggested that I work towards raising my profile before this happened.

  Profile? And I thought we were no-show and all go.

  My career had been a bit of a straight line, he said, all bottom-line competence but there were no acts of extraordinary valour, no courage-under-fire-type citations.

  But, but, went the Colonel, ‘There is a war on and what is a war if not an opportunity, an opportunity to make up those extra points.’ Under the Colonel’s shaved, shiny head, his eyes were icy blue pools of certainty, the kind that eighteen years of implementing distant wars brings.

  I wonder if there is a special medal for pilots who went out on a mission and found themselves lost in the desert. People only talk about being lost in the desert in Sunday school, or in air force folklore. They put GPS chips in pets and migratory birds now, I mean who the hell gets lost these days? And how can someone flying around in a 65-million-dollar machine get lost.

  Say hi to Major Ellie.

  I scan the horizon, turn around and look at the endless sea of sand surrounding me. I pour a drop of water on my parched tongue.

  In the distance I can see the sun reflected in a giant, blurred mirror. If I look long enough, I can see the little ripples running through it, like the sweet waters of a natural lake, like an infini
ty pool made specially for me. But you can bet your dog tags that there isn’t a drop of water to be found there, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

  Desert Survival Rule Number One: Seen something nice? Forget it. It’s a mirage.

  That reminds me of Desert Survival Rule Number Seven and I slowly start taking off my flying overalls. My suit is olive green with the head of a shrieking bird stuck to my chest and can probably be detected from miles off. I turn it inside out and put it back on. I’ve blended in now. I can lie down in the sand and wait for the Angels to come and take me away in a helicopter. I can roam around without being detected. I can probably go and search for the camp that was in my cross hair for a second, my thumb ready to push the drop button. Had I pushed it or not? Was the world a little bit safer now or had I fucked up?

  There is a Hangar, and there is a Camp. The Colonel had pulled out a map. The Colonel still liked his printed maps and coloured thumbtacks and pointers and cross hairs on targets. Before he could send us off to wipe out a bit of earth, he liked doing his thing with the pointer. In a world of uncertainty, if you can nail them down on a paper map, the enemy’s existence becomes much more real.

  ‘You take this out and we are done. One last sortie and you can go home, make babies, and take care of them for the rest of your happy life.’ I knew they were offering a little extra to save on long hires. I didn’t know they were also dishing out advice on how to spend it. The best pilots of the best air force in the world being treated like cabbies: Hey, need an extra fare? Here’s another bombing run.

  The Colonel had resisted a lot of things in the force. He had resisted the induction of priests in the combat units (They screw little boys), when don’t ask, don’t tell protocol came into effect for homosexuals (They’ll want to ass-rape rather than fight) and in the end the induction of women into combat units (Now we are all truly screwed).

  But the Colonel had never resisted a good war, or for that matter any war which had an aerial component to it.

  He had earned medals on the battlefield and a stack of warnings for opening his mouth at the wrong time; in the presence of generals he was not above calling them accountants in uniform. Passed over many times for promotion now, his mission briefs had become a bit of street theatre.

  ‘So this camp at the end of the world, hideout for some of the worst human scum, we have positive ID, there is some talk of sending the SEALs in, like one of those night raids that they can film and then jerk off to. I say we take it out first and say it was all a happy mistake.’

  A target at the end of the world? By mistake? Is that even legal? Am I to start obeying blatantly unlawful commands? The Colonel considers my silence a declaration of mutiny.

  ‘What do you think I run here? The Salvation Army? It’s a combat unit. We are pilots, not fucking monks. You go, you take it out, you take your Purple Heart and get the hell out of here before they start reassigning us to polish the silver in the officers’ mess. Do it then you can go and serve your lady love. Ladies are going to bury us all one day anyway.’

  Fine, Sir. Fine. But. . .

  ‘Get the goat-fuckers but watch out for our own. Here is us,’ he stabbed the map at a random point. ‘You’ll get the coordinates. Fairly basic. On one side is our Hangar. A refuelling facility. Actually a bit more than that, a rest stop. R&R for those who don’t deserve it. You can’t miss it. It’s massive, air traffic tower, landing strip, the whole works. And on your port side is the compound. It used to be a refugee camp but they downgraded it. Basically a real bad place full of bad bad people. You can smell the evil from the skies. Nobody is going to miss this lot. Trust me on that.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the boots on the ground, Sir?’

  ‘Should I have you court martialled for insubordination?’

  ‘Just trying to understand, Sir,’ I said.

  ‘The Hangar was my boots on the ground. Their locals started fiddling with our comms and they shut it down. I’m walking blind in there. So get this. My Hangar is shut. But the refugee camp that’s the source of all this trouble still exists. And they tell me not to take it personally. Routine. Restructuring. I think we need to take care of that bit of Mother Earth.’

  And while I was still thinking whether to report him to High Command or not, the Colonel embarked on his crazy-ass mission to bomb the camp himself and basically went Elvis on us.

  I should have learnt. Now say that again.

  The ‘Desert Survival Rules’ emergency procedures section states that if your fellow zoomie crashes during a mission, you don’t wait for orders. You hear your man is down, you take off and fly the same route, complete the mission. It used to be about fighting off fear, telling enemies that maybe they can bring you down but you’ll still scorch their miserable lives. So they flew after Colonel Slatter and found the debris but no remains. None. Colonel Slatter had crashed his plane and evaporated into thin air. No zero-zero ejection for him. He was the most open man I knew. Now he is mission-briefing-room gossip.

  In the beginning of my career there was some argument about Central Command for country, or country for Central Command. It was dropped after Central Command denied any role in running the day-to-day war and claimed it existed only to provide a sort of spiritual underpinning for the war effort. But there are no arguments in the briefing room anymore; you get your mission brief, you inspect your survival kit hoping you won’t need to use it. And if it is one of these missions you pop your pill, take a swig of black coffee and hope for the best.

  There was a rumour that the Central Command have been reading too many Sufi texts. That they are copying whole sections of SOPs from foreign libraries transported to the States and translated diligently by tenured professors of obscure languages. Central Command insert them into your emergency procedures, into your survival guides. But while they’ve probably already found nirvana, you get blisters and dysentery. And if you veer too far away from the Path of Oneness, you might get suspended from flying. And what is a pilot who can’t fly? No better than a broken-winged shrieking bird.

  Fuck Oneness, I need another drop of water.

  I walk and walk; I walk past dancing monsters made of sand, past a gutted road, a runway-sized road with a bright yellow line painted in the middle, a big crater which may have been the result of a thousand-pound bomb or a natural water reservoir that has dried up. I come across a mud hut, which might have been a military barrack at some point or a nomads’ camel stop. There is a pile of ash in a corner. I sift through it to see if there is anything of nutritional value. There is nothing. I am about to turn back but I decide to walk a bit more, my hand in my pocket, fingering and contemplating the pair of rivets like prayer beads.

  I climb over a little sandy hill and see the plane sticking out of the sand. I found the fucker, I shout and run towards it.

  This is a bad idea. When you see something shiny in the desert, you shall not run towards it; most likely it’s something useless like a mirage, or a mirage of something that’s useless, like a wrecked plane. While I am running and remembering Desert Survival Level 6B, it occurs to me that my mission here is to rescue the plane. And if you go by the logic of love, and peace and Oneness and everything else that is fucked up about our Central Command’s new philosophy of war and advanced survival, then the plane is there to rescue me. As I said, Central Command with their obsession with Oneness have been teaching us ‘Moral Enigma, Modern Wars’ in the morning, and lecturing us on ‘How to Conquer Yourself Before You Conquer Your Enemy’ in the afternoon.

  Survival courses are all about restating the obvious: What is the temperature at which you lose your sense of direction? It depends on your sense of direction. Does sand have any nutritional value? No, but your own urine filtered through it will keep you alive for an afternoon. Central Command also emphasizes ethical survival. It’s not just about staying alive, losing a few pounds, promising yourself to love your wife more, no, you don’t just have to get out alive, which you can do if you employ some
basic skills, but a better person, a more ethical person.

  No guts, no glory, I tell myself and plunge to the task. The plane’s nose and the upper part of its canopy jut out of the sand, shining hopefully. I start shovelling the sand with both my hands and realize within a few minutes that it is futile. The more I shovel, the more the sand shifts; the rest of the plane stays out of sight. The sand is very hot and it singes my hands. But I remove my flying jacket and, using that as a shovel, find a way of shifting it. I focus on a small area and start to use my hands again. Underneath the sand isn’t so hot. It is cold and moist; it might even have some nutritional value.

  The job is done in four to five hours during which I eat another energy biscuit and take three sips of my passion fruit smoothie. Less than half the fucker is here. The plane has broken off neatly just behind the canopy, part of its port wing peeled off, the back half of the fuselage gone, the rear end a jumble of coloured wires, chewed-up shiny pipes, guts exposed. So this is what I have; the front half of an F15 Strike Eagle with two 500-pound laser-guided bombs, one marked YES, the other marked OH YESS in grey stencilled letters. Where did the other half go?

  I gently wipe the sand off the canopy. Inside, the cockpit looks familiar. It’s like being locked out of your own house, looking in through the window and finding everything in its place, sofa warm and welcoming, dog napping in front of the fireplace, Cath absent-mindedly flicking through The World of Interiors in slow motion. How I long to get in and take off. I go over the controls carefully, looking for any signs of life. But the gyros are stuck, radar screen blank, not a single peep from any of the dozens of shiny lifesavers. How did it get here? And, more importantly, how will it get me out of here? There has to be another half of the plane somewhere in this desert. If I can somehow open it, the radio on this thing may still be working. Radios in these things sometimes go on working when everything else stops working. Even when these things catch fire and everything including the pilot burns to a cinder, the radio keeps going. When rescue teams arrive they find lumps of coal and still-intact fireproof bits like helmets and oxygen masks. These lumps of charred material sit here ignoring desperate messages from a very desperate control tower. On paper your flying jacket is also fireproof but the papers don’t tell you it can’t protect your eyes from melting in their sockets.