by Rahul Badami
Now!
Armaan rose out of his hiding place as the van came into view. He kept his hand outstretched and pointed his Glock square at the terrorist driving the van and squeezed the trigger twice. He watched the van driver jerk back as he got hit in the chest, and then slumped down the seat, dead.
The van rolled past the truck and came to a stop twenty metres ahead. He had stopped the terrorists from attacking the convoy. But now he faced a serious threat.
Armaan watched the masked terrorists barge out of the van, their machine guns glinting under the hot sun. He had just made his day worse. With the van stopping ahead of his position, the truck no longer offered him protection. He was completely exposed. There were six of them, all getting their AK-47s ready to pump him full of lead.
Armaan was a split-second away from death.
And then a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the other side of the truck. One of the terrorists danced like a twitching puppet on strings, flesh and fibre ripped under the assault and the others were distracted.
It’s Nitin!
Armaan had forgotten about him in the heat of the moment. Nitin would have raced around the truck to come up from the other side. He was providing him covering fire. Armaan raced to the rear of the truck as the terrorists’ bullets screamed all around him.
Armaan crouched behind the truck and let loose a barrage of gunfire. His gun added to the chorus of death being sung around him. His spray caught another terrorist sweeping him off his feet and turning him into a leaking pile of flesh.
Click! The trigger whispered it was empty.
He saw that they were now targeting Nitin. His frantic fingers clawed for a fresh clip. He noted it was the last one he had. Meanwhile, Nitin was being outgunned. Armaan slammed in the clip and watched one of the terrorists pull a pin and throw a grenade in Nitin’s direction.
“Nitin, run!” Armaan roared.
Nitin ran towards him, but it was already too late.
Boom!
An explosion rocked next to the truck and Armaan watched in shock as Nitin flew ten feet in the air and landed with a dull thud next to his vantage point at the rear of the truck. Armaan looked at him. Nitin’s shirt was shredded and blood was oozing out of multiple wounds where the shrapnel had hit him. He was alive, but he seemed to be in a lot of pain.
Nitin struggled to speak. “F-forget about me. Kill those scumbags.”
Armaan focused back on the terrorists. There were now four of them left. They had taken cover behind his jeep and were shooting in his direction. The wide rear of the truck offered him sufficient protection against their fire. He observed their firing pattern. The terrorists were firing and ducking in a predictable manner. Armaan crouched at the corner of the truck and took aim. One of the terrorists poked his head above the jeep to fire. Armaan squeezed the trigger. The man’s head jerked back, and he fell down, lifeless.
The firing stopped. Armaan kept his gun trained on the jeep, but the place had turned quiet. The only sound came from the wind blowing across the mountains. What were the terrorists up to now? He waited for them to show their faces, but they were not coming out. He suddenly realized he had pinned them behind the jeep. They had understood he was an excellent marksman and would shoot them dead the moment they showed themselves.
Suddenly, he saw movement. The three remaining terrorists raced from behind the jeep to the front of the truck. Armaan squeezed off four rounds and saw one of the terrorists fall down. The other two remained unharmed.
Two against one, Armaan mused. The odds were much better than what it had been a few minutes back.
Gunfire erupted from the front of the truck. Armaan took a quick peek from the corner of the truck and immediately noticed something was amiss. Only the terrorist’s hand was visible and the gun wasn’t pointed towards him, but the man was firing indiscriminately.
It took him an instant to realise what was up.
Armaan raced to the other corner of the truck and peered around. His hunch had been right. The second terrorist was sprinting alongside the truck. If Armaan hadn’t wised up to their game plan, he would have been distracted by the first terrorist and killed by the second. In a flash, he lined up his Glock and shot the second terrorist between the eyes.
Now it’s just you and me.
Armaan heard a crash of glass in the front of the truck. The lone terrorist appeared to have entered the cockpit. Was he going to drive the truck out of here? Suddenly, he heard a dull thud. He peered around the corner and saw a man on the ground. He pulled the trigger instinctively at the fallen man only to hear a metallic click.
He had run out of bullets.
Armaan stared at the man on the ground. It wasn’t the terrorist but the truck driver. The terrorist must have thrown him from his seat. This terrorist appeared to be smarter than the others. It was the second diversion he had come up with. The thought led to a realization. If it was a diversion, he could be coming from the other side of the truck. Even if Armaan foiled the surprise attack, he didn’t stand a chance as he was out of bullets against an armed terrorist. He would just have to bluff him into believing that his gun was still loaded.
Armaan turned the corner, straddled his legs in a menacing posture, both hands on his gun and pointed it straight ahead. “Hands up!” he simultaneously barked.
It took him a moment to realize.
He was pointing his gun at nothing.
No terrorist.
A shrill cackle of laughter emanated from high above him. He looked up. The terrorist was on the roof of the truck, gun at his side laughing at him. Armaan pointed his gun at him, and the terrorist smirked.
“Go on, shoot. What are you waiting for?”
A long moment passed. Armaan itched to pull the trigger even if the gun wouldn’t shoot. He had been completely outfoxed by the terrorist. As a soldier, Armaan had been trained to not just look right and left, but up and down as well. While he had been wondering from which side the terrorist would attack, the terrorist had been smarter. He had taken the high ground.
The terrorist said, “I know you are out of bullets.” He pointed to his gun and gave a condescending smile. “My turn?”
Anger surged through Armaan. He was defenceless. The terrorist was mocking him. He flung his gun at the terrorist but the terrorist deftly side-stepped away avoiding the hurtling gun. The man looked at Armaan with a cruel gaze and pointed his gun at Armaan’s head.
“You killed my brothers. It’s time for you to die.”
CHAPTER 4
Bang!
The sound of a sharp gunshot at close quarters echoed in Armaan’s ears.
Armaan watched in incredulous shock as a bullet blew up the terrorist’s head. The headless man swayed on the roof of the truck for a moment and then fell heavily on the ground. He stared at the fallen terrorist. There was no doubt. He was dead.
Armaan turned around and found Nitin lying on the ground with a smoking gun in his hand, “You forgot about me, didn’t you?”
Armaan ran over and kneeled next to Nitin, “Are you all right?” He looked at the numerous wounds from the grenade blast. His dress was completely soaked in blood.
Nitin smiled weakly. “It looks worse than it is. The grenade exploded under the tyre. I believe that’s what saved me from most of the shrapnel.”
“Okay, we need to get you to a hospital.” As Armaan spoke, he heard the distinct noise of vehicles. He looked beyond the truck and saw a couple of jeeps coming towards them filled with the Iranian security team.
Finally, some much needed help.
The jeeps stopped in front of them. The security commander looked at the bodies and then exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Uh, we were…” Armaan raised both his arms in the air, “… held up by terrorists.”
He winced as his arm hurt with the effort, and then looked at his shoulder. The adrenaline rush was wearing off, and now he was feeling the after-effects of the injury.
Armaan pulled back his shi
rt and looked at the wound. It was a perfect circular hole. The bullet had gone clean through the shoulder. It didn’t appear to have struck bone. As he had observed so many times, the entry wound at the back of his shoulder wasn’t bleeding, but the exit wound was spilling blood all over his chest. He clamped his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. He would worry about it later.
“The terrorist attacked our convoy from behind, and killed the truck driver. We were able to neutralize them, but my colleague’s hurt. We need to get him to a hospital ASAP.” Armaan told the commander.
The security commander didn’t ask any further questions. Armaan knew this wasn’t the first terrorist attack, the commander had witnessed. The who or why never mattered. Only that it had happened. Armaan was familiar with the modus operandi of the terrorists in the Sistan-Baluchestan province. Or for that matter anywhere across the globe. Terrorists attacked to instil in the victims a sense of dread and terror. And to demonstrate their supremacy in an asymmetric war. If it had been an open battlefield conflict, like the wars of yore, there could have been no question who would have won.
The commander quickly ordered his men around. Two of the soldiers lifted Nitin and placed him in the rear of the jeep, and gave him first-aid. Nitin groaned in agony as the soldiers patched him. Armaan settled next to Nitin and glanced at his hurting shoulder. He pulled out a couple of cotton balls and a roll of tape and strung it over his wound till the blood stopped.
The commander ordered two soldiers to stand next to the truck. He then called someone and spoke for half a minute. He hung up the call and got into his jeep.
“They will guard the consignment till a spare truck arrives to transport the goods.” The commander said.
“Thanks,” Armaan looked at Nitin resting in the jeep. It looked more like lying still than resting. Nitin had clamped his jaws tight in a stoic refusal to scream his head off. He looked to be in a lot of pain. “Is there a hospital nearby?”
“We will be reaching Zahedan in thirty minutes. There’s an Army hospital over there. He will be all right. I suggest you also get patched up there. Our men will escort the consignment to the Afghan border.”
Armaan nodded. Zahedan was a midsized border city in the easternmost corner of Iran, barely a few kilometres from the borders of both Afghanistan and Pakistan. He looked at his shoulder. The blood had started to seep again through the rudimentary bandaging he had done. It could have hit an artery. The wound hurt at the slightest movement. He was in no shape to drive a vehicle till their destination in Zaranj. In his current condition, he would hinder rather than help the delivery of the consignment. His mission was to work with the Iranians to protect the consignment. He had done that and the consignment was safe.
There was an Indian consulate at Zahedan. Once Nitin was stabilized, he could be moved out of Iran with the consulate’s help. It was all for the best. The Afghanistan town of Zaranj was only a few kilometres north of Zahedan. He didn’t expect another attack would be attempted.
The security commander looked at him, “The consignment will be delivered safely. You can count on me, Colonel Ahmed. I will contact you once the goods are delivered.”
“Yes, please do. Thanks.” Armaan nodded.
CHAPTER 5
Plaza Tower, Urumqi, Xinjiang Province, China
“Have a wonderful evening. See you tomorrow.” Her colleague said.
Venera Hoshur smiled and waved a goodbye as she walked down the aisle of her office located on the twenty-first floor of the Plaza Tower. She walked to the lift and waited for it to arrive. Her day had ended as it usually did at five pm. It had been the same routine for the past two years. Now she had the evening to herself.
The lift door opened; it was full of employees and she squeezed inside. Venera rarely found the lift empty. It was full of business people going home after a long day’s work. They moved as she entered and she found a square foot of space to stand. The doors of the lift closed and she could see the faces of the people reflected against the smooth finishing of the steel doors. They were all hemmed together shoulder to shoulder with absolutely no space to move.
And that was the curse of overpopulation. As a citizen of the world’s most populous nation, it was something Venera had gotten used to. There were people everywhere you went. The Chinese government had tried to stem the burgeoning overpopulation in 1979 through the One Child Policy and from her parent’s accounts, the experience had been harrowing. The government had claimed that they had stopped the population from exploding to one and half billion, but the perks had come with disadvantages too.
When Venera was born, Urumqi was a small town far removed from the mainland to the east. There was hardly any development and employment opportunities were few. Her father was illiterate and worked on a farm outside of the town. She was born in the late-nineties, and her birth had been a cause for distress rather than celebration. Her parents wanted a boy who would help them on the farm, but they had got a girl instead. The parents being poor didn’t have the money to run a gender-determination test, but around them they saw sex-selective abortions taking place.
Most couples under the One Child Policy wanted to ensure that they had a boy as their offspring, so if during the pregnancy they found it was a girl, they would immediately perform an abortion. After Venera was born, the parents decided to not register her name in the Hukou system, the national birth certificate registry, so that they could try again and have a boy and register his name instead.
It meant that in effect there would be no records of her.
After Venera was born, her parents didn’t register her name. It meant from the government’s viewpoint, she didn’t exist at all. The locals had a name for girls like her. Heihaizi, the black child. A year after her birth, her mother conceived a baby boy, and his birth was greeted with much celebration. She was too young to know what it all meant, but her mother later pleaded with her father to register both the kids so that they could get education, healthcare and other Government benefits.
It was a knotty problem for the father. The One Child Policy meant that no parents could conceive more than one child. Reporting two children to the government would swiftly incur a hefty fine, and his poor financial situation didn’t help. Finally, he struck upon an idea. He would register the children as Muslims. Non-Han Chinese were given more leeway compared to the majoritarian Han Chinese. Non-Hans were allowed to have two children. The father converted himself to Islam, changed his name and Venera Hoshur was officially born.
As a young child, Venera saw her parents doting on her young brother more than her. He would get all the love and pampering, but if she sulked at the unfairness of it, her parents would ignore her. But she never blamed her younger brother and started to accept her parents’ preference for her brother as a given. When Venera was a teenager, her brother died in a freak road accident. The incident devastated the entire family including Venera who loved her brother dearly. Now the sole offspring of her family, her parents started giving her the attention, love and care that she had missed for many years. Slowly she became aware of the dire financial straits her family was in. Her father owed money to multiple creditors and the creditors would come every few weeks to their house and threaten her father with serious repercussions if he didn’t pay up. Her mother explained to Venera that they were waiting for her to graduate so that she could help her father out of this mess.
Determined to help her parents in any possible way, Venera studied hard and made her way to a top college. Even at college she spent more time studying than socializing and ensured that she got high grades during her exams. It wasn’t easy, but she was determined. She pushed headlong into her subjects, including computers and the Internet – her new-found favourite. With millions of students competing in the exams against her, she had to be the best among the best to move ahead and land a well-paying job. It was yet another curse of overpopulation.
Venera still shook her head as she remembered the story her mother had once t
old her years ago. People used to think that the Second World War was the worst thing to happen in the twentieth century. Oh, how misguided they were! Three hundred million people were directly or indirectly affected in the War. It was a fraction of the one billion Chinese citizens who were affected on all levels by the One Child Policy. Women were coerced into surgical contraceptives, female births were never reported and a staggering three hundred million abortions took place, mostly females. And decades later, it now led to a skewed sex ratio with twenty million Chinese men that would never find a girl to marry.
Venera had initially accepted the logic behind the government’s decision to go ahead with the policy and had supported it. In fact, everyone she knew supported the rationale behind it. But as she got into college and started thinking for herself, she realized that there was no compelling evidence to support the viability of the policy. The long term effects outweighed the short-term benefits. The Chinese demographic was majorly made of working-age people and a distinctly small ratio of children. Within a decade or two they would have a population full of aged citizens with thirty percent of the population of working-age needing to support the remaining seventy percent. Over three generations, a family of four grandparents would result in two parents and a single grandchild. The government had only recently acknowledged the problem and had changed the One Child Policy to a Two Child Policy.
On a personal level, the policy meant that she was already required to take care of two semi-retired parents and four ailing grandparents on a salary that barely covered her own expenses. And it didn’t include the scenario that when she would have two kids, she alone would be responsible for eight members of her family. There was no doubt in her mind. The One Child Policy was the most stupid knee-jerk decision in the world.
After her graduation, Venera had bagged an InfoSec consultant role at a prestigious bank. The pay was good, but the expenses never stopped. Frustrated with the incessant demands of creditors, she researched online for ways to freelance for jobs, and that led her to the Dark Web. When she first accessed the Dark Web, it was like being exposed to a completely different world. For too long, the Chinese government had censored her knowledge of the outside world, and now through the Dark Web, she discovered an incredible number of ways, geeks like her were earning money. As an InfoSec specialist, she naturally gravitated to learn more about hacking.