by TR Kohler
An act that brought about no small amount of acrimony within Rawit on the first call. Only stands to see it rising with each successive attempt that ends the same way.
A total number now fast approaching double digits as Rawit scrolls through the list again. Another viewing of the many calls he has fired off in the last hour or two, all of them answered only by the mechanizations of voicemail.
A sound that Rawit will be hearing each time he closes his eyes at night for the foreseeable future.
Every single instance also likely to bring with it the vitriol he now feels, wanting nothing more than to grab up the nearest object and hurl it into the glass beside him. Something large and heavy that can splinter the outer shell, leaving a starburst pattern across the tinted windows.
Opting against placing another call that will be ignored, Rawit drops the phone down to his side. Running his opposite hand across his brow, he peels away the thin veneer of sweat that has arisen, his gaze drifting upward.
A realignment of his focus that falls immediately on the dark smear still drifting into the sky on the opposite end of Jakarta. A distance that is well over ten miles from point to point, though still it serves as a centerpiece on the horizon.
A vertical streak bisecting a clear sky.
A cruel slash of black and charcoal offset by pale blue on either side.
When putting this undertaking together, Rawit had known what the risks were. Possible outcomes in the name of what he was trying to accomplish.
Things he was willing to accept, provided that whatever collateral damage incurred was calculated and minimal. Absolute necessities that would not just be offset, but overwhelmingly outweighed by what would later spring forth.
Small sacrifices in the name of revitalizing an entire region. Shoving out foreign interests there only to maximize their own profits and replacing them with local prosperity.
Lands and facilities and a workforce that would be entirely Indonesian.
Profits and growth that would stay in the community, residing with people like Rawit.
Never, though, did he foresee outcomes like this. Eventualities born of something much different. Goals of a more carnal nature.
Outcomes craved by a man Rawit might have been better off leaving where he was.
A thought he cannot begin to shake as he raises the phone back to waist height and attempts to call Firash again.
Chapter Forty-Six
The vast majority of the spectacle that was playing out on Mike’s previous visit has tailed off. Police have now taken over for the initial wave of first responders, most of the paramedics and EMTs that were present earlier having departed, taking with them the sick and wounded. Also gone is much of the crowd that was still bunched tight around the facility, most that are present being a wave of insensitive gawkers or those looking to still be wandering about in a daze.
Two more things Mike has encountered too many times to count over the years. People steeped in basic human nature, succumbing to their baser instincts. Morbid curiosity or sensory overload, unable to walk away just yet.
Two groups that will both disperse in time, the overwhelming initial response eventually waning.
Knowing better than to dismiss anything too quickly though, Mike’s first act upon arrival was to make a pass around the property. A multi-block walk in a serpentine pattern not to view any outward damage, but to assess those that remained.
Make sure there wasn’t somebody staring a little too intently, like the pair he spotted earlier.
Or, more likely, somebody not staring at all. Someone like himself, onsite only to search the crowd. The girl that he was so close to or one of her cohorts, there to try and find the young man currently tucked away with Tania Lynch nearby.
A search that turned up nothing, the girl and any colleagues she might have possessing the sense to go to ground for a while.
A realization that adds disappointment to the cocktail already working its way through Mike as he presents himself at the same front gate where he witnessed workers fighting to exit earlier. The main access point to the entire facility, any small ancillary entrances that might exist now walled off completely.
Standard police procedure in incidents such as this, wanting to keep all media and the truly morbid from getting inside.
Two groups that, if Mike’s experience is any indicator, are often a lot closer to one another than either would like to admit.
Still wearing the torn and soiled t-shirt from earlier – there being no time for another midday run back to the safe house for a wardrobe change like yesterday – Mike loops the strap of the bag up over his head. Gripping it with either hand, he hopes it will be enough to obfuscate his appearance as he fishes the leather bifold from his back pocket.
Flipping it open, he holds it out before him, extended it toward the pair of officers overseeing the gate. Men in their forties that look to have aged even further over the course of the morning. Guys with red tendrils creeping through the whites of their eyes from constant smoke exposure.
Leaning in in tandem, they both study the credentials before pulling back. Exchanging a look, the mustachioed man on the left asks, “The U.S. Embassy sent an insurance inspector?”
“Site inspector,” Mike corrects, reciting the title printed on the credentials. “After the other explosions earlier this week, they wanted to get my impressions as soon as possible.”
Thin even to his own ears, he isn’t surprised when the two give each other a sideways glance. A long look with each relaying their underlying trepidation before eventually the man on the right shrugs slightly.
A move Mike has no doubt is steeped more in not thinking the issue is worth arguing over, especially after the morning they’ve had.
A small victory that he will more than happily take, just needing to be doing something.
“Stop by and see the fire captain on your way in,” the officer with the moustache says. “He’ll get you a coat, point you to the areas they’ve already wrapped up.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The blast pattern is obvious. One of many spread around the palatial interior of the production floor, it is tucked away in the corner. A smaller detonation site meant to wipe out what little there is in the area, more concerned with thoroughness than on inflicting widespread damage.
An ego stroke, hoping to make sure there is nothing usable left behind.
Starting from a small central point, powder burns extend outward in a starburst pattern. Black scorch marks seared into the concrete, withstanding even the pressure washing from the fire hoses that came in after.
Indelible tattoos that will exist for as long as the building does, a timeline Mike suspects will be on the shorter side, based on the amount of damage inflicted.
Leaving the smaller satellite site as is for a moment, Mike sweeps his gaze across the floor around him. A space that, by itself, much resembles the previous two he’s been in over the last couple of days. Vast open areas with smaller sections cordoned off for specialty services along the back and sides. Chunks carved out that comprise a total of maybe thirty percent of the available space, the rest of the area left deliberately open.
A workspace meant to utilize the free flow of people and products. Make it easy for items to come off one assembly line conveyor belt and be moved immediately to the next in order.
Production to transportation in the shortest distance possible.
At least, that’s what he imagines as he looks at the charred wreckage of what is left behind.
Serving a much different purpose than the two beverage providers he looked at previously, the array of machinery filling the space is infinitely different. Much larger by design and intricate in nature, metalworks rise well above the floor.
Arms and platforms for various functions, the scene looking like a set from a futuristic sci-fi movie. Some hellish factory where evil robots are made and assembled, their overseer bent on world domination.
Motivations that Mi
ke can’t help but feel are more than a little present here now, driving the ongoing blasts sweeping through the city.
Unlike the previous stops he’s made in recent days, the scene is still working through the various stages of initial fallout. The first few hours after such a cataclysmic event when a host of goals all rush to the surface. A competition to determine what gets top billing, each as important as the others.
Things such as determining that no further devices are still present, having not yet detonated. That the building is structurally sound enough for people to be moving about within. All ongoing fires have been extinguished. Any sick or injured have been moved outside.
All items that appear to have been checked off, the facility now moving into the next stage of tasks needing to be completed. Things that require much less urgency, the people around him looking to be coming down off an initial adrenaline rush. People already starting to feel the effects of it leaving their system, everything from their expressions to their movements plainly displaying the exhaustion they feel.
Sentiments Mike himself has been through many times. Instances called back to mind as he stands and stares at the vast spread before him. Feels the last bits of superheated air that hasn’t yet completely dissipated, a process made much faster by the roof ripped open above.
Breathes in the damp air. Smells smoke and flame retardant and wood char.
Something for each of his senses, the effect almost overwhelming as he takes it all in.
An effect that causes his pulse to tick upward. Sweat to rise to the fore beneath the weight of the jacket handed to him by the fire captain before entering.
Making no attempt to even begin taking down notes just yet, he walks across the dampened concrete floor. Gaze roving in either direction, he takes in what he sees.
A destruction much more complete than either of his previous stops. Devastation to match the scene that occurred outside in the immediate aftermath.
A definitive statement, even if Mike as yet has no idea by whom or for what purpose. Nothing more than the ideas shared with Tania the night before.
At least one notion removed from the list.
Others still very much in play.
Venturing out toward the center of the space, on to the worst of the wreckage, Mike passes within a few feet of a pair of men. Two guys in full suits to match the jacket he is donning. Both with hats removed to reveal hair matted flat with sweat, they stand in conversation, both staring at the immense scene before them.
A discussion Mike drifts closer to, hoping to catch a few snippets of information. Comments about what they arrived to find. Even their thoughts on how things played out.
Insights that are dashed the instant he gets close enough to decipher the language they are speaking is decidedly not English.
Indonesian, Mike having heard enough of it on Nusa Ceningan to recognize it without actually understanding a word being shared.
Continuing on his path, they don’t even break conversation as they look his way. A quick glance he meets with a nod, the two men both responding in kind.
Three people mired in a shared experience, trying to sort out what just took place.
A task much more heavily concentrated on Mike than the others, even if they have no idea as such.
Not once slowing his pace, Mike pushes onward. A steady march through the worst the place has to offer, the charred carnage of the facility crunching beneath his boots. A walk spent ignoring the heavy water content in the air or the sweat saturating his clothes and features.
Time with his eyes narrowed, his mind taking snapshots of the scene around him. Pointed inquiries not just of the devastation, but of the machinations that made it possible.
The details that he spent years in training to learn how to decipher. Specifics glossed over by people like the two men behind him.
The reason he ascended to the post he did before exiting the military.
At least part of why Kari Ma sought him out and asked him to come take a look now.
Halting his walk as close to the midpoint of the facility as he can manage, Mike clasps his hands behind his back. He lets his eyes drift shut, superimposing the scene around him with those he has been witness to in the past. A mental catalog that he riffles through.
Side-by-side comparisons meant to humor the inkling he has that what he is staring at isn’t for the first time.
A search that takes the better part of three minutes. Time spent planted in the middle of the General Motors warehouse floor, oblivious to all around him.
A period of deep thought that ends abruptly with his eyes popping open, his gaze sweeping back to the smaller satellite blast where he began just moments before.
“Son of a bitch.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
At no point has Firash cared much for – or even about – the odd pair foisted on him by Henry Rawit. The team that Rawit insisted was quite necessary, representatives of some local environmental faction. Young people easily manipulated, told they were there to take part in a scheme to do away with some of the worst polluters in the city.
A ruse to provide the entire undertaking with a plausible patsy if need be. A radical group to further obfuscate their real purpose for coming together. Someone to point at if ever there is too much suspicion aimed their direction.
Protections Firash had not feigned to be concerned with, leaving that aspect of things entirely to Rawit.
One male and the other female, his interest in the unwanted pair has been as little more than sacrificial lambs. Pawns that are too young, too naïve, too boisterous, to be of much real use.
To the point, he hasn’t even bothered to address them by name. Seeing them as nothing more than necessary foot soldiers to keep Rawit paying the bills and help Arief carry out his plans, only now for the first time does he see any value in their presence.
Even if it was completely by mistake.
Not sure what kind of big reveal the girl was pushing for, Firash had sat through the story with growing impatience. His real concern only on the bombs that were unleashed and the damage they inflicted, the type of response they evoked, he’d forced himself to listen to the meandering tale.
The story of excessive self-importance with the girl playing a central role, even if to his ears all it really seemed was that she and her counterpart had been particularly stupid. Made themselves so obvious that it was easy for someone to merely scan the crowd and pick them out.
And then made matters worse by letting themselves get chased down in the street.
One of them even caught and dragged away. A scenario where the best case is he was killed in the tussle, the worst being that he is sitting in an interrogation room somewhere.
Something that had Firash’s mind already working toward the need to relocate. The unnecessary time and effort of having to pack up his shop and move deeper into the jungle.
A task that had his acrimony running high before finally she got to the real thrust of the story. The part that made his previous angst fade, replaced with his first genuine bit of interest in anything the girl has ever had to say.
Words that made him tell them both to stay where they were and immediately retreat back into the house.
Never one for sentimentality, not a single memento exists from his career. Not trophies or prizes or whatever else someone with his track record might keep around.
No chunks of stone from various buildings blown to hell. Pieces of shrapnel or scraps with insignias or logos balanced on a shelf.
Not even a scrapbook commemorating the media coverage of his various exploits.
All of them are items kept by people that are perpetually stuck in the past. People that don’t possess the expertise he does, needing to always relive what has already taken place.
What he does still keep is a single notebook. A journal written in shorthand detailing the many jobs he’s had. The devices he’s employed and the effect they had. The responses they evoked and the agencies that
were deployed.
Professional knowledge, amassed in a single place.
A reference to call on in the event he ever found himself facing a particular target or scenario again. A way to keep minutiae forever straight in his mind.
The closest thing he will ever have to a memoir, stretching back the better part of two decades.
Ending very abruptly just over three years prior.
Wheeling himself into the lone bedroom in the rear of the shack, Firash goes directly to the battered nightstand alongside the stack of mattresses he sleeps on. Sliding out the bottom drawer of it, he tosses aside a couple of loose items of clothing.
Pieces he hasn’t worn in years, there only for the purposes of camouflage.
Things that are thrown away in search of the treasure they are meant to hide, Firash grabs up the notebook and pulls it free. Bringing it to balance on his lap, he flips it open to the very last page and extracts a single item.
A piece of paper folded to a quarter of its original size, flattened by years of being tucked away.
Sliding it out, Firash doesn’t need to open it. Having studied it countless times, he knows the image that it conveys. Every pixel of what was printed out years before.
More than that, he even knows the exact position of the folds that bisect it. The smudges of sweat and dirt that stain it.
All of it committed to memory through untold hours staring at it.
Just as he doesn’t bother to consult the last entry in the journal. The final item of a storied career. The one responsible for his current physical state.
Leaving the notebook lying atop his mattresses, Firash spins himself back in the opposite direction. Rolling through the narrow confines of the shack, he returns to the spot on the porch he occupied just a few minutes earlier.
Across from him, he finds Arief and the girl both having done the same, each fixed in place, waiting for his return.
“Was this the guy?” he asks, extending the printout before him. An invitation that goes unnoticed for a moment, neither person moving until he waves it before him.