Counterplay

by Richard Aaron

  The president smiled. “Atta girl, Tyra. Yes, we have a few hard-core types on staff who can help us out here.”

  23

  The vehicle thefts and swaps continued. Zak, with the various tools embedded in his prosthesis, and Richard, with his technical skills, boosted more cars than a gang of meth-fueled New York locksmiths. They never remained in one car or truck for longer than an hour. They were heading generally in a southwesterly direction, using the M-9 or the various feeder routes that ran parallel to it. Turbee, who had been quietly monitoring them from the TTIC control room, had been able—using the comm-link technology that Zak carried with him in his prosthetic forearm—to patch into central dispatch of the Sindh Provincial Police Force. The three fugitives were rising rapidly on the constabulary radar screen. They were able to anticipate where the roadblocks were being thrown up and take various sideroads and alternate highways. The orders were becoming obviously more pressing, as low-flying helicopters bearing the markings of the Sindh Police and the ISI became more abundant in the sky above the highway, and police cars with sirens blaring threaded their way through the heavy traffic. They were well within the Karachi city limits, and less than ten miles from Karachi Harbor, driving an ancient three-axle farm truck when traffic again began to slow.

  “Roadblock up ahead, Rich.”

  “What do you suggest here, Zak?”

  “Block the highway with this truck.”

  “What?”

  “Block it, Rich. Slow it down and just park this piece of crap truck directly across the highway. Somebody’s got to stop. Then we, you know, we do what we usually do.”

  “Zak, this is the major route between Islamabad and Karachi—”

  “Block the fucking road, Rich. We don’t have much time. We do not want to get into a box before we’re at the harbor. Do as I tell you.”

  Richard did. What followed was not particularly surprising. He hammered the brakes and cut the wheels sharply to the left, bringing the lorry to a skittering halt, blocking both southbound lanes. Several cars were able to dodge the obstacle, but a couple drove off the traveled portion of the highway. One rolled. A few smashed into one another and several smashed into the flatbed. They were being cursed at in multiple languages.

  “Hop out, Rich. There’s an Audi back there with a solo driver in it. Let’s take it and scram.”

  Richard hopped down from the cab of the flatbed and took several long steps toward the Audi. The driver of the Audi committed several errors. He remained stationary when he should have driven away. And he opened the driver’s door, swearing in English, “What the fuck are you guys doing? Have you completely lost your minds?”

  The Audi driver stood all of five-foot-two, while Zak stood at six-footone and Richard topped out at just shy of six feet. He immediately saw the folly of his actions, but it was too late. Richard walked past him without acknowledging his presence and stepped into the car. Zak directed Kumar to get into the back seat. When the driver, realizing he was now the victim of a hijacking, began screaming even louder at Richard, Zak gave him an unblinking, grey-eyed death stare, and the man settled down.

  “Pin it, Richard,” Zak said. “Around the back of the flatbed, into the northbound lanes, and take the first side road off the freeway.”

  “Okay, now we’re in a stolen Audi. What’s next, hotshot?” Richard asked, ruefully.

  “We need to change vehicles a few more times, in the next few minutes. If we do this three or four times, we will likely confuse the cops. And keep her heading toward Karachi Harbor. I think I know how we can get ourselves out of this jam. But we’ve got to stay off the N-5. Then we follow Kumar’s plan.”

  Richard looked in his rearview mirror at Kumar, sitting in the back seat. He remained eerily quiet. He had seldom broken his silence. He was staring ahead, defocused and mute.

  The day of joyriding continued unabated. At Dumlotteen Road, they swapped the Audi for another ancient Volvo, and near Karachi International Airport, they downgraded further to an aging, multicolored Volkswagen. As they traversed the industrialized reaches of Sindh Province, they swapped the VW for an antique six-axle Peterbilt pulling a fifty-three-foot box trailer.

  They were driving south along Muhammad Jinnah Freeway, a major entry point into the downtown Karachi business district, when they saw yet another police roadblock ahead of them. The roadblock had been cleverly stationed, located along the southern end of a mile-long overpass. Traffic slowed and then stopped as the police pulled over and inspected every vehicle.

  “I think we’re screwed here, guys,” Richard said, downshifting and braking. “We can’t get off the highway. We can’t avoid this one, and certainly not driving a big rig like this.”

  “Why don’t you run the bastard,” Zak said. “There’s the inside shoulder lane just there,” he said, pointing. “I don’t see any spike belts. You should be able to squeeze between two of those PCs just ahead. When we get through, we can ditch this old pig for something a little more nimble.”

  “Zak, come on. I just can’t blow through a police checkpoint like this. People are liable to get hurt, and we can’t outrun them in an old Peterbilt. And we have no maneuverability. That’s a no-hoper.”

  “Sure. No-hoper. Fine then. My guess, Rich, given what’s at stake here, their orders are shoot to kill.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Because they’ve already tried to kill us on multiple occasions, idiot. Now hit the gas and blow the checkpoint.”

  “Zak, people are going to get hurt here.”

  “Don’t you see it, you moron? This is way bigger than us. Kumar here has information that could blow the whole Afghanistan charade out of the water. If they can arrest the admiral and General Pershing and probably Ambassador Buckingham because of this, if they can do that, their orders will be to shoot first and ask questions later. Our own country tried to take us out, on more than one occasion, with Hellfire missiles. They want us dead. Now run the fucking roadblock.”

  The reasoning was ineluctable. Richard shrugged and began to pull toward the left, onto the inner shoulder of the divided highway, grinding through the gears and picking up speed. The cops saw him coming as he went north of forty. They began to fire at the Peterbilt, but it had too much momentum and crashed through the police lineup. The huge truck clipped one of the police cars, knocking it backwards. It bounced through the guardrail and plummeted more than forty feet downward, where it crashed onto the Burnese Terminal Road, bursting into flames upon impact.

  “Now what, Zak? We’re through the roadblock. I don’t think we’re invisible anymore. We’ve probably got the security forces and militaries and gangs from half a dozen countries after us by now. What’s your next brilliant idea?”

  “Spare me the editorial, Rich. Three or four hundred yards ahead there’s a road to the right. Take that exit. Use your signal lights if you’re having a crisis of conscience.”

  The steering began pulling to the left as the smell of burning rubber started to permeate the air. “I think our front left tire is gone. Probably the suspension, too. We can’t drive more than a mile before we crash.”

  “Just keep it between the ditches for a mile, mile and a half. Ignore the cops and sirens behind you. Get ready to hang a right when I tell you.”

  As the Peterbilt veered down a side road toward Karachi Harbor, there was the distinct whap-whap sound of a helicopter. “Zak, there’s a chopper, a couple I think, just above us. We are totally screwed here.”

  “Take a pill, Richard. No fucking wonder you became a drug addict. A ride becomes a bit challenging and you’re starting to wail. Do as I say and we’ll be just fine.”

  “Zak, whoa on the sexism. You’ve been in the tribal lands for too long.”

  Two helicopters descended and were flying less than a hundred feet in front of them. One of them was an AH-64 Apache gunship, bearing the markings of the Pakistani army. A thirty-mm M230 chain gun was hanging between the landing wheels. The ma
ssive gun swiveled toward them.

  “Now fucking what, Zak? Those are thirty mike-mikes. A ten-second burst from that thing will totally incinerate this cab.”

  “Richard, you are beginning to piss me off. Up ahead, fifty yards. The front gates of the Pakistan Petroleum and Chemical Corporation. Blow through the front gates and stop. Kumar, pass me that metal toolbox. It’s wedged behind the driver’s seat. Now here is what we’re going to do—”

  Richard acquiesced to the strange command. They would be dead within ten seconds in any event.

  As the gunner in the AH-64 adjusted the angle on the massive chain gun, the driver and passenger doors flew open and three men jumped out of the truck. Zak dropped the heavy toolbox on the gas pedal and slammed the transmission up one gear. The truck headed directly toward one of the large distillation towers in the refinery complex. The gunner stayed his hand momentarily, attempting to make sense of what was transpiring beneath him. The tractor-trailer rig smashed into the tower with sufficient force to penetrate its walls. The tearing of metal against metal produced a shower of sparks igniting the ethylene within. Exposed to the outside air, the mixture exploded violently, sending streams of metal and burning fuel across the complex. Other distillation towers were compromised, and exploded.

  At the center of the complex stood a large, heavy, crude cracker. Under very high temperatures, the molecular bonds of the raw petroleum were severed, creating a host of various other petrocarbon compounds of commercial value. The cracker was many times the size of the other towers, and when it exploded, it took out the rest of the refinery and the two AH-64s.

  Richard and Kumar raced away from the complex. Zak was unable to keep up, as he was still getting used to the two artificial toes and the artificial forearm provided by the scientists and engineers of DARPA and Stanford University. Zak stumbled and began to fall at the same moment the cracker ignited. He was blown away from the explosion, falling in a crumpled heap a few yards behind Richard.

  Richard was able to pull Zak up as one of the 10,000-barrel cylindrical storage containers ruptured and ignited, turning the center of the complex into a vicious cyclone of flame and steel.

  “Let’s go, Zak. This plant has got a few more explosions left in it. Not safe to be here.” The three of them raced away from the dying refinery as emergency response teams were dispatched toward what was once the Pakistan Petroleum and Chemical Corporation.

  It was 1976. The huge, protected Karachi Harbor was as busy as the city, with many cargo and container ships anchored or docked, waiting to be loaded or unloaded. Hundreds of smaller craft whizzed about with no apparent pattern or logic to their movements. Yousseff watched the action with distaste as Omar piloted the Janeeta II through the outer breakwater and into the harbor itself. Omar motioned to the distant, southeastern area of the harbor. Squinting in the rain, Yousseff could see acre after acre of cranes, gantries, industrial shops, and docks.

  “That’s KSEW,” Omar said. “Karachi Shipbuilding and Engineering.

  We go there.”

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Yousseff responded.

  Omar directed the ship toward the southeastern shore. As they approached the KSEW land, he changed course and paralleled the shore about 200 feet out.

  “Look at the mess, Omar,” Yousseff said. “You’d have to take a bulldozer to it and start over.”

  “No wonder they’re going broke,” Omar responded. “Nobody seems to be working at anything productive. Look at the cranes. They are almost all sitting idle.”

  “Take us to where the smaller outfits are, over there. I don’t feel good about KSEW doing any type of work on the Janeeta,” Yousseff said.

  “Okay, boss,” joked Omar. More than a mile of dilapidated docks, cranes, and warehouses went by. Eventually Omar brought the ship into a smaller, private dry-dock facility. They tied her up and hopped onto the dock. The only person around was a young teenager, maybe fifteen years of age, if that. He was perched high up, repairing a crossbeam on what appeared to be an extension of the main shop building. Yousseff motioned to him.

  “Yo, boy, come down here. We have work for you.” The young welder slid down the main beam in a jiffy, practically falling at their feet. He still had his welder’s helmet on, with the face piece lifted up.

  “What would you like?” he asked, eyeing them, sizing them both up, and looking at the somewhat aging Janeeta II.

  “We need some work done on the Janeeta’s hull. On the bottom. Needs a dry dock, and lifts, which it looks like you have here,” Yousseff said.

  “What kind of work?” asked the boy.

  “We need an exterior, watertight compartment that can be easily opened from the interior of the boat. It must blend in with the existing hull.”

  “Ah. Drug smugglers, yes?” the young man responded.

  Yousseff pressed him. “Can you do the work or not?” he asked.

  The young lad had bright, inquisitive eyes and a quick sense of humor. He was likeable. Of all of Yousseff’s many gifts, his ability to see the strengths and weaknesses in people was the most useful. He saw much strength in the young welder standing before him.

  “Yes, I can do the work.”

  “Can you do it now?” Yousseff asked.

  “As in right now? As in now now?”

  “Yes. Now now.”

  “Cost you more,” said the teenager.

  “No problem. We’ll pay,” Yousseff answered quickly.

  “Cash?” asked the welder.

  “Cash,” said Yousseff.

  “Then it’ll cost you even more.”

  The bartering and dealing went on for another fifteen minutes. Before long, Yousseff had learned the young man’s name: Kumar. Kumar Hanaman.

  Over the course of the next two days, Kumar’s skills amazed both Yousseff and Omar. No place to hook the cables in order to pull the boat into dry dock? No problem. He’ll weld some on. The Janeeta’s too small for a dry dock built for oceangoing ships? No problem, he’ll create a smaller lift carriage. Parts of the hull are too corroded to work on (a problem that Yousseff and Omar did not know until that very moment)? No problem. He could replace them.

  And then there was the masterful solution devised by the youthful Kumar, on the fly, to create an outer envelope, partially accessible through an internal, hidden lever. It was beyond what Yousseff, or the more mechanically gifted Omar, had imagined. Kumar did all of it on his own, without any assistance, and at an amazing speed, chattering all the while, laughing, making jokes, and generally having a ball.

  The work took two days, with both Yousseff and Omar chipping in, assisting where they could. During those two days, Yousseff spent almost all his time talking with Kumar. He was pathetically inept at anything to do with mechanical work, but he stayed by Kumar’s side, passing along tools or moving or holding bits of iron and steel while Kumar and Omar did most of the welding and cutting. To Omar, it was almost comical to see Yousseff running to keep up with the chattering, skittering Kumar, passing him tools and trading stories.

  One of the first tales Kumar told Yousseff was the history of the little dry dock company. Its name was Karachi Dry Dock and Engineering Company, which he shortened to KDDE. His father had purchased the dock, crane, and shop building from KSEW eighteen months ago. He had planned to handle specialty jobs, involving the repair and manufacture of propellers and rudders for oceangoing vessels. He had been a highly skilled employee at KSEW and had specialized in this very area. He saw many of the inefficiencies of KSEW and felt he could provide a better product at a lower cost. He paid a premium price for the decrepit building and dry-dock system, which had been overgrown with weeds and was in considerable disrepair. KSEW had not actively used the site for more than twenty years. The vice president for KSEW had promised Mr. Hanaman Senior that his company would not compete against Hanaman’s new venture, and would instead send all their rudder and propeller work his way. In that way, the VP proposed that Hanaman Senior would be able to pay off his in
vestment quickly and easily.

  The elder Hanaman, feeling that this was a no-lose situation, had put his life savings into the venture, and that of a number of his brothers. The opportunity appeared to be too good to pass up—guaranteed employment for all of them in a lucrative specialty area in the ship maintenance business. Hanaman Senior had prepared many scenarios and projections, and decided that he definitely couldn’t lose. If just a fraction of the propeller and rudder work came his way, he would have a thriving, profitable business in no time. All he needed was a small fortune to invest—a fortune that came from family members. He would be able to repay them entirely, at a substantial interest rate, plus a bonus for their troubles within a year.

  Alas, though, it was not to be. The VP had been told by his board of directors to liquidate, at the best possible price, much of the unused property of KSEW in an attempt to make the once-mighty company profitable again. The senior Hanaman had not been able to pay the entire property price, of course, so the balance was made up by a mortgage back to the company at very reasonable terms. “And,” said the VP, “do not worry if you miss a payment if business is slow. We will not foreclose. You will definitely have all our propeller work, and that, by itself, guarantees your venture to be profitable.”

  Of course the VP had every intention of foreclosing, and competing, and none whatsoever of sending any business to Hanaman. After one year of business hell, during which power was repeatedly cut off and only tiny, low-value jobs were sent to the new Karachi Dry Dock and Engineering Company, the venture was near death. The pressure on Mr. Hanaman became immense. His brothers first berated him, then ignored him, and finally sued him. KSEW had just initiated foreclosure proceedings and there was only one month left in the redemption period. His wife could not handle the stress and humiliation, and ended up leaving him. His health failed, he took to drinking, became ulcerous, and had developed cancer two months before Yousseff came into the picture.