2008 - A Case of Exploding Mangoes (7 page)

As if they are going to let me near a phone. The only phone from where you can dial outside the Academy is in the sickbay. And my guard is knocking impatiently on the door.

Obaid had arrived two days after our training had commenced and always maintained that air of someone who is just a step behind in life. When I first saw him he was wearing fake Levi’s, a very shiny pair of oxford shoes and a black silk shirt with a logo on its pocket that read ‘Avanti’. His blow-dried, jet-black hair covered his ears. And if his city-boy civilian dress wasn’t enough to make him stand out amid a formation of khaki-clad jarheads, he was also wearing a rose-patterned handkerchief carefully folded and tucked under his collar. He removed the hankie from time to time to absorb the invisible droplets of sweat from his forehead. He stood with all his weight on one leg, right thumb tucked in his jeans pocket, left arm hanging aimlessly, ass cocked, and stared into the distance over the trees, as if expecting to see an aircraft taking off.

He should have kept his eyes on the door, from where soon-to-be-drummed-out Sir Tony emerged for our dress inspection. His starched khaki shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, his hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. As he approached I thought he was buckling it, but he yanked it out and shouted, “ATTENTION.” I put my heels together, puffed my chest out, pulled my shoulders back, locked my arms at my sides and glanced towards Obaid. He shifted his weight onto his right foot and tucked his left thumb into his jeans pocket too, as if posing for a Levi’s ad. Sir Tony was the kind of sir who believed that authority was all about half-finished sentences and chewed-up words.

“Shun, bastards, shun,” he barked, charging at the squadron.

My spine stiffened even more. His belt whiplashed in front of my eyes, making me blink. I heard it strike Obaid’s cocked ass. So unexpected was the attack that Obaid could only whimper. His knees buckled and he fell on the ground, one hand taking the fall, the other trying feebly to protect his behind from further assault. It didn’t come.

Sir Tony gave him a full dress inspection. The rose-patterned hankie was the first item of clothing to come off. Sir Tony rolled it around his finger and smelled it. “Fake fucking Poison,” he said, showing off his knowledge of the perfume trade. Sir Tony shoved the hankie in Obaid’s mouth, extended his right leg and waved his shoe in Obaid’s face. Obaid understood the meaning of this gesture, but obviously the symbolism was lost on him.

He went down on his knees, took the hankie out of his mouth and tried to wipe Sir Tony’s right shoe, which was now level with his nose. Sir Tony stood with his hands on his hips looking around at the rest of us. We had already been at the mercy of his whims for two days and we knew that anyone who tried to glance towards him would be the next victim, so we stood and stared, stared and stood. Sir Tony gave him a slight kick in the chin and Obaid got the message. He put the hankie back in his mouth and started polishing the shoe, his face making little circles around the toe.

Both shoes polished to his satisfaction, Sir Tony busied himself with the rest of Obaid’s outfit. He spent a considerable time struggling to tear the pocket with the Avanti logo from Obaid’s shirt. It was silk; it wouldn’t come off. He ripped off all the buttons and removed the shirt. Obaid wasn’t wearing anything under it. Obaid hesitated when Sir Tony pointed towards his trousers but Sir Tony started fidgeting with his belt buckle and within seconds Obaid was standing there in only his briefs and white socks and shiny oxford shoes, the rose-patterned hankie still in his mouth. Sir Tony pulled the hankie out of his mouth and with a certain tenderness tied it around Obaid’s neck. Obaid was at attention now, trembling slightly, but he stood straight and stiff, his arms locked to his sides.

“Take charge.” Sir Tony patted Obaid’s cheek and walked off, tightening his belt. We fell in behind him and Obaid marched us back to our dorm. It was only when he was in front of us, naked except for his briefs and oxfords, leading us into our dorm for his first night in the squadron, that I noticed that his briefs were also silk, too small and too tight, with little embroidered hearts on the waistband.

“Nice jeans,” I whispered from my bed after the lights-out bell on his first night in the dorm. Obaid was in the bed next to mine, his blanket was aglow as a tiny torch moved under it. I couldn’t decide if he was reading a book or inspecting his privates for any damage.

“My father makes them.” He switched off the torch and removed the blanket from his head. The way he uttered
my father
told me that he didn’t like him much.

“Your father owns Levi’s?”

“No, he just owns a factory. Exports. Hong Kong. Bangkok.”

“Must make a lot of money. Why didn’t you go into the family business?”

“I wanted to follow my dreams.”

Hell. Not one of those crazy civilians looking for martyrdom in all the wrong places?

“What dreams? Licking other people’s boots?”

“I want to fly.”

The boy had obviously spent too much time around his father’s warehouses spellchecking fake labels. I stayed silent for a while. Someone in the neighbouring dorm was sobbing, probably not getting used to all the F-words being poured into his ear about his mother whom he was definitely still missing.

Me? Spent my sixth birthday in a dorm like this one. Never had that problem.

“What does your dad do?” He turned his torch on and pointed it at me.

“Turn that thing off. You’ll get us into trouble,” I said. “He was in the army.”

“Retired?”

“No. He died.”

Obaid sat up in his bed and clutched his blanket to his chest.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was on a mission. Classified.”

Obaid was silent for a moment.

“Your father was a
shaheed
then. It’s an honour to be your roommate.”

I wondered whether I would prefer to have a father who was alive and manufacturing fake American brands or a legend hanging from a ceiling fan.

“And did you really dream about joining the armed forces?”

“No. Books. I like reading.”

“Does your father make books too?”

“No. He hates books. But it’s my hobby.”

The sobbing in the next dorm settled into a low whimper.

“Do you have a hobby?”

“I didn’t join the armed forces to collect stamps,” I said, pulling the blanket over my head.

I unlace my boots, roll off my socks, take a starched pair of khaki cotton trousers and a shirt from the hanger. My trousers stick to themselves like two pieces of cardboard glued together and make tearing sounds as my legs part them. I tuck my stiff shirt in with one hand and open the door with the other.

“Congratulations, Uncle 303, your prisoner hasn’t escaped.”

I look in the mirror. Three days without a shave and there are just a few scattered hairs on my chin. Like cactus thorns, Obaid used to say, sparse but prickly.

I take the razor from the drawer. A few dry strokes get rid of the thorns.

I never saw a hair on Colonel Shigri’s face. He was freshly shaved when they took him down from the ceiling fan.

I can see in the mirror that my guard, standing behind me, is smiling.

My Silent Drill Squad comes to attention as I arrive in the parade square. Bannon is not there. I can tell he is in his cool-dude phase, which normally entails lighting up a joint with his first cup of Nescafe Instant. I don’t have to wait for him. My boys are standing in three rows, eighteen of them, their right hands resting on the muzzles of their 03 rifles, bayonets naked and pointing towards the sky.

I start the dress inspection, a leisurely slow march, my left hand on the sword hilt, my distorted face reflected in the toes of their shoes. They are eighteen of the best: a smudged shoe or a crooked crease or a loose belt is not expected from this bunch, but you can’t really complete the inspection without picking on someone. As I approach the second to last person in the third row I mark my victim. I draw the sword with my right hand, turn round and before the guy can blink put the tip just above his belt, on his tummy, which had relaxed after my approving nod. The tummy is sucked in.

Not just by the boy at the tip of my sword—but there is an inaudible sucking-in of tummies all around; spines, already straight, stretch to their full potential. My sword makes an arch in the air, the tip finds the mouth of its scabbard and is pushed into its velvet interior. I start my march as the sword’s hilt clicks with the top of the scabbard. Not a word is exchanged. My eyes go on roving along the lines of still, stern faces and unblinking eyes.

Good boys, they are.

We can begin.

All the bullshit about the sound of silence is just that, bullshit. Silence is silence and our Silent Drill Squad has learned that by now. We have done this for one hundred and ten days, seven days a week. The ones with malfunctioning internal clocks, those in the habit of glancing sideways to get their cues, those counting silently to coordinate their manoeuvres and those twiddling their toes in their shoes to keep their blood circulation going, have all been eliminated.

Here, my wish is their command.

Bannon, who has appeared quietly during my inspection, comes to attention with an exaggerated bang of his boot on the concrete, a sign for me to start. I ignore the red ropes unfurling under his drooping eyelids, execute an about-turn and draw my sword; holding it in front of my chest, I bring the hilt level with my lips. Salute performed and accepted in silence, I turn back and march four steps towards the silent squad. As my heel lands at the fourth step, the squad comes to attention in unison.

Perfect start.

My sword goes back into the scabbard and as the hilt clicks into place there is a swish in the air. The rifles leave their left hands with bayonets up in the air, complete a circle above their heads and land safely in their right. Then both hands grip the rifles, hold them in front of their chests and bang the magazines thrice. My rifle orchestra plays for five minutes, rifles swoon and circle in the air. Their hands clapping the magazines are perfectly timed. Ten pounds of metal and wood moulds itself to my silent commands.

My inner cadence rules.

The squad divides itself into two, both flights march ten steps in opposite directions, come to a halt, turn back and, with easy elegance, dissolve into a single row.

Time to show the buggers how it’s done.

I stand three feet from the file leader. We are eyeball to eyeball. A single blink or a sideways glance can be fatal. The file leader brings his rifle to chest level and throws it at me. The rifle makes a semi-arch and my practised right hand receives it. One. Two. Three. My right hand throws it spiralling over my head and it lands in my left. For the next sixty seconds it leaps and dances over my head and around my shoulders. For onlookers, the G3 rifle is a blurred swirl of metal and wood, at one with me before it does a triple loop and lands in the file leader’s hand.

For the finale, the squad lines up in two rows again and I start my slow march down the middle, sword held straight in front of my chest. Every step I take is a command for both files to throw their rifle to the guy standing opposite them. It’s like walking through a calibrated assault of flying swords. Throw. Catch. You miss a beat and your bayonet can lodge itself in your partner’s eye. I am walking between a twenty-metre spiral of rifles circling in the air. It looks spectacular but is easy to achieve with three months of practice.

As I approach the last pair, I give a sideways glance to the guy on my right, just a deflection of my eyeballs. His hand trembles as he receives the rifle that has just swished past my nose. His right hand is a nanosecond late in his throw, the rifle makes a half-circle in the air and its butt comes at my temple.

Perfect.

Blackout.

If the bastard had delayed it another beat, it would have been the bayonet instead of the butt.

The medical orderlies take off my shoes, remove the sword and loosen my belt. The ambulance is silent. Someone slips an oxygen mask on my face. I give in to the stretcher’s comfort and breathe deeply. I wish I could afford the luxury of passing out but my condition needs to stabilise quickly. I don’t want the overefficient buggers to open my skull.

As my back rests on the white sheets in the sickbay’s special care room, an orderly slips a needle into my arm. A curtain is drawn. The phone is on the other side of the curtain. I feel calm, too calm even to take a reassuring look at it.

I wake up groggy and immediately know they put a sedative in the drip.

Bannon is sitting on a stool at my bedside.

“It’s not about Obaid,” he says. “There’s a plane missing. A whole goddam machine, gone.”

I hope it’s a sedative-induced hallucination, but Bannon’s hand is on my shoulder and he is the only person in the Academy who calls an aircraft a plane.

“An MF17 is missing and they think Obaid took it.”

“What do you think?” I ask him, feeling stupid and sleepy at the same time.

Baby O flew away with a whole aircraft?

Emergency procedures for Mushshak, MF17, two-seater, dual-control, propeller aircraft, powered by two hundred horsepower Saab engine:

Engine on fire
:

Cut the throttle.

Go into a thirty-degree descent.

Trim the ailerons.

Look for a field to land in.

If the fire continues
:

Release the catch on safety belt.

Eject the canopy.

Keep your head down.

Climb onto the right wing.

Jump.

“Why the right wing?” I had raised my hand in the Emergency Procedures class.

So that you die quicker, came the reply.

There are no parachutes on MF17
s
.

“The plane is still missing,” says Bannon.

“Who the fuck cares about the plane? It can’t be in the air forty-eight hours after it took off. You put the bloody idea in his head in the first place. Now don’t just sit there, do something,” I shout at him and realise my voice is choked. Must be the sedatives, I tell myself.