Turbulence (2 page)

Vir looks at the phone as if it just bit him. When he speaks into it again, his voice is hoarse with rage.

“You don’t know what you’re getting involved with. You must tell me everything you know immediately. If you’re the one who’s been trying to stop us, you’re in more danger than you can imagine. We will find you.”

“You won’t have to try very hard. I want to meet you. But if you go into that factory today, you won’t come out. You’ve been sent on a suicide run.”

“What?”

“No one in the Air Force top brass knows about your mission, Vir. I’ve been listening. No Indian military chief in his right mind would have allowed this mission anyway. Whoever sent you here wants you dead. What do you do with a stray superhero? Send him to the place where your enemy keeps his nukes. Either way, someone powerful dies.”

Vir struggles for a response and finds nothing. He listens, instead, to his caller, whose voice is getting more and more incoherent.

“The world needs you for more than this, Vir. I could use your help, this is bigger than India or Pakistan. No one could have planned for what happened to us on the plane. There were 403 of us when we started. There aren’t now. When this is done, check your mail. Come and meet me in Mumbai. We’re going to have to work together.”

“I don’t believe any of this. I can’t abandon my mission
based on what you say.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have stuck around and talked for so long then. You showed up on the KRL motion detection system a while ago. You’re not big enough or giving off a large enough heat signature for them to start throwing missiles at you, but you might want to make a move before they take a much closer look. The Americans will be looking for you by now as well — they’ve probably told their Pakistani friends you’re not one of theirs. Smile and wave, Vir.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because, in case it wasn’t clear enough, I don’t want you to waltz into AQ Khan Labs and start a war. But I don’t want you to die today, either. Now get out before they come for you. We’ll talk later.” The phone went silent.

Vir tucks his phone into the case on his belt. He stands in mid-air, in mid-thought, and is tempted to laugh. But then he looks up, to the west, towards the flash of light, towards the shining winged metal falcon hurtling towards him, hears that familiar jet-engine scream, and he knows the time for choices is over. The Fiza’ya has arrived.

The phone beeps again. On auto-pilot, Vir picks it up.

“F-16,” his mystery caller says. “Whatever you do, don’t fly back to India.”

Vir hangs up, and tries to get his still-human mind to figure out a course of immediate action. It’s been a month since he discovered he could fly, and he still doesn’t know why. But he does know how to start, and he swirls and streaks off, cutting through the air, still marvelling at the beauty of the landscape gradually turning into a blur beneath him.

After that first exhilarating dash, he swoops up, stopping,
surveying the skies. He’s been sighted. The F-16A, specially designed for manoeuvrability, has followed his trajectory and is speeding right at him. Vir wonders at the skill of its pilot: it was no mean feat to have spotted him. His appreciation is lessened, though, when he sees a stabbing point of white light coming from under the Viper’s left wing. The M61 Vulcan cannon, six-barrelled, self-cooling, high-speed spinning Gatling gun of every pilot’s nightmares.

Vir shuts his eyes and speeds north, the world a dull grey roar, the moaning of the jet streaking behind him flattened out, punctuated by the ceaseless hammering of the Vulcan. He hasn’t had the opportunity to time himself; he doesn’t know how fast he can fly. He does know, though, that the F-16 flies fastest at high altitudes, so he dips sharply, lower and lower, feeling the slap of warmer air. His skin tingles and quivers.

His phone beeps.

Vir shuts his eyes and begs his unknown powers for more. His clothes, not tested at this speed, are beginning to rip and tear. A lucky shot from the Vulcan grazes his back. He knows he’s far stronger than normal humans: his squadron leader spent most of one afternoon shooting at him at close range with increasingly heavy firepower to no effect. But he doesn’t know exactly what the limits of his resistance are. And he wouldn’t have chosen this time, this place or this weapon in his quest for greater understanding.

He’s bleeding now, as he takes off again, trailing a thin jet-stream of suspended red droplets.

The phone beeps until Vir reaches a climax of world-ending rage. He slows down, loops, and comes to a shuddering halt, and then drops like a stone. The F-16 slows too, but shoots
over his head. Vir takes the call.

“Not a good time,” he says.

“You’re incredibly fast. Do you know where you are now? You’re near Gilgit. That’s about 260 kilometres in just more than a minute.”

Far ahead, the F-16 goes through a sharp turn, its bubble canopy gleaming in the sun.

“Make this quick,” Vir says.

“Just a heads-up. You’ve killed the Viper, right?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if you don’t, the Pakistanis have evidence of an act of war. Listen, he’s probably seen you and has good pictures of you. You need to take him out. Think like a pilot. Don’t race him. Dance with him. He’s a fatty.”

“Go to hell,” Vir snaps.

The fatty is close now, Vulcan hammering away. Vir flies up, making short, sharp, diagonal dashes, flitting bat-like closer to the F-16 until he can see the pilot, who’s chattering excitedly into his mouthpiece as he tries to steer his wobbling craft into position. A burst of speed, and Vir is directly above the Falcon. He drops gently on it, and hangs on. Panicking, the pilot cuts loose. Vir darts aside as the jet roars away, leaving him wobbling and coughing in its slipstream. When the roar has faded somewhat, he puts the phone to his ear.

“That was good advice,” he says.

“Hey, no problem. Excellent network on these satellite phones, huh? What is it? Thuraya? Globalstar? My phone usually gets cut off when I walk from my bedroom to my kitchen.”

“Focus. What do I do now?”

“Oh, yeah, babbling, sorry. I do that. You should head north. Don’t turn right until you reach Tajikistan. Come back through Nepal or Bhutan. Try not to provoke the Chinese.”

“Has he got pictures of me? Is our secret out?”

“I’ve been trying to jam his communications, but I don’t know — something might have got through. Why don’t you ask him? He’ll probably be back, get him then. He’ll have told them about you, but without pictures everyone will assume flying men are American.”

True enough, the F-16 is back, and this time it’s locked in on Vir. There are two Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles on rail launchers on its wingtips — the pilot launches them both in quick succession and then comes in, cannons blazing.

Vir pauses for a second and looks around, taking in the majesty of the scene. The Karakoram Mountains lie to the north, harsh cliffs and peaks cutting dagger-like shadows. No clouds here: the sun is bright, unrelenting. He breathes in, enjoying the mountain air. And then the missiles reach him. Vir darts aside politely, watches the Sidewinders shoot past, and then races towards the jet.

Afraid now, the pilot swerves sharply. But Vir is faster, he joins the F-16 in flight and together they head for the hills. Ahead of them, the Sidewinders swerve and circle, sensing their target’s trajectory. The pilot now sees Vir’s face clearly for the first time: this is no small robot spy drone, this is another man, their skins are the same colour. His jaw drops; he stares at Vir with religious awe, unable to persuade his hands to move the controls any longer. Time stops; human and superhuman make eye contact.

“Sorry,” Vir says. He streaks upwards as the Sidewinders close in on him and miss, smashing into the F-16’s canopy instead.

The blast hits Vir hard, a flying wing from the shattered F-16 hits him even harder. He rolls and tumbles in mid-air, losing all control, and hurtles flailing towards the mountainside, seeing serious pain await him at rainbow’s end. Burning debris races with him. His mind begins to drift away in a torrent of fire and wind.

Snapping to attention, he spots in the shadow of a rock-face a dark hole in the centre of a ring of flaming debris, a crack in the mountain: a cave. Using the very last of his strength, he aligns his body to the cave-mouth, swims into the right parabola, and manages to rocket into the darkness just as the broken jet smashes thunderously into the mountainside around him.

Vir slides toboggan-like through the cave, the sudden coolness strangely relaxing even as his body screams with pain. He dimly hears the sound of men shouting. Turning his head as he slides, he sees bearded, robe-clad, gun-wielding men up ahead, in front of a lantern-lit door. He smashes through the door, taking the men with him, on to a metal platform, through a crude iron gate, and suddenly the world is well lit again, and he’s back in mid-air inside the mountain, the gunmen falling by his side, screaming. And then he crashes into the cavern floor, slides a little more for good measure and, thankfully, stops.

Flat on his back, breathing raggedly, he takes in the scenery. A huge cavern that’s been converted into a bunker. Well-lit, generators humming, crude electrical wiring everywhere. To his right, rows of tables, some covered with guns and ammunition, some with food and supplies, others with computers. Platforms, tunnel openings and ammunition racks line the cavern walls. Sirens wail. Gun-wielding men in boots thunder down metal steps and out of inner caves, shouting.

Vir sighs. To his left, a white-robed man sits unperturbed, typing at a computer. Vir squints and peers at the screen, expecting blueprints, war plans; instead he sees a Facebook homepage. The man rises, turns slowly and looks at Vir. And as Vir sees, through the red and green worms of pain floating across his vision, the man’s face, the long salt-and-pepper beard, the deep, sad eyes, the straight, proud nose, the famous white turban, he closes his own eyes and starts laughing uncontrollably as he drifts into unconsciousness.

When he opens his eyes again, there are about thirty AK-47s pointed at his face, and a man is trying, unsuccessfully but passionately, to stab him in the chest with a Gerber Infantry knife. As Vir looks at him, he leaps backwards, muttering sheepishly. Someone has tied his hands and feet together. He snaps the ropes without effort and rises to his feet slowly, looking for the white-robed man. He has disappeared, though there are several lookalikes among the gunmen around him. On a high platform to his left, a few women who look like belly-dancers squeal, giggle and point. Vir realises, suddenly, that he has been naked for a while. His belt, the only surviving article of his clothing, lies around the smoking ruins of his shoes. A sound comes from it. It’s his phone, beeping.

One of the gunmen picks up the phone and takes the call. Vir doesn’t know whether it’s his mysterious new ally or his squadron leader. He snatches the phone from the gunman and puts it to his ear. Static, mostly. Satellite phones are useless indoors, especially burnt ones.

Seeing their protests ignored, the gunmen begin to shoot him; bullets fly off his skin. He was once caught in a hailstorm, this doesn’t feel very different. His muscles creak to life, one by
one. Acupuncture by AK-47. More people scream, howl, fall to their feet in prayer, throw things; he’s not particularly bothered any more.

“We’ll talk later,” he says into the phone, and crushes it with his fist. He heaves a huge and weary sigh, and stretches, looking curiously at the men emptying their guns in his unyielding flesh. Some have gone to get grenade-launchers; others just stand around uselessly. Something in their faces moves him to pity; their fight was a dark one before, but it is hopeless now.

He politely asks a nearby cowering man for his robe, and gets it. And then he flies off, out of the cavern and into the sky.

“The wonderful thing about Bollywood,” Uzma says, gently twirling a strand of her long black hair, “is that everyone in the industry is so nice.”

All the other actresses sitting or standing in the crowded Daku Samba Entertainment office lobby look at her with identical expressions of incredulity, wondering whether Uzma is joking, mad, drugged or all of the above. Even Uzma’s (current) best friend and Mumbai hostess Saheli feels slightly apprehensive as she nods and smiles beside her.

“You’ve been lucky,” Saheli says. “Most outsiders trying to get a job here have horror stories.”

“I’ve heard a lot of that too,” Uzma says. “But you know what? I think it’s all made up by people to scare newcomers away. Discourage competition. I think if anyone comes in with the right attitude and the right kind of talent Bollywood’s much more warm and welcoming than anything back home. And
people who haven’t landed an acting gig after spending years here? They should probably just quit.”

Saheli flinches and scans the room, half expecting all the other actresses there to fly screaming at Uzma and tear her limb from limb in a frenzy of manicured nails and strategically applied stilettos. But no, they’re just sitting there listening to her, and none of the women, several of whom have clearly been auditioning unsuccessfully for at least a decade, even seem angry — though some look extremely depressed.

Uzma does cut a fairly formidable figure: tall, toned, dark, smouldering, impeccably dressed, and a rich Oxford accent to boot — essential for those romantic blockbusters where the hero, in between foiling international terrorist plots in Sydney and dancing in Macau, pauses to play American football for Oxford. But while Saheli has spent most of her life instantly disliking women like Uzma — and, it must be said, Uzma herself, during their days together at St Hilda’s — she’s becoming accustomed, slowly, to the fact that she’s become really fond of Uzma now. Her initial dismay on reading that email about Uzma’s planned visit to Mumbai —
Just a week, darling, until I find digs of my own. It is my first time in your city and I haven’t seen you in SO long —
disappeared the moment she saw her former classmate step out of the airport.

A pure Bollywood moment: the crowd parted like the Red Sea as Uzma sashayed out, effortlessly performing the Heroine Time-Slowing Effect, her hair unfurling, cascading, shining, a smile of pure delight spreading across her face as she saw Saheli goggling at her. Unmindful of the jaw-dropping eye-popping handbag-flopping effect she had on the crowd, Uzma raced across the tarmac and swept Saheli up in an enthusiastic
embrace. Several men in the crowd burst into spontaneous applause. Babies gurgled. Aunties wept joyously. As far as Mumbai was concerned, Uzma Abidi couldn’t have made a better entrance.