Fizz…

By Kannan

Peace and Violence complement one another and both are undermined without the presence of the other.

Insecurity inspired by violence and devastation provides a business opportunity to those who live by selling killing machinery.

When the war of thousand cuts could not bring India to the negotiating table, let alone concede defeat, Pakistan's ISI immediately grabs the opportunity to nuke India.

However, the common legacy shared by both countries had many Indians in Pakistan who played a vital role in its establishment.

How various nations respond to the purported nuclear attack intended to destabilise South Asia?

At the centre of the plot is the defamed Qadar Khan—"Father of Pak Nukes"—who was a Muhajir.

Will he try to nuke India, the country in which he was born, so that he can reclaim lost respect in Pakistan, his adopted country?

What happens to the flamboyant general of Pakistan, Syed Ashraf Pasha, when his own Government denies any plot that he was executing through Qadar? Under international pressure from dollar donor countries, his family was arrested. Pasha, the man projected as future Army Chief, was labelled traitor. What would the patriotic army officer do in such circumstances?

Who actually detonates the device?

What happens in the aftermath?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Sep 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9789352015214

Kannan

Kannan was born in a Tamil migrant family from Palakkad, Kerala. Born and brought up in Kanigiri, Andhra Pradesh, he spent his childhood climbing the mountain formed from single rock and swimming in the wells used for agriculture. He became an engineer and is employed by an Aluminium manufacturer. He lives in Mumbai with his wife and son and leads a regular and boring life - which is why he started writing fiction. A person with strong opinions but no expectations from life, he became a spiritual atheist after witnessing the aftermath of the Latur earthquake. He spends his time mostly listening to music and playing chess online. He can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

that.

Opening Stance

Christmas Day, Virginia.

The old man in the chair was watching the news. In fact, he always watches only news on television. When he is not watching the news on television, he uses the screen for video conferencing with his business team members. Besides spending his time before the screen, and when not sleeping, he likes to have long walks in the elevated walkways in his private forest that contain few mountains. These walkways were built by him, for him.

It was thirty minutes past two in the morning. He woke up ten minutes earlier. Sipping black coffee laced with rum, he sat in the recliner, watching the news. He was one of the few men in the world that defied ageing. He still looks about sixty with a fit and lean body, and very few wrinkles on his face. He was so agile, nobody expects him to have seen over eighty-five winters.

The television was showing the live telecast of the International Cease Fire Day, with a young female anchor who had positioned herself at the table, using her bosom as support, and was speaking something that closely resembled English. Her eyes were wide, and she was as expressive as someone on a late night drama show. The technicians in the studio seemed to be doing overtime, and her voice was overshadowed by the noise of crowds moving in the other half of the studio room. Two ticker lines of breaking news showed some advertisements of infant toys, mixed with details of old news about rigged elections in Cambodia. Foolish gurus of advertisements, always out of context, the old man cursed under his breath recalling the advertisements featuring a provocative porn actress promoting contraceptives that were shown during the breakfast news bulletin. He watched the anchor, who would be going to bed at eight o’clock in the morning, and remarked, Or, they may. I might be out of sync with the world.

He reached for his phone and pressed 5. After a while, the operator answered and said in a sleepy voice, Good Morning Sir.

Were you sleeping? he tried to sound menacing but his high pitched voice resembled that of Goofy.

No, I… I just was coming from the restroom, the operator silently wished the old man a deep fry in the eternal hell.

Connect me to the White House.

One moment, please… The operator called the White House and waited to hear another sleepy voice. After waking up the operator at the White House, he informed him about the caller, and connected the line to the old man on the other end.

Is the President awake? The caller enquired.

President is away. In Geneva, attending the International Cease Fire Day, Sir. May return by tomorrow, the White House operator replied politely and enquired, Any message you want me to pass on?

Leave it. The line was cut. The old man went out of the room into balcony. It was much cooler in the balcony, and he was greeted by floating flakes of snow. He went to the parapet wall and saw the beautiful panorama that stretched before him. In the moonlight, he could see the distant palms swaying in the mild breeze, as if they were shivering. He rubbed his palms together and pressed them onto his eyes and cheekbones.

He came into the room, pulled over a babushka and looked for his boots. Fully dressed, he looked like a malnourished polar bear.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he scowled. Tracing wrinkles on his face with his nails, he walked out of the house.

Seeing the owner coming downstairs, the guard manning the gate came out of his cabin and greeted him: Good Morning, Mr Fuchs.

Hi Billy. ‘Morning, he returned the greeting and waited for the guard to open the small entrance in the main door. He pushed himself out and waited again till the entrance was closed. He walked for fifty yards and turned back to have a look at his mansion. He always wanted to call it a castle. But whoever had known of its existence called it Fuchs’ mansion. He abhorred it when he overheard someone referring to his castle as Fuchs’ Mansion.

He thought of his original family name, Scharf. ‘Yes, we were sharp,’ he thought of his family. Even now, his offspring living in Israel goes by the name Scharf. Fuchs, he spat furiously.

He remembered his colleague who, out of pure fun, gave him the nickname Fuchs for the first time, during the World War. True to his name, his foxy plans always ensured victory in small battles, whatever he fought at the time. But, after the World War, when he chose to relocate to America instead of going to Israel - owing to his brilliance or cunningness, depending on who was commenting -Fuchs really grew in stature over time.

He turned back and walked into the woods. He remembered his walks with his father in the woods of Bavaria. Suddenly, even now, he smelled the same. In his elated mood, he began talking to his father and continued his walk.

Christmas Day, Jerman Villa, Somewhere near Geneva.

It was a big villa in an isolated place, nearly seventy kilometres from Geneva. At first glance, one would think it was carved out of mountain. The stream down the hill behind the villa was split in two. The house was situated in a picturesque location - black and green fir trees coated with snow, and the red brick structure of the villa stood between frozen waterfalls on both sides, and rope bridges on the ice. Two helicopters were stationed in the garage that was in one corner. Even from a distance, the military green of the helicopters was quite apparent, and no attempts were made to camouflage them.

From the looks of it, the villa in those surroundings appeared to be a desolated one that was not lived in for ages, but the exterior, by certain magic retained its original glory. Behind the helicopters was the door to the parking area that was really carved into the mountain. There were rows of high-end automobiles with drivers dressed in crisp white outfits. Although none of the cars had moved out in the last twenty-four hours, and were not expected to during the rest of the day either, a new set of drivers came to take charge of the cars every four hours.

About half a mile away from the villa, an industrial shed camouflaged by the mountains and snow housed four powerful diesel generators that provided electricity to keep the villa and its residents warm. Above the shed, another cave was cut into the mountain that had an oil storage facility to store one million litres of diesel. The generators’ manufacturer deployed a technical crew of twenty to work round the clock in six hour shifts. They earned allowances that were nearly ten times their regular wages.

Inside the villa, on the first floor, there was a big dining room where four people controlling the business of artilleries that are supplied to all countries were meeting. Weapons ranging from pistols and crude swords to missiles and components of nuclear reactors were handled by them depending on the customer and customer’s dependence on the supply.

Jules Borg, who was hosting the party, was a bit anxious. In fact, he was trying to arrange this get together for nearly one month and was eager to play his final game. In his eighties, he was the oldest of the four associates but expected respect from the others, not due to his age, but for his genius. He often fails miserably in getting acknowledgement for his efforts towards identifying new opportunities, and creating new ones when none exist. The other three, being inventive in their own way, were equally arrogant and enjoyed his discomfort. It doesn’t mean they cause any harm to his business, but they indulge in provoking him. And the more they incite him the better results he delivered, fostering their approach towards him.

Chowchow, the small Chinese man measuring a little more than four feet from all sides, pushed himself deep into the cushions of the sofa, stretching his feet onto the table before him. His belly sagged to the side, and jiggled whenever he moved. A plate containing an assortment of seeds was placed on his belly and in his right hand he held a long mug full of green tea. His left hand was holding a long Cuban cigar that he puffs now and then. For every other puff, he lit it again using the lighter that was chained to his wrist. He pushed his cap down and his goggles up and it was difficult for Jules Borg to identify whether he was listening intently or sleeping deeply. He was lying there for nearly three hours while Jules was trying to discuss something serious. Jules suspected Chowchow to be of Korean origin - North Korea, to be particular.

Opposite to him was Ramirez Gonzalez from Peru. He couldn’t tell himself whether he was Spanish or Portuguese. He really was opposite to Chowchow in physique and behaviour as well. At six feet three inches, he was the tallest amongst the lot. With his lean body, sparkling eyes, sharp moustache turned slightly upwards, and dressed in tailor-made suits, he was a hit with ladies, and he never tried to win many friends of opposite sex. He was talkative and when he held a woman’s hands, piercing her eyes with his own, and spoke his heart out, she would end up in his bed, unless her husband interfered in time. In this company, Gonzalez got really bored. He even expressed for half an hour how dull the programme was in the frigid country, where only source of heat was the room heater. He smoked only paper-rolled cigarettes. Though a long process, this has a charm with women who were mesmerised with the way he rolls the paper and sticks it after, before offering it to them. Though the tobacco he uses was not so refined and produces tears in their eyes on the first puff, the tender way in which he wiped the tears from their eyes made the situation romantic, and the lady would go on smoking, albeit feeling heavily uncomfortable with smoke. Presently, Gonzalez was playing a porn game on his sleek cell phone, singing in some language that none in the room understood.

The last one of the quartet, Sami Suleiman, was a bald man who never worried about his hair as his head was always covered under a keffiyeh, the traditional headgear of the Arabs. He claimed to belong to some royal Arab family, but he was not clear on where his family originated from. Contrary to all rules of his religion, he was a chain smoker and a heavy drinker. And his appetite was also illustrious as he won several eating competitions whenever there was a gathering, either personal or business-related. He was of medium height with a small protrusion in the middle, and looked like a normal person. With his smile and politeness he wins friends easily at any place. He was as comfortable in the five star hotels of Paris as he was along the roadside eateries of Nigeria.

Christmas Day, Bamiyan, Afghanistan.

There was a priest who struggled to reform the village drunkard. On his persistent requests to give up booze, the drinker challenged the priest. He argued, Before renouncing anything, one should experience it. After tasting for a week, if you want me to give up, I will think of it. By next week, the priest had surpassed the drunkard of the village, promoting himself as the village drunk, and gave up priesthood. Such is the power of evil over good.

Small openings between the huge mountains of the Himalayas - or passes as they are popularly called - have witnessed several kinds of people pass through them over millennia. From the initial samples of Homo Sapien Sapiens to the twenty-first century, these passes have witnessed a variety of cultures that stamped their mark on these passes. However, over time, all the cultures have eroded, leaving only the natural mountains, wadis and lakes untouched, with people returning to their roots, before any culture was introduced in these places. In short, they became cavemen, completing the evolution circle. Only difference is in place of stone clubs, they wield AK47s.

Bamiyan, the place that was a symbol of intelligence and peace for nearly two thousand years, reminding all travellers on the silk route about the importance of peace and the true essence of intelligence, was now a place with lots of caves that gave shelter to the locals from the harsh summer and winter. Without proper education and their inability to comprehend their forefathers’ premonitions, they preferred to have pieces of Buddha statues instead of peace, preached by him.

Near Buddha’s broken statue, a temporary structure was erected to house the television. To prevent reflecting sunrays influencing the contrast of display, broken sheets of an old army tank were placed above and on either side of the set. A large group of people was sitting and standing before the television, waiting for someone to come and start it. It was a very cold day, and most of them were shivering. The tyre of a large military vehicle was burning in the middle of the path that was trotted upon by horses and all other four-legged creatures for thousands of years. People formed small groups to go to the fire and warm themselves. Each group gathered around the fire for roughly two minutes; before they started feeling the heat, they were pushed back by a new group. Few women were using a stove with diesel from the tanker that was hijacked from the military a week ago. On the stove, pieces of lamb coated with a spice paste were being roasted. A few kids at the back were playing with some parts of an old machine gun.

Though men were using cigarettes to keep themselves warm, women had to rely on the heat from the stoves and the warm food, apart from woollen dresses that completely covered them, except for their eyes. One old woman who did not wear a veil was commanding other women in the open kitchen.

Near the feet of the Buddha statue, Habibullah was reclining against a rock, while sitting on the pebbles. He was numb to the pebbles pressing into his bottom, which didn’t cause him any discomfort or pain. He was a worried man. Covered in a leather jacket made of a mountain bull and sporting Nike shoes with woollen socks and two sets of spectacles hanging in chains from his neck, lots of robes wound around his head, and a cigarette in his hand, he appeared like a dead body engulfed by smoke. He was lying there for nearly three hours, smoking continuously. Every half an hour, one of the women brings either coffee or tea for him to drink. Everybody sensed his tension and none ventured to talk to him.

Habibullah turned his head and looked at his men taking turns at the tyre fire. They were his army. He grouped them from various places and taught them to fight together. He moulded them the way he wanted them to be—His soldiers. On his command, any of them would be willing to dive from the cliff, believing that they would reach heaven before their body touched the ground. Most of them were orphans or vagabonds he gathered from the cities of Pakistan, Afghanistan and India. He offered salvation to their souls in exchange for their lives. There were some volunteers, from Russia to France to Argentina. Few of them were believers, or at least they thought themselves to be so. Others were full-fledged mercenaries.

Habibullah was raised in a family of three girls and two boys. He forgot his number in his siblings. His father had three living wives, when Habibullah was born. His mother was the second one. The family moved across mountains, ranging from western Kashmir to Afghanistan through Pakistan. International borders could never deter them and they never bothered about their nationality and other such nonsensical things. In the cold, they moved to plains where everybody worked part-time in the fields of farmers. They had a total of nearly six hundred sheep and thirty plus horses and mules.

From being a nomadic boy to the leader of the most ferocious group of Afghan mercenaries, it was a long journey for Habibullah. And it was not a journey to remember. He was a survivor who had made it through so many dangerous situations, and in every two or three years, he faces a situation when he is vulnerable to his authority over the mercenaries. Losing authority over the group means, he had to give up what he had built over the years. But his age was not on his side, and he sensed it. However big and strong a leader was, there comes a day when the leader becomes irrelevant and is replaced, either voluntarily or forcibly. Habibullah wanted to retire and lead a normal life. He wanted to play with his children and grandchildren. He wanted to look through the window of his house, with his wife serving him tea, when it snowed in the mountains. He was considering a life after retirement for the last six months. Earlier, he never considered himself living another month. After each raid, he felt that his life was extended to let him live for some more time; till the next raid. Before each raid, the anxiety reverberated in his nerves, and he felt sedated. He enjoyed all his raids, killing people and looting them. Burning down the houses while the women were cursing him to rot in hell, killing their kids and raping them, he liked every bit of it. After each raid, he felt a sort of fulfilment of his life. He was ready to die. In fact, before each raid, he prepared himself to die, and this craving to die was more in the recent years. It was probably due to realisation of the imminent.

He was living such life for nearly four decades and knew all the possibilities that were waiting for him at the end of his career. He could count the lives of his colleagues, who led such gruesome lives and still lived to tell tales of their barbarism. Of late, his desire to die had converted into a desire to live. He no longer enjoyed watching the blood gushing out of bodies or people being hacked. He could not stand the killing of infants. He moved the other way when his subordinates treated themselves to such thrills. At 48, he took to smoking and now smoked ten packs a day. He also stopped killing women during raids, and brought some of them back to his cave where he played with their bodies. The primitive sadism of his mental distress was cooled off by sex, which of course was violent. His soldiers thought their commander was being romantic. He liked playing the role of a playboy.

He desperately wanted to end his current life, and was eager to start his family and own lots of property. He wished to buy a large tract of land stretched out across hundreds of acres, abundant with livestock. There would be dozens of wives and countless children. He wanted to father at least two dozen kids by the time he turned sixty.

He threw the butt of the cigarette he was smoking and closed his eyes. He planned to go to Turkey. He had already bought a farm there. He was waiting for a big raid so that he could sustain the big family he envisaged. The LAST RAID, all in capitals. This time, he would not only guide his team, but also participate in the kill. Before resting forever, he wanted to bathe in blood for one last time. He smiled to himself and reminisced his earlier ventures. Yes, I am getting old, at least, for this type of living - by killing people. I now enjoy the memories rather than the action. He lit another cigarette and leaned against the rock, stretching his legs.

The last few years were dull, with no foreign armies to fight. Enforcing laws by killing peasants was not much fun. He enjoyed the days when he fought Russians and then Americans. He chuckled. Now there are white people fighting under him. He looked at the group near the fire and saw one French speaking mujahedeen laughing along with the others. In the last few decades, the number of Caucasian mujahedeens had increased. Earlier, mujahedeens came only from poor countries like India and Bangladesh, apart from Pakistan. Though everyone claims to be a religious zealot, the prime reason for them to take up arms was poverty, unlike the Caucasian bunch, who were more fervent than native Arabs.

He got up and went to the group. They respected him by allowing him near to the fire. He spoke in a low voice: Children, take rest and exercise regularly. We are going on a mission, within weeks, and mind you, this would be bigger than whatever we have done. The act will be so mighty that it ensures a place for you in heaven, where virgins await you. One young fighter, who was no older than seventeen, blushed at the mere mention of virgins. He raised his clenched fist, pumping the air, and exclaimed: Insha Allah! Everyone responded: Insha Allah!

From a distance the women folk looked at them indifferently.

Christmas Day, Geneva.

Finally the carnival - exclusively for heads of state - had begun. In one of the biggest auditoriums constructed in Geneva in the last few decades, leaders of nearly half the world were present. Some, of course, were more equal than others, and it was apparent from the seating arrangement. Leaders of some countries, despite being in Geneva, could not make it to the venue for reasons ranging from hangover to getting treated in massage parlours.

On the stage was the President of the United States shaking hands with the Sheikh of Oman and he was commenting with sarcasm, Had I been the Sheikh of Oman, I would have gone to the Alps for skiing or got drunk with a whore, rather than attend such a boring conference.

The Sheikh grinned. He tapped the shoulder of the President and remarked, That’s my routine. Today, I am off duty and so, chose to meet you people. The President could not deny the truth, and acknowledged it with a sheepish smile.

The Sheikh continued, Mr President, do you know one thing? I can acquire an American citizenship, and can become President - at least technically. But you can never even imagine ruling my country.

Why the hell would you think that I’d aspire to become a Sheikh of Oman? Jack Monty, the President of the United States of America, was visibly irritated.

I can see that you don’t even realise that there is something better than being the President of the United States, he paused and smiled. We can discuss this - in what way do you feel your position is better than mine? Can you give me five reasons?

All the five are same. I am more powerful than you, Monty retorted, I can order a strike to wipe your country off the map and you can’t do that to mine. Can you?

The Sheikh, having studied at Oxford, seemed to have learnt the art of diplomacy from the English and smiled slowly: Mr Monty, you are generalising facts to cover the weaknesses that are specific to you as an individual. He guided the President to one corner where a table, transformed into a mobile bar, was kept. He took one glass and sipped from it.

"In the current context, Mr Monty, you are like the table that is full of glasses containing all the different drinks. Ah! Don’t be offended. Or you may be like the man standing beside the table, if you feel awful at being compared with a lifeless object like the table. In either case, the glasses are supposed to be taken by someone