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  RESISTANCE BY SAMIT BASU

  TURBULENCE SAMIT BASU

  TITAN BOOKS

  TURBULENCE

  Print edition ISBN: 9781781161197

  E-book ISBN: 9781781161210

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: July 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Samit Basu asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  © 2012 by Samit Basu.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group Ltd.

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  TURBULENCE

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  In 1984, Group Captain Balwant Singh of the Indian Air Force’s Western Air Command had dangled his then three-year-old son Vir off the edge of the uppermost tier of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, nearly giving his gentle and hirsute wife, Santosh Kaur, a heart attack in the process. With the mixture of casual confidence and lunacy that is the hallmark of every true fighter pilot, Captain Singh had tossed his son up, caught him in mid-air and held him over the railing for a while, before setting him down safely.

  His son’s future thus secured, Balwant had turned to shut off his wife’s uncanny impersonation of a police siren with the wise words, “Nonsense, foolish woman. See, my tiger is not afraid at all. He is born for the sky, just like me. Vir, say ‘Nabha Sparsham Deeptam’.”

  Vir had not been in the mood for the Indian Air Force motto at that point, his exact words had been, “MAA!”

  All these years later, Vir still remembers that first flight with astonishing clarity: the sudden weightlessness, the deafening sound of his own heart beating, the blur of the world tilting around him, the slow-motion appearance of first the white dome of Sacré Coeur and then a wispy white cloud shaped like Indira Gandhi’s hair behind his flailing red Bata Bubble-Gummers shoes. His father had said that moment had shaped his destiny, given him wings.

  But his father isn’t here now. Flight Lieutenant Vir Singh is all alone in the sky.

  And had Balwant Singh not prepared Vir for flight, this day would probably have been a lot more difficult. As he descends from the clouds, his breath steaming from the cold, Vir looks at his shoes, ready to see a new world reveal itself slowly behind them, zooming slowly into focus from high above. Pakistan. North Pakistan. Rawalpindi District. Kahuta. He looks far beyond his shoes, to the ground, where the sprawl of the AQ Khan Research Laboratories complex lies below him like scattered Lego bricks.

  Vir stands several hundred feet up in the air above a highly guarded nuclear research centre, the heart of the Pakistani nuclear weapons programme, named after a man most famous for allegedly selling nuclear tech to North Korea, Libya and Iran. Not really the sort of place where Indian Air Force officers are welcome guests. And he hasn’t brought his fighter jet, his trusty Jaguar, with him. It’s not that he has forgotten it in his hurry to get dressed; he simply doesn’t need it any more.

  Vir can fly. He stands tall, legs slightly apart, a wingless angel swaying slightly in the wind, rivulets of icy water running down his body. A young man of great presence, of power and dignity, which is only very slightly diminished by a passing migratory bird’s recent use of his shoulder as a pit-stop.

  The sun is harsh above the clouds, Pakistan is sweltering in the grip of summer, from the microwave that is Lahore to the steamer that is Karachi. Vir is grateful for Rawalpindi District’s notoriously unpredictable weather: storm clouds are gathering around him, providing him both a degree of shade and an appropriately dramatic background, given his current circumstances. He’s wearing a light-blue grey costume, the closest approximation of sky camouflage that his commanding officer has been able to procure for him. His squadron leader has asked him to put a mask on as well, like Zorro or Spider-Man, but Vir is flouting orders; men who can fly need to feel wind and sky-ice on their faces.

  Storms are gathering everywhere in the region. To the west, Taliban and other tribal warlords hold sway over vast tracts of land, and constantly threaten the stability of the nation. Every day, young men blow themselves up near schools, markets and embassies. In the cities, parents complain about insane vegetable prices and worry about sending their children to school.

  Halfway across the world, American leaders shiver at the prospect of mad-eyed Taliban fanatics seizing control of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons. Washington sends billions of dollars to help Pakistan fight its demons; this money is not used, Pakistani leaders swear, never-ever pinkie swear, for the constant expansion of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. And yet this arsenal continues to grow, and the Kahuta project is where uranium is enriched. This is where Pakistan’s first seventy nuclear weapons came from. This is where thousands of centrifuges spin out missile-ready uranium, and hundreds of scientists design missiles to put it in. Clearly a destination of choice for flying Indian Air Force soldiers with destructive ambitions.

  One swift, devastating strike, he has been told. The sooner the world’s nuclear weapons are history, the sooner we can all stop living in fear. Vir had wanted to start with North Korea, but understood what his squadron leader had explained: the moment a single attack happened, other nuclear sites would be savagely guarded. Some scientist would figure out how to defend buildings against him. When beginning a noble anti-nuclear mission, where better to start than in your own neighbourhood?

  It is his moment to shine, to swoop down like an avenging hawk, but Vir hesitates. He takes another look at the roofs of the Kahuta complex and pretends to consider where a good point of entry would be. Then he pulls a satellite phone out of a large waterproof pouch on his belt and makes a call.

  “Squadron Leader?”

  “Vir! Is it done? We haven’t heard a word.”

  “No. Sir… I think we should reconsider this mission.”

  “You have your orders.”

  “But sir, the consequences —”

  “— have been computed. Your concerns have been noted. Now carry out your mission, Lieutenant. Don’t report until you�
�re done.”

  The line goes dead.

  Vir heaves a deep breath and looks down at the factory again. The mission is simple enough. He flexes his muscles, preparing to let go, to drop like a meteorite.

  The phone beeps. Vir takes the call.

  “Vir Singh?”

  “Sir.”

  “Can I interest you in buying a new credit card?”

  “What?”

  “Kidding. Listen. Abort your mission. Fly home.”

  “Who is this?” It’s not the voice of anyone Vir knows. Young, male, Indian, from the accent. Vir hears seventies rock music faintly in the background.

  “So, what’s the plan, Vir? Bust into the nuke factory, kill a few people, fly out with some uranium? Does that sound smart to you?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “On a toilet cubicle wall with ‘Call For Good Time’ written beside it. What are you, stupid? You’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life. Your father was sent to a needless death in an obsolete MiG-21 and now you’re about to throw your own life away and start a war in the process. Abort!”

  Vir disconnects the call, struggles to process the enormity of the security breach that has clearly happened, and then gives up. He tilts his body and stretches, like a diver getting ready to plunge.

  The phone beeps again. Vir ignores it for a few seconds, then takes it out and throws it away.

  And then flies down a little, catches it, and takes the call.

  “You want to take out Pakistan’s nuclear weapons, right?” his mystery caller continues as if there had been no interruption in their conversation. “You want to make things better one step at a time? Make the world a safer place for one and all? Well, going down there and re-enacting King Kong isn’t going to achieve that. It looks smart — one tiny flying man going in, smashing things, and getting out — but it’s not possible. Not in this world, not even with your powers. Not even Chuck Norris could have pulled this off in his prime.”

  “Bruce Lee?” a woman’s voice asks in the background.

  “Lee’s dead. Jesus, don’t be ridiculous. Sorry, Vir. But listen, man, this won’t cause any real damage. I can tell you where to go. I know where all the nukes are. But now is not the time.”

  “Pakistan’s nuclear weapons are a threat to the entire region,” Vir says, distracted by a memory of the day his uncle Kulbhushan had suddenly run out into the streets of Chandigarh wearing nothing but a pair of Argyll socks, loudly proclaiming that insanity ran deep in their family. He shakes his head. Focus. “And the Pakistan government might lose control to the Taliban soon. This is a necessary step. I am acting as an independent individual and not as a representative of any country or army.”

  “Yes, and you just like to hang out at Indian Air Force secret bases. The booze discount is awesome. The problem, Vir, is that you haven’t thought this through. You’ve been following orders, not using your head.”

  “I must know who I’m speaking with. Who do you represent?”

  “No one. Everyone. Look at you. You’re the finest, most powerful human being India’s ever produced. A born leader. You’re a — and I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud — superhero. Meta-human, science hero, post-human, fly-guy, deadly post-nuclear weapon, whatever. Someone who should be setting an example. Who’s the greatest Indian leader ever?”

  “Gandhi?”

  “Our survey says… Gandhi. Ask yourself this. If Gandhi had your powers, would he be flying around above a Pakistani nuclear site wiping his foggy glasses and trying to start World War Three, or would he be doing something slightly more productive?”

  “I’m not —”

  “Thinking. I know. The game’s changed, Vir. The world’s changed. I’m not saying throwing some uranium at Uranus is a bad thing. But some people might not be pleased when they find out. And they will find out. You’re currently potentially visible to about seventeen satellites, including the Spacecraft Control guys in Bangalore. Bengaluru. Whatever. No one’s really noticed you yet, but that’s because they’re not looking for you, and mostly they’re looking for Taliban soldiers leaping from rock to rock.”

  “They can’t possibly get clear images of me with current technology — sorry, who are you?”

  “But there’ll be footage of your flight lying around that no one’s seen as yet. Not only was doing this by day monumentally dumb, you made the mistake of flying to Kahuta directly from that secret base you’ve got in Kashmir. People in between will have seen you as well. Bad move. It’s not going to take a genius to figure out where you came from.”

  “You can’t be sure that anyone’s observed me.”

  “I’ve observed you, haven’t I? And it’s not even my job. You know what things are like. If a pimple explodes unexpectedly in Islamabad, the Pakistani government says an Indian hand squeezed it. We do the same. You want to give them actual evidence of an attack on a nuclear site? You’ll go down in history as a prize moron.”

  “Why should I believe any of this?”

  “Don’t if you don’t want to. Maybe all this is a dream. What did you dream about on the plane from London, Vir? I dreamt of big shiny spaceships and aliens. Maybe that’s what you should be thinking of, not pig-headed local missions.”

  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.”