The Last Sentinel Read online

The Last Sentinel

  By Charles K. Allan

 

 

  Copyright © 2016 by Charles K. Allan

  All rights reserved.

  And I assure you all the men of this Island of Angamanain have heads like dogs, and teeth and eyes likewise; in fact, in the face they are all just like big mastiff dogs! They have a quantity of spices; but they are a most cruel generation, and eat everybody that they can catch, if not of their own race.

  - The Travels of Marco Polo (c. 1300), translated by Sir Henry Yule

  O King! The princes that you thought would become the bridegroom of your daughter, all died; their sons and grandsons and their friends are all dead!

  -Mahabharata

  Then which of your Lord's bounties will ye deny?

  Allah created men from the crackling clay of the potters.

  And He created the jinn from smokeless fire

  -The Koran 15:13-15

  Dr. Zakir Khan piloted his motorboat through the narrow opening in the ring of coral that surrounded North Sentinel Island. To his right was the wreck of the MV Primrose, a cargo ship that had run aground on the reefs. Zakir was not fazed. He had studied the charts thoroughly and the waters were calm. However, weather in the Bay of Bengal could change without warning, so he remained vigilant.

  After navigating through the coral, he stopped his vessel about forty feet from shore, handing the controls over to Pratap Singh, the only other member of the expedition. He stared at the shore, looking for any sign of movement. There was none. After a few minutes he unholstered his pistol and fired a round into the air. He wanted to meet the natives out in the waters, so he would not be seen as an invader. The reasoning behind the two party expedition was similar — a smaller group would appear less threatening and therefore decrease the chances of a hostile encounter.

  After thirty minutes passed without any sign of life he fired another shot. After an hour he jumped into the knee-deep water. Pratap handed him a bag of bananas, gifts for the natives. Zakir waded to the shore and sat down, deciding it would be best for the natives to meet him on the beach instead of venturing into the heavily-forested interior.

  The beach remained quiet for several hours. The sun was getting lower, so Zakir decided to enter the forest in an attempt to contact the natives before nightfall. He picked up the bag of bananas and walked around the edge of the forest for twenty minutes before finding a path into the interior.

  The interior was much darker, with thick mangrove branches blocking out most of the sunlight. After walking for a few minutes, Zakir heard movement. He stopped and watched as seven tribesmen, all male and naked, emerged behind a cluster of trees.

  Zakir felt like he had traveled back in time. These were the most primitive people on earth, virtually unchanged from the first humans who arose in Africa. A people so primitive that they had not developed agriculture, metallurgy, or even the ability to produce fire. The natives were all under five feet and appeared to be in their 20s or 30s, with the exception of an older man with gray hair who had a jagged white scar on his chest. They were black, blacker than the Nigerian peddlers that Zakir encountered on his way to work in Delhi. In their hands were bows, pointed to the ground. A good sign. On previous expeditions they were hostile, firing arrows and spears at the outsiders. However, Zakir felt safe. He wore armor from head to toe, light enough to stay cool in the scorching Indian heat, but strong enough to repel any of the natives’ primitive projectiles.

  Zakir took out a sheet of paper and read out greetings, typed out phonetically, in several Andamese languages thought to be related to the unknown language that the natives spoke. If the tribesmen had any understanding of the words, they did not show it. One of his colleagues suggested that he bring a native speaker of one of the Andamese languages on the expedition, but they were a troublesome people. Zakir wanted nothing to do with them, especially after a recent incident with the Jarawa, and he knew the feeling was mutual. He repeated the greetings one more time, this time very slowly, but again the natives showed no signs of recognition.

  He took the bananas out of the bag, and tossed them about five feet, halfway between the tribesmen and himself. The older man stepped forward, picked up the bananas, and retreated back to his group. He motioned towards the water, a clear sign. But Zakir was not going to leave after only a few minutes with the Sentinelese. It had been a pain to get approval for this expedition, the first in many years, and he had ventured further inland than any outsider had in over a hundred years. He took out a camera and snapped several photos. They appeared to be getting restless, the old man stepping forward and raising his bow. Zakir snapped another picture. This was excellent. He could see the caption — “Chief of the Mysterious Sentinelese People Prepares to Attack.” He had negotiated with the Daily Mail, and they were prepared to pay large sums of money for the exclusive story.

  More tribesmen joined the group. The chief once again gestured towards the water, drawing back on his bow. Zakir counted the size of the new group. Around twenty. Although he was wearing armor, if they charged at him in unison they could easily beat him to death. He took out his pistol. Upon doing this, the group went into a frenzy. A flurry of arrows fell upon him, bouncing off his armor and causing only minor pain. After a second round did no damage, the chief ran back into the forest, followed by the remainder of the tribe.

  What had provoked that response? The sight of the pistol clearly alarmed them. Why? They did not react that way to the camera. Zakir had read literature suggesting that British slavers had once ravaged the island, causing the natives to fear outsiders. But that would have occurred nearly two hundred years ago. Did the natives pass down stories of light skinned men with guns orally through many generations? Possibly. But a modern German Walther looks very different from an 18th century English revolver. Would a people with limited knowledge of the operations of the two discern that they are part of the same set? This would imply reasoning skills he felt were behind the mental capacity of these people. He came up with a much more likely explanation. When he pulled out the pistol, he probably did it in a threatening manner, leading to the natives’ reaction.

  Zakir continued down the path. After walking for a mile, he saw some huts, approximately a hundred yards away in a small clearing. They appeared to be simple mud huts, thatched with palm fronds. He took out his camera and knelt down to get a better shot.

  He noticed a small beetle crawling over his boot. Mostly red, with some black and white. Was it endemic? Although he was not a biologist, he had always been interested in nature. He pulled out a Ziploc bag, opened it, put the beetle in, and sealed it shut. Hopefully it was a new species. With several hundred thousand already classified, it wasn’t so—

  Zakir’s chest started burning, blood pouring out. What happened? The armor should have repelled any spears or arrows. A gunshot? Impossible.

  Zakir tried to stand up but collapsed. He rolled on his back, put his hands on his chest and applied pressure. No use, he was going to bleed to death in a few minutes. Only a bullet could do this damage. Was the Indian Navy, who he had quarreled with in the past, behind this? Or did someone else discover the secret before he did? It did not matter, he was going to die regardless. He took out his radio and called Pratap.

  “Pratap, I have been shot. With a gun. Leave immediately. Do not try to … save me. Too dangerous. I am … dying. No use. Tell Aminah … I love her. Thank you”

  He put the radio down. And although he had not been to a mosque in several years, he began to pray.

  La illaha ill-Lallah

  Muhammad-ur-Rassul Allah

  He saw the natives running from the huts towards him. But they did not worry him. He was at peace. He was back in the courty
ard of the Jama Masjid in Delhi, a structure unlike any other. In front of him were two minarets, made of red sandstone and white marble, stretching up into the heavens. Everything would be fine. He opened his eyes and saw the chief and several other tribesmen surrounding him. He urged himself to ignore them.

  “Allahu Akbar!” yelled Zakir with his final breath.

  “Allahu Akbar!” mimicked the chief.

  Twenty miles away from the shores of North Sentinel, Admiral Vimal Chaudri sat on the patio of the Great Andaman Beach Resort, a hotel frequented mostly by wealthy westerners. He liked that. It minimized the chances that someone could eavesdrop on the conversation he was having with Lt. Akash Patel, the commander of the Durga. The two men talked in Rajasthani, confident that none of the neighboring tables, filled with vacationing Brits and Americans, could understand any their discussion.

  At a break in the conversation, Vimal turned his attention to the food laid out before him. First was a plate of Saanth Ro Achaar, pickled wild boar meat that was brought in especially for him. Behind that was a bowl of laal maans, mutton in a spicy red curry, and a dish of diced local snapper in a coconut yogurt sauce. He looked over the water and saw storm clouds gathering on the horizon. He hoped that they would break up. But that was unlikely; it was the Andamans in monsoon season.

  A waiter, a young Tamil man, approached their table. “Excuse me sir,” he said in Hindi, addressing Vimal. “A matter has come up that you need to attend to. There is a car out front waiting for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I do not know, sir. But it seemed urgent. I can box up your food and refrigerate it until you come again, if that is what you wish, sir.”

  Vimal offered no response to the offer.

  Vimal entered the conference chambers of the Andaman and Nicobar Island Command Headquarters and sat down at the head of the table. Maps of the Andamans and the Indian subcontinent plastered the walls. He turned to Commodore Ajit Misra, seated to his right.

  “Tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “You remember Zakir Khan, sir?” asked Ajit.

  “Yes.” How could he forget the troublesome anthropologist who’d been causing problems for years?

  “There was an incident, sir. He was shot and killed during his expedition to North Sentinel Island.”

  Vimal smiled. “That is all? I had to interrupt my day because a stupid Muslim decided to travel to an island inhabited by Stone-Age savages. Did he think that they would greet him with open arms? That island is a problem that I am tired of dealing with. Whether its fishermen, explorers, or tourists, whenever people go to the island, trouble results. I thought that we closed access to that god-forsaken piece of land, but I guess the forces in Delhi know better than I do. So I guess they want us to recover the body. Not dealing with it.”

  “Sir, I don’t think you understand. He was shot with a firearm.”

  Vimal paused for a few seconds. “That is impossible. How do we know that?”

  “He had a video camera strapped to a headband that was transmitting back to his motorboat offshore. Do you want to see the video, sir?”

  “What do you think? Of course I want to see it.”

  Ajit turned on a projector, displaying the video on a large screen. Vimal watched Zakir knelt on the ground, examining some sort of bug. Suddenly, he collapsed, rolled on his back, and grasped his chest. Blood was pouring out of the wound. Definitely a bullet. He took out a radio, dropped it after a few seconds, and stopped moving. Some tribesmen came and stood around him. Armed with only bows. One of them seemed to be shouting something. After a few minutes they departed.

  “Nothing else of interest?”

  “No sir, the batteries died a little while later. No other contact. Do you want me to bring in the rest of the command?”

  “No, I don’t need any more idiocy in the room. What about the other man with him? I forget his name, the Sikh …”

  “Pratap?”

  “Yes, where was he during this?”

  “On the boat, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. He received a radio message from Zakir saying that he was shot. Immediately afterwards he radioed the Coast Guard from the boat’s radio.”

  “How do you know that Zakir actually radioed Pratap? I think that Pratap went into the island, shot Zakir, and returned to the boat, saying that Zakir radioed him.”

  “There is video from the boat, sir.”

  “Have you reviewed it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, do it now. Unless the video shows proof that Pratap was on the boat at all times, turn the matter over to the police. Let those corrupt idiots take charge of the matter. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Several hours later Ajit knocked on the door of Vimal’s office.

  “Come in.”

  Ajit entered and sat down on a leather chair in front of Vimal’s desk.

  “What is it now?”

  “Sir, I reviewed the tapes and confirmed that Pratap did not leave the boat.”

  “Are you sure? Was he in sight at all times? The tape was clearly unaltered?”

  “Yes sir, I think we can rule out Pratap as a suspect. In addition, I contacted fishing vessels that were trawling around the vicinity of the island around the time of the incident. They reported that besides Pratap and Zakir’s boat, no other vessels approached the island. However, I would recommend further investigation of the fishermen.”

  “Why the hell would the fishermen want a professor from Delhi dead? Has the media hasn’t got wind of this?”

  “They have sir.”

  “And what the hell was going through your mind when you alerted them?”

  “Sir, I did not—”

  “Never mind. But this will bring bad press. And with tourist season coming up no less. Remember the mess the murdered Brit?”

  “I vaguely do sir.”

  Vimal thought back to that case. Zakir was involved in that case too, although he still wasn’t quite sure how. He wondered if there was a connection between that case, the meddling detective assigned to it, and the anthropologist’s recent death.

  “Well, we don’t want a repeat of that. We need to look like we are on top of this. Tell the media that we knew that there was a gang of smugglers operating out of the island but that we did not bring action as we did not want to risk interfering with the Sentinelese way of life. Yes, tell them that the Sentinelese are a very respected people with a unique culture that must be protected. That should appease the idiots in the Left Front. Those loonies keep gaining more power, so we can no longer ignore them. Anyway, tell them that Zakir was warned multiple times that there was a dangerous gang on the island and that his life would be at risk if he ventured onto the island. Zakir heard these warnings and ignored them.”

  “Sir, I do not think it is right to slander a dead man. His family is in grieving and the last thing they want to hear is that he was responsible for his own death.”

  “Well, he was. And I don’t care about his family. Anyway, they believe that he is in paradise with Allah and seventy-two virgins so they should be happy. And if they want him back so badly they can go find a genie in an oil lamp who will grant them three wishes. But we should tell them that Zakir was one of the most respected anthropologists in India, a man of great kindness, virtue, and intelligence, who will be missed dearly.”

  Ajit nodded.

  “Now the next obvious problem with this is how we explain why the smugglers were able to create a base on the island. Simple. I was transferred here from the Western Command three years ago. Shortly afterwards, I discovered that there was a smuggling operation on North Sentinel Island. Due to the aforementioned reasons, I ruled out a military strike on the island. However, I had the Coast Guard maintain a perimeter around the island. As a result of these actions, the smugglers are being starved out on the island. How does it sound?”

  “Sir, I am not—”

 
“Never mind, this will work. And my theory is probably true. Probably one of the local tribes of apes that are indigenous to these islands were able to earn their trust and get established on the island. You know how the Sentinelese react to outsiders. Another Andamese tribe would probably be the only people who could reside on the island without getting riddled with arrows.”

  “Should we have someone interview the local tribes to see if they know anything about it, sir?”

  “Unless we can find a baboon who can speak Hindi or English to translate for us that task would be impossible. Please try to keep your mouth shut unless you have an intelligent comment. Now, we need to get several coast guard ships out by the island immediately. These will be the ships that have been patrolling the island for two years. To make people believe that we are taking this incident very seriously, we will bring in a destroyer. I’m pretty sure there is one docked at Kardip. We will have them patrol for about a month. After that, we will replace them with undercover converted fishing vessels. The smugglers will try to make a run, thinking the patrol has been removed, and we will nab them. One final thing, tell any of the fishermen that if they let it slip that the ships haven’t been patrolling for two years, that instead of bringing up the trawl nets they will end up in one. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Over the next few days hundreds of journalists flooded into Port Blair. Many more than when the British tourist was murdered. But they did not stay long. Vimal forbade his men from giving interviews, although this did not stop some sailors from selling stories, usually ridiculous ones, oftentimes involving UFOs and Japanese agents, to the tabloids. The blockade that was set up kept the media from reaching the island, and the dense mangrove canopy kept the press’s helicopters and planes from peering into the interior of the island.

  Vimal was happy that the forces in Delhi were not too actively involved. He was scared that they would order him to raid the island, something he did not want to do. He had a feeling that a raid would end in disaster.

  A few weeks after Zakir’s death most of the press, and all of the bureaucrats from Delhi, had left the Andamans. His life almost returned to normal, or as normal as it ever was on these islands. He had other problems to deal with.

  Three months later the press once again descended on the capital of the Andamans when Vimal attempted to deal with one of his problems. A small patrol ship, the Durga, had been attacked and presumably sunk by smugglers, many miles north of North Sentinel Island. What actually happened Vimal was never sure of, the wreckage of the ship was never recovered. The Americans were involved somehow, he had narrowly avoided an armed confrontation with one of their vessels, but he was not sure how. He suspected—no, he knew—that all these events—the murder of the British tourist, Zakir’s death on North Sentinel Island, and the disappearance of the Durga—were somehow linked.

  Six months after Zakir’s death Vimal and Ajit were back in the War Room.

  “Tell me everything the captain reported to you,” ordered Vimal.

  “Yes sir. At approximately 1200 hours, the captain, Daksha Meka, who was stationed two nautical miles from the western shore of North Sentinel Island on board the—”

  “We don’t have time for these details. You can write a formal report later.”

  “Yes sir. A submarine was detected on sonar heading west from North Sentinel Island. They did not have depth charges to engage it, and lost the sub as it moved to deeper waters.”

  “What was the length and speed of the submarine?”

  “Approximately 75 meters in length, moving at seven knots.”

  Vimal stood silent for several seconds, pacing back and forth. “You know what this means?”

  “That we’re not dealing with smugglers.”

  “Damn right,” Vimal said. “75 meters. That’s military grade. I was thinking back to when we were interviewing Pratap. He said that over the radio he heard Zakir praying to Allah and then another voice echo him. I thought that it was just one of the tribesmen mimicking him. But now I don’t think so. Muslim extremists were on that island, and now they have left on a military submarine. And not just a homegrown operation. Probably backed by the Pakis.”

  He faced the map of India on the wall. “I suspect that there is a nuclear or chemical weapon on board the submarine. We need to identify the likely targets. Almost due west of the island are Chennai, Pondicherry, and Cuddalore. Visakhapatnam is farther north. Calcutta is another target” he said, circling the five cities. “Calcutta has lots of Muslims, so I doubt it will be a target, but it is the largest of the cities and they don’t seem to have any problem killing each other. Those are the only significant port cities on the west coast and I doubt they will try to round the tip. The nearest target is about 700 nautical miles away. I know we tracked the sub at seven knots, but I doubt that is its max speed. It could arrive tomorrow morning. We need to be prepared. Get all military ships stationed around Port Blair to head west to intercept the sub. And get all available aircraft from Cair Nicobar to aid in the search. I don’t have authority over the mainland forces but hopefully they will be vigilant. We can stop this before it ever gets close to the mainland. I’ll alert the cities. You alert the other forces. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Should we also alert the authorities of other countries? I understand that they are heading west, but they could double back. Burma is closer —”

  “No, we are not going to cause an international incident.”

  “But sir, I am not sure why —”

  “Follow my orders or I will have you court-martialed for insubordination. Understand?”

  “Yes, admiral,” he said.

  Once Ajit had left, Vimal stared at the map, with the coastal cities circled in black. What he told Ajit, about the island being used as a base by foreign radicals, seemed reasonable, it was probably the most reasonable theory that one could come up with based on the available set of facts. But although Vimal wanted to believe it, although he tried to believe it, he knew that it was not true. He knew the truth would be a lot stranger, stranger than anyone could imagine.

  One hour later, Vimal and Ajit were back in the War Room, this time joined by three other officers—Commander Adharma Peri, Lt. Gulab Sastry, and Lt. Lal Vanniyar. Vimal quickly related the recent developments before walking over to a blown up projection of North Sentinel Island.

  “Obviously, we would prefer for a MARCOS unit to perform this operation,” he said. “But the closest one is on the mainland and we do not have that type of time. So we will make do with what we have. I do not expect there to be any resistance left on the island, but we need to be prepared. We will divide into three units each, consisting of one officer and four enlisted men. Adharma, your unit will enter from the east. This is where the video indicates that Zakir entered the interior of the island. It appears that he was shot about two kilometers into the island. Gulab, you will land on the west coast, and Lal, you will enter from the North.” Vimal drew arrows on the screen indicating where the three parties should land.

  “Unfortunately, we have very few details of the interior of the island. Gulab and Lal, you will sweep the island, and then proceed to Adharma’s location. If any of the natives appear hostile, shoot to kill immediately —”

  “Sir,” interrupted Ajit. “We will be wearing armor. The natives won’t know what is going on. It wouldn’t be—”

  “Shut your goddamn mouth!” Vimal yelled, storming towards him. “Are you a fucking Jain, who sweeps the floor as he is walking so he won’t hurt a flea? Or, are you a soldier. Tens of millions of lives are at risk and yet you value the lives of monkeys more than those of your fellow men. Don’t worry, Hanuman won’t be upset if we kill a few apes.” He turned his attention to the other men. “I will leave it up to you to pick your men. Try to find those with conflict experience. I know that we have a few who were involved in Operation Leech last year. Get those first. Those should be assigned to Adharma’s unit. We will probably have some
green soldiers, but don’t let that bother you. Remember, this may be the most important military operation in the history of India.”

  “Sir,” Ajit said. “I was in Operation Cactus. I should—”

  “You fought in the Maldives?”

  “Yes, sir. I should be part of the operation.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vimal paused for several seconds. “OK, you will take over Adharma’s group. Adharma, we’ll get you a few more soldiers and you will now land from the south. ” Vimal noted the changes on the projection. “I hope to launch in one hour. Get your troops organized as soon as possible and brief them. Any questions?”

  Ajit led his men through the forest in a single file formation. So far they had seen no sign of movement and had heard nothing from the other groups over the radio.

  After several minutes they saw the village that they recognized from Zakir’s footage. They pressed forward to the ring of about fifteen huts. In the inner part of the ring sat around fifty men, women, and children. They looked sedated and showed no sign of aggression.

  “Do any of you know English?” asked Ajit. No response. He repeated the question in Hindi and Bengali, feeling extremely foolish. Still no response.

  “Here, let me try,” said one of the soldiers, an older veteran named Rohan. “Assalamu alaikum.”

  To these words, an older man, with a jagged scar on his chest, responded with “wa alaikum assalaam.” Rohan recited a few more phrases, unintelligible to Ajit, but received no response.

  “What the fuck just happened?” asked a young soldier named Rishi.

  “Since we are apparently dealing with Islamists, I gave the traditional Islamic greeting and received the proper response back. I tried some basic Urdu phrases but received no response.”

  “You’re a Muslim?”

  The soldier laughed. “No, I’m a Hindu. I was stationed on a base near the Pakistani border for a few years. Picked up some Urdu, it’s basically the same as Hindi, along with a bit of Arabic. Got transferred here after the Kargil War ended.”

  “Must be a nice change.”

  “Was until today.”

  “Let’s try to stay focused,” Ajit said. “We can confirm that there was some Muslim presence on the island. But they did not respond to Urdu correct”

  Rohan nodded.

  “OK, do you think we should bring in an Arabic interpreter to see if they can communicate with these people?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m thinking that they just got a bit interaction with the Muslims. Probably wouldn’t help much.”

  “Tend to agree. Plus it would be a waste of time.” Ajit radioed the other teams the updates. “Let’s see if there’s anything in these huts of interest”

  Ajit entered one of the huts. It was roughly circular in shape, about ten feet in diameter, with mud walls and a roof thatched with palm leaves. A short doorway was cut out of the mud walls. He turned on his rifle light and looked around. Leaning against the wall was a spear, about three feet in length, and a bow next to several arrows. Four coconut shells were split in half and filled with water. By them were dried fish and crabs. Nothing of interest. The next two huts he searched were also clean. After searching the three huts he rejoined the rest of his team. None of them had discovered anything. The natives were still sitting in the inner circle, showing no reaction to the strangers.

  “Let’s move on.”

  Ajit led the team further inland. After walking for a few minutes he motioned his team to stop. One hundred feet ahead of him was a concrete bunker, partially camouflaged with mud and palm fronds. The squad pushed forward slowly, guns drawn. Down a concrete ramp lay a closed steel door. As Ajit radioed the other squads, the door swung open.

  Vimal stared at submarine bobbing a hundred yards off shore. Several policemen were working to keep back the ever growing crowd. Vimal turned to one of them, who looked like he should still be in primary school.

  “When was this reported?” Vimal asked.

  “Four hours ago.”

  “When you are talking to an admiral you shall address him as sir. Now tell me why this was not reported to us earlier.”

  “Not sure, I’m not in charge.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me who is.”

  The cop pointed to an older man standing by the water’s edge. Vimal made a note of the young man’s name before heading off. Although he had no formal authority over the local police, he would ensure that there would be a price to pay for his insolence.

  He walked up to the older man. He recognized his face, although he could not recall his name.

  “I’ve been told you are in charge here.”

  “Yes, that is correct,” said the man in a raspy voice. “I am Deputy Commissioner Kashim —”

  “I do not care who the fuck you are. I want to know why it took you four hours to radio me that the sub has been found.”

  “We didn’t know what —”

  “Are you fucking stupid? Well, of course you are, you are a policeman. The occupation that pupils enter after they fail the AISSE. Now tell me, did anyone see anyone leave the sub.”

  “I am a Deputy Commissioner and deserve—”

  Vimal unholstered his gun. “Get out of here now before I shoot you. And take your men with you. Your idiocy may cost millions of people their lives”

  Kashim stood still for several seconds before calling out to his men and leading them off the beach. Vimal looked at the sub. It was definitely not a modern sub, and although he could not make out the exact model it looked like it was from the 1930s or ’40s. The Pakis could definitely afford something newer than this. Maybe it was a homegrown terror cell, or maybe his initial theory was correct. Maybe there were smugglers on the island. But why would they, or anyone else for that matter, abandon the sub offshore? That was assuming it was abandoned. No one seemed to know what the hell was going on.

  Why was he searching for rational explanations, pretending that what was going on here made any sense? He knew that on these islands there—

  Vimal felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. Standing before him was a corpulent man, wearing the khaki uniform of the state police.

  “Good evening sir, I am Constable Vivek Rao. I was the first officer to respond to the scene.”

  “Do you what the hell is going on?”

  “Yes sir. A jogger reported seeing the sub off shore about four hours ago. He also reported seeing two individuals walking on the beach towards the road.”

  “Any description of the individuals?”

  “They appeared to be light-skinned males. Nothing else. It was raining hard and the jogger was scared so he did not stop to get a good look.”

  Of course he was scared. India was becoming a nation of cowards. He wondered how Bappa Rawal, the great warrior who stopped the Muslims from conquering India, would have felt about the current state of affairs. Or his father, who fought in the British Indian Army against Rommel and the Nazis in North Africa. Awarded the Victoria Cross for his gallantry, leading a charge on a German machine gun outpost that had pinned his unit down. Shot multiple times, but managed to survive and destroy the nest. Vimal kept a framed picture of his father and his medal on his desk. The model for any soldier.

  The cop was still standing in front of him. “Thank you sir,” Vimal said.

  The cop saluted him and waddled away. God, did they not have physical standards for the police force anymore? How could he ever chase down a criminal? Probably off to a sweet shop now, have some bottles of Kingfisher and plates of imarti to celebrate their hard day’s work. Imarti, oh how he missed that sweet, deep fried urad flour soaked in sugary syrup. He couldn’t get any decent ones in the Andamans. Tried every sweet shop in Port Blair and the surrounding region, but nothing that he found matched those he enjoyed in Rajasthan.

  He looked out over the water at the setting sun. This was supposed to be paradise, tourists came from all around the world to la
y on the white sand beaches, scuba dive at the pristine coral reefs, and snorkel with the amazing swimming elephant of Havelock Island. But it wasn’t. He missed Rajasthan. He missed his haveli in the Aravallis, the place of his birth, the walls frescoed with scenes from the Hindu epics. He missed the bustling streets of the pink city of Jaipur. He missed his nightly camel rides through the Thar Desert, admiring the massive stone fortresses that dominated the landscape. And he missed his yearly pilgrimages to Pushkar Lake, bathing in the ghats surrounding the holy water, created when lotus petals that Brahma used to slay the demon Vajranabha fell to the Earth. He missed it all, and he may never see it again.

  Several naval boats appeared over the horizon. They would tow the submarine back to the dock, where it would be searched. Hopefully there would be some answers. Nothing made any sense. Nothing at all.