Arms Race (16 page)

It feels un-fucking-finishable, she said. I've got nothing.

Aww, Marlow said. You still got a country. Why can't you finish it?

The film's about General Hurtz but I can't get near her. She only does pre-records
by satellite; no one even knows where she's based. And the footage I've got that
suggests bodies on the ground? Blurry freeze-frames from official army feeds. There's
no independent coverage.

For real, Marlow said. I heard they shoot the news drones down.

Reuters, AP, boom. I've got experts, conspiracy
theorists, all the usual junk, but
editing that's deckchairs on the Titanic. Without on-the-ground proof the film's
a joke. I'm going to humiliate myself.

Again, Marlow said nonchalantly.

Alex laughed. You're about as charming as I am.

Marlow took a swig of beer. So why don't you just go?

Go where?

Mongolia.

Oh, sure, Alex said. I'd love to be the first casualty of the whole damn war.

Go on then.

After the day I've just had? Why not?

Great. Need an interpreter?

No, my Mongolian's perfect. But come anyway—you can get killed, I'll film.

It's the western way, Marlow said. At least get your ass to the Russian border, take
a look around. From today they're allies, right?

True, Alex said. Nothing better to do. Finish our drinks and go?

Aight. Cheers.

Cheers.

They clinked glasses, and Alex downed her wine in a gulp. She looked along the bar,
and found General Hurtz looking back at her: from the banners around the walls, the
TV screens, even the beer coasters. Alex put a drunken hand on Marlow's shoulder.

You're kidding, aren't you? she asked. About going to Mongolia?

Not really, Marlow said.

Alex smiled. Neither am I.

Three weeks later, as they headed down the corridor towards the plane, Alex was terrified.
It reminded her of her first day at NTV, walking from hair and make-up to the set.
She hadn't even finished her journalism degree and she was about to go live in front
of millions of people. The psychotically cheerful faces of staffers drifted past.
You look amazing!
they kept telling her. She'd beamed, but had to keep telling herself:
That's not why they hired me.

Things went smoothly with Russian immigration. Alex had told the visa office they
were going to interview Mongolian refugees along the border. She'd told everyone
else she was taking stress leave in Hawaii.

Fantastic idea, her executive producer had said. Take a week or two for yourself.
You've been a little—wound up of late.

You've been a right bitch, her elderly mother had said. Give this Hurtz business
a rest; you're wasting your youth. Go lie on a beach and find yourself a man.

Sure, Mom, she'd replied. I'll send you his head.

On the ground in Vladivostok they found an army-surplus store and loaded up with
serious snow gear, rations,
flak jackets and steel helmets. Then they took a connecting
flight to Irkutsk. At Marlow's insistence they hired an ancient white Hummer. He
opened the rear passenger door and climbed in.

What am I, your fucking chauffeur? Alex said.

Play with me, he said, handing her a CD. Put this on.

What is it?

Music, Moneypenny. Crank it.

Alex slid the CD into the changer. A banging hip-hop beat filled the airport car
park. The guttural harmonics of Mongolian throat-singing floated over the top.

Nice, Marlow drawled. Real nice. He wound down the window and gave the parking attendant
an imperious nod. Now drive.

They rumbled south down the B32, past the smoke-stacked skylines of industrial towns,
then turned at Ulan Ude onto broken back roads. Even here the highways were lined
with billboards of General Hurtz, smiling beneath the slogan
ZERO ZERO ZERO
. They
began to see distant drone flights shuttling across the horizon. The whine of engines
reached them on the chill breeze.

So, how you wanna play this? Marlow said. There are about a dozen camps along this
stretch of border.

Alex shrugged. Start by asking around. If there's a way across, someone here'll know.

The First Mongolian Neighbourhood Resettlement was a rough encampment strung along
the road like
an impoverished strip mall. Skinny dogs scattered and regrouped behind
the Hummer. Children watched from doorways with wary curiosity.

In the centre of the settlement was a muddy car park, bordered by rows of houses
built from shipping containers. Three American army trucks were pulled to one side.
A shouting match was in progress. Half a dozen soldiers faced off against a crowd
of Mongolian men with tired faces and proud bellies.

What the hell do you think these are? one of the soldiers was shouting. He scythed
his arm at the shipping containers. Exactly what you were promised: a house of your
fucking own!

No! the Mongolians chorused back in thick accents.
House! House
of your own!

Yes! For Christ's sake. House of your own!

No!
House
of your own! the Mongolians shouted.

One of the younger locals set off around the car park in a skipping trot, his hands
raised like rabbit paws. He made strange high-pitched sounds.

The soldiers groaned and swore and threw up their hands. Why do you keep doing that?
Would you please stop fucking doing that!

Marlow and Alex jumped down from the cab. The group paused to watch them approach:
Alex in snow fatigues and combat boots, her short black hair in a severe twenties
part; Marlow in a full-length fur coat.

Who the hell are you? demanded a stocky, harassed-looking woman wearing a captain's
insignia.

Reporter, Alex said, flashing her press ID. This is my interpreter, Marlow. What's
going on?

Ain't supposed to talk to reporters, the captain said. But say, didn't you used to
be famous?

That'd be my sister, Alex said. She died in a waterskiing accident. Can you tell
us what's happening, off the record?

Off the record? The captain ran a hand through her hair. Well, sure. You remember
General Hurtz's promise—every relocated Mong family gets a house of their own? Well,
we brought every last motherfucker here a house, and guess what? They don't want
'em. But look at 'em. They still standing here, screaming they want a house. Fools
don't make no sense.

Hey, sister, Marlow said. You got an interpreter?

Sure, the captain said, holding up a small screen. Google Translate. Ninety-eight
per cent accurate.

That ain't an interpreter, Marlow said. Let me ask what's going on.

He exchanged a quick burst of Mongolian with the men, then turned away and erupted
in a fit of coughing.

Jesus, Alex said. Are you okay?

Translator, Marlow gurgled.
House
.

What the hell's up with him? the captain asked.

He's just emotional, Alex said. Can I have a look at your translator?

Sure.

Alex took it and read. There, she said, tapping the screen. There's your two per
cent.

The captain screamed with exasperation.

What's wrong? the soldiers asked, fingering their guns.

Translator got it wrong, the captain moaned. Not houses,
horses
. They're fucken nomads.
They all thought they were getting a
horse
of their own.

A volatile silence filled the car park. Alex bit her lip.

Come on, the captain said. We gotta send this upstairs.

They turned and walked dejectedly to their trucks. Alex rolled her eyes at the Mongolians.
No English, huh? she said.

The men ignored her and stood quietly watching. The soldiers climbed into their trucks.
When the last one pulled from the parking lot, the men screamed with laughter, howling
and collapsing into each other like drunken wrestlers.

Plenty English, one of the men gasped. Do more horse, Ganzorig.

The young man set off again, trotting and neighing. He was laughing so hard he fell
over in the snow. Another man staggered over and urinated on Ganzorig's boots.

My horse piss on your house! he yelled.

They laughed together, and the men pressed forward to shake hands. The scent of vodka
and wood smoke filled Alex's nostrils. Ganzorig and Marlow spoke at length.

Have they heard anything about the rumours that General Hurtz is based along this
stretch of border? Alex said.

Marlow translated, and turned back to Alex with a smile. That guy there with the
belly says Hurtz's a ghost who comes in the night to steal their children. Ganzorig
says she's a capitalist who comes in the night to steal their country.

Tell them I had no idea they were going to be so boring, Alex said. What about the
body count? Do they know anyone who's missing?

The men shook their heads in response to Marlow's translation.

Try not to look disappointed, he murmured to Alex.

Sorry, she said. One more question—do they know of anyone crossing into Mongolia?

Again Marlow translated, and the men smiled grimly. Ganzorig said something that
made the others smirk.

What'd he say? Alex asked.

The closest would be ‘kaboom', Marlow said.

Come on, Alex said, miming the up-and-over action of crossing the border. There's
got to be a way.

Ganzorig copied her mime, but swooped his other hand down like a drone.

Like,
totally
kaboom, he said in English.

Alex wondered what it would be like to be strafed from the air—and a faint hissing
sound rose into a deafening scream as a squadron of fighter drones tore overhead.
She ducked, the drums of adrenalin commanding her to run. When she raised her head
the men's faces were stony.

Ganzorig nodded at Alex, and spoke in Mongolian.

He's confused, Marlow relayed. Says you don't
look
suicidal. Haven't you seen the
news? Mongolia's a smoking crater.

Everyone's seen the news, Alex said. Has anyone seen it with their own eyes?

They've seen plenty, Marlow said. There's a lookout. Ganzorig says he'll give us
directions.

Alex pulled the truck onto the main road. They sped east to the sound of Mongolian
hip-hop. The road grew steep, winding above a deep river gorge, and they found themselves
stuck behind a line of stately black station wagons.

Oh my god, Alex said. No bodies? This looks like a mass funeral procession. Grab
the camera.

Marlow leaned out the window to film as Alex pulled alongside. The drivers were ordinary
Mongolians, the enormous car trunks jammed with turnips and lolling pigs. Marlow
yelled something, and one of the drivers yelled back. Marlow roared with laughter.

What's going on? Alex said.

This lot thought they were getting horses too.

And instead they got—

Ninety-eight per cent, baby! Left here.

Alex swung the Hummer onto a rutted dirt track. Windows down, stereo booming, the
truck climbed out of the valley to reach a lookout high on the ridge. Through a break
in the trees they saw a jumble of saw-toothed hills receding south. The land was
black and burned: a postcard defaced by war. One range still smouldered with fires.

Alex shut off the truck, and there was just the sound of the wind.

And there she is, Marlow said. Our fair smokin' motherland.

How long since you've been back? Alex asked.

Three years. Look at it—those motherfuckers.

Marlow jumped down and slammed the door. Alex filmed as he crossed to a cairn of
heaped stones draped in brilliant blue rags. He stood for a long time, then pulled
out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and tossed it onto the pile.

Quitting? she called.

An offering to the sky gods, he said, removing his hat. The old ones. Here come the
new ones.

The blat of a surveillance drone ricocheted across the valley. The tiny unmanned
aircraft turned and circled overhead, its cross-shaped shadow passing back and forth
over the clearing. Alex stared up at it, fascinated to see a drone in the flesh.

What's it doing? she asked.

Won't know till it's done it, Marlow murmured. Don't move.

For several minutes the drone hovered. The whine of its rotors defeated all thought.
Alex's fascination faded, and she felt fear and obedience building in her chest.
She watched the sun dropping in the west, the sky thickening with high cloud. Distant
fires took on the arachnid gleam of eyes. Another drone came in fast and low across
the valley, then two more in quick succession. The four craft circled like buzzards.

This don't feel right, Marlow said.

A searchlight snapped on, and Alex's stomach shrank. A speaker mounted beneath the
first drone crackled to life.
ATTENTION, ATTENTION
, a voice commanded.

Alex and Marlow craned up, squinting against the light.

MA
'
AM
, the voice said. didn't you used to be famous?

Alex blinked in surprise. Yes, she shouted. I did.

DID WE MEET IN THE PUB IN SAN FRANCISCO
?

What the hell? Alex shouted. That you, kid? With the fast reflexes?

SEE, TOLD YOU GUYS IT WAS HER
!

The drones' rotors slowed, and the four craft drifted down into a bobbing semicircle.
Alex narrowed her eyes against the stinging downdraught. The fading sun was reflected
in each drone's front camera.

MA
'
AM
? the kid said.
I HAVE A REQUEST FROM OUR FLIGHT COMMANDER
.

There was a pause, then a snigger.

SHOW US YOUR TITS
!

Alex seized a rock from the pile and hurled it as hard as she could. Piss off! she
yelled. You little shit! All of you. Get the hell out of here!