The Killing Sea (12 page)

With the tip
of his finger, the commandant pushed a small photo across the plywood desk toward Ruslan. A pressure lantern hung from a hook above the desk, hissing out a hot white light. The stained photo was a mug shot of a man with one dead white eye.

“Don't know him,” Ruslan said.

“Your mother's half brother. Your uncle. A rebel.”

“I don't know any rebels.”

The commandant leaned back and twirled an unlit cigarette in his fingers. “What good Acehnese boy doesn't know his own family?” he asked with mocking incredulity.

Ruslan looked up at him. Something swished its tail in his heart.
Keep your head
, he told himself.
Father is okay, he is in Meulaboh, that's the important thing.

The commandant laughed. “Oh, you're giving me that look. I know that look. I've seen it in lots of rebel eyes. When I'm done with them, they don't have it anymore.”

Another, larger swish, but what emerged in Ruslan's heart was not anger, but scorn tinged with pity. Ruslan put a finger on the photo and pushed it over to the commandant's side of the table. “This is the world before. Now the world is different. This doesn't matter anymore.”

The commandant stuck the cigarette in his mouth and rose to his feet to press the tip against the hot lantern glass. The tip smoldered and then glowed. He inhaled deeply and sat back down in a billow of smoke. He stared flatly at Ruslan. Ruslan held his gaze.

“You're just a boy,” the commandant said. “Who are you to be telling me what matters?”

Ruslan didn't reply.

The commandant exhaled another cloud of smoke and then lunged across the table, smashing Ruslan on the cheek with his clenched fist. The blow sent Ruslan sprawling to the floor, where
he lay stunned. He heard, as if from a great distance, the commandant laughing and telling one of his men to take Ruslan away and guard him until morning. The soldier put an arm under his shoulders and yanked him to his feet.

The soldier tied his hands with rope and led him into the night to tether him to a tree, as if he were a goat. “Sorry,” the soldier muttered, and left him there. When the pain of his cheek subsided, Ruslan worked at the rope around his hands, but the knots were too tight. He sat down in the dirt and watched the moon rise into the sky. Sarah would be at the truck by now, waiting for him. He hoped she remembered what he'd told her, to start for the hill when he didn't show. She had to get Peter proper help as soon as she could. Ruslan was an artist, and an artist bravely sees the truth of things. What Ruslan could see was death's long arm stealing closer to the boy.

The soldier slipped out of the trees and knelt by him. “You are right,” he whispered to Ruslan. “Some things don't matter anymore.” He cut Ruslan's binds with a knife. “Go now, and quickly. The commandant doesn't sleep well. He might call you back any moment. God be with you, with us all.” The soldier stole back into the trees.

Ruslan ran in a half crouch down the hill, flexing
his painful hands. Sarah wasn't in the parking lot. Good. She'd have started on her way.

He cracked open the driver's door and edged inside. The keys weren't in the ignition, and they weren't in the glove box. He was annoyed at this—who would want to steal a lousy dump truck? Where could anybody take it, anyway? But no matter. He knew how to hot-wire, one of the benefits of having a mechanic for a father. He felt underneath the dashboard and pulled out the ignition wires. It was impossible to tell the colors in this light. He picked two and stripped them with his teeth.

From up the hill came the commandant's harsh and penetrating voice. “Go find him, now. Don't come back without him.”

The wires didn't work. He picked another one. Through the windshield he could see a dozen men starting to search the hill, working their way down.

Finally, on his third try, the engine turned over. He jammed the gears into reverse and backed out of the lot faster than a devil out of a mosque. On the hill, soldiers shouted and began running. He shoved the gear into first. A shadow jumped through the open passenger window, and in his alarm Ruslan nearly banged his head on the cab's roof. But it was only Peter's spooky orange cat. “Can you
make us vanish from sight?” he muttered. A gun fired, the bullet clanging into the metal bed of the truck. Ruslan stepped on the accelerator, thrusting through the gears. “Come on, come on, come on,” he urged. The truck leisurely picked up speed, tires kicking up a cloud of moonlit dust.

He had no idea where Sarah and Peter were, but surely they were using the road, which was the only cleared path toward the hill. After a minute he switched on the headlights, the better to spot them. He caught a flash of something ducking behind a mound of dirt and braked hard to a stop, the cloud of dust filling up the cab. He called out, “Sarah, Sarah, it's me, quick, get in, get in.”

She emerged from the side of the road, Peter in her arms, and ran to the truck, coughing at the dust. Ruslan flung open the passenger-side door and grabbed Peter from her. Sarah hadn't even closed the door when he stomped on the accelerator.

“Hey, it's Surf Cat,” Peter said. “Catch any owls?”

In the side view mirrors, Ruslan could see through the dust the headlights of motor scooters slowly growing brighter as they gave chase. He cursed himself for not having spiked their tires. A burst of gunfire chattered over the engine's roar. He pushed Peter's head down onto Sarah's lap.

The graveyard flashed by, the excavator looking like a sleeping beast. The truck came to the end of the cleared road and barreled over clumps of swamp grass that the tsunami had scattered on the asphalt. The road dipped into a greasy swamp, oily swirls reflecting in the truck's headlights. Ruslan shoved the brake pedal to the floor. The truck shuddered and squealed to a stop. A hundred yards beyond, Ruslan could see the road rise up again out of the swamp and continue on. He had no idea how deep the swamp was.

Over the idling engine, he could hear the whine of the motor scooters growing louder. In the side view mirrors the beam of their headlights grew brighter and brighter.

Sarah stared at
the bright lights in the rearview mirror and then looked at Ruslan. He appeared calm, as though he had all the time in the world to make a decision. His cheek, she noticed, was bruised. He revved the engine and popped the clutch. The truck shot forward and accelerated into the mud. Over the engine and splattering of mud, she could hear gunshots. The passenger side view mirror shattered, shards of glass peppering her in the face.

The truck started sliding and slipping. “
Ayo, ayo, ayo
,” Ruslan chanted. She joined in, changing the words of an old childhood story. “I know you can, I know you can, I know you can.”

But maybe the truck couldn't. It slowed and
sank deeper. God, how deep was the swamp? What if it swallowed them up? Should she get Peter onto the roof of the cab? The wheels gripped hard again, and the truck lumbered out of the mud. Several more gunshots rang out. A hole appeared neat as a magic trick in the windshield. Ruslan grabbed Sarah's head and shoved her to the seat over Peter.

She jerked upright and gave him a glare. “Don't do that again.”

“Not safe.”

“You don't have to shove me, just tell me.”

She could see his bruised cheek tighten. “Will you get down, please?”

Then she realized how dumb she was. People were
shooting
at them. She bent tight over Peter, who in turn held Surf Cat in his arms.

The truck swayed and lurched as Ruslan steered around obstacles and sometimes over them. Several minutes later he said, “We're okay now. We can't go anymore. We'll have to walk the rest of the way.”

She sat up. Downed oil palm trees blocked the road ahead, with no way around for the truck. In the distance a small fire burned on top of the hillock they had camped on. Ruslan pulled some wires, and the engine quit with one final shudder.
The night's cool silence filled the cab. The only noise was Peter's raspy breathing.

“Sorry I snapped at you,” Sarah said. “I wasn't thinking. My dad sometimes says that if anyone tapped me on the head, my brain would pop out my—” She caught herself, could feel herself coloring.

“Your
pantat
,” Ruslan said.

Sarah chuckled. “Is that how you say it?”

Ruslan grinned and then winced, pressing his fingers to his cheek.

She reached up and took his hand away, and touched her own fingers to the bruise. “Does that hurt bad?”

“Not so bad.”

On the seat between them Peter coughed and said, “You guys gonna yak all night? I don't feel so good. I wanna sleep.”

They got out of the cab and started to hike. Sarah and Ruslan took turns carrying him, although Ruslan carried him the longest and farthest. Sarah was grateful for that.

The eastern sky was already graying with light when they came to the hillock. Two young men had spotted them and were waiting. They spoke briefly with Ruslan in the local language and shyly but curiously shook hands with Sarah.

“Your family?” Sarah asked Ruslan.

“Not yet.”

One of the men took Peter, swinging him onto his back for a piggyback ride. They started to walk again. The gray light strengthened. By the time the top of the sun had cracked the horizon, they'd come to the first of the green rice fields. Here was life as it had been, before the world had tilted. A Jeep was parked on a badly potholed but otherwise ordinary road, clear of any flood debris. From a stand of trees by the road appeared another group of three men, armed with rifles. The man who led them had an eye that was an ugly swirl of white.

“My uncle,” Ruslan murmured to Sarah.

With his good eye, Ruslan's uncle gave Sarah an assessing look that was neither unfriendly nor welcoming, and then hugged Ruslan. Ruslan, Sarah noticed, did not return the embrace.

His uncle pointed to the bruise on his cheek. Ruslan gestured impatiently at that, and then spoke softly and swiftly.
Bapa
, Sarah heard him say,
Meulaboh
. He nodded at Sarah. His hands mimed what his words were saying, his father pedaling a water park boat.

The uncle's good eye widened in astonishment. He turned to Sarah. “Yes?” he said in English.

“Yes,” Sarah said. She felt jittery with impatience. She needed to get Peter to the Meulaboh hospital.

The man lifted his chin and roared with laughter.

“He thinks it's funny, my father on a child's toy,” Ruslan muttered to Sarah. But when the man's amusement died, he lifted his hands and said a prayer that was clearly one of thanksgiving.

Ruslan nodded at Peter, still on the young man's back, and said a few urgent words. The uncle listened, a frown of concern gathering on his face. He felt Peter's neck and then barked an order at the young man, who put Peter down in the backseat of the Jeep.

Ruslan turned to Sarah. “He'll take us as far as he can.”

Sarah wanted to fly to Meulaboh's hospital. Wanted to be there
now
.

They all jammed into the boxy little car, Sarah rigid between Ruslan and the door, with Peter stretched out on their laps and Surf Cat on the floor mat between her feet. Ruslan leaned forward and gave his uncle a gold ring, saying something about it. The uncle read the inscription in the band, and then nodded and put it in his shirt pocket. What was all that about? But Sarah was too tired to ask. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. When she woke, she found her head was on Ruslan's shoulder. She straightened and drowsily watched a village of
houses on stilts flash past. A mosque, crowded with people.

“Refugees,” Ruslan said.

Sarah closed her eyes again, determined to remain upright. But Ruslan's shoulder was irresistible. She gave up and leaned against him, snuggling to find the most comfortable position. When she woke next, his head was leaning against hers, his breathing a light snore.

She extricated herself and adjusted Peter's weight on her lap. Her heart jolted when she noticed that the tips of his fingers were getting a bluish tinge. God, couldn't they go any faster?

The Jeep turned down into the ruined coast, the driver making his way through a road that a handful of men were clearing. He stopped by the edge of a river, a remnant of a bridge still spanning it. They all got out, the driver taking Peter off Sarah's lap. Ruslan's uncle said something to Ruslan, pointing to tin roofs glinting in a valley on the other side of the river. With a stick he drew a map in the dirt, which Ruslan studied.

“Relief aid helicopters are beginning to make food drops at this village,” Ruslan said to Sarah. “We go and wait for one.”

“How do we cross the river?”

“That.” Ruslan nodded at the narrow metal span.

Sarah moaned. “I can't. I'm afraid of heights.”

“I did it before. It's easy. Don't worry.”

Using a big duffel bag from the back of the Jeep, the men fashioned a secure sling for Peter. The two young men would take him across.

Ruslan's uncle shook hands with Sarah, saying, “Good luck” in English. He hugged Ruslan again. This time Ruslan returned the hug with a smile that slowly became bemusement as he and Sarah walked down to the bridge's embankment. “I have family now,” he said with wonder.

Sarah scarcely heard him. That tiny little span fifty feet above the water consumed her attention. The men carrying Peter stepped confidently onto the metal I-beam, Surf Cat trotting behind them. They were already halfway across when Ruslan finally badgered Sarah into taking her first step onto the girder, right behind him. She gripped a guy wire with one hand, her other hand holding on to Ruslan's. She took a second step. A third. Now she had to let go of the guy wire and take several steps to the second wire.

All the space around her and the long drop below to the muddy water made her freeze up. She clung to the guy wire, moaning. “I can't, I can't, I can't.”

“You have to,” Ruslan said, his tone now frustrated and angry with her.

She squeezed her eyes shut.
Please, Dad, help me.

Her father was silent.

“Peter is waiting,” Ruslan said, in a softer voice. “Think of Peter.”

Peter. Peter needed her. She had to cross this bridge for her brother.

And so she did, one nervous step at a time, not daring to hold on to a guy wire for too long in case she couldn't let go again. When she at last jumped off onto solid ground on the other side, Ruslan said, “Now, that was easy, wasn't it?”

She looked back and shivered. “No, it wasn't. I don't want to ever do that again.”

A man rode into view on a yellow trail bike and swung off to give it to Ruslan. Ruslan laughed in what sounded like disbelief. “Our new ride,” he said.

“We're going on that?”

“It's okay. I've driven this before. I'm an expert at this trail bike.”

Ruslan tucked Surf Cat between his legs. Sarah swung onto the saddle seat behind him. The two young men helped sandwich Peter between Ruslan and Sarah.

“Drive fast,” she told Ruslan.

He drove fast. At first she gingerly clasped his
waist, but after one sharp turn, she decided it was safer for her and Peter to wrap her arms around him. She leaned her head against his back. It felt safe, secure.

Soon they came to a small village, its mosque crowded with refugees. Across the road from the mosque was a weedy soccer field, a big white
H
painted on the centerline. “That must be the helicopter landing,” Ruslan said over his shoulder. “We'll wait at the mosque.”

He parked the trail bike outside the mosque's gate and lowered Surf Cat to the ground. Sarah carried Peter to the shade of the wide verandah. Squatting on the tiled steps were a dozen or so dirty and ragged men with the blackened skin of fishermen, their unblinking eyes staring at nothing. Sarah sat to their side, with Peter's head resting on her lap. His breaths came shorter and harder, and his fingertips were a touch bluer.

“When will the helicopter come?” she asked Ruslan.

“I'll ask.” Ruslan approached one of the villagers helping at the mosque and returned with the answer. “Soon,” he said.

Soon could be forever. Sarah stroked Peter's head as she searched the sky, fiercely willing the helicopter to appear.

One of the young fishermen stirred and rose from his haunches. A fire burned beneath his skeletal face. He asked Sarah a question in a tentative voice, as though he had to search for words.

Ruslan said, “He says can you help him.” The man continued speaking, words coming faster to him now.

Ruslan translated. “His whole village is all gone from the tsunami, more than two hundred people. Only sixteen men alive. Women and children and elders gone. They saw the wave, but only the young men could run fast enough. This man tried to help his wife and baby, but they were too slow and he had to leave them behind to save his own life.” Ruslan blinked rapidly and his voice trembled, but he finished the translation. “He hasn't slept since. He asks can you help him sleep.”

The man was looking at Sarah, but his gaze was so haunted that she wondered if he were really seeing her. She lifted her hand from her brother's head to reach out and touch him. “I'm so sorry, I wish I had something.”

His smile was nothing, just a reflex, and he retreated to his silent, sleepless world. Sarah resumed her anxious scrutiny of the sky. A minute later she heard the faint
whop-whop-whop
of several helicopters before she saw them, three dots
against the clouds. Two helicopters raced overhead, but one curved in a sharp descent to the soccer field. Village children pranced with excitement on the sideline.

“Let's go,” she said. Ruslan took Peter in his arms, and they hurried out to the field. The helicopter was a military one, with a painted flag on its side that Sarah didn't recognize. It settled delicately onto the grass with a great billowing wind. The roaring blades slowed but kept spinning as two helmeted men in green uniforms jumped out and began to manhandle boxes of noodles and bags of rice out of the chopper's belly.

Sarah ran out to them, Ruslan right behind her, cradling Peter. One of the men, a handsome Indian, looked at her with mild surprise. She leaned close to his head and shouted as loudly as she could, “Can you give us a ride to Meulaboh?”

The man spoke into his helmet microphone. The pilot looked through his cockpit window and waved them aboard. The crewman strapped the three of them into a row of aluminum and vinyl seats in the back of the helicopter and gave them earmuffs to wear against the noise.

The chopper took off. The door had been removed, and through the open space, Sarah saw the upturned faces of waving children dwindling
to blobs. Rice paddies became patterns of geometry. Then, without warning, the green land turned brown and shattered, trees and bushes all flattened in one direction, away from the coast. Sarah craned her head and saw the shore in the distance.

Ruslan wasn't watching. He'd spotted a notebook and pen in a side pouch and was sketching his father's face again.

Then she remembered: Surf Cat. They'd left Surf Cat behind.

Peter leaned against her, his eyes half-lidded, his chest heaving with the effort of his breathing, and she forgot all about Surf Cat. “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she shouted at the pilot, but of course he couldn't hear her.

The helicopter swung over a warren of undamaged houses and descended to a big field surrounded on three sides by military-looking barracks. People bustled about, soldiers of various countries in various uniforms as well as other Westerners and Asians. A red-haired woman in a skirt and blouse held a microphone to one of the Western military men in tan fatigues. Filming them with a shoulder video camera was a man with a scruffy goatee. None of it made any sense to Sarah. It all seemed so utterly surreal.

The chopper's skids settled on the ground.
Sarah yanked off her and Peter's earmuffs and seat belts and bolted out of the helicopter with Peter in her arms even before the crewmen were out of their seats. Ruslan was right behind her.