The Sensory Deception (26 page)

“Nearly a decade ago,” Sy said, “we drove off a barge, but they dumped at night so we boarded their vessel and charged a duty—just as they would have to pay in any port. They couldn’t pay, so we held them hostage until they could. A month later they returned, this time with a navy behind them. The navy fired a cannon on us—I can show you the crater.” Now speaking through a clenched jaw, his cheeks sucked in and nostrils flaring, Sy said, “Nothing I could do but watch them piss in the sea of our fathers.”

Sy went silent.

Farley appeared to be concentrating, adding up the problems. The silence increased the tension. Finally he leaned forward as though he were about to reveal a secret. Sy regained his composure, and Dr. Osman crossed his legs.

“I am going to show the world what it means to be a pirate in this camp. We’ll film daily life—going to school, tending crops, digging wells, collecting water—and contrast it with the injustice that you suffer.”

“Sorry, that is not our daily life,” Sy said. “Our daily life is resisting disease, trying to find land untainted by pollutants where we
can
grow crops. Our daily life is fighting for our lives by standing up to the West, not by emulating it.”

“Sy,” Farley said, leaning even closer, “I didn’t say we would tell the complete story, just the story that will help you.” He turned and spoke to Dr. Osman. “You explained how Somalia benefited by playing the US against the Soviets. When the Cold War ended, both sides abandoned you. We can generate something like that attention. The people of the world are now tied together by social networks. Your story will be watched by millions, perhaps billions of people, and if we tell it correctly, they’ll demand that you be treated with respect.” He turned back to Sy. “Walking through camp today, I saw everything that Americans cherish. If we document your people pursuing their own version of the American dream—a simple life, laughter, education, parents trying to make their children’s lives better than their own—we’ll win allies. The whole truth is too sad; it would push people away. We’ll go back and forth from placid moments among peaceful people to the onslaught of terrorists, thugs, corrupt corporate practice, and a nonexistent government. We can record everything here and have it produced in Hollywood.” Now he leaned back and held his hands out, palms up. “Disney’s success was built by transposing injustice over tranquillity.”

Sy asked Farley to explain in detail how the video would be recorded, and Farley described their equipment and how they transmitted data to the lab in Santa Cruz.

Farley arched his back slightly so that the position of his shoulders would convey confidence that he didn’t feel. This was the only thing he had to offer. He smiled and resisted the urge to look at Tahir.

“I have never been to the United States, these colonies that are now colonists,” Sy said. “It is my experience that this American dream has caused pain throughout the world.” He turned to Dr. Osman, who nodded. “Perhaps you are right. We shall see. If your documentary proves its worth, than I will be grateful. If it
doesn’t, you will find another way. In any case, you will stay here until we are compensated.”

It wasn’t the answer Farley wanted, but it would do. He mustered excitement and explained how they would portray the camp as if it were small-town America under assault. As he painted a Norman Rockwell image displaced to East Africa, he started to feel genuine enthusiasm. Tahir’s laughter and the look of surprise on the doctor’s face helped. Sy showed little sign of engagement until Farley said, “The phrase ‘refugee camp’ will not be uttered. We’ll rebrand this place a ‘village.’ Stereotype refugee camps are for needy, unwashed masses. This village is filled with ‘rugged individualists’ ready and willing to do whatever it takes to solve their own problems. Remember, we are not asking for help.”

Now a smile of engaged disbelief spread across Sy’s face. He glanced at Dr. Osman.

Tahir said, “I have driven a taxi in America for nineteen years. This product that Farley packages will sell.”

Sy stood. He stretched and paced about the tent. His composure had changed, and Farley wondered if the entire idea had offended him. Farley said, “When this film airs, the world will take action. You will be a hero. We need to be ready.”

Sy began to laugh. Then he howled. When he finally regained control, he said, “It never occurred to me that I could be a cowboy.”

Sy provided Farley a room to serve as a lab. Tahir took Farley aside and whispered, “It’s a generous offer, and custom dictates that you accept, but it will work to our advantage if we occupy only as much space as is necessary.”

Farley set up his lab on a blue tarp that covered the blemished concrete floor. He interfaced the DAQ computer to the satellite phone so it could receive sensor transmissions. He found a table and set about testing the satellite uplink and reception and checking the sensors. Then he sent an e-mail to Ringo and Gloria describing the situation.

The lab took less than half the allotted space, and Tahir invited back the previous occupant. Farley was happy with the configuration, except for one problem.

Tahir laughed. “You expected an uninterrupted flow of 120-volt electricity? Look around you, my friend: no power lines.”

Chopper’s swelling went down, and four days after his surgery, Dr. Osman proclaimed him ready for travel. Sy arranged transport for Chopper to Nairobi and the US Embassy. Four men with rifles hanging from their shoulders walked away from the camp supporting Chopper.

The second day out of Sayyid Hassan’s camp, Chopper woke in an opiate-induced haze. He and his four guides had spent the night near the Kenyan border. His thoughts came quickly, tumbling around his head in different shades of anger. Chopper wished Farley had given him more credit. Why the fuck did he have armed guards? Or was he a prisoner? There were four of them, three asleep, one sitting cross-legged and looking at the northern horizon. Chopper got that. He knew where he was, knew the religious nut jobs to the north would shoot them on sight. This didn’t bother him. He’d rather like a shot at them himself. He hated religious people, thought religion gave
Homo sapiens
permission to separate themselves from the other animals. “Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish Earth, and subdue
it” provided permission to rape and pillage Earth as though people were its only relevant inhabitants.

He tried to talk to the guy keeping watch. The man gave him a smile, a grin that framed teeth heading in every direction but straight, and made the universal palms-up declaration that “I don’t speak your language.” Then the auras came on thick, and the steady pounding of a migraine promised an unpleasant day.

Chopper turned and sat facing west, the way he did in Santa Cruz so that the sun’s first rays warmed his neck. He realized it was okay. Again, they were Farley’s thoughts. Chopper was needed in Santa Cruz. There was work to be done, work that only he could do, like produce enough doses of the sensory deception drug to guarantee success. Ringo and Gloria needed to be monitored to prevent them from selling out. And with Farley stuck in Africa, Chopper would have to protect Gloria, or at least Farley’s interest in her.

The four men shared a breakfast of dried fruit and meat, bread, and cheese. They gave Chopper a mystified look when he wouldn’t accept the meat or cheese. Then they headed south. Chopper took a deep breath and inhaled the beauty of the plain before him and the mountains far to the west. He could taste the occasional sea breeze. The sun beat down and it felt like his turf. The migraine pounding settled into a simple rhythm. As long as he stood on the earth, he could find his way. Not only were these guys slowing him down, but together they made a big target.

As the sun rose the next morning, Chopper sat facing west. When he felt the day start, he stood and began walking south. One of the men yelled at him. He kept walking. Then two of them ran after him. Chopper continued walking. One of the men stepped in front of him.

Chopper said, “Excuse me,” and stepped around him.

The man shoved his rifle in Chopper’s way. Chopper took another step. The man yelled what sounded like some sort of command and jabbed the rifle in Chopper’s belly.

In a single, fluid motion, Chopper put his left hand on the barrel of the rifle between the two strap connections. He spun to his right and dropped to the ground with his full weight on the rifle.

The man came down on Chopper’s uninjured shoulder, tangled in the rifle strap. Chopper bashed him with his left forearm, levering the man over his back. The strap cleared the man’s arm, leaving the rifle in Chopper’s good hand. Chopper continued his spin, grabbing the stock with his all-but-immobilized right hand. When he came to a stop, the man lay on the ground with Chopper crouched over him holding the rifle, index finger of his bad hand on the trigger.

The other guard raised his hands. The remaining two guards jogged forward, their rifles aimed at Chopper.

Chopper stepped away from the man he’d put on the ground and then, using deliberate motions, held up the rifle and engaged the safety. He looked at the men facing him, allowing his gaze to linger on each for a few seconds. The man on the ground rose to a crouching position, his hands in plain view.

Chopper checked the restraint on his injured shoulder. One of the knots had come loose. He tossed the rifle to the man crouched before him. A gentle, catchable toss, but the man let the rifle clatter to the ground.

Chopper leaned down next to the man and indicated the untied knot. The man dove for the rifle, grabbed it, rolled over, and aimed at Chopper.

Chopper pointed at the untied knot again and tried to mime that he needed help tying it.

The man disengaged the rifle’s safety.

“Fine,” Chopper said. He turned and resumed walking south. He didn’t bother to look back.

Farley knew that he could make Sy a hero—the word
pirate
in the documentary’s title guaranteed viewers. If done well, Sy could contend for a Nobel Peace Prize. Farley had the necessary equipment, and he was certain that Gloria knew the tricks for making it go viral. There was, however, the problem of electricity.

A single, Soviet-era diesel generator was the sole source of electrical power for Sy Hassan’s kingdom. Fuel was scarce, and like everything else in this camp, the generator was shared. Ringo’s video sensors could go for months on a single charge, but that single charge required twenty-four hours on the generator. The DAQ PC and the satellite phone could go for only a few hours. At first, Farley and Tahir took turns waiting in the queue for use of the generator, but as Farley planned the documentary, he realized they needed greater access.

In his enthusiasm, Farley rejected Tahir’s advice to go through channels. Instead of waiting in line with the villagers during the two hours that King Sy held court each day, Farley went to his tent an hour after sunset prayers.

A guard sat outside the tent on a stool made from an old crate. An AK-47 hung from his shoulder, and he seemed to be watching the stars. Farley asked for Sy, the guard went in, and Sy came out.

“Follow along,” Sy said. He stepped past Farley on a trail leading north. Farley had to jog to catch up. As they walked, Farley went into further detail about the documentary. When he got no response from Sy, he mentioned the Nobel Peace Prize. Sy
stopped. The stars didn’t provide enough light for Farley to see the expression on Sy’s face, but he could sense disbelief.