Termination Shock

Uncle Ed’s

“Interesting developments up at the mine!”

This exclamation, in English, came from a man of a certain age sitting in a folding chair by the side of Uncle Ed’s badminton court, apparently taking a breather between sets.

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since Sister Catherine had dropped off Willem and Amelia. Sometimes, when a lot happened at once, time got compressed, or something, and then it had to relax to bring the universe back into balance. Willem had passed the remainder of yesterday doing nothing in particular, then failed to get to sleep until well past midnight, then slept until almost noon. Now he was stumbling around feeling like he’d missed the whole day, and these eager beaver geriatric badminton players just accentuated that. He blinked and looked at the guy who had just spoken to him. White sneakers, white socks, lime-green gym shorts, a loose sleeveless T-shirt providing an all too graphic view of a physique that, if it had ever seen better days, had not seen them in a long time. A floppy cloth hat to keep the sun off his head, big sunglasses. He was guzzling tea from a stainless-steel thermos. He sat apart from the other gaffers. An out of town visitor, perhaps, an invited guest but not one of the regulars.

Willem felt blood rushing into his face as he realized that this man was Bo.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You do get around.”

“No more than you do,” Bo pointed out.

Willem could not gainsay Bo’s logic. “Hang on, I have to piss and so on.”

“Don’t let me stop you. There’s still some time.”

Willem did not get the sense that Bo meant “some time before the next badminton match.”

He went back to his room and spent a few minutes doing the usual things in the toilet. When he could, he glanced at the screen of his phone. More violence had happened locally. The Sneeuwberg mine had gone to full shutdown. He decided to simply ignore most of his email and message traffic—he’d already marked himself “safe” on all the platforms that mattered, and he’d checked in with Remi. He peered out the window to the trailer where Amelia was lodging and saw her moving around in there.

“India is getting feisty!” Bo declared, when Willem came back out and snapped out a folding chair next to him.

“Just saber rattling?” Willem asked. “Or is it the real deal?”

“Now you are asking me to read the minds of our good friends south of the great mountains,” Bo admonished him. “Never easy. But they have dropped a hint.”

“Which is?”

“A new phrase they have just begun using in their public pronouncements. ‘Climate Peacekeeping.’”

Willem rolled it around in his head. Interesting. “And what do you think of this phrase, Bo?”

“Oh, I quite like it. Covers a lot of political territory.”

“Too much, in my mind,” Willem said. “It could be used to justify almost anything. But then, I live in a democracy.”

Bo raised his eyebrows as if an amazing new thought had just come to him. “Perhaps the Netherlands should adopt this phrase! You who have suffered such depredations from rising sea level.” He took a sip of tea. “Or Netherworld or whatever you’re calling it.”

“Thanks. Would that help give you political cover for whatever you’re doing here?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot help you, for I am freshly retired.”

“So I see!” Bo gestured all around. “And such a fine place you have picked for it. State-of-the-art security . . . unmatched culture and recreation . . . and only eight thousand miles away from your husband.”

“I needed to get away for a bit. It was suggested I come here for a visit to clear my head.”

“Suggested by your ex-boss?”

Willem declined to rise to the bait.

“How’s your head? Clear now?”

“I got to help push a helicopter off a hospital.”

“Saw that. Amazing visual. Helpful.”

“Helpful how?”

“Though China has its well-known differences with India, there are some things we can agree on. One of those is the desirability of peace.”

“Really!?” Willem exclaimed.

Bo nodded.

“China is coming out in favor of world peace.”

“It is our constant preoccupation,” Bo affirmed.

“So are you going into the climate peacekeeping game as well?”

“A more holistic approach is better. Climate is just part of it. When we see hotels exploding and helicopters being thrown off hospitals by excited mobs of doctors and men with penis gourds, in an area that bestrides our copper lifeline, it forces us to ask tough questions about whether our Indonesian friends really have the situation in hand.”

“Holy shit.”

“Distressing reports have reached us from the likes of Sister Catherine and your cousin Beatrix concerning the conduct of the foreigners who occupy this land.”

“Indonesians. Who don’t consider themselves foreigners, by the way. Because this is part of Indonesia.”

“Yes,” Bo said, waving away Willem’s annoying cavils. “Now the situation seems quite out of hand. Copper prices have spiked, threatening our economic interests. There is also concern that shipments of coal and iron ore from Australia may be threatened. In the old days we might have looked to the United States or Great Britain to intervene. But those days are behind us, I think you’ll agree.”

“All quite above my pay grade, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The former Queen of the Netherlands, Dr. Schmidt, Sister Catherine, all seem to think you are a valuable person to have around.”

“She’s going to end up running the place, isn’t she?”

“Sister Catherine?”

“Yes.”

“You have someone else in mind? Someone better qualified? More deserving of trust?”

“No, but I just got here.”

“Maybe your uncle Ed?”

“Too Chinese. Has to be Papuan.”

Bo nodded. “My thinking as well. The nun it is.”

“When are you guys going to . . . do . . . whatever it is you’re going to do?”

Bo rolled his eyes. “Oh, the powers that be wouldn’t dream of entrusting me with such sensitive information.”

“Of course not. But you’re not here in any professional capacity. I mean, look at you.”

Bo looked at himself and adopted a mildly put-upon air. He plucked at the limp tank top. “You don’t like it?”

“In your capacity as visiting tourist, shooting the breeze by the side of the badminton court, what would you speculate?”

“I’m not one of those old Chinese men who is always trotting out quotations from Sun Tzu’s Art of War,” Bo said. “Tried to read it once. That guy is, what do you call it in the West? Captain Obvious.”

“Good, because I was hoping for something more directly applicable to Tuaba, today.”

“In my reading of military history, I’m always coming across references to the night before battle. It’s a trope. I’ve never once read about people having lunch before battle. No one wants to launch anything in the afternoon. It’s a foregone conclusion you’ll run out of daylight. Just an observation.”

“All right.” Willem checked his phone to see if he had connectivity. He did, thanks to Uncle Ed’s satellite uplink. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. Tuaba, Western Europe, and West Texas were evenly spaced around the globe, eight hours apart. In Texas the sun had probably gone down at least an hour ago. Where Saskia was, in the Adriatic, it would be shortly before dawn.

He sent T.R. a text.

> Let’s talk about being overrun by China. Also about India’s climate peacekeeping initiative.

> What do you know?

> More than you. Shall we meet where it all started?

> Can it wait until dinner?

> Up to you, you’re the one with the jet.

> Rijsttafel?

> Sounds delicious

> C U there.

Willem replied with a thumbs-up emoji and pocketed his phone. “I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do,” he said.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Bo answered. “Oh, I’d love to make myself useful somehow, don’t get me wrong. But you and your friend Frederika are doing something that has never been done before. Quite beyond my powers of imagination.”

“And what is it you imagine we are doing?” Willem was trying not to giggle. He’d spent yesterday being flung around like a rag doll in a chopper, various SUVs, and a school bus. The idea that he was “doing something” in any kind of systematic way was pure comedy.

“Booting up a new country. Netherworld. Cool name.”

“Thanks. But the name wasn’t my idea. Some Venetians came up with that.”

“They are always at the forefront in matters of taste and creativity.”

“And it’s not a country. You know this.”

“It could be a political force, though. More powerful than many so-called countries.”

“Yes, the Marshall Islands, the Maldives . . .”

“I was thinking the United States. A clown show.”

“We’re agreed on that.”

“And yet the chaos of America gives people like T.R. the leeway to do things like Pina2bo that simply wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere else.”

“It’s an asset, you’re saying. The sheer incompetence of the United States.”

“People have come to rely on it.”

“It’s true.”

“The crazy place where people can do crazy things!” Bo exclaimed. “But then countries like India feel as though some intervention is needed. In my opinion, they are going too far.”

Willem threw up his hands. “Well, since I don’t know what they’re doing—”

“Trust me, they are going too far. But it will play well in their media. And they know they’ll get away with it. America will be very angry for forty-eight hours and then get bored and get angry about something new. A movie star will kick his dog or a quarterback will park his Lambo in a handicapped space.”

“Sounds like T.R. is screwed then.”

Bo shrugged. “Perhaps a real country could be persuaded to step in and restore calm.”