Chapter 13

The great state of Pakistan is known for the resilience of its inhabitants. In their version of the great collapse, the citizens were terrorized by a wave of religious fanatics from the western border and decimated by an invasion on their eastern border. As the locals hunkered down in the canals if they were impoverished and basements if they were better off, or hid in the mountains, the two invasions crashed into each other, turning the land into a bloody graveyard. The misery was compounded by the rising waters of the Indian Ocean and extended monsoon seasons that had shifted westward. Wherever the water ran, the flooded lands stank of rot for years All of the festering diseases that emerge when sanitation fails became the next waves of death throughout the country.

Karachi collapsed and was more washed out to sea than burned. When the victors and their opponents were dead or departed, the survivors emerged to rebuild. Old Karachi was gone, but the harbor had survived and expanded nearly half a kilometer further inland than the original one by nature's fury. They began rebuilding the port, which today houses the headquarters of the Third Fleet of the World Navy.

Jeremy stood on the roof above the bridge with a handful of the off duty crew and looked out at the bustling harbor. A wind was blowing from the north bringing exotic scents to his nostrils. The fishing trawlers were on the far right of the natural arm of the harbor that extended out into the sea. Flocks of seabirds squawked and squabbled ferociously above those ships.

Four navy rescue ships were docked at the tip of the harbor, reminding every sailor that the ocean could still claim any one of them as its own. The captain had explained to a goggled eyed Jeremy that these rescue ships could roll over, take on water, and still right themselves. The thought of crewing on one of those ships made Jeremy green around the gills.

The light destroyers of the Third Fleet and their ancillary ships filled the left side of the harbor. The middle piers were for the great oceangoing vessels. Freighters were met outside the harbor by customs boats which examined the cargo and screened the crew. Piracy was an issue further east on the Indian Ocean which meant that the customs officials and military were strict about cargo and crews. Drug smuggling was a profitable industry all along the northern coast of the Indian Ocean, as had been documented for at least a thousand years.

The Inca Trail was hauling the virgin core of an industrial sized proto-fusion generator in a retrofitted hold. The beauty of these generators was that they fed upon radioactive material and Pakistan was full of such material from the old regimes. Unlike the old fission reactors, these new power systems ate any source of radiation. Waste material was also easier and much less toxic. Because of their cargo, the ship was met by customs, a military launch, and two tugboats. The customs procedures were quick and perfunctory, which made Captain Diaz very happy. Instead of sitting offshore for a week until a berth opened, they were towed into port immediately.

Unfortunately, for the sake of security the crew was confined to the ship until the core was unloaded and sent on its way to its new home. Jeremy looked on with a sense of awe as two cranes were pushed together and eight huge clamps lifted the massive object. When the cranes took the weight and the generator lifted mere centimeters off of the bottom of the hold, Jeremy felt the ship rise and bob in the water. Intellectually he had known how heavy the cargo was, but to feel it under his feet was an entirely different experience. A light bulb went off in his head. The rec room was empty and Jeremy had no trouble posting his idea to one of his secret digital dumps.

Time was his ally for once. According to the Outfit, the state police were still looking for him in Iberia. The police weren't sure why this man was wanted by South America and the mystery man was not listed as violent. The bureaucracy moved slowly and their police moved even slower it seemed. The Outfit's hope was that someone would eventually question the "seek & detain" orders and trace them back to their origin.

How had Jeremy been pegged? A back room employee of the Iberian state had run a face profiler program through the entire security system. The program was legitimate but the search was illegal without a court order. The profiler had fingered him as he stood in the bus station in Barcelona staring in confusion as if he were looking for something or someone. Hightower had paid their mole a significant sum, which the fool had deposited in a visible account. The Outfit sent a tip to the European Internal Affairs Division and the mole was removed, but not before the damage had been done.

The Trujillo farm was not the only location raided. The local source that tipped off the local constabulary had meant to harass the family and their business co-op. The Trujillo's involvement in fringe politics made them appealing targets for the local police and politicians to harass. Under the guise of searching for Jeremy, the local politicos leaned on the Luis and Maria as founding members of the co-op. The co-op represented a significant block of votes and they were opposed to new local taxes and regulations that were on the table. The co-op and its members did respond. Apparently the local council chambers burnt to the ground the next evening and there were no suspects.

At least his email had been more interesting during this leg of his journey.

Jeremy was angry, knowing how careful he had been traveling around Barcelona and how security conscious the Outfit was. He was furious that the local politics of a backwater farming district had almost snagged him. With his precarious position, he had no room for bad luck.

The food purchased in Barcelona gave Ng gas throughout the night, almost every night. Jeremy paid top credit for a candle off of another crew member to burn the gastric stench. The sweet scent of the candle masked the foulness. If he could have wrestled the man to the ground and shoved a cork up his ass, he wouldn't have hesitated.

Every time he caught sight of a wrestling match on the T-unit, his thoughts returned to Lucy. He hated popping a boner while sitting with his fellows in the crew lounge and trying to hide the embarrassment. He wasn't embarrassed about homosexuality but he didn't want the other crew members to think he was gay because he got an erection when near naked men squeezed the life out of each other in an entertainment arena.

Life was devolving into frustration.

He managed to remain inconspicuous. As the sailors put it, Enrique De Luca was just another gob of spit in a bucket of salt water, and for that, Jeremy was quite happy. The good news ended there.

The bad news began with confirmation that his ex-wife had been given an ex-officio seat on the board of directors by a soft-hearted Chair who wanted to ensure that the dear woman had a yearly income. She couldn't vote, but she had a yearly check for sitting on the board and access to Hamilton resources. Hamilton resources were extensive.

Jeremy had other issues as well. He was having trouble hiding his restored personality. Enrique had been a confused and quiet man, someone who was easy to get along with before landing in Barcelona. Jeremy had to actively force himself to keep his mouth shut and keep his emotions off of his face. Never having been accused of having a poker face before, he was already making small mistakes. He did find a new story to share though, about the woman, the Shetland pony, and the husband's lesson in artificial insemination. "Sick," the first mate had said even though he couldn't stop laughing.