Turbulence Read Free Page A

sound of men shouting. Turning his head as he slides, he sees bearded, robe-clad, gun-wielding men up ahead, in front of a lantern-lit door. He smashes through the door, taking the men with him, on to a metal platform, through a crude iron gate, and suddenly the world is well lit again, and he’s back in mid-air inside the mountain, the gunmen falling by his side, screaming. And then he crashes into the cavern floor, slides a little more for good measure and, thankfully, stops.
    Flat on his back, breathing raggedly, he takes in the scenery. A huge cavern that’s been converted into a bunker. Well-lit, generators humming, crude electrical wiring everywhere. To his right, rows of tables, some covered with guns and ammunition, some with food and supplies, others with computers. Platforms, tunnel openings and ammunition racks line the cavern walls. Sirens wail. Gun-wielding men in boots thunder down metal steps and out of inner caves, shouting.
    Vir sighs. To his left, a white-robed man sits unperturbed, typing at a computer. Vir squints and peers at the screen, expecting blueprints, war plans; instead he sees a Facebook homepage. The man rises, turns slowly and looks at Vir. And as Vir sees, through the red and green worms of pain floating across his vision, the man’s face, the long salt-and-pepper beard, the deep, sad eyes, the straight, proud nose, the famous white turban, he closes his own eyes and starts laughing uncontrollably as he drifts into unconsciousness.
    When he opens his eyes again, there are about thirty AK-47s pointed at his face, and a man is trying, unsuccessfully but passionately, to stab him in the chest with a Gerber Infantry knife. As Vir looks at him, he leaps backwards, muttering sheepishly. Someone has tied his hands and feet together. He snaps the ropes without effort and rises to his feet slowly, looking for the white-robed man. He has disappeared, though there are several lookalikes among the gunmen around him. On a high platform to his left, a few women who look like belly-dancers squeal, giggle and point. Vir realises, suddenly, that he has been naked for a while. His belt, the only surviving article of his clothing, lies around the smoking ruins of his shoes. A sound comes from it. It’s his phone, beeping.
    One of the gunmen picks up the phone and takes the call. Vir doesn’t know whether it’s his mysterious new ally or his squadron leader. He snatches the phone from the gunman and puts it to his ear. Static, mostly. Satellite phones are useless indoors, especially burnt ones.
    Seeing their protests ignored, the gunmen begin to shoot him; bullets fly off his skin. He was once caught in a hailstorm, this doesn’t feel very different. His muscles creak to life, one byone. Acupuncture by AK-47. More people scream, howl, fall to their feet in prayer, throw things; he’s not particularly bothered any more.
    “We’ll talk later,” he says into the phone, and crushes it with his fist. He heaves a huge and weary sigh, and stretches, looking curiously at the men emptying their guns in his unyielding flesh. Some have gone to get grenade-launchers; others just stand around uselessly. Something in their faces moves him to pity; their fight was a dark one before, but it is hopeless now.
    He politely asks a nearby cowering man for his robe, and gets it. And then he flies off, out of the cavern and into the sky.

CHAPTER TWO
    “The wonderful thing about Bollywood,” Uzma says, gently twirling a strand of her long black hair, “is that everyone in the industry is so nice.”
    All the other actresses sitting or standing in the crowded Daku Samba Entertainment office lobby look at her with identical expressions of incredulity, wondering whether Uzma is joking, mad, drugged or all of the above. Even Uzma’s (current) best friend and Mumbai hostess Saheli feels slightly apprehensive as she nods and smiles beside her.
    “You’ve been lucky,” Saheli says. “Most outsiders trying to get a job here