Walter Williams - This Is Not a Game

Have you considered a seaplane or flying boat?

FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

No, I hadn’t. Good idea.

FROM: Vikram

I have an uncle who’s being evacuated with the Indian nationals today or tomorrow. Once he’s out of Jakarta, I will try to contact him and find out if there’s anyone we can contact.

FROM: Desi

I got lucky with the silat connection! My friend’s teacher is affiliated with a school in Jakarta. He’s checking with them.

FROM: LadyDayFan

Great news!

FROM: Desi

We might be able to hook Dagmar up with her own bodyguard of martial artists! How cool is that?

“How are you, darling?” asked Tomer Zan.

“I’m trying to keep my chin up,” Dagmar said.

“That’s good. I just wanted you to know that we got another helicopter. It’s a Spirit, it’s got a much longer range than the Huey, so we’ll be able to stage from farther out at sea.”

“Good to know.”

“It’s on its way from the Philippines now. So we should be set in just a few days.”

“What happened,” Dagmar asked, “to the old helicopter?”

“Yes. Well.” Dagmar sensed considerable reluctance. “It was trying to land on our ship, and the winds were gusty, so it crashed into the superstructure. So we need a new ship and a new helicopter.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Dagmar felt the depression that propelled her words.

There was a brief silence, and then, “The crew of the helicopter was killed. There were some injuries on the ship, too, because there was a fire. The radio room got burned-that’s why we didn’t hear from them.”

It seemed to Dagmar as if her heart slowed, extending the long silence between beats. The breath that she drew into her lungs took an eon. Then time seemed to speed up as she hurled the words into the world.

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not your fault, darling,” Zan said.

Dagmar didn’t answer.

“We’re professionals,” Zan said. “All our people have been soldiers. We understand the risks we take.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Dagmar said. “Nothing’s prepared me for this.”

“We’re coming to get you,” said Zan. “That’s what you need to think about.”

“I’ll try,” she said.

“We’re coming soon.”

After the phone call came to an end, Dagmar closed her eyes and fell into a dark, liquid sorrow, a grief the temperature of blood.

FROM: Joe Clever

I’ve found a boat and a captain. He’s a fisherman named Widjihartani, and he operates from a port in West Java called Pelabuhan Ratu. It’s something like five or six hours from Jakarta by sea.

He’s willing to take a passenger anywhere, provided his fuel and time are paid for. All the way to Singapore, if we want.

He says that Jakarta is technically under a blockade by the navy, but they let fishermen through because they are too necessary to the economy to let them go under.

FROM: Corporal Carrot

FROM: LadyDayFan

Is Widjihartani his first name or his last name? Are you sure he’s reliable?

FROM: Corporal Carrot

What do they call him for short?

FROM: Joe Clever

Widjihartani is the only name he’s got. Lots of Indonesians have only one name.

I spoke to him on the phone. His English is pretty good, he takes tourists out for fishing and sightseeing.

He seemed pretty clearheaded, really. But he didn’t know how he could afford the fuel, and with the banks in the state they are, it’s unclear how we can get money to him.

FROM: Hippolyte

I found Pelabuhan Ratu on Google Earth!

FROM: LadyDayFan

Can we set him up with a PayPal account? Then we could put money into it, and he could withdraw it whenever the bank lets him.

FROM: Joe Clever

I’ll check.

From the restaurant, Dagmar could see the Indian nationals evacuating, the line of helicopters parading neatly across the horizon.

The Chinese were going out in the morning, by sea, and the Singaporeans the next day. Even little Singapore could stage a proper evacuation, complete with a landing by their elite Gurkha troops.

The only nationality that wasn’t evacuating, besides the Americans, was the Australians. The Indonesians were still angry at the Australians over Timor and weren’t letting Australian ships into their waters.

For a moment, watching the Indians go, Dagmar felt a spasm of pure hatred for her own nation. Her country had lost the ability to do anything but make fast food and bad Hollywood blockbusters. Every city would have its very own Katrina, and the United States of America in its greatness and piety would do nothing before or after. At the embassy they handed out lies as if they were the White House budget office.

Even the saving of human life had been privatized. If you could afford your own security outfit to rescue you with its helicopters, then you were granted life; if you couldn’t, you were beneath your nation’s notice.

For a brief, fierce instant she wanted to see her own country burn, just as the Palms had burned.

Then the anger faded, and she looked down at the fried rice that was her supper.

Dutifully, she ate it to the last grain.

FROM: Simone

LadyDayFan, can you set up a fanfic topic?

FROM: LadyDayFan

Fanfic? You want to write fan fiction about Dagmar?

FROM: Simone

Yeah. She’s cool.

FROM: Hanseatic

‹glyph of astonishment›

FROM: LadyDayFan

Well. This is against my better judgment, but here you go.

“Where are you from?” asked the young man with the halberd.

“Los Angeles.”

“That is near Hollywood?”

“Yes.”

“That must be very interesting.”

Dagmar understood that in the Q-and-A conversations favored by the Indonesians, both sides were supposed to ask questions.

“Are you from Jakarta?” she asked.

Paying her ritual morning visit to the concierge-which, following Zan’s advice, she did at a different hour each morning-Dagmar had discovered that the hotel was now guarded by men with medieval weapons. They wore kilts over baggy pants, with short jackets, round pitji hats, and sashes in bright primary colors. The outfits of the young men were black, and of the older men, white. They carried long knives, spears, sticks, and blades on the ends of sticks. They clustered by the hotel entrances and smiled and bowed at anyone walking by. They were making a clear effort not to seem threatening.

Mr. Tong had never reappeared, and his place seemed taken permanently by the young woman in the Muslim headdress. She told Dagmar that the hotel had hired a group of martial artists to secure the hotel.

“What is your group called?” Dagmar asked. Maybe Tomer Zan would know something about them.

“We are the Tanah Abang Bersih Jantung Association.” The young man touched his chest. “Bersih Jantung means ‘pure heart.’ ”

“And the other part?”

“Tanah Abang? That is our kampung-our neighborhood, near this hotel.” He looked at her with curiosity. “Do you like Miley Cyrus?” he asked.

“Miley?” Dagmar said. “I think she’s swell.”

“Bersih Jantung?” asked Tomer Zan that evening. “How do you spell it?”

“It means ‘pure heart,’ ” Dagmar said.

“What is the attitude of these people?” Zan asked. “Are they disciplined? Do you feel safe around them?”

“They seem friendly. They like Miley Cyrus, for heaven’s sake! There are some older men in white who give the orders. They’re trying not to be scary.”

“That’s good. Just remember that this can change at any second. You should be alert to any sign that their attitude is changing. Remember, these are the people that invented the word amok. Well, actually they call it mataglap, but amok is what they mean.”