The Coke Maker

part 1

by Omar E. Vega

The near future

It was early in the morning at a time most of the people of New York were still enjoying the last part of their dreams before waking up for work. In seconds, a huge explosion woke up everybody in town. It was so impressive that it broke every window for miles around the container ships’ harbor, while a black cloud of smoke rose to impressive heights.

Every single soul felt a terrifying fear that climbed from their spines to the napes of their necks, started their foreheads sweating, and made their extremities feel cold and clammy. Most of the city stayed frozen, just waiting nervously to know what had happened, but many others started to panic.

The police and armed forces were alerted immediately, and in minutes the New York’s Red Hook container harbor was crowded with firefighters, policemen, and their fleets of vehicles, while hovering over the scene there were dozens of helicopters flying to and fro, looking for suspects or for further attacks.

Fortunately, the attack caused only two casualties; a miraculously small number of victims that could be attributed only to the time of the day at which the attack happened: quite early in the morning.

Immediately after the attack, while people were running away from the scene and the officers were coming in, Captain Michael Thompson of the FBI rushed to the place with his helper, Laurence Waters. Thompson was a strong, tall middle-aged man, prematurely gray, with grey peaceful-looking eyes and a melancholy air that permeated his personality, all of which make him look like a mature movie star.

Waters, on the other hand, was young and childlike, quite small and thin, and so hyperkinetic that people wondered how he had been accepted as an agent, immature as he was. In short, they were just a couple of quite common officers of the FBI.

At the moment they arrived on the scene they found something out of place.

“Larry,” said Thompson “I am not sure of what happened here, as yet. But there is something certain: this wasn’t a terrorist attack.”

“Why do you say that, boss? These guys almost tore the whole city down.”

“Most of it was noise, Larry. Someone wants to make us believe it was a terrorist bomb, but its target is right in front of our eyes.”

Aside from the damage produced by the bomb, the scene was quite ordinary. They were standing on a levee, and right in front of them there was a large container ship named Santa Lucia, flying the Panamanian flag and registered in Calcutta.

They walked close to the center of the explosion, in the middle of a stockpile of containers marked with all kinds of brand names. The containers had been crushed by the impact, destroyed to the point that they were barely recognizable. However, even after such a large explosion, there were a couple of boxes almost intact, with small dents and burned paint as the only reminder of the destruction. This attracted the attention of the officers, and they walked over to inspect them.

Michael opened a box with one of the blades of his Swiss army knife. Inside the box there were twelve machines that looked like computer parts. They were carefully packed in plastic boxes, inside of which there were manuals, adaptors, cabling and some memory cards.

“What do you think it is, boss?” Asked Larry.

“I don’t know as yet. Let’s look at the manual.”

On the front page, in big letters, there was the name of the machine: “Wizard 3025, a product of Alchemy Nanotechnologies Inc., India.”

“What the heck is this?” Asked Larry once again, speaking slowly and meditatively.

“I don’t know. But I do know who might answer our questions. Look at the sticker: to Calcutta Importers Ltd., Reagan Square Building, office 3201, 2015 W 48th Street. I bet you those guys know what these machines are for and why the shipment was destroyed.”

“Gee! Why don’t we pay them a visit?”

“Let’s go!” ordered Michael.

They sprang to their car and skipped inside in a single jump, slamming the doors behind them. The car rushed from the port carrying the agents in pursuit of clues in the importer’s offices, located some minutes away in the light, early morning traffic, now much diminished by the panic produced by the bomb.

They arrived at the building at 7:30, just as the first employees were coming in. They quickly entered the elevator, which took them to the 30th floor in half a minute. Michael knocked on the door, but nobody answered. It was too early as yet, but in twenty minutes everybody would be there.

However, this was not a common day. A thin column of smoke was still climbing to the heights from the container harbor, and the emotional impact of the the explosion had changed the minds of millions of New Yorkers, many of whom would not go to work this day. The memories of an 11th of September of three decades ago were still fresh in the minds of many people; they had suffered such a bitter experience that promised they’d never take chances again.

“What are you thinking about, Mike?”

“Well, here we are. We have no clues whatsoever of what happened. But I have the feeling that this has something to do with the container.”

“Do you think these guys are in the drug smuggling business?”

“Yes. I do,” said Michael in a soft, meditative voice, thinking before answering. “As you know, these days, the cocaine cartels have many problems when they try to bring drugs into the country.”

“I know. Those marvelous detectors the drugs agents have,” said his young partner, naively.

“Fantastic as they are, the detectors can work well only under certain conditions. The machines need to bathe the suspected package with gamma rays and wait for the reflected images to show traces of nitrogen-14 and chlorine-35: the mark that betrays both drugs and explosives. But these are short-range detectors, and you can’t scan everything that passes through such a large port as New York.”

“Yes, lots of drugs are still coming.” Said Larry.

“But the business of drug selling is decaying quite fast.”

“You are right, Larry, the market is about a third of what it used to be some decades ago, but there is still large amounts of drugs in the street; tons of them.”

“But how does it get here?”

“By ingenious ways, and one of them is hiding it inside containers or in the cargo.”

“I see, so you think there were drugs in those containers that were blown up.”

“I don’t think so, Larry. Actually, I believe they were blown up precisely because they didn’t carry any drugs.”

“What?”

“I am just guessing, but I am quite sure that the load was blown up because this company refused to carry drugs in its containers. It was revenge.”

“Jesus! So those guys continue to play tough,” said Larry, making a disgusted expression. And then his face took on an expression of surprise. “But, wait a minute Mike, the most important drug is still cocaine, and that comes from South America. The ship came from India, as the papers and the load revealed. It just does not make sense they were forced by the dealers to smuggle drugs.”

“Haven’t you heard about opium and heroin, my dear friend? Those come from central Asia. Besides, these days, shipping is an international business. Ships go around the world carrying loads between harbors. Don’t you remember that the carrier’s flag was Panamanian?”

“Yes, I do”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first employees. This first one was a petite young woman with long and brilliant dark hair, dark and shiny eyes, all of which was complemented by a warm and easy smile. “Hi. I am Leya Shankar, the secretary. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Michael showing his badge. “We are Michael Thompson and Lawrence Waters of the FBI. We need to talk with the manager.”

“Of course,” Said Leya, with surprise as she opened the door, “come inside.”

They entered the small office — too small for such a large shipping company, the officers thought — and Leya offered the usual: “Would you like some coffee?” They sat down and the interrogation began.

“Did you hear the explosion, Ms. Shankar?” asked Michael.

“Yes, it was huge, wasn’t it?”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Why would I be scared?”

“Don’t you know? asked Michael, skeptically.

“I heard a distant noise coming from the explosion while I was riding in the subway, and I also heard some rumors while coming here, but I don’t know any more than that. What’s up?

“Someone blew up a pile of containers in Red Hook harbor.”

“Gee! Do you mean that...”

“Yes. They were yours.”

“I’ll have to make a call. Will you excuse me?” said Leya with a quick change of humor. Suddenly she looked very worried. She tried very hard to make the call, but no matter how hard she tried she failed to do so.

“Who are you calling, Ms. Shankar?” asked Michael.

“Hari Khera, my boss. He must know.”

“He may know by now,” said Larry “Why don’t you tell us why are you so worried?”

Meanwhile, a couple of workers had arrived, but it seemed that nobody else would come to work that day. Leya hung up the phone and said quietly, “What do you want to know?” Leya looked at the officers with hate in her shiny black eyes.

“What kind of shipment were you waiting for?” Asked Larry.

“Well. Medical equipment. There was a large shipment for Bangalore-American Medical Industries arriving today at Red Hook. It was very important for us, because it meant the income of a full month. Now, it’s gone.”

“Have you received any threats”? asked Michael.

“What do you mean?”

“Were you aware that someone wanted to sabotage your load?”

“I had no idea, sir. I am just the secretary here. Mr. Khera should know.”

“Where is he right now?” Asked Larry.

“I don’t know. He should be here by now, and unlike other bosses, he comes to work early as an example for his employees. I am worried. I tried to call him several times but he didn’t answer.”

“Where does he live?” asked Michael, hurrying up the conversation.

“In the suburbs. I’ll give you the address.”

They copied it quickly and rushed away from the office. Larry asked Michael what was going on.

“I believe Mr. Khera is in great danger. Let’s go see him.”

The officers sprang to the elevators and rushed to the underground parking lot. They burned rubber accelerating out into the street. It took thirty minutes for them to reach the suburbs. They were received by a shower of bullets.

“Hide for your life, Larry!” said Michael as the windshield exploded in a burst of deadly glass from machine gun fire. They left the vehicle and hid behind the car’s body, hastily returning fire with their small guns. Firing was intense between the criminals and the policemen that arrived early. Bullets were whistling over their heads and hit their car like heavy hail, splattering the metal with holes.

After a moment of fear, the agents recovered their strength and started to plan. Larry put his head out for a second to look at the enemy’s position and hid again. Meanwhile, Michael was quickly loading his gun.

“They are four of them. One is shooting at us from the window at eleven o’clock” said Larry.

“Wait here. I’ll shoot this time,” ordered Michael.

He waited some seconds for the blast to calm down a bit, and then he stood up pointing exactly in the eleven o’clock direction. He shot twice and the targeted breast exploded in a burst of blood. The body fell out the house, breaking the windows and falling to the well-cut grass. Michael hid once again, and commented, “One less. Let’s listen to find out how many are left.”

They could hear two gunners that were still shooting. As usual, it was Larry’s turn to take a look at the situation. But this that he wasn’t so lucky because a bullet came very close, grazing his cheek; later he would tell he felt the bullet coming, rotating in its deadly pursuit of him. He shouted in pain while blood poured around.

“Jesus, Larry! you’d been hit!” Said Michael.

“Second floor, 12:30 o’clock” answered Larry, at the same time he was bringing his hands on his face.

Michael sprang up, pointed in the exact direction and shot three times. At the opposite side of his gun one head exploded like a watermelon, the criminal paying immediately for the crime of marking Larry’s face. Michael hid once again and worriedly asked, “Are you okay, Larry?”

“Yes. It was superficial. It’s nothing. It’s still bleeding, though.” The impact wasn’t life treating, but the bullet had branded his cheek very badly before living the face.

Suddenly the shooting stopped. The remaining sniper gave up and stood at the front door of the house with both hands up. Police were pointing their guns at the criminal. They ordered him to lie on the floor, where they put him in handcuffs. Michael called an ambulance and asked a fellow policeman to take care of Larry. After he was sure his partner would be fine, he rushed to the house. At the front door he found Captain Steve O’Brian of the city police, and asked, “What’s going on here, Steve?”

“I don’t know, Mike. 911 called us because a neighbor saw some very strange and scary fellows coming to this house.”

“Let’s go inside, then.”

They kicked open the front door open and entered the house. The place was quite messy after ten minutes of gunfire. Broken glass and splinters from walls and furniture covered the living room, and the walls had several bullet holes. On the couch a person of east Indian complexion was bleeding profusely, and probably dying. Michael rush to him, and asked, “Why they attack you, sir. Tell me why they tried to kill you.”

Making a supreme effort, Hari Khera said, “Cocaine. The coke maker. Colombians...” And then he died.

To be continued...