Termination Shock

“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.”

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