Outmaneuvered by a cop and his baton, I sat on a stool in Interrogation Room Four, Greenland Police Station, feeling like an amateur.
In front of me, the policeman sat behind his desk, ranting, reading from a 23” CRT. The old glass monster took up half his desktop real estate, barely leaving room for the keyboard. Like a tilted, white pyramid suspended in space, the plastic rear extended thirty centimeters over the floor. He probably kept it because it once cost a fortune, was too heavy for him to carry, and he didn’t want to call someone for help because he was embarrassed about it. The only thing rational about him was his gas mask.
Tojo sat to my left, gazing at the wall behind behind the cop. Without his mask, Tojo’s noble facial features and guru-like posture made him seem even more intimidating than when I mistook him for Ganesh, the Elephant God, this morning.
Oh, yeah. The pros and cons of gas masks. It was nice to be free of the clammy rubber fused to my face, but without it, there was enough EA-1729 left in the air to send me spinning into oddball stadium. More and more interesting decor poured out of the walls, roasting rainbow-colored clowns on flagpoles over burning weeds … but it didn’t scare me like it did before. I could control it now. I rubbed my eyes, and it was gone.
Whew. Still, never in my life would I have guessed that such extravagance could befall a common soldier.
Across the desk, reading his big, glaring screen, the policeman continued his thundering diatribe. The invisible, but ever present LSD vapors got me higher and higher, making his words harder to understand.
On top of that, his black police gas mask wobbled when he spoke. “So far, the list of terrorist organizations claiming responsibility for this despicable attack include, but are not limited to ISIS, ISIL, ISIN, The Ku Klux Klan of Norway, Council of Conservative Citizens, Identity Evropa in the Evropean Vnion, National Socialist Vront, I mean Front, …” His voice was filled with anger, but also with a sadness that seemed strangely out of place.
In the corner of my eye, Tojo caught my attention. I turned to see.
He waved his arms up and down, left and right, sometimes synchronized, sometimes freely, apparently conducting an orchestra of shadows on the wall. Concerto for Flute, Harp, and Orchestra in C major by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, by the looks of it. What an amazing talent.
The cop-clerk blared on. “National Democratic Party of Norway, Christians for Listhaug, Aryan Brotherhood, Norwegian Resistance, The National Socialist Union of Norway, The Sons of Anders Behring Breivik, The Prophet's Ummah, Mullah Krekar, ...”
Tojo checked his watch and mumbled. “It won’t be long now. Listen for the rumble and the jingling of the keys.”
Was he mocking his musicians? Nah. Tojo was a gentleman. He’s never do something like that. It had to be a reference to some esoteric Bengali soundscape unfamiliar to all but the most enlightened. Fascinating as it might be, I ought to leave Tojo alone for the moment, concentrate on the sorrowful policeman, and exhibit empathy. A question would make him appreciate my interest. “Are they working together, perhaps?”
“Shut up. The Freedom and Democracy Society, The Flat Earth Society, Christians for Trump and finally, a newly established group called The Hippie Hooligans. But we know it’s none of them, don’t we?”
“Do we?” Despite his heartbroken appearance, I was beginning to dislike him. Cops have a nasty habit of confiscating weed, and this man seemed to be no exception. Judgemental and authoritarian, he asserted, “They don’t have psycho-chemical capabilities.”
“But you do, I suppose?” I sneered.
“What do you mean?” He bent sideways to look away from his screen and fix my eyes. The old CRT began to crackle as he scrolled down.
What did I mean? Good question. A huge CRT like that couldn’t possibly be healthy, so close to the brain. If only I had brought my Geiger counter, it would probably have screamed blue murder. “I mean, you might consider--”
“Shut up. The following list of conspiracy theories have appeared in social media. Immigrants did it. Muslims did it, Jews did it, MK-ULTRA did it, Deep State did it,--”
“Are you trying to prove a point?” Why did he sound so sad? His voice nearly broke.
“Shut up. Alex Jones did it to prove that MK-ULTRA had been taken over by Muslim immigrants from Mars, Jimi Hendrix did it, and someone swears they saw Jim Morrison. Now, we have a theory.”
“Finally.”
Tojo winked at me, dancing with his arms. “You know what’s up. Spare keys. Boogie woogie. Jingle-jingle, boom-boom crash.”
What spare keys? I fumbled in my pocket. Oh, the keys. Captain Hanson had given me the keys to the Leopard tank. By now, he must have figured that we took the Volvo C303 instead. I nodded. “Jingle-jingle. Spare keys.”
The eyelenses in the cop’s gas mask reflected the big CRT. “Shut up. Our theory is that it was … an accident. What do you think of that?” He snorted. Either, he had a bad case of the flu, or he was indeed crying.
Despite his discourteous nature, perhaps I should comfort him. “I think your theory is absolutely brilliant. I’m so impressed, I have to pee. May I use the bathroom?”
“No, you may not. Where’s the rest of it?”
“The rest of what?” I looked at Tojo. His music had evidently stopped. He sat there with his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest, contemplating the ceiling. However, he did not seem dejected. Knowing Tojo, he had already formulated a plan.
The policeman leaned forward. “The rest of the bombs. We know you had them in the back of your Jeep.”
Good Lord. Give it up already. “How do you know it was us? And what Jeep?”
“My brother is … “ He stopped, fetched a cloth from a drawer, pulled open his mask and blew his nose.
Impressive. He must have had NBC training, too.
The cop put his mask back on a continued. “ … was a security guard working for Zander Properties at Ellensred. On one of the monitors, he saw two soldiers matching your description enter a condemned building and place a box on top of the elevator house. What was in that box?” No, his voice definitely broke.
“That’s classified.” Why the hell didn’t I think of that one before?
“Declassify it or spend the night in a cell. What was it?”
“Sausages and beer. We were going to have a picnic.”
“Stop lying. Where’s the rest of it?”
Wait a minute … he couldn’t know what was inside the lunchbox, unless … “How do you know it was a bomb?”
“What else would it be?” He sobbed in his mask.
“It could be destiny.” Tojo laughed as a low rumble made the big CRT vibrate and bob back and forth. “Good, old captain Hanson,” he chuckled. “He found the spare keys. Jingle-jingle. Boom-boom. Crash.”
The policeman clutched the faltering screen with both hands. “What’s that sound?”
I smiled. “That, my friend, is the sound the tables make when they turn, otherwise known as a Leopard Mark II battle tank, armed with a Rheinmetall 120 millimeter cannon, shooting a … what was it?”
Tojo rose and stared at the cop. “It was a Mike eight two niner depleted uranium armor piercing, fin stabilized round, capable of rendering this police station uninhabitable for sixty-five thousand years.”
Now, there were two of us. I gorgonized the motherfucker. “Now, where were we … you said it was a bomb. How could you possibly know that? And take that goddamn mask off. You look like a war criminal.”
The cop removed his mask, revealing a young, freckled and insecure face. “I couldn’t be sure, of course, uh,--”
No mercy for the wicked. “How many others have you arrested in connection with this?”
“You’re the first, why?” His eyes shifted between Tojo, me, and the rattling window.
“What made you select us?”
“You’re soldiers. You have access to military hardware.”
Gotcha. “What makes you think the bomb was military?”
“Nothing.” His lower lip trembled as the door began to throb.
Time to wrap this up. “Can we cut the bullshit? How do you know about the EA-1721?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“How do you know? Tell us, or you’ll wear this monster screen of yours as a glass helmet. You know those things are highly radioactive, right? Speak, cop vermin!” That was too harsh, but I had to take advantage of this unique occasion to hurl a dysphemism at the police and get away with it.
His pupils began to dilate. Low tolerance for LSD, probably. He spoke faster. “My brother saw you on a monitor up at Ellensred. It looked like you were hiding something, so he went to see what it was.”
Huh? I was only kidding. I never expected a confession. Better strike while the iron was hot. “And then he stole it, didn’t he?”
His eyes began to look like piss holes in the snow. “He didn’t steal it. He was going to bring it back here.”
I banged my fist into his desk. “Where is it now?”
“The ones that didn’t go off are in the trunk of my brother’s car.”
Ha! Mission accomplished. I couldn’t wait to see captain Hanson’s face when we brought him this squirming little worm. His colleague confiscated my weed and ruined my weekend two years ago, almost to this day. Now, this little creep was going to pay the price. I felt the power of righteousness enter my mind as I spoke. “So, you are the terrorists, huh? We thought it was Al Qaeda. Turned out it was the Nazis. What’s your grade in the Nazi party, cunt? Obersturmführer?”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Please, it wasn’t me. It was my brother. He stumbled and the thing went off. I won’t tell anybody about any of this. I swear.”
I sneered. “If you do, you’ll end up in Guantanamo Bitch Ass Bay, stooping over a barrel with your pants around your ankles--”
Tojo grabbed my sleeve. “Be professional. He says he won’t betray his nation and I believe him. Where is your brother now?”
The policeman wept. “He died.”
Aw. Regretting the way I had spoken to him, I put my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make sure captain Hanson knows he died a hero. None of this was your fault.”
He sniffed. “It wasn’t?”
“Of course not. The Nazis have been very active lately. You were right, it was us your brother saw, but we didn’t place that lunch box there. We found it inside and brought it to the top so we could come back with a bomb disposal team.” I rose from the chair. “You must never breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Tojo was already at the door, holding it open.
I had two more questions. “Is there a video of this? And where is your brother’s car?”
“In the trunk. The car is parked at Pile Street 67. It’s a blue Subaru Impreza.”
New objective. I clicked my heels and saluted. “Your nation thanks you for your bravery,” then turned and marched out.
Two policemen playing cat’s cradle with a network cable smiled as we passed them on our way.
Outside, the Leopard tank had powered down. Two soldiers sat on the turret, wearing gas masks. Olafson and Svensrud, perchance, judging by the recklessness with which they gesticulated with their MP5s.
Tojo pointed to the two stripes on his shoulder. Though he was a conscripted soldier like us, he had been promoted to corporal, and technically, that meant he outranked the rest of us.
The two ridiculous tank commandos hopped onto the ground and stood at attention with their MP5 pointing to the skies.
Thank God. And why did they have their mask on, anyway? Those two didn’t have a full brain between them -- there was nothing for the LSD to perturb.
Tojo barked. “What are you two blockheads doing?”
“Captain’s orders. We are to secure the Parliament and round up them goddamn traitors. We got stuck in a one way street and tried to back it up. Then, we saw the Volvo C303 and thought you might be here. Now, you can drive and we’ll man the cannon. This is going to be so fucking cool, Corporal Roy. I’m gonna blast that shithouse from here to Alpha Centauri.” Olafson. Squeaky voice, always eager. People like him should be barred from watching the Science Channel. It inundates their minds with concepts they will never comprehend.
“New orders.” Tojo pointed up the street. “There’s another bomb in the trunk of a blue Subaru Impreza, parked at Pile Street 67. Let’s go.”
“But, Captain Hanson excl … ex click, plick, uh … said--” Stensrud. Less eloquent, however, perhaps marginally brighter.
“Does the term ‘another bomb’ seem enigmatic to you? Should I tear off your gas masks to help you resolve it?”
“Uh, no, sir, corporal.” If you can’t convince them, confuse them. Old sales trick, always works.
“Alrighty, then. Start her up, swing her around, and joo-hoo-hoo straight ahead for five blocks, then left at the traffic light. Upsy-daisy. We’ll follow in the Volvo.”
The way Tojo took command of the situation inspired me with confidence. He was a Gurkha warrior, Master of Martial Arts, educated at some Imperial war academy and born to lead men like us in battle.
I felt like driving, so I jumped in the Volvo on the driver’s side. Tojo sat next to me, inserted the keys and started it up, smiling with the wisdom of the universe glinting in his eyes.
In front of us, the Leopard tank charged up the street, crushed what appeared to have been a Mercedes, then it stopped. A gas mask popped out of the turret, bent forward and stared at the flattened wreck.
Looking at me, it shook its head and disappeared back into the tank.
I could only hope that meant the car had been empty.
As the tank began to move, two girls came running from a side street, mounted the chassis and climbed onto the turret. One, a blonde in a red miniskirt, straddled the Rheinmetall 120mm cannon, waving what appeared to be a bottle of Vodka. The brunette crawled down the hatch.
Tojo didn’t seem to mind. History has shown that the most powerful army is the one which has the support of the populus, and ours increased in numbers as we stopped at the traffic light, waiting for green. There had to be a dozen stowaways on that Leopard when the light finally shifted.
Someone had a ghetto blaster.
Abba. Yuck.
I couldn’t stand it, so I turned on the radio.
“In a surprise move, Integration minister Listhaug now says refugees are welcome in Norway. To celebrate this wonderful news, we’ll play a song by John Lennon, called ‘Imagine’. He hope you’ll like it.” A mellow piano song filled the Volvo, drowning out the engine and the party craze on the Leopard tank.
“What?” Tojo’s head jerked backwards. “Was that the same Listhaug who spoke to the refugees, telling them half would be parachuted over Israel, so the Israeli air defence could get something to shoot at?”
I laughed. “Yup. The refugees still cheered, though, thinking about the half that would be allowed to stay in Norway. That was, until she cranked up the chainsaw.”
“Strange.”
I kept the Volvo in second gear, crawling up Pile Street, 20 … 22 … 24, stop. 26, 28, stop. A denim-dressed punk-girl on the Leopard tank had to pee.
When she came back, she brought two friends. Instead of getting onto the tank, they knocked on my side door.
Girls, girls, girls. My heart rate increased. “Now what?”
Tojo shrugged, contorted backwards and opened in the back.
The punk girl stuck her head between us. “Where are you going?”
Another, in the back, called out, “Shut up and listen to the radio.”
I turned it up.
“ … so that starting next Tuesday, beggars will become eligible for benefits, even if they are of the Romani race. The same legislation will be applied to drug addicts, who, in addition to benefits and work opportunities, also will be offered heroin assisted treatment. In other news, the newly established Department of Infrastructure has put forth an emergency plan to reduce homelessness to zero before the end of this year. Zander Real Estate is fully committed to the process and has put a moratorium on knocking down apartment blocks. Construction is scheduled to begin as soon as the invasion from Nordfjord has been repelled. And here is a song by Jimi Hendrix, called All Along the Watchtower.”
Zander Real Estate for Humanity? I grinned. The old man had to be tripping balls as well. But wait … what invasion? I spun the knob until a crackling, male voice blasted from the tiny speaker.
“This is Nordfjord National Socialist Broadcasting with a report from the front. In Oslo, our beloved capital, Muslim refugees roam the streets, raping, killing and looting. Dead bodies litter the sidewalks, and whoever dares leave his --or her-- apartment is doomed to instant death. We have never seen such devastation.”
I looked at Tojo. Tojo stared back with big, round eyes. A girl in the back yelled “What? Are they talking about us?”
The voice continued. “Our heroic forces are approaching the city as we speak. The homosexuals, socialists, Muslims, and degenerates will be given no quarter once we arrive. This is Nordfjord National Socialist Broadcasting, and we care about you. In the latest news, Our beautiful capital has been taken over by homosexuals, drug addicts, Muslims, and socialists--”
Oh, crap. The sheep shaggers.
Captain Hanson had been right all the time.
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