The Disciple

POSTSCRIPT

On the afternoon that General Syafi’i Darma retired in Jakarta, the officers under his command threw a party for him. It was a very pleasant affair. He had been in the military for thirty-five years, been promoted to increasingly responsible commands, distinguished himself by uncovering and foiling an assassination attempt on a foreign head of state and, although his officers weren’t aware of it, piled up a rather nice fortune in bribes and gifts.

Darma was looking forward to his new life, one without responsibilities, with horses and beautiful women to play with and admire.

He left the party in his armored limo with his son at the wheel. The son drove out of the capital headed for the general’s estate in the country. The road was familiar, a two-lane that was being upgraded to a four-lane, partly in response to the general’s persistent lobbying of the government.

They came to the construction area and slowed down. They crept along for a bit, past the construction equipment on the new grade to their left, until the limo was forced to stop by queued-up traffic. A dump truck of some kind eased up behind them.

They sat there a moment, the son laughing at his father’s jokes, enjoying the moment, completely at ease. Then, without warning, the vehicle ahead backed into the limo, struck it hard. At almost the same instant, the truck behind them smashed into the limo’s trunk.

As the occupants of the limo recovered from the surprise crashes, they saw that the drivers of the trucks had climbed from behind the wheel and taken station near their vehicles. Each of them held a submachine gun and faced the limo.

“Oh, my God,” the general shouted. “Call the police,” he yelled to his son. “Use the radio. Get someone here now!”

His son fumbled with the radio, which had been off, grabbed the mike and held it in his hand while he pushed buttons.

General Darma stared at the gunman beside the left side of the truck ahead. He was merely standing there, holding that submachine gun. Perhaps he didn’t know this vehicle was armored. Then again, maybe he did-he had made no attempt to shoot the windows out.

Darma glanced behind. The other driver was behind the limo on the right side. Any attempt to exit the vehicle on that side would also lead to a shoot-out, and probably be fatal.

As his son shouted into the radio microphone he held in his hands, something coming from the left attracted Darma’s attention. He looked. It was a giant bulldozer, one that had been on the grade of the new lanes. The blade was raised, and it was coming straight for the limo.

It wasn’t going to stop. It came steadily on. Now he could hear the roar of the diesel engine, hear the treads clanking.

There was just sufficient room, Hyman Fineberg decided, between the two trucks that had pinned the limo, so he drove the bulldozer, a giant Caterpillar, right up onto the limo. He could feel the car being crushed under the dozer’s weight.

The gunmen climbed back into their vehicles and moved them away from the trapped limousine. Fineberg pivoted the Cat ninety degrees on its right tread, screwing the limo right into the earth, then moved the dozer forward until it was back on the ground.

Now he glanced over his shoulder. The tires of the car had blown out, and the vehicle sat on its frame in the road. The roof was crushed; most of the glass was missing.

“A job worth doing…” Hyman Fineberg muttered to himself and ran the dozer back up over the car. It was getting flatter, no question.

Still, Fineberg wasn’t satisfied. He used the blade of the dozer to flip the car’s carcass upside-down. Then he ran the dozer over it again. And again.

When he finally shut the dozer down and climbed down from the operator’s seat, the limo was only about fifteen inches thick in the engine compartment. The rest of the vehicle was less than a foot thick.

Hyman Fineberg looked the wreck over, then climbed into a dump truck beside the driver and rode away.