Broken Arrow

Navab Wahabzad sat on a stool at the bar counter, just smoking. The bartender shot him a look of disgust but didn't kick him out. Even after retiring from the air force, Navab's physique remained robust—the only reason the bartender held back.

Neon light rippled across his face like rainbow waves. Gentle, psychedelic jazz swirled around him. Men and women carelessly squandered their time, trying to forget the wounds of war.

Ding!

Someone pressed the bell on the counter.

He sat down next to Navab. Navab glanced over—looked like a local Ukrainian. The Ukrainian ordered a drink called Purple Helen, named after the Mu Continent's prized grape "Purple Helen." Since the Ninth Law-Ruler, this grape had gone nearly extinct, with only a few vines surviving on other continents. But what Navab saw before him was just ordinary cheap wine, probably meant to commemorate the fallen of Mu Continent.

"Using numbing alcohol to honor the dead... well, I suppose it's not out of the question," Navab thought to himself with self-mockery.

Navab pulled his gaze away from the Ukrainian and went back to smoking. He hadn't come here for the cigarettes, of course—he was waiting for someone. Who, he didn't know.

The Ukrainian downed his Purple Helen in one gulp, stood up, and patted Navab on the back.

"You alright, buddy?"

Then the Ukrainian walked off on his own.

Navab turned his head impatiently, only to see a briefcase lying beside the high stool he'd been sitting on. His annoyed expression relaxed slightly. Finally, he followed the Ukrainian's lead, ordered a Purple Helen, and downed it in one go, as if using up all the strength he had.

He picked up the briefcase and walked out of the bar. The bartender hesitated, staring at Navab—he seemed to remember this strange man had come in empty-handed.

Navab rounded many corners, gradually leaving the neon's illusory glow behind. The color of night slowly filled his frame. Soldiers saw him hurrying through the empty streets but no one stopped to check him; they all knew where he'd come from. The bar was violating curfew, but if keeping it open meant keeping the civilians docile, then let it stay open.

Navab returned to his hotel. Since being discharged from the air force, he'd been living here, burning through his savings. Roughly half of that money had gone into what he was carrying; the rest was set aside for a plan of his.

Sitting on the hotel bed, the soft touch sent an inexplicable dizziness through him. Navab flipped the switch, and the room instantly filled with soft yellow light.

He unclasped the briefcase. Inside, a transparent capsule wrapped in bubble wrap was filled with gray-green liquid. He took off his gray coat, revealing an arm with faint purple veins visible beneath the skin. Tearing off the bubble wrap, he swallowed the capsule.

Navab was a Honkai disease patient. When he'd been showering and suddenly noticed faint purple streaks on his back, he'd wisely chosen not to report it to the military—because he knew the only outcome for Honkai patients was death. Especially for those in the military; before natural death came, a bullet might arrive faster.

Navab had used his connections to find an unregistered clinic. Before his diagnosis, he'd still clung to the hope patients often have. When he was confirmed to have Honkai disease, one thought filled his mind: "I can't die. Not yet, at least."

At that moment, Navab thought of his wife and child. His wife had been unemployed for over a year; his child was still in university. This was when the family needed money most. Even if he had to die, he had to leave enough behind for them.

The black-market clinic had told him one thing then. The drug that could completely cure Honkai disease was extremely precious—that was true. At least, no one in Navab's entire family could afford it. But there was another drug that could delay death's arrival. Its raw material was the same as the full cure: antibodies produced by patients who had died of Honkai disease.

To fully cure Honkai disease required about a thousand lives. To delay death required far less. Still, this drug was prohibitively expensive for an ordinary family. Navab's savings could only buy two pills, and each pill extended life by just one month.

So Navab was planning how to make his death worthwhile. While piloting a transport plane, he'd deliberately lost the cargo and was naturally dismissed. Using his retired status and his network of military contacts, Navab had become an intelligence consultant for people with ill intentions.

Former UN military secret arsenals, Fire Moth's abandoned aircraft—as long as the price was high enough, Navab could use his connections to get the locations.

Knock knock.

A soft knock came from the door.

Navab kept one hand on the doorknob, the other gripping a silenced pistol. He put on an impatient tone: "What is it?"

A salesman's voice came from the other side: "Sir, want some liquor? Cheap stuff."

"Yes," Navab answered without hesitation.

"Do you sell cigarettes?"

The salesman replied eagerly: "Yes, which brand do you want?"

"Soft Gold. Slip it under the door."

Rustling sounds lasted a few seconds. The salesman slid a pack of cigarettes under the door. Navab picked it up, glanced at it, then opened the door.

The cigarettes the salesman had handed over weren't "Soft Gold"—they were "Equatorial Africa" brand.

"Come on in, settle the bill." Navab opened the door but didn't hide the silenced pistol; he just gripped it tightly. The salesman saw the gun in his hand but wasn't afraid—he walked right in boldly.

Navab closed the door, the pistol's muzzle fixed on the salesman's eyes: "What do you want?"

"On your last military mission, you made a mistake."

Navab quickly understood what this "salesman" was after.

"You want those weapons?" His last mission had been transporting weapons from Sri Lanka to Azerbaijan. He'd deliberately dumped them into a lake on the Iranian Plateau. The co-pilot at the time, Maxon, had been bribed by him too, and still maintained ties with Navab.

The salesman nodded. "Yes."

Navab shook his head, speaking earnestly: "Honestly, I don't remember. Back then, I had no intention of selling weapons intelligence. Even if I marked it for you, those weapons are long since rusted and unusable."

Navab shifted his tone: "But I do know places storing far more weapons—and they're definitely usable. The price, of course, is higher."

"Don't bullshit me, Navab." The salesman stared coldly at him. "You already marked it."

"You were diagnosed with Honkai disease ten days before you retired. I have reason to suspect that when you carried out that mission, you were already planning for the future." The salesman slapped Navab's discharge papers and the black clinic's patient file onto his face.

"No..." He gritted his teeth, cursing inwardly: "Damn doctor, he said he wouldn't keep any records!"

Navab put on a fawning smile: "Sorry, sorry. I'll mark it for you right now."

Only now did Navab realize the value of that transport mission. With a merchant's instinct, he put on a humble grin and said: "Since you know the value of those crates, shouldn't you also..."

"Fine! Greedy bastard."

Navab fumbled around in a hidden compartment in the wardrobe, pulled out a map, and drew a circle on it with a black permanent marker.

"See, those crates are in this lake." He placed the map in the salesman's hands, rubbing his own palms together with a smile.

The salesman glanced at the map, rolled it up, and smiled back at him—though the smile was a little eerie.

"Navab, Navab... you shouldn't have been so greedy."

"You seem to think I'm an idiot. The flight route back then didn't pass over the Anatolian Plateau—it went over the Iranian Plateau, didn't it?"

The salesman grabbed Nawab by the throat. Nawab instantly pressed the silenced pistol against the salesman's chest and pulled the trigger with force, but the man before him didn't fall. The bullets seemed to sink into some sticky, tar-like substance before clattering to the ground.

"I can dig up your file, so why wouldn't I be able to find your flight records?" Qin Su sneered. "You sensed something was off about those supplies, or else I wouldn't have come to you for the deal."

"Let me tell you! Your superior got on this path way earlier than you did, and the cargo you were transporting at the time secretly contained an important item. Think carefully now." Qin Su pointed at his temple. "What was off back then? Enough that you'd deliberately stash those low-value, low-quantity supplies somewhere no one else knew about."

In his panic, Nawab suddenly remembered why he had marked those crates. He stammered, "Those crates... they were tightly sealed, with no warning labels on them. And my superior told me they were just ordinary weapons. Also... I needed startup capital."

Qin Su released his neck. Nawab slumped in defeat. "Fine... I'll mark them for you now..."

"But... can you tell me what was inside them?"

Qin Su glanced at him, then said.

"Nuclear bomb components."

PS1: In 1956, a B-47 bomber took off from an air force base in Florida, planning to land at an air force base in Morocco. During preparations for a second refueling, it failed to make contact with the tanker and subsequently disappeared. At the time, the B-47 was transporting two different types of nuclear weapon cores. The French army, British navy, Spanish army, and Moroccan army all reported that they could not find the wreckage, the crew, or the nuclear weapons.

PS2: Broken Arrow refers to accidents involving nuclear weapons, warheads, or components that do not create the risk of nuclear war. From 1950 to 1980, the U.S. Department of Defense officially acknowledged at least thirty-two Broken Arrow incidents.

PS3: 3K, belated compensation.