The Last Call in the Red Zone۔ Dr Sarita Chauhan

The Last Call in the Red Zone

Dr Sarita Chauhan 

The city was burning.

It wasn’t a low, controllable event—it was a red maw swallowing the eastern skyline. Through the panoramic windows of the City Hall war room, Elias Sato, Senior Civil Engineer, could see the catastrophe unfolding. Four, five, maybe six high-rise residential blocks were engulfed, a vertical inferno that defied containment. It had started, according to the final, frantic reports before the system collapse, in the window unit of a third-floor apartment, spreading through the cheap cladding like gasoline.

Elias was staring at the clock—8:17 PM. The moment the main substation fried, struck by the intense heat and the desperate overload from the pumps and emergency fans trying to save the district. The lights in City Hall, which stood miles from the "Red Zone," sputtered and died, plunging the control center into a dim, desperate half-light powered by failing batteries.

The silence that followed was suffocating, but it wasn't the silence of peace; it was the silence of a choked, paralyzed giant.

"Ninety confirmed fatalities before the lines went down," Elias muttered, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed on the billowing, dark smoke. "Ninety lives. And the world watches, probably on feeds we can’t even access now. And even if they watch, what can they do? They're too far, too slow. We’re in a city of two million, and we're alone."

His state-of-the-art emergency management system, designed to handle floods, quakes, and even a small tactical strike, was useless. It was too smart, too dependent on clean digital data. When the city’s heart seized, the system performed a meticulous, polite shutdown.

“The surge was too much chaos, Mr. Sato,” the low, steady voice of Mr. Chen drifted from the shadows. The janitorial supervisor, who had been a quiet shadow in the building for decades, looked impossibly calm amidst the panic. “Your new brain, it ran from the noise. It did not know how to fight.”

Elias spun around, the frustration burning away his professionalism. “What do you suggest, Mr. Chen? Do you have an antique bucket and mop that can put out four blazing skyscrapers? We have no communication, no way to coordinate external help. The airport and the port are blind!”

“No bucket, sir,” Mr. Chen said, moving with an unhurried certainty toward the back alcove. “But we have a voice that doesn’t require a network. It just requires muscle.”

He pulled back the heavy curtain, revealing the massive, olive-green radio unit. The Commodore.

“The Commodore,” Elias breathed, the absurdity of the situation hitting him. A single, hand-cranked radio from the 1940s, powered by an ancient, isolated battery, was their only link to the outside world.

“The fire teams are fighting in the dark, using old protocols,” Mr. Chen explained, his eyes fixed on the device. “But they need specialized aerial drops. They need heavy equipment from the naval depot, and those resources are outside the blackout area. We need to reach the national response coordinator, Mr. Sato. It has to be a clear transmission. Not noise.”

Elias swallowed the knot of defeat in his throat. He, the man who designed satellite uplinks, was now going to rely on a man who polished chrome, using a machine that belonged in a glass case. It was humbling, terrifying, and necessary.

"The national response frequency is 8.5 megahertz," Elias dictated, scribbling the frequency and the necessary request—"Mandatory Red Zone Aerial Aid: Immediate Dispatch."

Mr. Chen settled onto the bench, his hands finding the wooden crank handle with practiced ease. This was not a moment for technological finesse; it was a moment for human will.

“Consistent rhythm, Mr. Sato,” Mr. Chen cautioned. “Too fast, we burn the coil. Too slow, the signal dies as fast as the hope.”

Mr. Chen began to turn. The crank groaned, protesting the years of stillness. Creak. Creak. Creak. The slow, agonizing current built. Elias watched the needle on the power gauge quiver, inching toward the ‘Transmit’ zone. Mr. Chen’s breath hitched on the fourth turn, but his rhythm held. His eyes were focused inward, channeling pure energy into the machine.

“Now, Mr. Sato. Now.”

Elias leaned into the heavy, black microphone, the scent of dust and aged copper filling his nostrils. The raging fire, visible outside, felt miles away, yet completely overwhelming.

“This is Port Blossom City Hall, emergency broadcast,” he began, his voice gravelly, cutting through the crackle. “We are off-grid. All modern infrastructure failed. We are transmitting on 8.5 megahertz. We require immediate national aerial aid dispatch to the Red Zone. Repeat: Mandatory aerial aid to the Red Zone.”

He paused, listening to the heavy creak, creak and Mr. Chen’s labored breathing. The city, a colossal entity, depended on this single, fragile connection. He thought of the ninety dead, and the thousands still trapped. He wasn't just sending coordinates; he was screaming into the void of global indifference.

“The fire is uncontrolled. Spreading from four to six residential towers. We have massive structural failure and civilian entrapment. The crisis is escalating beyond local capacity. Requesting immediate air support and heavy foam deployment. Repeat: immediate air support. This is City Hall. Over.”

The effort drained the Commodore. Mr. Chen’s arm stalled, the final current surging before the power needle collapsed back to zero. Silence.

Elias slumped, bracing for the inevitable static, the sound of failure.

Then, a voice—sharp, professional, and powerful—cut through the empty air.

“City Hall, this is National Response Command. We are receiving your transmission. Signal weak but clear. We confirm Red Zone aerial dispatch initiated. ETA thirty minutes. Hold fast, Port Blossom. We see you. Over.”

Elias leaned back, his legs suddenly weak. He looked at Mr. Chen, who was sitting perfectly still, his body utterly exhausted, but his gaze radiating a profound peace.

“We see you,” Elias repeated, a lump forming in his throat.

Mr. Chen smiled faintly, reaching out to gently touch the old radio’s casing. “They were listening, Mr. Sato. You just needed a voice loud enough to cut through the quiet.”

Elias looked from the burning, chaotic skyline to the stubborn, working machine. His billion-dollar systems had whispered and failed; the Commodore, powered by human grit, had bellowed and succeeded. It was a victory not for technology, but for the basic, analogue refusal to let go.

“Thank you, Mr. Chen,” Elias said, a sincere, heavy gratitude in his voice.

Mr. Chen simply nodded, already reaching for his cart. “Now, Mr. Sato. Now we wait for the rescue. I have to clean up this dust—the Commodore doesn’t like dust.”

As the old man resumed his familiar, steady movements, the terrifying image of the burning city was tempered by the knowledge that, for the first time in hours, help was on its way. The darkness remained, but the silence had been broken by the determined, last call of a forgotten machine.

( Dr Sarita Chauhan is a chairperson of JSM Group and founder of Write Up Your Soul)