The P.H.O.T.O. (VOL 2) The Saga Continues

by Larry Hunt

  Sarge hollered out loud, yes hollered, “Damn”, as the word echoed off the walls. “Damn I know the answer! You discovered the answer Spook... just now!!”

  “Me…? Me…? Sarge I didn’t say anything…!”

  “No, no Spook, your nickname, “Spook”, the one the guys gave you the first day at camp Polei Kleng, remember? Spook – SP from Spurgeon, the OO from Loo and the K from Kim, remember? Spook you are an expert in deciphering code look at those words you wrote on the wall: “P for Photographic - H from Histories - O from Of - T from Telemetric and lastly the O from Occurrences. See...! See...! Damn… don’t you see it…

  P.H.O.T.O.

  We found the answer...! Hell yes, that’s it… P.H.O.T.O… Now we have to find out what “Photographic Histories of Telemetric Occurrences” mean. I believe, since this floor is empty, our answers will be upstairs in the ‘workroom’ as ‘Sam’ confessed back in the cave.

  “Pop, take a look at the individual words – Photographic: that has to be something do with photographs; Histories: must be something in the past; Telemetric: transmitting of radio signals; Occurrences: something that occurred or happened. Put it all together I get: Transmitting by radio photographs something that happened in the past. Does that make any sense to you two?”

  THE EQUIPMENT ROOM

  “Gentlemen, the reason we came here, I believe, is up those stairs,” Sarge said pointing his finger toward the marble staircase. “We came to do a job and I’ll be damned if we ain’t going to do it or die trying. Come on!”

  Turning he started up the stairs… the other two seemingly mesmerized stood looking at the sign and did not move. “Get you’re asses in gear! The worst that can happen is we get killed, but what’s new! Come on ‘lock and load’!”

  The word ‘kill’ shook them out of their momentary trance and they fell in behind Sarge and cautiously began working their way up the stairs. When the landing was reached, Sarge said to the Captain and Spook, “You two go up those stairs," pointing to the left staircase, "and I’ll go up this side. Check all the rooms. Find out what’s here, holler out if you discover anything.” With these instructions the three began their exploration of the upper floor of the Pac Toul ‘mansion’.

  The only noise Sarge could hear as he guardedly walked from the top of the stairs was the creaking... squeaking... sound of the hard leather soles of his big number 12s on the exquisite Rosewood floored mezzanine.

  The first beautiful hand-carved door he approached, he opened cautiously - remembering the experience with the Ma Deuce and the drinking well downstairs. He turned, before stepping into the room, and glanced back across the wide expanse of nothingness to the mezzanine on the other side of the wide-open first floor.

  He could see Little ‘S’ and Spook gently beginning to open the door they first approached with as much, if not more, caution as Sarge had just done. Sarge thought with a slight grin, ‘funny how the Almond smell of C4 will put a little caution back into your step’.

  Sarge guardedly pushed his door slightly open, slid his hands along the edge of the door checking for trip wires. Finding none he gently slipped cautiously into the room.

  He eyes darted right and left like an animal seeking its prey – those eyes were surveying every inch of the room, including checking behind the door. He could see no one in the room. The air felt cooler than the mezzanine air and contained a strong odor of chemicals and a musty smell reminiscent of wet newspapers. Surprised Sarge could see that this side of the building was one big, long air-conditioned room.

  Sarge, still wearing his damp jungle fatigues, felt the shudder of a chill encompass his body as he entered the coolness. He reasoned the room’s temperature had to be at least ten degrees colder than the air out on the mezzanine. He caught himself grinning as he thought, ‘Who would believe I found an air-conditioned, 60 degree room in a building in the wilds of Cambodia with an average annual temperature of 90 degrees, hundreds of miles from the nearest electric outlet?’

  The additional ornate doors down the length of the interior wall were only additional entrance points to this one big room. He supposed, sometime in the past, this large room had been divided into a number of smaller ones. The separating walls had been removed to make this one narrow but long workroom.

  Carefully surveying the room Sarge could see the 'workroom' was filled with a multitude of equipment and devices totally unfamiliar to him. The machines still warm, purring and each emitting heat – justifying the need for the additional air-conditioning. The only things in the room he recognized were the boxes and boxes of newspaper clippings and photographs. ‘Damn it to hell! Here's the photographs!’ thought Sarge. ‘How many thousands are in those boxes, no not thousands it must be tens of thousands!’

  He stopped at one box, on the end had been neatly printed some information in an unfamiliar language. One word printed in ink then a long blank line. Upon this line was written, again words in a language he did not recognize, something resembling typing but clearly handwritten,

  ‘How odd,’ Sarge thought.

  He dug into one box and pulled out photograph after photograph – some were of people, some were historic events, others appeared to be groups of people.

  The age of the subjects varied – young children, old adults, political figures, current events and photographs from long ago. Pictures from as old as the Civil War and as recent as the things taking place in current day Vietnam. Boxes and boxes all appearing identical on the outside, but with different pictures and different subjects inside and the words or symbols on the end of the boxes changed with each box.

  "Hummm," Sarge thought, ‘If this were a movie ominous music would be playing about now.’

  As Sarge worked his way down the side of the wall, being ever so diligent looking for hidden explosives, he discerned a slight noise! ‘What was that?’ Sarge thought, “the wind outside? No, that sound came from inside this room! But where?’

  He, with a deliberate slow and silent motion, slipped his M-16 from his shoulder, flipped the safety to the ‘Off’ position and started surveying the room, inch by inch, rifle in the ready to fire position. All the objects in the room, the equipment, the furniture, everything rested on open legged tables and the boxes were neatly arranged on the floor next to the wall.

  Looking around he could see no hiding place for anyone; however, the noise did sound strangely humanlike.

  Sarge had spent many years training his cat-like ears to pick-up the slightest noise, whether by man or animal. He had depended upon this keen ability to hear, even the minute whisper of a sound, to keep him alive and it had never failed him - and right now this ‘sense’ and his gut told him something wasn’t right. Both his keen ears and his ‘gut’ had never let him down yet!

  Noticing at the far end of the room, in the corner abutting the exterior wall, another door – opposite the mezzanine wall, leading perhaps into a storage closet. 'If someone is in this room that is the only place they could be hiding,' he thought.

  Slowly, silently, and very deliberately he moved toward the door. His M-16 - finger resting gently on the trigger. He was taking small sliding sideward steps keeping his body turned so he could easily see to his left, back where he had just came from, or to his right where he was headed, his back was to the mezzanine wall.

  Approaching the door, he held his breath, listened intently to ascertain if anyone or anything was inside - he heard nothing - then a slight exhale of air from something’s lungs – human? Yes... he believed so - he could tell whatever it came from was breathing, and this breathing posed a danger to him.

  Shouldering his rifle, ready to fire, he commanded in Vietnamese ‘Nguoi co’ (Who is there?), no response. He then tried the same ‘Who is there’ in French ‘Qi est la’, still no response. Speaking, this time, in Vietnamese ‘Di ra’ (Come out), still he was getting no reply; however, he did hear some movement behind the door. Calling out in French ‘Sortir’ (Come out), was getting him nowhere and he was not abo
ut to turn the handle on the door.

  Erring on the cautious side he stepped back a step, lowered his rifle down to hip level aimed at the center of the door and pulled the trigger on his fully automatic rifle. In a flash his trusty ol' Colt M-16A1 had emptied an entire magazine full of 5.56mm FMJ (full metal jacket) bullets into the closet door. Spent shell casings were cascading onto the floor in handfuls. He had turned the simple wooden closet door into an object resembling Swiss cheese.

  “Please, no shoot! No shoot, me come out!” A frightened voice whimpers from inside the closet.

  It appeared to be a boy’s voice, young sounding and slightly effeminate at that. Sarge reached for the door handle and opened the squeaky hinged door. He saw nothing but bullet holes in the rear of the closet. A shelf of broken bottles, what recently looked and smelt like cleaning solution, was pouring out their contents upon the floor.

  Suddenly he saw the origin of the youthful voice nestled down in a far corner of the closet; it was a young boy, curled up in a ball with both hands covering the hat on his head. “Please no shoot me?” he pleaded.

  Hearing the sound of running boots on the mezzanine Sarge turned to see both Little ‘S’ and Spook bursting into the room with their own M-16s on their shoulders ready to fire.

  Sarge held up his hand, motioning them to stop, the two of them abruptly changed from a full run to a complete halt.

  Sensing Sarge’s attention was distracted by Little ‘S’ and Spook the person hiding in the closet sprang to his feet like a caged tiger unleashing on Sarge a series of Karate blows knocking Sarge from the closet door back into the equipment room.

  Once outside the closet the boy crouched into the standard Karate Kobo-do Kamae forward fighting position. He had his knees slightly bent, right hand in front balled into a loose fist held between his eyes and mouth, left hand held against left cheek. His dark almond shaped eyes could barely be seen below the hat he was wearing. He said defiantly, “I beat you ass, I black belt!”

  Sarge laughed, “Hell Son, you couldn’t’ ‘beat’ your way out of a paper sack. Black belt, huh… I’m an ‘OD’ belt. Know what an OD (Olive Drab) belt is?” Without waiting for the ‘boy’ to answer Sarge said, “I have a 36” ‘green’ Army pistol belt around my waist that I’m about to beat the shit out of you with it unless you settle down. We’re not here to hurt you – we’ve come to help!’

  “What’s all the shooting about Pop?”

  “Come here you two and see this tough son-of-a-bitch. I’ve found!” Sarge said motioning them forward. At the same time he extended his big rough hand toward the young boy and said, “Son, don’t be afraid! I’m not going to hurt you. Come on over here, let’s talk. I don’t fell like whuppin’ the hell out of you just yet.”

  The boy took his hand and Sarge directed him out of his crouched fighting position in the corner of the room back into the bright light of the lab.

  He was a young Asian kid, perhaps in his mid twenties, with coal black hair, dark eyes and smooth lemon colored skin. He was dressed in a solid white jump suit that covered his slight 5’4” build. Over the left pocket were sewn two blue oval patches one with the same three yellow pyramids and lightning bolt the other the face, lion, cow and bird embroidered design as found on the white ‘dish’ outside. The right pocket had a similar blue oval patch with only two yellow unidentifiable symbols (probably a nametag).

  “Who are you?” they all asked at about the same time.

  “What are you doing here?” this time Sarge got the words in first.

  “My name is Ling Lu,” he said with head bowed in respect.

  “Mr. Ling Lu I am Master Sergeant Robert Scarburg, 5th Special Forces, United States Army; this is Captain Scarburg of the 5th also and Dr. Spurgeon Loo Kim. We are not here to harm you we only need some information on this place.”

  “Sergeant,” the boy said, I much frightened, how can I be sure you be who you say you are? I just work-boy here in building I know nothing!”

  “Son, right now you will have to take my word for it. If I wanted to hurt you I would have killed you in the closet. Now tell us what you are doing here?”

  “Certainly, be sure, I glad tell you everything I know much but first maybe I have drink water – I have been in closet all night all day nothing to eat nothing to drink.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry!” Sarge said handing him a canteen of water.

  THE LABORATORY

  Sarge approaching the strange ‘boy’, extended his hand again, cleared his throat, said, ‘Nice to meet you Mr. Lu, they call me Big ‘S’; the gentlemen on my right, is my son, we call him Little ‘S’; and the final member of our team is Dr. Kim, we call him Spook. Pulling his hand back from the introductions, Sarge couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Lu’s hands were soft and supple, not the hands of a ‘working-boy’. Something in his gut was telling him there was more to Mr. Lu than met the eye.

  “Those are names? Who name people such names?” the ‘lad’ asked reaching out to grasp Sarge’s hand.

  Laughing Sarge replied, “No they are just nicknames.”

  The ‘boy’ smiled and said, “You Americans have funny customs!”

  Sarge suggested, since they had not eaten since yesterday, they find an empty table and break out some PIRs and C-rats (rations). Looking around the room he found a working Bunsen burner (weird he thought, everything in this lab is still operating, even the lights and air conditioning). He opened a couple of packs of instant coffee; the Captain supplied a couple more. After finding a clean beaker he soon had coffee brewing.

  They sat around the table sharing their meager fare with their newfound acquaintance. They could hardly contain their excitement about finding him. He could tell them more about Pac Toul than they could ever uncover on their own in a week. Unfortunately they didn’t have a week - they would be very lucky if they had the rest of the day.

  That Blue Bereted son-of-a-bitch was still out there somewhere. Remembering they had only found the Russian Colonel’s blood soaked blue beret, but not the Colonel himself. He and his ‘cavalry’ could return at any time Sarge thought.

  As they ate the Cs and sipped the hot coffee they all began to feel better. Their clothes were drying, the hot coffee had knocked the chill off and the food boosted their spirits; but they couldn’t afford to get too comfortable – they still had a job to do.

  Sarge’s ‘gut feeling’ had to be satisfied. ”Mr. Lu," he said, “that’s a fine looking hat, could I see it please?”

  “Hat…? Hat…? No sorry… old Cambodia man custom… never remove hat in company of strangers!”

  “Hummm… “ Sarge said, “heard lots of old Asian customs, but never that one.” Looking directly at his son, he quickly said, “Throw me his cap Little ‘S’…NOW!” Unhesitatingly Little ‘S’ grabbed Mr. Lu’s cap before he could reach up and grab it and tossed it to Sarge. As he did so the most beautiful, luxurious, shiny jet-black hair cascaded down ‘his’ shoulders and onto the back of the white overalls.

  “Well I’ll be a money’s uncle,” Little ‘S’ said surprised, “Mr. Lu your not a man at all your a girl!”

  A girl she wasn’t. She was a gorgeous young Asian woman, perhaps 25 years old with silky shoulder length jet-black hair. Nestled in the smoothest lemon colored skin Sarge had ever seen were two of the most captivating beautiful dark eyes imaginable. Sarge thought, ‘In the US of A this girl would be on the cover of a magazine.’

  “What’s the meaning of this, why the subterfuge?”

  “I'm sorry”, she said dropping the fake accent. “I was afraid; one never knows whom to trust around here. I’m sorry but as a young woman I couldn’t let my gender be discovered until I was sure who you guys were.”

  The Captain began the ‘interrogation’. First he wanted to know some details about her: who she was, where was her home and how did she get to Pac Toul?

  “I am from the Republic of China, the area which you call Taiwan. I speak basic Mandarin, French and English
. I go, no the right word is went, to the National Tsing Hua University. I earned a Masters in Chemistry and a BE (Bachelor of Engineering), of all things, in Mechanical Engineering. Well I suppose the word ‘go’ IS correct I am pursuing further degrees that I hope to obtain someday. Oh yeah, and I hold a Black Belt in Karate!”

  “Your a little late for that tidbit of knowledge,” Sarge moaned rubbing his ribs.

  The Captain continued, “How did you end up here?”

  Miss Lu began her story, at the very beginning, by stating hers was an almost unbelievable saga, unless you had been present to witness it in person, one would doubt the veracity of the tale.

  She emphatically stated what she was about to relate sounded like science fiction. Later, after her story ended, she would demonstrate all the fantastic feats of science that she was about to talk about; and this, she said, would prove dramatically how authentic the story was she was about to tell.

  “Begin Miss Lu at the beginning and don’t leave a word out, this is captivating beyond my wildest dreams. We possess extensive backgrounds in engineering and telecommunication. Get as technical as you want. We’re here to learn,” said Captain Scarburg.

  Miss Lu’s’ exquisite beauty did not go un-noticed by Spook, stammering he muttered out, “Miss Lu…. Miss Lu yes…. Yes… You are… I mean I agree!”

  * * * * *

  She started out rather slowly, picking her words very carefully thinking they might believe that she was not being quite honest with them. But as the story deepened she spoke more freely. This was almost verbatim the story she told:

  She began by stating two of ‘les hommes en argent’, (the silver men) as she would refer to the ones who ran this Pac Toul facility, first approached her in the University’s Physics lab on her university’s main campus.

  She continued her story. “I was working on a program concerning chemical composition of radiographic images for my professor. The professor was trying to convert a basic photographic process into, what he called, pixels. He was trying to convert the photographic information that was represented by a fluctuating wave into something he was calling ‘digital’ datum represented by ones and zeros. I don’t understand the entire process the professor was attempting but I have learned a lot about his work since coming here. These ‘silver men’ are working on some of the same concepts; however they are far more advanced.